Field of Mars (32 page)

‘But where did you inherit such ability?' Ambassador Hartwig had joined in. ‘Most of Boris's family remind me of draught horses . . .'

‘It's so true!' Fauré managed a huge laugh, caught sight of someone across the room. ‘Oh, Christ. There's Tippi, just a moment, will you excuse me, Katya? Will you take care of her, Nestor. No bruises, please? I'll be back soon, I promise.' Fauré detached himself and vanished into the crowd.

‘Do you have any toes left?' Evdaev said.

She pivoted and raised the hem of her dress to check. ‘I think so . . .' Her voice was husky and cat-like.

Another man had come over . . . Victor Artamonov, the military attaché, she remembered.

‘It's a lovely party,' Artamonov put in. ‘Are you enjoying yourself?' he asked, trying anything to start a conversation.

She shrugged, looked bored. ‘Well . . .' she said, leaving it hanging.

Artamonov laughed. ‘Yes you needn't say anything. Uncle Boris is a good fellow, but . . . not exactly . . .' He made a face and it was her turn to laugh. One of the servants glided up to them with a silver tray of champagne flutes. Artamonov plucked one up and handed it to her with a little bow. The four of them touched glasses, and she looked at each man in turn, letting her eyes do the promising.

She was a little drunk now, and it was better that way. She danced with Artamonov, listened to him rhapsodize about his regiment, his horses, the nearly forgotten childhood pranks that he had sprung on his sisters in the gardens at Lillif. ‘But I'll bet you were always an imp, weren't you,' he laughed, giving her a squeeze, letting his hand glide along her flank.

‘Oh, yes,' she breathed. ‘I'm the naughty one in the family.'

‘Do you like Nestor?' Artamonov asked her, quietly, whispering in her ear. She looked around his shoulder and saw Evdaev watching them, he smiled when he caught her eye.

‘He's handsome enough,' she said. It was a lie, of course.

‘I think he likes you.'

‘He has good taste then, doesn't he,' she giggled.

‘Oh, yes. Yes, he does,' Artamonov said. And they spun away through the dancers. When they got back Hartwig and PaȈsic were talking seriously about politics, and now she began her job, seemingly so simple—only to listen, to watch, to admire. To be a very pretty fly on the wall. And she did it for a few moments, until Artamonov got bored and pulled her back on to the floor. He went on and on about how he hated Belgrade, how he envied her life in Paris.

‘I get there every so often, you know. Perhaps we could . . .'

‘Oh, yes. I'll show you all the hot spots, we can dance the night away.'

‘There is no social life in Belgrade, none whatsoever,' Artamonov pouted.

‘I'd love it if you visited. You could meet all my friends, we could go around together . . . that is, if you'd like?'

‘I'm sure I'd love your friends,' he said.

‘I don't know, they're not like this crowd, they're not formal at all.' She decided to shock him a little, push him into a corner. ‘They smoke hashish,' she said wickedly.

‘Really. The artists' crowd then? Is that your circle?' She let her eyes narrow as she recounted her blissful Paris life. Oh, yes. The artists were always the ones on the edge, the artists and the young scientists. But the aviators were the best. She'd even let one of them take her up in a plane. Her eyes flickered at the memory.

‘You are brave . . .'

‘I'll try anything,' she said. And when his eyebrows raised—‘Well, almost anything . . .' Letting her head tip from side to side with the music. ‘Anything that's fun, anything that gives pleasure.'

He smiled at her for a long moment. ‘I
will
come to Paris,' he said, trying to be ardent.

‘I'll show you a few things. It won't be like Belgrade, that's a promise . . .'

And by the time the music ended, Artamonov was hers. Fauré came over and took her aside, leaving the little knot to continue their political discussion. ‘How is it going?' he asked her.

‘So far, it's going fine,' she said. ‘None of them think much about PaȈsic, I've learned that much.'

‘No, they see him as a weak sister.'

‘Evdaev said something about a party later. He wants them all to go to his place. They're getting bored.'

