‘You aren’t,’ she says aloud.
‘Forget it,’ he says.
‘You have everything now. Just look at this place.’
‘This isn’t my place, it’s Pavel’s. And it doesn’t matter what I have. It matters what the people have.’
‘Forget the people, Valentin! Live your own life for once!’
‘Is this why you’ve come, then, after all these years?’ he says, more harshly than before. ‘To tell me what life to live? Are you not satisfied enough with the one you chose?’
The undercurrent has risen to the surface at last, and now she understands. Even if they can behave in a polite manner in one another’s company, he will never think of her fondly. But she can change this yet – she can explain that she never chose that other life. She never chose Dmitry. She was kept against her will; she was a prisoner. And when next she saw Valentin, he was with Viktoria, and—
‘Forgive me,’ he says, drawing on the cigarette. ‘I forget myself.’
‘It’s not my business,’ Tonya says hurriedly, backing away from her own thoughts.
‘I love the Party,’ he says. ‘It’s because I believe in true socialism, that I do what I do. They’ve betrayed the Revolution, Tonya. I thought there might be hope, earlier this year, when Lenin died. But Koba has succeeded him, and now there is no choice but to act.’
Betrayal. Of course – Valentin’s favour, once lost, is gone for ever. But he is treading dangerous ground; thanks to Sasha’s friendship with the Chekists, Tonya knows precisely how dangerous. Lenin’s Red Terror is supposed to be over; the grain brigades no longer swarm the countryside; the lists of traitors no longer appear in the newspapers. But the Tsar’s Okhrana were amateurs, role-playing children, compared to the Bolshevik Cheka, now known as the OGPU. It is anything but a game.
‘Valya?’ A voice rings out from the hallway. ‘Where are you?’
‘In here,’ he answers, putting out the cigarette. ‘It’s my wife,’ he says to Tonya, and at the sound of this word, this unmoveable, unassailable fact, Tonya finally permits herself to wonder, for one long moment, if he would have married her, in their lifetime. If it would have been without any ceremony, feast or crown around which her hair would ravel. Without singing guests, a lazy turn in the bathhouse, or anxiety in her stomach.
But when you let yourself wonder, as Mama used to say, a thousand more wonderings unfold and unfurl, like flowers in the sun. They will be unstoppable.
The fireplace purrs and the candles on the linen-covered table are lit, throwing dancing shadows upon the walls. The dining room is dominated by large mahogany bookcases containing leather-bound encyclopaedias. Tonya touches the glass, leaving smudges on purpose. Pavel Katenin clearly likes matching sets. Collections. Just as Dmitry did.
She feels an intense wave of loathing, even though she has never met Pavel.
‘Feel free to borrow anything you like.’ Viktoria speaking, from behind her. ‘My father never makes use of any of it.’
Tonya peers into the bookcases. ‘Are there only encyclopaedias?’
‘There would be Alexander Pushkin, somewhere.’
Tonya has never told Viktoria of her love of Pushkin; she is certain of it. ‘Thank you,’ she says, without looking back.
‘You broke his heart. With that poem.’
Now she looks. ‘Poem?’
‘I loved you … I don’t know the rest.’
Tonya goes a little cold. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘When Valentin came home from the war,’ says Viktoria, tightly, ‘he told me we would never—that he did not love me. Our marriage has existed since in name only. He wanted to divorce, but I begged him. Mostly for my father’s sake. Heaven forbid I disappoint Papa.’ She smiles, without humour. ‘We live here as good friends, but only friends.’
‘I didn’t come here to—’
‘I read the letters you sent,’ says Viktoria. ‘I know you have a daughter. Valya’s daughter.’ Her voice wavers. ‘I burnt them.’
‘Burnt them,’ says Tonya.
‘I can’t say how—’ Viktoria stops talking. Valentin has come into the room. He glances between them, inquisitive, but Tonya turns back to the bookcases. She closes her eyes hard before opening them again. She can see Valentin there, reflected in the glass. She can overhear the conversation about his journey to Moscow tomorrow, Viktoria suggesting that he should travel down with Tonya, together, as Moscow is on the way to Tula. Burnt them. Her mind has gone blank. You broke his heart. The only Pushkin she associates with Valentin is from Eugene Onegin, the book she was reading when they first met. She may never untangle the two.
‘What will you do in Moscow?’ Tonya asks, when they are on the train. An hour has already gone, maybe two. So many more lie ahead, but she can feel herself counting down the seconds. At some point she will have lost her chance to speak up. Scream it, she tells herself, tell him what happened, tell him everything, but some other part of her only answers: To what end? What about Sasha, who has been taking care of Lena all this time? And what about Lena, when will you tell him about Lena? How will you tell him about Lena?
And with all this floating in her head, nothing makes it to her lips.
‘Meet someone,’ says Valentin. ‘Unofficially.’
‘Does Viktoria know you are working against the Party?’ she asks.
‘Vika, yes, but not her father,’ he says, with a touch of bitterness. ‘Pavel remains in denial. If he were anybody else, I wouldn’t bother any more, trying to make him see. But all our old friends and allies have been persecuted, Tonya. Hunted. Disappeared off the streets. Meanwhile the only lights on in Piter are in the Astoria – though they call it the First House of the Soviet now. For the Party elite, just as they once were for the rich.’ His smile is wry. ‘For your husband.’
‘You idolised Pavel,’ Tonya says softly.
‘I almost died in Samara.’ He looks right at her. ‘But I didn’t. I was given another chance to live, and I vowed to be true to myself, wherever that would take me. You see, I already knew things were not as they ought to be, before I was ever assigned to the front. I knew that, but I went anyway. I was living a lie. In more ways than one.’
Tonya falls silent. She cannot be sure what she might say, if she spoke.
‘There are many who feel the same. Maxim Gorky is so disillusioned he has left for Europe.’ Valentin’s tone is no longer introspective. Now he sounds as he always did on the podium, every word a weapon, every sentence ammunition. ‘But I will never go. No matter what happens, I will always stay to fight. I will always believe in the people.’
The train is pulling into the station and there is hollering, shoving, jostling for position. This is Moscow! Alight for Moscow! The passengers begin to flow onto the platforms. Moscow is already more alive than Leningrad.
‘Are you hungry?’ Valentin reaches for his briefcase. ‘There isn’t a train to Tula for a while.’
‘Just—wait.’ Tonya can hear people rushing by outside, the clamouring, the clattering. Her heart beats hard, like bird wings. Now that they’re here, about to part for good, with the trains arriving, leaving, axles firing, wheels grating on tracks, she knows what has really stopped her from speaking, all this time. Now that the whistles are blowing so shrilly she can’t hear her own thoughts, and someone is shouting political slogans above all the noise: Comrades! Workers and peasants of Russia, hear ye, hear ye!
‘What is it?’ he says, with a sideways smile.
‘I tried to come to you,’ she says. ‘That night, when we were supposed to meet on the bridge. I tried. My husband stopped me. He locked me in my room. He kept me there.’