The Girl from Junchow Page 12

“Lydia Ivanova.”

  It was the first time he’d spoken her name. On his tongue it sounded different. Less Russian. More . . .

  “Lydia Ivanova,” he said again, his voice quiet as the breeze through the grass, “what is it that is such trouble to you?”

  She felt a tremor. She didn’t know if it was in her own blood or in the water, but in that bright sunlit moment she knew she’d got it wrong. He could see right through her, her thoughts as transparent to him as the water droplets that trailed behind her hand. That intake of breath she’d heard wasn’t annoyance. It was because he knew, as she knew, that they were responsible for each other now. As she looked across at Chang An Lo where he was resting on his elbows, watching her with his black gaze, their eyes fixed on each other and she was aware of something tangible forming between them. A kind of thread, shimmering through the air. It was as elusive as a ripple in the river, yet as strong as one of the steel cables that held the new bridge over the Peiho.

  “Tell me, Lydia, what lies so heavy on your heart?”

  She released the hem of her dress and as it floated around her legs, she was again acutely aware of how shabby it was. She made her decision.

  “Chang An Lo,” she said, “I need your help.”

  “I STOLE A NECKLACE FROM A MAN’S COAT POCKET LAST NIGHT.” She was back on her rock, perched on it like one of the orange lizards, head up and limbs tense, ready to flee. “In the Ulysses Club.”

  The Ulysses Club was the haunt of the British colonials in the International Settlement in Junchow, a place that was absurdly grand and stuffy and utterly desirable to Lydia. Try living in a drab airless attic, she had once scolded her friend Polly, and then see if the Ulysses Club holds any charm for you.

  “That’s why the police arrived at the club last night,” she explained to Chang. “The loss was discovered before I could get out. So I had to hide the necklace.” She was talking too fast. She made herself slow down. “I had to leave without it after we’d all been questioned and searched.”

  She kept darting glances at Chang, but his face remained smooth and unshocked. That was something, at least. Never before had she admitted any of her thefts to anyone, and they had been nowhere near the value of this necklace. She was nervous.

  “It was horrible,” she added.

  Despite the cumbersome bandage, he uncoiled from the grass with ease, sat up, and leaned forward, black gaze intent on her. “Where did you hide the necklace?”

  Lydia swallowed. She had to trust him. Had to. “In the mouth of the stuffed bear outside the gentlemen’s cloakroom.”

  Light seemed to leap from the surface of the river and fill his face. He laughed and the sound of it created a strange contentment in her chest.

  “You want me to get it back for you.” His words were not a question.

  “Yes.” She added a deep bow.

  “Why me? Why not you?”

  “I’m not allowed into the club. Last night was a special occasion.” In the silence that followed she felt the full weight of what she was asking.

  “I am not permitted to enter either,” he reminded her. “No Chinese. So tell me how I am supposed to slip my hand into the bear’s mouth.”

  “That’s up to you. You’ve already proved you are . . . resourceful.”

  “You realize that if I’m caught, I will be imprisoned. Or worse.”

  She closed her eyes. Sick of herself.

  “I know,” she whispered.

  “Lydia.”

  She opened her eyes and blinked, astonished. With no sound he had crossed the stretch of grass between them and was standing in front of her, tall and lithe and yet so still he barely seemed to breathe.

  “I could be executed,” he said softly.

  She threw back her hair and met his gaze. “Then don’t get caught.”

  He laughed and she heard in it a wild rush of the energy that was usually so controlled in him. He touched her hand, the briefest brush of skin, but it was all it took to make her understand. He was like her. Danger made his blood flow faster. What others saw as risk, he saw as enticement. They were the mirror image of each other, two parts of the same whole, and that moment of skin against skin was the drawing together of the splintered pieces.

  “Chang An Lo,” she said firmly, “make certain you are not caught.” She tilted her head at him. “Because if you are, I won’t get my necklace.”

  He smiled at her, his mouth gentle. “Is it so valuable?”

  “Yes. It’s made of rubies.”

  “I meant,” he paused, studying her face, “is it so valuable to you?”