‘Well, it's time for us to have our tiff, then. We'll be watching.' She didn't say anything. What good would watching do? Pyotr would be outside, like a dog banished to the courtyard, looking up at the windows. But he wouldn't be able to help her, he wouldn't rush in and save her. Watching. As if it was supposed to make her feel better. ‘Good luck then . . .' Fauré said.

‘What's wrong with
that
?' she stepped back and complained, a little too loudly.

‘All right, damn it, if that's the way you want it!' Fauré suddenly hissed and stalked away. She watched him until he made it to the foyer, turned and idled her way back to Artamonov.

‘Well,' she said. ‘Boris is out of the way.'

‘Poor Boris!' He laughed. ‘And the prime minister is leaving, so that's good luck. Nestor has invited us, just a few friends. We thought we'd continue our evening, and the presence of someone so charming . . . well—'

‘I'd love to,' she said, looking at him. Already she could see how the last act was going to turn out.

‘We're going on, then?' Ambassador Hartwig had come over, a little flickering smile in her direction.

‘You know the way, Henry?' Evdaev asked.

‘Oh, yes . . . Sounds entrancing,' the ambassador said. His speech was blurred from the champagne.

‘My, my . . . what an illustrious group of escorts,' she said, taking Evdaev and Artamonov and leading them towards the doors.

The carriage ride started off in a relatively civilized manner; she was squeezed between the two of them and for a few minutes the men pretended to be bored, but it didn't take long for their hands to start moving in the dim light. They mistook her squirming for enjoyment, and she let them. After all that was part of the job. She tried to joke her way out of it, ‘We've got all night haven't we, boys . . .' and it worked for as long as it took to pop the cork on the champagne they'd carried away with them. She took a long drink, and as they passed the bottle between them, she let her head fall back and tried to see the stars through the window. It was cold, damp. Not yet spring. True spring wouldn't arrive for another month or so, but the cold air was her friend, it revived her with each breath, took her into her own private dream. She tried to stay in it as the men fumbled with her dress.

Pyotr was behind her somewhere, she thought. Out there following in the cold air. Could he see her face in the little window? She pulled herself away from the two men, fanned herself and laughed. It could have gone either way, then. The two of them looked at her, angry for a moment, two aristocrats who weren't used to being disappointed.

‘Come on,' she pouted. ‘Let's wait until we get to your place,' reaching for the bottle. ‘You know, then we can make a little noise. Besides we might need a little more room, don't you think?' And the two of them settled back and laughed.

And that served to delay the third act until they arrived at Evdaev's mansion on Kronyerkskaya, the carriage entering through the back gate. And she almost thought she could hear a second carriage, clattering along on the cobbles, drive past the entrance, as the iron gates clanged shut.

When Evdaev wanted privacy he used his ‘apartment' over the stables. There were no horses there any more. They made their way up the outside stairs to a little door that you had to stoop to go through, and she found herself in a long room that was partitioned off into an entry, a nicely appointed kitchen and dining-room. Her little jacket ended up on a chair in the dining-room, and she found herself being guided to the sitting-room, decorated with animal skins and guns. All leather, fur and iron. There was a gramophone and Nestor put on the music, a hissing rendition of something that was supposed to be lively. Hartwig and another man were right behind them. They'd found another girl to bring along. Two of them for four.

Artamonov had found some glasses and poured them the last of the bottle. ‘Don't worry, Henry's brought some more, my dear,' he said and then kissed her, hard, before lifting his glass.

‘Here,' she said. ‘Have you ever had some of this?' Digging in her little bag for the hashish.

‘Oh you are wicked,' Artamonov said and lurched towards her again, trying to force his tongue down her throat. When he finished, she kept her lips to his, whispering, ‘It'll make it better, you'll see.'

‘She's not like Boris's side of the family, thank Christ . . .' Artamonov said to Evdaev.

‘No,' he replied, his voice low. Hungry.

‘I'm so glad,' she said, falling into her fictional biography. ‘I hate them all, they're so . . . old . . . Not like you two,' adding just a moment of tenderness. Artamonov struck a match and watched her inhale, then passed the little pipe along.

