The Jewel of St Petersburg (43 page)

Against Arkin’s hip lay the small pearl-handled pistol, warm and loaded. Betrayal was not something he could forgive.

V
IKTOR ARKIN,
VKHODITE,
COME IN.”

Sergeyev’s wife opened the door and treated Arkin to a warm smile of welcome. She looked . . . Arkin sought for a word . . . she looked transformed. The way a gray shapeless caterpillar is transformed into a vivid and vibrant butterfly. She was full of color and it all came from within. Her hair was unwashed and her clothes were as drab as ever, and yet she shimmered. Is that what having a child did to you? Satisfied something that hungered deep inside. For her sake he wanted to turn around and walk out, but he didn’t.

“Hello,
privet
, Viktor. It’s good to see you.”

Sergeyev stuck out a hand, but Arkin couldn’t bring himself to take it. Instead he leaned over the drawer that lay in pride of place on top of the table and looked down at the pink infant swaddled inside it. Everything was too tiny to belong to a human being: its fingers, its nose, its pointed little chin. Ears like a bird’s soft feathers and minuscule gold threads for eyelashes. A pain nudged his chest and he breathed awkwardly.

“Her name is Natasha.”

“Pretty.”

“She is wonderful.”

“I congratulate you.” He studied her mother with an odd sense of awe. She was thin but her breasts had swelled, and he felt an unexpected desire for her. Quickly he turned away to Sergeyev. “May we speak in private?”

They lived in only one small room. Bed and table squeezed together around the stove. The place was clean and smelled of pine-cones with bright handmade
poloviki
on the floor, but the plaster on the walls was crumbling and cracks ran back and forth like rail tracks across the ceiling. Privacy was not to be had.

“Anything you have to say, you can say in front of Larisa. It’s too cold to go outside.” Sergeyev sat down in a chair to emphasize the point. “She knows what we are doing.”

“Does she?”

“Of course.”

Sergeyev seemed on edge, unwilling to be alone with him.

“How’s the arm?” Arkin asked mildly.

“A bloody nuisance.”

Larisa stood beside the drawer, oblivious, one hand resting on it as if she couldn’t bear to let it go, a contented smile on her face. Arkin looked away. He’d had enough.

“You are fortunate, comrade,” he said quietly. “You missed the apprentices’ battle against the army.”

“I’m sorry. I heard it was bad.”

“It was worse than bad.”

“I’m sorry,” Sergeyev said again. His gaze was on the drawer. “Were you hurt?”

“A few cuts, nothing much.”

“We never thought the bastards would attack such young boys, did we?”

“No. We were wrong.”

A sad silence sucked the air from the room. Sergeyev was breathing hard.

“Why did you do it?” Arkin asked.

“Do what?”

“Betray them.”

Larisa gasped. “Take that back, Comrade Arkin,” she said fiercely.

But Sergeyev said nothing, just stared at the drawer.

“Why?” Arkin asked again. “The soldiers were waiting for us. Ready to charge. Why did you do it?”

“Because of the baby,” Sergeyev whispered.

Larisa clapped a hand over her mouth.

Sergeyev didn’t look at her. “The Okhrana caught me again that night when we had our run-in with them. After you and I parted, Viktor, they cornered me like a rat. Beat me in the gutter till my arm was in pieces once more. They threatened to throw me in their fucking prison to rot. What about Larisa? What about the baby we were about to have? I had to do it.” His eyes shifted to Arkin’s. “My friend,” Sergeyev said harshly, “you don’t know what it is to love someone more than your own life. Even more than your own beliefs. I couldn’t let my wife and child be tossed out onto the street to freeze to death.”

Larisa was crying silent tears. The baby sensed her distress and started to wail.

“Comrade,” Arkin said in a stiff voice, “let us continue this discussion outside. Your wife and child do not need to hear it.”

He reached out and dragged Sergeyev to his feet. As they left the room Larisa lifted the baby into her arms, tucking its head under her chin and crooning soft sounds to quiet its cries. Arkin turned his back on the image, but it stuck in his mind. Out on the street the two men walked some distance without speaking. The snow had stopped, but it hung in heavy blankets from the roofs, trying to slide down on unwary pedestrians as they passed. Russia was like that. It pounced on you, smothered you, destroyed you if you let it.

“My friend . . . ,” Sergeyev started.

“I am not your friend.”

“Viktor, please, I—”

“You betrayed the apprentices. They trusted us, and that trust got them killed. And you betrayed me. You informed the Okhrana that I had hidden the grenades in the Ivanovs’ garage.”

“No, no, not you, Viktor. It was the Ivanovs themselves I meant to get the blame.”

“Don’t fuck with me,
comrade
.”

They were passing one of the narrow dark alleys that snaked between the backs of the houses, littered with frozen filth and dead rats. Viktor stopped. With no change in expression he drew the small pistol from under his coat, put it to Sergeyev’s head, and pulled the trigger. He swung the lifeless body into the alley and walked away. The image of Larisa clutching the baby went with him.