  “Of course. How else can I ever make a life, a proper life I mean, not this miserable scratching on the edge of survival? For me . . . and for my mother. She’s a pianist. How else can I buy her the Erard grand piano she craves?”

  “A piano?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’d risk everything . . . for a piano?”

  Abruptly a chasm widened between their feet, so deep its bottom lay far out of sight in the shadows beneath. A chasm neither of them had even noticed was there.

  Thirteen

  THE KNOCK ON THE DOOR WAS SHARP. THE sound dragged Lydia back to Russia and the present with a jolt, and a familiar nausea flooded her stomach, making it ache as the wisps of remembrance were wrenched away. She rolled off the quilt, her bare feet chill on the boards though she was wrapped in her coat. It surprised her to find Elena heavily asleep on the other bed. She’d forgotten her. The woman’s mouth hung open, yet in sleep she looked younger, prettier, less formidable somehow.

  Another rap shook the door. Lydia didn’t need to ask who it was. She debated whether to answer it at all, but she knew he wouldn’t give up. Her brother didn’t ever give up. She opened the door and Alexei was standing outside in the corridor, his long face pinched with cold and worry. He wasn’t quite quick enough to hide the look of relief that flicked through his green eyes at the sight of her, and she didn’t know whether to be pleased or insulted by it. Right now she was too lonely to care.

  “You’re here,” he said.

  “Yes. I promised I would be.”

  “Good.”

  There was nothing more to say. He’d checked up on her; she was here; that was it. In the next room behind the paper-thin wall a woman suddenly started to laugh, but Lydia felt no urge to smile. The hole inside her was too big, too consuming; it had swallowed everything she had.

  “Alexei.” She whispered her brother’s name as something to hold on to. “Alexei.” Her eyes focused on the third button of his coat. She couldn’t bear to look at his face because at the moment she had no armor. It had all disappeared down the hole.

  “Take me with you.”

  “Nyet. It’s too dangerous. I’ll work better without you. Stay here.”

  She nodded and, still without looking at him, quietly closed the door. She leaned her back against it and listened to her brother’s footsteps walking away from her. Fast. As though he couldn’t wait to leave her behind. Slowly she slid down to the floor and wrapped her arms around her shins, balancing her chin on her knees.

  THE FIRST PERSON ALEXEI SPOTTED AS HE ENTERED THE BAR near the tire factory was the blond truck driver, the one who had flirted with Lydia so outrageously on the road back from the foundry. What was his name? Niko. He was trying to build a precarious tower of full vodka glasses on a table. Alexei elbowed his way to the long counter at the back of the smoke-filled room.

  “Vodka,” he ordered.

  A bottle and a glass appeared in front of him.

  “Spasibo.” He poured himself a drink and threw it down his throat. “And one for yourself.”

  The barman was small with tough no-nonsense eyes and a broken front tooth. He nodded and filled a glass for himself but left it untouched on the bar. Alexei could smell the sweet odor of almond oil on him.

  “What is it you want?” The man spoke with a strong Muscovite accent.

  “I’m looking for someone.”


  “Got a name?”

  “Mikhail Vushnev. I’m told he drinks here. Do you know him?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Is he in tonight?”

  He didn’t even bother to look around. “Nyet.”

  Alexei knew he was lying. He shrugged, poured himself another drink, and pretended to watch the truck driver’s antics, all the time checking out the room. A dump, Babitsky had called it. He was right about that. Airless, gloomy, and needing the attentions of a scrubbing brush but warm and comfortable in a lazy sort of way. There was the usual clutch of dedicated drinkers huddled around the tables, a thin child on one man’s knee, while a dog lay under another man’s chair with watchful eyes. In one corner two men were playing chess, totally engrossed.

  Alexei picked up his drink and ambled over to them, keeping a respectful distance from their table but close enough to observe their moves. For ten minutes he stood there, absorbed in the game. During that time two girls in colorful Uzbek dress materialized from a back room, flashing dark southern eyes and smooth olive skin as they balanced beer on trays. The atmosphere in the place changed with their arrival as if an electric switch had been flipped. Even one of the chess players was distracted enough to lose his rook foolishly, and his king fell soon after. One of the girls brushed her hip invitingly against Alexei as she squeezed past and pouted her full crimson lips at him, but he shook his head and lit another cigarette.

