‘Home,’ Maksim ordered the driver.
Lydia leaned forward, reaching out across Alexei, and touched his fur-coated arm. ‘Please, pakhan.’
‘Nyet. Alexei is right. Only a fool would take that risk. Leave it to us.’
Alexei felt her shiver as she retreated into her corner. But at the first road junction, when the car slowed to a halt to allow a tram to pass, she pushed down the chrome handle, swung the door open and slipped out of the car. She didn’t say goodbye. Or thank you, pakhan. That annoyed Alexei.
Mirrored tiles. Silk robe. The fragrance of Parisian perfume. A peacock’s tail feather heavy with steam. Alexei sank into the bath and struggled not to close his eyes. Behind his eyelids lay worlds that frightened him and he was not used to being frightened.
A soft white-gloved hand stroked his damp forehead and trailed through his hair.
‘I missed you,’ Antonina murmured and gently tipped the silver edge of a champagne glass to his lips.
Her slender figure was perched on the side of the bath, naked except for the gloves that reached her elbows. The length of her dark hair hung down her back like a glossy curtain shimmering with moisture, and her face was washed free of make-up and lipstick, the way he liked her best. They were alone in the Malofeyev apartment. It was a risk, they both knew it, but neither cared right now. Alexei swallowed the chill liquid but it was not to his taste, and he wished for a shot of Maksim’s French brandy.
‘That was a strange little scene over coffee this morning,’ Antonina murmured and dipped her tongue in the champagne bubbles.
‘Whose bright idea was it to get us together in the first place?’
‘Dmitri’s, of course. When I mentioned that Lydia was coming here with you, he insisted on staging a cosy little four-some instead and chose a suitably grand setting. He likes to remind everyone who is the one with the power at his fingertips.’
Alexei raised one dark eyebrow. ‘Maybe he was just planning on keeping me out of his apartment.’
She sipped her champagne. ‘Well, he didn’t succeed, did he?’
‘Is that why I’m here? To annoy Dmitri?’
The shadows under her eyes darkened as she leaned forward and trailed her tongue down the side of his cheek, forming a line through the beads of steam. ‘You’re here because I want you here.’
He regarded her face intently. What was it about this woman that drew him? Not her handsome looks or her elegance or even her position among the elite of Communist society. All those things got in the way. It was something about her vulnerability under all that polish, something that crept under his skin and lodged there like a burr which he couldn’t shift. Didn’t want to shift. He sat up suddenly with a whoosh of water, twined an arm round her naked waist and tumbled her down into the bubbles on top of him.
She squealed and scooped water into the champagne glass to pour over his head.
‘You’ll drown me,’ she laughed.
Very deliberately he lifted one of the white gloves, dripping with scented bubbles, and kissed the delicate skin in the crook of her elbow.
‘I’m going to teach you to swim,’ he said, and started to peel down the sodden fabric. Inch by inch the damaged skin came into view.
45
They walked side by side. Together but not touching. Heads ducked against the wind. Chang was tense, Lydia could sense it in the way he placed each foot on the ground, like a cat taking care on ice, and in the hand hovering close to his thigh where she knew a knife was strapped. Yet when she glanced across at his face it looked calm, his eyes focused.
The street they were in was grey. Grey walls, fat grey drainpipes tipped with slivers of grey ice, grey air gusting towards them. Grey balconies clinging by a hair to the cracked walls.
‘It isn’t wise, Lydia,’ Chang had warned her.
‘Please, my love.’
‘You would tweak the dragon’s tail yet again.’
‘The dragon is snoring like a New Year drunk in his lair. He won’t even know I’m there.’ But when she’d seen the shadows gather in his eyes, she said simply, ‘I need this, Chang An Lo. I need to look for myself.’
He had nodded. ‘Then you shall.’
The prison was two blocks ahead. They walked in silence, aware of the dogs alert on chains as they approached, of the guards in grey coats, of the rifles on their backs. Chang and Lydia kept to the far side of the road, tucked in close to the buildings. It was obvious this had once been an avenue of gracious villas and shady trees but nothing remained of them now. Blocks of government offices now lined the pavement, and only the moss-covered stumps at the kerb sheltered the ghosts of what once had been.
Lydia forced herself not to stare. She walked quickly, though her feet begged to stop. Out here on the street it was different from when she was caged in the comfort of Maksim Voshchinsky’s car. Here it was raw. The pain sharper. The walls higher, the gates grimmer. But here she could listen for Jens Friis. For the ticking of his mind. His breath, his sigh, his voice.
His voice. She hadn’t asked Chang to tell her about the sound of his voice. How could she have overlooked something so intimate?
Papa, can you hear me? Can you feel me here?
She allowed herself one look, a slight turn of the eyes, one rapid glance, that’s all. Then she ducked her head again and hurried on past. But a part of her remained there on the grey pavement among the ice and the tree stumps, watching and waiting.
Chang was braiding strands of her hair, weaving them in and out of fine silk ribbons. He could sense the rhythmic movement soothing her, helping to still the vibrations his fingertips could feel through the fragile bones of her skull. He breathed out deeply and saw a lock of her hair rise, flutter and settle once more.
‘ Lydia, what is it that you want from Jens Friis? Want so badly you take risks that could swamp us all?’
‘He’s my father,’ she said.
He wove another ribbon into the flames. ‘But what are you doing here in Russia? Running towards Jens? Or away from China?’
‘What do you mean, away from China? Why should I want to run away from China?’
‘Because your mother died there.’
She said nothing. Her hands lay unmoving at her sides and he wondered at what cost.
‘Your mother died there, violently, and I went off to fight the Kuomintang, leaving you there. You were treated cruelly by my Chinese enemies.’ He kissed the back of her neck. ‘You had every reason to run away. But your father disappeared from your life when you were just five years old, so you scarcely know him. What is it that makes you cling so hard?’
‘He’s my father,’ she said again. Her voice came out as a whisper.
He stroked her naked shoulders, fine elegant shapes.
‘I let my mother die,’ she said. ‘I can’t let my father die too.’
‘Your mother’s death was no fault of yours. It was the work of the gods, a random moment when an act of revenge went wrong. You were not responsible in any way.’
‘I know.’
‘And your father is not dying.’
‘Nor is he living.’
‘You can’t know that.’
‘What? Is that place we passed today somewhere worth living? It’s more like a tomb.’
‘So what are you planning to do?’
‘To contact him. Somehow. At first, that’s all.’
‘And then?’
But she had gone from him, deep within herself where he couldn’t reach her. His fingers continued to braid her hair and into his mind came an image of her standing on a small beach in China, staring out at sunlit water, every inch straining to rush forward with the current towards her future. What had happened to her? He lowered his head until it was almost touching the neat triangle of her shoulder blade and inhaled the scent of her skin. She smelled the same, that intoxicating mix of delicate jasmine and the musk of a wild animal. But where had his fox girl gone? Gently he wound his arms around her, drawing her back against his bare chest, the heat of her body surprising him.