Twenty-six

V
ALENTINA FLUTTERED A WHITE SWAN-FEATHER FAN AS she walked up the Jordan staircase. It was official. She was a whore. For sale to the highest bidder. Money on the table? Take her, she’s yours.

The imperial ball at the Winter Palace was a carefully choreographed display of grandeur and extravagant wealth, one of the highlights of the St. Petersburg season. The stiff vellum invitations embossed in gold with double-headed eagles became the most desirable possessions in the city, and the competition to secure one was fierce. Hundreds of chandeliers and candelabra flooded the palace with light that sprang at her from mirrors and flashed from gold vases. At her side Maria, the niece of Countess Serova, whispered that the orchids had been transported from the Crimea by special trains, but Valentina could not bring herself to care. She had come to the ball. Done as her father asked. Maria was making small breathy noises of excitement as they walked through the Nicholas Hall.

“Valentina,” she said, “I think we’ve died and gone to heaven.”

“I’ve died and gone to hell.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Look at all those handsome officers just waiting to be snapped up.”

The crowd of guests seemed to sway in one scintillating shimmer in front of Valentina’s eyes. Lush displays of orange and lemon trees and tall wispy palms swirled through her mind. She fanned her cheeks and paid no attention to the parade of princes and princesses, to the dukes or counts, or to the bishops in their purple robes and long white veils.

I’d rather be dead than here.
The thought invaded Valentina’s head. It made her think of Katya and the night of the scissors skewered into her wrist, and she shivered despite the heat.

Maria clutched her arm. “Nervous?”

“No, why should I be nervous?”

“Because your Stepan will be here. As well as his parents, Count Chernov and his wife.”

“My Stepan.” The words clung to Valentina’s tongue.

“Why do you say it like that?”

“To force it into my head.”

Maria looked at her oddly. “Is he here yet?”

Valentina made herself focus on the uniforms. The military strutted through the magnificent halls in their gaudy plumage, officers from all regiments. Cossacks in scarlet. Lancers in blue. She couldn’t see Captain Chernov.

“Maria,” she said, “I’d like a drink.”

T
HE VODKA HELPED. IT HAD CRANBERRIES IN IT. THAT amused her. She had chosen it from a row of chilled glasses of vodka flavored with either lemon peel, peppercorns, cranberries, or buffalo grass. She had wanted to try the buffalo grass but didn’t have the nerve because the footman almost spilled the drinks down his gold uniform when she stopped him and removed a glass from his silver tray. Maria was sipping cordial and staring at her friend wide-eyed.

“Valentina,” she hissed, “you’ll disgrace yourself.”

Valentina laughed, astonished that she could still make such a sound. “I have already disgraced myself, don’t you realize that?”

She found herself a pillar, a massive Italian marble one that wasn’t going to topple over in a hurry. She stood with her back to it. Not leaning against it exactly; only men were allowed to lean against pillars or door frames. But she touched the white pillar with the back of one satin shoe and with the tip of her elbow, just enough to keep her standing straight. Her body’s tendency to sway without warning alarmed her.

Maria had gone. Valentina wasn’t sure when that happened, but as soon as she noticed her friend across the room talking to an officer, she turned her head and found an empty space beside her. Valentina had become expert at spotting the silver trays circulating throughout the hall and summoning them with a lift of an eyebrow. She felt surprisingly warm and comfortable. Not drowsy exactly, but on the edge of it, and the terrible black abyss that had yawned at her feet only moments ago seemed to have vanished like Maria. All she could think of now was Jens. His smile. Her cheek against his naked chest, his heartbeat drumming through her mind until it became the rhythm of her thoughts.

“Valentina, I have been searching for you.”

“Captain Chernov, good evening.”

She held out her hand to him, and he turned it over and kissed her palm. As if he owned it. She became aware of music playing, the
Dance of the Cygnets
from Tchaikovsky’s
Swan Lake
, and she glanced over to one of the galleries to find an orchestra in full flow. The lilting sound of it brought to life a sharp pain in the center of her chest, a pain she thought she had drowned in the vodka.

“Valentina, my dear, how lovely you look this evening.”

His face glowed with energy under the chandeliers, and she tried to imagine what it would be like to look at this face every day for the rest of her life.

“Captain ...”

“Please call me Stepan.”

“Stepan, shall we walk through the halls until Their Imperial Majesties arrive?”

He extended an arm. “Delighted to have the honor.”

With misgivings she released her contact with the pillar, but she transferred her arm to his quite safely. Walking through the halls was a good idea. It meant she wouldn’t have to look at his face.

S
TEPAN CHERNOV WAS COURTEOUS AND ATTENTIVE. FOR a whole half-hour she allowed him to steer her through the rooms, all the time delivering his opinion on military matters. “The tsar should kick out General Levitsky, he’s too old and forgetful, and replace him with . . .” Her ears grew tired and shut down. He introduced her to Makarov, the Minister of the Interior, and to Prime Minister Stolypin, a big man with a domed bald head, a neat little beard, and quick intelligent eyes. She smiled at him and he beamed with delight.

“What a jewel you have here, Chernov. Take good care of her.”