She looked up, her glance still shy. ‘They have taken rooms for us in a tenement building around the corner from here. I did not think it would be advisable for us to be seen arriving by carriage. We are to pose as a poor working couple.’
He understood now her peasant clothes. Somehow they lost their charm for him, striking him as suddenly calculating. He almost hated her for them.
They began to walk. An unbroachable space was maintained between them, the result of a magnetic repulsion that kept them from touching. More to the point, there was an equal space between the couple they were now and the couple they had been that morning. At that moment, it was unimaginable that she would ever appear naked to him again, or that he would ever know again her clinging embrace around his quaking flesh.
Somehow, he had fallen from grace. Perhaps it was because he had asked her about Totsky. Something like rage rose up in him. No — he was not to blame, or at least not solely. She had acted deceitfully to him. Not only that, she had shrugged off the lie in which she had been caught.
Their position, he realised, was entirely false, and that was what had changed between them. To be thrown together by the central committee in this sham marriage pre-empted whatever natural feelings might have developed. Furthermore, Tatyana Ruslanovna must have known of the central committee’s intentions when she gave herself to him, as was proven by the clothes she came to him wearing. Besides which, she was a member of the central committee. It was evidence of further deceit on her part. He couldn’t fathom what she had meant by that act but felt that there must have been more to it than he had first thought. It was not, in other words, a simple declaration of love, and there was no trust implied in it at all.
And then it struck him: she had wanted him simply because she believed he had killed a man. It was curiosity rather than love that had driven her, and now that her curiosity had been satisfied, there was no possibility of the act being repeated.
Had she been disappointed in the experience? Or had she simply got all that she wanted from him?
She must have noticed the unhappiness in his expression. ‘What is wrong, Pavel Pavlovich?’
Her question provoked him. ‘How long are we to remain living this lie?’
‘Until the central committee decides — ’
He cut her off with an anguished, derisive cry.
‘Until the central committee decides,’ she resumed patiently, ‘that it is safe for you to be removed from Petersburg.’
‘So we must wait for the central committee to decide our fate?’
‘It is not a question of that. You placed yourself in their hands when you killed your colleague and declared it a revolutionary act.’
‘What do you mean? Of course it was a revolutionary act. What else could it be?’
‘Perhaps you had other reasons for wanting him dead. Please don’t take offence. It doesn’t matter. None of that matters. You must trust the central committee.’ After a moment she added, ‘You must trust me.’
They came to a broad avenue, again unknown to Virginsky. The street was muddy, and occupied mostly by manufacturing premises and cheap restaurants. She led him across it to another narrow lane, overshadowed on both sides by the looming black walls of vast tenement buildings.
He followed her into the yard. The ground was swimming in waste matter. The yardkeeper, who had the physique of a young man, but the face of someone much older, was busy shovelling the filthy mud away to the sides. But it always seemed to settle back, covering the area he had just cleared. At the sight of the yardkeeper’s prematurely aged face, Tatyana Ruslanovna gripped Virginsky’s arm and pulled him to her. He felt the sinews of his heart ripple, as his misery slipped from him. It no longer mattered that it was a lie. All that mattered was that she was holding on to him.
*
The ‘rooms’ that had been taken for them turned out to be one room on the fourth floor. To be more precise, it was a partitioned area within a larger room, which was subdivided into four small rooms in total. But at least they had a door, and therefore the possibility of privacy. The room was surprisingly clean, although sparsely furnished. There was a narrow bed, a deal table with two chairs and a small wardrobe. One half of a large, ugly stove butted through the partition, like a prurient intruder. The only other items were an icon of a grey-bearded saint and the icon lamp before it.
The occupants of the other rooms, the tenants from whom the central committee had rented Virginsky and Tatyana Ruslanovna’s lodging, were a couple of the merchant class. The husband — if indeed they were married — was much older than his wife, who had a submissive demeanour, as if she were in constant expectation of a beating. They greeted Virginsky and Tatyana Ruslanovna in silence, only bowing to them and averting their eyes immediately. The couple kept a servant, an ancient hunchbacked woman who spent all her time slumbering on the massive stove. It seemed to be to everyone’s relief when Virginsky and Tatyana Ruslanovna took themselves into their room.
Tatyana Ruslanovna opened the wardrobe, and closed the door on its emptiness immediately. Virginsky looked up at the icon.
‘How appropriate,’ said Tatyana.
Virginsky frowned.
‘St Nikolai. He is my favourite saint.’
‘I am surprised to hear that you have a favourite saint.’
‘Of course, it is all nonsense,’ said Tatyana, almost regretfully. ‘But as a child, a very young child, I was always attracted to St Nikolai. I was taken in by the stories, I suppose. The idea of his giving up his parents’ wealth and devoting his life to the poor and the sick struck a chord with me. It appealed to my undeveloped instincts for social justice.’ Tatyana Ruslanovna frowned. ‘Since then, I have learnt that the Church conspires in the oppression of the people and therefore no symbol or representative of the Church can truly stand for social justice. Still and all. .’ She smiled self-consciously and blushed as she met his gaze. ‘Yes, still and all, it is hard to shake off these childhood associations. The movement must learn to make use of them, I believe. It is the only way to bring the people with us.’
There was the smell of cooking from the next room. Virginsky found himself distracted by it. ‘Have they provided any food for us?’
‘The old woman will cook for us.’
He nodded tersely. ‘You knew all about this, this morning. .’
‘Yes, I knew. Does it matter?’
Virginsky shook his head, though without conviction. It was more as if he was shaking off his resentment than answering her. ‘All that matters is the cause,’ he said.
He looked down and saw that she was sitting on the bed, reaching out to him with both hands. ‘It’s not all that matters,’ she said.
There was a knock at the door. He turned from her open arms. It was the young merchant woman, who was now nestling a tiny baby, virtually a newborn, in the crook of one arm. Virginsky was disproportionately shocked by the sudden appearance of the baby, although the simple explanation must have been that it was sleeping out of sight when they arrived. He understood in a flash that the old man was not the girl’s husband, and indeed that their relationship and the existence of their child was in some way deeply problematic. He saw all this in the way her eyes steadfastly avoided his, and also in the uneasy, complicated gaze she bestowed on her child. ‘We are about to eat. Will you join us?’ Her voice trembled. It was almost as if she questioned her own right to speak.
Virginsky deferred to Tatyana Ruslanovna, her hands now folded demurely across her lap, apparently incapable of reaching out in longing to any man. Her nod was barely perceptible.