She waited until it came around one more time and then asked for the cloakroom. It was at the end of the long garret and she took her bag with her, closed the door and snapped on the lights. Caught a long look at herself before she opened the bag, took out the vial and pulled out the sponge. Raised one leg on the lip of the toilet and pushed the sponge up her vagina, tamping it into place against her cervix, pulled her underwear back up and smelled her fingers. A little vinegary, but passable. So what, let them suffer, she thought. Another long look in the mirror, trying to remember who the beautiful angry woman was staring back at her. Oh, yes. Katya.

And then, just for a moment, she almost cracked; the tears would have come but they weren't in Fauré's script. She was supposed to be happy, she was supposed to want what the men were planning. She was supposed to stay there and have fun, and listen. And learn.

When she got out of the cloakroom, Hartwig had settled in, looking a little stiff and uncomfortable. He said no to the strange pipe with the exotic mixture, sat and tried to start up a conversation with her. Artamonov decided he was going to be her rescuer and put another disc on the gramophone. Something slower so that he could embrace her and they danced close while the others watched.

Artamonov was ready, she knew. She could feel his cock banging against her thigh. His hands were massaging the cleft in her buttocks. She groaned and he pulled away for a moment. ‘Have you seen the turret?' he whispered and looked down towards the bedroom.

‘I'd love too, but—' she glanced toward the ambassador. Oh yes, she could see Artamonov thinking, my boss is here after all. ‘Yes . . . of course,' he said quietly in her ear.

She danced with Hartwig after that; he tried to make conversation at first, but fell silent and contented himself with staggering about the zebra skin rug and pressing his belly against her, in the belief that this would somehow be exciting.

Through it all she did what she had been told, she listened; there was a good deal of meaningless chatter about upcoming festivals in Belgrade, work that would have to be accomplished as soon as they returned to the capital. Everyone bemoaned the fact that Smyrba wasn't present, and did anyone know exactly what was going on there? They didn't seem overly worried. Evdaev had been up to the turret with the other girl. He had taken off his uniform jacket and paraded about the room in his skin-tight breeches and undershirt, the buttons opened on top to reveal the dark hair of his chest. She decided to get them all as drunk as possible, maybe they'd pass out and she could go home.

Each time one of them danced with her, she drank more champagne. They had smoked all the hashish, and at one point she found herself dancing alone to the music. It was something vaguely oriental, something languid from the south. And she swayed before the men—listening.

‘. . . more dangerous than ever. Nothing is secure any longer. Did you tell him?' Hartwig was asking. She let herself turn, raised her hands above her head and repeated the dance she'd done as the Princess of Tahoo, the dance of the burning virgin.

‘. . . so everything is moved up . . .' Hartwig was saying. He was a little deaf she thought. He turned his head away and squinted when someone was talking to him.

She moved away, not too far, so that she could still hear the men. All of it going into a little corner of her mind. Now she was dancing in the window, the light illuminating her dress for the men behind her. This is for you, Pyotr, this is my dance of love everlasting, my marriage dance, my dance of penance, my dance of death.

‘. . . I'll let him know as soon as we get back. We don't need Smyrba, it might not be so bad. And there are only so many opportunities . . .'

‘Come on . . . I don't want to wait any longer.' Artamonov had come up behind her, his hands had come around to clutch her breasts.

‘What?' she said. Putting on a naive pose. Make him put it into words, make him put a label on his lust.

‘Let's go, I'll show you the turret.'

‘What's wrong with here?' she said, whirling in his arms, one hand reaching into his pocket. Keep on shocking him.

‘No . . .' he almost growled, and pulled her away from the window and they started towards the bedroom.

‘Be careful with that,' Evdaev called out behind them.

The turret was really a bedroom with a lot of stained-glass windows. A trapeze dangling there with velvet loops for your legs and a seat so that you could do all sorts of tricks.

She finished with Artamonov in a matter of minutes; he came in a short little ripple of yelping, not even making it into her. ‘Oh, good Christ, you're a bloody good bitch,' he moaned in her ear. A compliment, she supposed.

She walked out of the turret first, wearing the special French underwear, the ambassador and Evdaev watching her, and then turning to each other and saying something she couldn't hear. ‘Well . . . as much as I'd like to . . .' Hartwig said, and very courteously lifted her hand and kissed it.