  “Don’t turn her down, comrade,” the younger of the chess players laughed. “You never know when you’ll get another offer.”

  “I’ll take my chances,” Alexei replied and held out the cigarette pack toward him. The man accepted and stuck one behind his ear for later. “You play well,” Alexei commented, nodding at the shakhmatnaya doska, the chessboard.

  “Spasibo. Do you play?”

  “Badly.”

  The older player scrutinized him from deep-set eyes. “I doubt that,” he muttered.

  Alexei leaned down and righted the white king. “I was told I could find an excellent player here. Mikhail Vushnev was the name. I’m in the mood for a good match. Do you know him?”

  “If you want a good match, comrade, Mikhail is not your man,” the younger one laughed scornfully. “He’s as much use on a chessboard as one of those girls in a nunnery, so—”

  “Leonid,” the older one interrupted, “maybe a chess match is not the kind of match our friend here has in mind.”

  Fuck. The man was sharp. Alexei gave him a careful smile. “Is he here, this Vushnev?”

  “Nyet.”

  The younger one looked at his companion in surprise. “Boris, have you gone soft in the head or something . . . ?”

  “Nyet.” This time even Leonid heard the emphasis in the word and kept his mouth shut.

  “Thanks anyway,” Alexei said pleasantly.

  Aware of eyes on his back, he moved over to the bar where Niko was fondling one of the girls and getting his hands smacked for his trouble, ordered another vodka, then turned as if he had all the time in the world and no thought in his head other than where his next drink was coming from. He let his gaze skim the tables, his eyes narrowed against the smoke, and settled for no more than a heartbeat on a lean man with brilliantined hair, smoking a long-stemmed pipe over by the stove.

  Alexei’s gaze moved on indifferently. But he had his man. Young Leonid had betrayed him without even knowing it with just a glance at the mention of Vushnev’s name. But it was enough.

  ALEXEI PLACED A BOTTLE OF VODKA AND TWO GLASSES ON THE man’s table.

  “Dobriy vecher. Good evening, comrade. May I join you?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer but pulled up a chair and sat down. The fact that the man’s angular face registered no surprise was not lost on him. Alexei poured them both a drink.

  “Za tvoye zdorovye!” He raised his glass. “Good health!”

  “Za tvoye zdorovye, tovarishch,” Vushnev responded, but he didn’t touch the glass.

  His gray eyes were thoughtful and curious, but he asked no questions. In Soviet Russia, questions could get you into trouble. He was a man of around forty and contented himself with chewing on the stem of his pipe, shadows shifting in the hollows of his face, light skidding off the gleam of his hair. Something about the shininess of the man grated on Alexei’s nerves, but he dug up a smile of sorts and asked, “You’re Comrade Vushnev, I believe?”

  “I wondered how long it would take you to find me.”

  “You knew I was looking?”

  The man snorted with amusement. “Of course.”

  “Word travels fast in Felanka.”

  Alexei picked up his drink and stretched his legs out toward the stove. At the far end of the bar two men broke out in song while another clapped a fast rhythm. Alexei took time to enjoy it because he recognized it as a tune from his childhood that he hadn’t heard in fifteen years. Memories of Jens Friis with his beloved fiddle, which he cursed and cajoled in equal measure in Danish each time he rested a bow on its strings, came flooding into Alexei’s head, and he downed the vodka in one throw.

  “They sing well,” he commented. “Exceptionally well.”

  “They used to be professionals. Now they’re sheet metal workers, poor devils.” Vushnev balanced his pipe on his knee, and for the first time a hint of real interest tightened the curve of his shoulders. “We’re all workers now for our great Soviet Motherland.”

  This was the moment. Alexei slipped a hand into his coat pocket as if to keep it warm, casually jingling the coins there. He made the first move.

  “You must grow weary of people coming to you, comrade, interested in your work for the Soviet Motherland.”

