Scarlet in the Snow (23 page)

I was about to replace the tin of sweets in the box when a thought struck me. I might speak Faustinian like a native now, but I wasn’t in Faustina. I was in Champaine. And if I was to make any kind of headway in my investigation,
if I was to get by in this country at all, I needed to be able to speak at least some of the language. But I did not need to be word-perfect in it, just have young Alexandra ter Zhaber’s reasonable grasp of it, learned in the schoolroom.

After a little reflection, I took out a ‘C’ lozenge, broke it in half and swallowed it. A smaller version of the previous effect coursed through me, and when I opened my mouth, Champainian words came out, a little distorted and misshapen with a distinctive Faustinian accent, but recognisable still. Now I was all set, linguistically speaking, as long as the effect of the sweets lasted. I had no way of knowing how long that would be. I’d just have to wait and see, and if there were any sudden lapses when I was not in a position to take another sweet, then I’d have to pretend to be deaf and dumb.

By dint of walking further into the town, I soon came across a pawn shop. Its dusty display window was crammed with all kinds of exotic but shabby goods, obviously sold by desperate travellers like myself. The owner, a thin little woman with a sharp nose and even sharper eyes, snatched the manicure case from me, examined it carefully through a magnifying glass, and then named a sum that was surely a miserable fraction of what the piece was actually worth. But I pocketed the two grubby banknotes and handful of loose change she’d given me without demur.

‘That coat of yours, it’s lined with fox, isn’t it?’ she asked, giving me a sidelong glance.

‘Yes.’ Shabby though it might look now, it had once been of good quality.

‘Well, if you want to sell that too, I can give you a little more. Or maybe you can pick something in exchange.’

Why not? I’d already noticed how much milder the weather was here than it had been at home. So instead of money, I exchanged my heavy coat for an almost-new grey woollen jacket with black velvet trimmings, as well as a hat and gloves to match.

Retracing my footsteps, I headed back to the railway station, where I bought a third-class ticket to the capital. The next train wasn’t due for another couple of hours, so I went looking for a bathhouse and there spent one of the banknotes on a complete session. After a blissful soak in a hot tub, I had my hair washed, cut to shoulder length and dyed, transforming my normal chestnut to an almostblack dark brown. My eyebrows were plucked into a different shape and my skin rubbed with an ointment that would add a little colour to my winter-pale skin. Meanwhile, my dirty clothes had been laundered and dried, so that when I got dressed again, they felt almost as new. I would have loved to change into the red cashmere dress, but it was too fine for a third-class passenger. Finally, I bought a hairbrush, a mirror and a hairnet from a shop near the bathhouse, and a savoury hot pie from a bakery. Thus equipped, revived and transformed, I set off back to the station.

Though the effect of the language lozenge hadn’t worn off, I kept the tin of sweets in my pocket so I could quickly pop one in my mouth if necessary. Just as I had no idea how long the lozenges’ effect would last, I also did not know how many times I could use the rest of Luel’s gifts.
And whilst I still had money, I preferred to leave them for a time when I might really need them. I smiled a little bitterly to myself as I thought this, for the old me, impatient and curious, would not have been able to resist trying out that magic again and again. Old Bony was right – I had learned self-control.

The train chugged through the sodden countryside, halting at stations in villages and small towns. We were passing through fine farming country, and many of the passengers looked like farmers in their best clothes. There was a holiday atmosphere to it all, and I soon found out why when my closest bench-neighbours told me everyone was on their way to the annual Palume Show, which was opening that evening. They were a friendly couple with work-worn hands and neat but old-fashioned clothes, who introduced themselves as the Gerards. According to them, the Palume Show was the biggest agricultural show in the whole country, if not in the world. They planned to stay with their only daughter, Finette, who worked as a milliner in the big city and who they were very proud of.

Then they wanted to know about me, so I used the opportunity to practise my cover story. When they discovered I didn’t have a place to stay, Madame Gerard said,
‘We have a cousin, Madame Pelty, who runs a cheap but most respectable pension on Argent Lane. I’m sure she’d find space for someone recommended by the family.’ She scribbled something on a slip of paper and handed it to me.

‘This is so very kind of you,’ I said.

‘You look about our Finette’s age,’ said Messir Gerard, gently, ‘and we wouldn’t like to think of our little girl all alone with nowhere to go.’

I was deeply touched by their concern, by the ordinary kindness of total strangers who, like Olga and Andel, had helped with an open heart. ‘Thank you,’ I said softly. ‘Thank you very much.’ And slipping the paper into my pocket, I added, ‘I wonder if by any chance you might happen to know where I might find the Lilac Gardens? Are they in the centre of the city?’

