‘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.
‘Chang,’ she said, and her sadness came at him like a slap, ‘what are we going to do, you and I?’
‘My love, you cannot avoid the future by chasing after the past.’
She swivelled round within the circle of his arms, so that her tawny eyes were fixed on his. ‘Is that what you think this is about?’
‘I think that you are frightened of what the future might hold for you, for us, so you are trying to build a future out of the past.’
‘So Jens Friis is my past?’
‘Yes.’
Slowly she shook her head, the ends of the ribbons whispering against his cheek. ‘You don’t understand,’ she said. ‘You don’t understand at all.’
Her words hurt, chipped a small hole in his chest. He lifted his hands and cradled her face between them.
‘I understand that we are together. That is enough.’ He smiled at her. ‘Look at what you are wearing in your hair. Look at the ribbons.’
It took a moment. But the smile came. ‘Red ribbons,’ she said.
‘Red is for happiness.’
It was raining and dark. Flurries of ice like needle points stabbed at the neck. Jens pulled his cap lower over his face and his collar higher to cover his ears. Exercise at six-thirty on a dark miserable morning brought out the worst in people. They grumbled at each other, at the guards, at the weather, but most of all at Colonel Tursenov.
‘Sadistic shit.’
‘Still with his arse tucked up in bed.’
‘Enjoying his breakfast ham and eggs. Warm white rolls and hot chocolate.’
‘Hope it chokes the miserable bastard.’
It was Tursenov who insisted on half an hour of exercise for his prisoners, trudging round and round the courtyard every morning before the working day started and again at the end of the day, before the evening meal was handed out. Rain, wind or snow, it made no difference. Floodlights, dogs and armed guards watched over them as they shuffled in a wide circle behind a chain-link metal fence, single file, four paces behind each other. In silence.
Today was unpleasant. But there had been worse days, much worse, when marching out to work in the Siberian timber forests. Hours of stumbling through snow and white-outs to reach the Work Zone. So Jens was not tempted to complain or voice hostility, but he did worry about Olga out here in the rain. He glanced across at her wet huddled figure further along the circle. She was moving as though her shoes were packed full of the lead she used to dig from the mine. Legs thin as pins. And she was coughing. The sound of her rasping breath made him nervous. He’d seen too many die, too many coughs tear lungs to shreds and shudder to an end in a death rattle. If only she would eat more.
Was Lydia eating?
The thought slipped into his head. Time and again it happened. When he was pushing a spoonful of good hot stew into his mouth he would freeze for a second and ask himself, was she pushing scraps of dry black bread into hers? Curled up under warm blankets at night, he imagined her cold and shivering. When it rained on him, like now, was she wet too? And did she dream of him the way he dreamed of her?
He ached to know more. The Chinese had said nothing of his wife, Valentina. His beloved Valentina. Did she also escape from the Bolsheviks? Please God let her be still alive, somewhere safe and warm where she could grow fat and lazy if she pleased. Or was she here in Moscow with Lydia? In this cold and wet courtyard his mind filled with the shimmer of dark velvety hair he had loved to brush for her each evening before bed, and a face so beautiful no man could turn his eyes away. Are you here, Valentina? Have you come home to Russia? He couldn’t imagine anyone so vibrant and colourful existing in this drab new world of the Soviets.
A sound like hell cracking open broke up his thoughts. It was the noise of the metal gates. Instantly Jens was attentive.
Be alert for communication.
That’s what the note had said. But the heavy grating sound of the hinges was followed by nothing more than the usual baker’s horse and cart rolling into the yard. It arrived every morning around this hour packed with trays of bread and rolls, but carefully separated from the prisoners by the metal fence that marched down the centre of the courtyard and divided off the exercise compound. No one took much notice of the cart, not even the guards. Only the dogs on their leashes were interested, sniffing the scent of freshly baked dough on the air, tongues drooling.
Be alert.
Jens pushed his feet over the rain-slicked cobbles, fighting the urge to stop, but under his cap he threw a sideways glance at the old horse, swaybacked and somnolent. At the boy standing by its head, holding the nag’s rein. He felt a little click behind his eyes. Like a shutter sliding up. Letting in light. The boy was new.
The baker was the same as usual. No change there, in his white apron and floury canvas coat. From the back of the covered cart he shouldered a wide tray of bread loaves, draped with sheets of greaseproof paper against the rain. In his deep bass voice he greeted the prisoners through the wire fence with his customary ‘Dobroye utro’ and disappeared through a side doorway into the building. The boy started to whistle, a bright cheery sound. What was it, that tune? Jens kept moving but his eyes remained with the boy in the navy coat that was too big for his skinny frame. A dark hat with a brim hid most of his face, so that all Jens could make out under the glare of the floodlights were the hollow cheeks, and the lips pursed as he whistled.
Jens whistled back.
‘Silence!’ The order came from one of the guards.
Jens ceased whistling. When he glanced back at the baker’s cart, the boy was hauling a large tray of bread rolls from the back and hoisted it up to carry on his head, flattening his hat, hands spread wide to reach the sides. Jens was at the point of the circle just approaching the chain fence and he slowed.
‘Get going,’ the man behind grumbled.
The boy was fast. Before the baker emerged he tottered unsteadily over the wet uneven cobbles, stumbled suddenly, caught himself, twisted to save the tray and let his legs go flying from under him. As he hit the ground hard he seemed to fling the tray in the direction of the fence. Dozens of white bread rolls cannoned towards the prisoners. Locusts could not have been quicker. Fingers shot through the gaps and the rolls vanished.
‘You bastards, fucking thieves, give me back my rolls!’ the boy yelled. He kicked out at the metal separating them, making it rattle, and the men inside grinned back at him. Even the guards laughed at his antics.
‘I’ll report you all,’ he shouted, ‘I’ll get you shot!’ The furious young boy hurled his hat at the fence, where it slithered down into a puddle. His pale hair was plastered to his thin face by the rain, and what looked like tears started to run down his face.
‘I’ll lose my job,’ he sobbed.
‘Here, boy.’ Jens approached the fence. ‘You can take mine.’ He pushed the roll he’d picked up back through the wire and the boy seized it eagerly.