‘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.
13
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 deeply 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. Behind the paper-thin walls a woman suddenly started to laugh in the next room, 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 armour. ‘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 tyre 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? Kolya. 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 odour 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 round 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 colourful Uzbek dress materialised 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. 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 scrutinised 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 Kolya was fondling one of the girls and getting his hands smacked for his trouble. Alexei ordered another vodka, then turned as if he had all the time in the world and no thought 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: just a glance at the mention of Vushnev’s name 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 grey 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 sheen of the man grated on Alexei’s nerves, but he dug up a smile of sorts and asked, ‘You’re Comrade Vushnev, I believe?’