‘Haven’t heard of them, dear,’ said Madame Gerard. ‘But then we so rarely venture to the city and there are so many parks there.’

‘There’s an information kiosk for travellers in the central station, where we arrive,’ said Messir Gerard. ‘I’m sure they’ll be able to help you.’

Soon the lights of the central terminus came into view, and our train drew in at the station with a great hiss of steam and a clanking of wheels. Just before we alighted, I impulsively fished the silk flowers from my bag and presented them to the Gerards. ‘A speciality from my country,’ I said, ‘and a small return for your kindness.’

‘No, no, you do not need to do this,’ protested Madame Gerard. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you, my dear.’

‘A real pleasure,’ echoed her husband, ‘and no need for any return.’

‘I can just see these on one of your daughter’s new hats,’ I said, ‘can’t you, Madame?’

Madame Gerard looked longingly at the flowers. ‘Yes, but –’

‘But nothing! Please, I have brought more of these with me, and it would make me so happy if you might accept them.’

‘Why, then, you must take them, Pauline,’ said her husband, ‘for it would not do at all to refuse a gift given in such good heart.’

So she accepted them, with many thanks and a beaming smile, and they both gave me a hearty kiss on both cheeks, the Champainian style. We parted the best of friends, and as I headed off to the information kiosk, leaving the Gerards to wait for their daughter in the station tea-room, I felt more hopeful than I had at any time since that terrible day when Ivan had vanished.

But the dandyish man at the kiosk, who’d been busily brushing his brilliantined moustache upon my approach, was not nearly so sympathetic. After I asked my question, he looked me up and down and said sharply, ‘There is no such park in Palume, Mam’selle.’

‘But I was told –’

‘Then you were misinformed,’ he retorted.

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Maybe there is a map I could –’

‘Mam’selle,’ he said, drawing himself up, ‘it is my job to know every bit of the map. I repeat, there is no such park in Palume. That does not mean there is nothing called Lilac Gardens.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Lilac Gardens is not a park or a public garden, Mam’selle, as you seem determined to believe,’ he said, with some asperity. ‘It is an establishment.’

‘I – I beg your pardon,’ I said lamely, not sure why I was apologising to this puffed-up popinjay. ‘This establishment . . . what it is, please?’

‘It is an art gallery, Mam’selle. A rather smart one,’ he said, looking me up and down again, as if to say I could not expect to be allowed anywhere near such a place.

But I cared not for what he thought. Looking calmly back at him, though my pulse was racing and my legs felt weak, I said, ‘How may I find this, please?’

In answer, he reached under the counter and produced a map. ‘Buy one of these and I’ll mark it in for you.’

I handed over a couple of coins and he marked the place in red ink. ‘It is too far to walk. You must take a cab.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Or an underground train, if you don’t have the money for a fare.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, and smiled. ‘You’ve been most helpful.’

The startled, baffled expression that flickered over his face was priceless. It would take him a moment to work out if he’d just been insulted with irony or if I was simply
a foolish foreigner who hadn’t understood she was being patronised. Either way, it would annoy him, and pay me back a little for his rudeness and disdain. Once, I thought as I walked away, I would not have been able to stand up to someone like that.

If it hadn’t been dark by then, I’d have ignored the popinjay’s advice and made my way to Lilac Gardens on foot, to save my money. I’m good at reading maps, and from it I’d worked out that Lilac Gardens was most likely about a thirty-minute walk away. But it was night, and though the streetlights were on and I had a map, I was in a foreign city about which I knew little. I didn’t know, for example, which areas were safe to go in alone at night, and which weren’t. It was likely that Lilac Gardens, being a rather smart area, was not situated in a bad neighbourhood, but I couldn’t be sure. And in any case, I wanted to get there quickly, so I took the underground train.

Like the ocean voyage, this was another first for me. Though my supposed home city of Faustina also boasted an underground railway, Byeloka most certainly did not. I soon got used to it as it did not seem much more different than an ordinary train, only smaller and noisier, the sound magnified in the tunnels.

Emerging from the underground station and into the street, I looked at my map under a streetlight. The gallery should be only three blocks away. I started walking, becoming aware of the quiet here, after the noise of the
underground and the bustle of the station. It was a residential area lined with big houses set back behind high walls, and though there was adequate lighting, there was something about the place that made me feel uneasy. I soon realised what it was – there were no other people around; my footsteps were the only ones ringing on the cobblestones. Occasionally, a vehicle drove past, almost silently, as if coachmen must come with greased wheels, and horses with the light step of ghosts in order to venture into this hushed place.