  A pause. A slight smile. Nothing more. “You wouldn’t believe how many. From all parts of the country they come knocking on my door.” He puffed on his pipe, in no hurry.

  Alexei lit himself another cigarette. His throat was dry as the dirt on the floor. The room was growing noisier; another man was singing an old folk song that had other drinkers swaying and joining in. The electric lamps on the walls were flickering, in danger of plunging them all into blackness.

  “Comrade, you must work hard,” Alexei said, just softly enough for his words to slip under the barrage of noise but still reach his companion’s ears, “so hard you must make our Great Leader proud of your dedication to the reconstruction of Soviet society. All of us benefit from what you do.” He let the words hang there. “You are trusted with much information.”

  At last the greed was there, naked in the gray eyes. Vushnev was on the hook. Alexei slid the second vodka glass across the table toward him. This time the office manager of Trovitsk camp picked it up, tossed the liquid down his throat in one hit, and smacked his lips with satisfaction.

  “Not here,” he warned. “Too many eyes.”

  “Where?”

  “On Kirov most. The bridge on the east side of town. There’s a stone arch in the middle of it.”

  “In half an hour.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Alexei exhaled heavily, the muscles in his neck starting to loosen. Now why did he feel this wasn’t the first time Vushnev had said those exact words?

  THE BRIDGE WAS EMPTY. SNOW WAS DRIVING THROUGH THE darkness as if it had to get somewhere. The lethal ice on the road and sidewalk, which had been churned up by traffic during the day, was now freezing hard once more, and that made it impossible to walk silently.

  Alexei arrived early. He hung back in the dense black huddle of buildings on the riverbank, a row of workshops locked up for the night. He watched the bridge closely, but other than one solitary truck trundling over, it remained empty. He wondered whether Vushnev was watching from the other side. Kirov most was a stone bridge with carved creatures rearing up at intervals along its parapet, and in the center the stone archway that Vushnev had mentioned. No sign of life.

  At each end of the bridge an elaborate wrought-iron lamp attempted to shed a circle of light, but it was losing the battle and they were barel
y visible in the sheets of snow that clogged the air. The wind snatched at Alexei’s hat and drove fingers into his eyes, but he didn’t move. He breathed in shallow gasps behind his scarf. When something brushed against his shin he jumped, heart in his throat, so focused was he on the bridge, but it was only a scrawny cat seeking warmth.

  Half an hour passed. An hour. Still no one on the bridge. He and the cat kept each other company, but his thoughts grew chill and slippery, so that he almost missed it. A figure was moving on the bridge. It was leaning into the wind, hunched in a fufaika with a scarf wound tightly around its head and much of its face. It might be Vushnev. Or it might not. More to the point, the figure was alone. Alexei scratched the cat’s head in farewell and moved out from his spot. He covered the ground quickly with long strides, coming up behind his quarry and tapping the snow-draped shoulder. The man swung around, startled, eyebrows heavy with ice above frightened eyes. It was Vushnev.

  “For fuck’s sake, you scared me!”

  “You’re late,” Alexei pointed out.

  “So what? I was busy. I had to . . .”

  The gray eyes were wary but no longer frightened. Alexei didn’t like that. It made him nervous.

  “Let’s get this over with,” Alexei interrupted. “I’m too cold to hear your bloody life story.”

  The man backed off a step and glanced the length of the bridge. That made Alexei even more nervous.

  “I’m looking for someone,” he said quickly.

  “Name?”

  “Jens Friis.”

  “Russian?”

  “No, he’s Danish. Remember it?”

  “Do you realize how many names I . . . ?”

  “Do you recognize it?”

  Silence, except for the howl of the wind. Alexei brushed snow from his face.

  “I might,” the man muttered at last.

  “How much to remember?”

  “What are you offering?”

  From an inside pocket Alexei drew out a flat leather jewelry box. He flicked it open. An exquisite sapphire necklace nestled in a creamy satin bed, and he heard Vushnev’s intake of breath. He snapped the case closed. The necklace had been his grandmother’s, worn to Tsar Nicholas’s grand balls at the Winter Palace. The thought of it in this man’s grubby hand made him angry.