The smithy looked like the Devil’s workshop. Great sparks leapt and twisted through the air that rang with the thunder of hammer blows on metal. As Sofia entered the dim interior she felt her bones vibrate and her teeth ache with it, but the blacksmith was grinning from ear to ear, relishing every swing of his massive hammer like Thor himself. He was working on a thick iron pole. It glowed scarlet at one end where it was being flattened to a point.
‘Comrade Pokrovsky,’ she called out. She squeezed it in between blows.
He paused mid-swing, hammer head poised high above his shoulder in a position that would have sent most people toppling over backwards. The smith was wearing a thick leather apron over a sleeveless tunic and his naked shaven scalp glistened with sweat. The sight of him made Sofia smile. Here was a man who loved his work. Now that the reverberations had stopped, she realised he was singing an old army marching song and wielding his hammer to its rhythm.
He lowered it easily on to the anvil and stared at Sofia with surprise. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’ He wiped the sweat from his upper lip with the back of his beefy hand. His teeth were as big as the rest of him but so white that Sofia wondered if they might be false.
‘Comrade Lishnikova suggested I speak with you.’
His dark eyes sparked with interest. ‘About last night?’
‘No. About a hut.’
The change in him was instant and the easy manner vanished. ‘What hut?’
‘A hut I found up in the forest.’ She added cautiously, ‘In a clearing a few versts north-west of here. I was-’
‘Stay away from huts, comrade.’ He stepped towards her, his tree-trunk arms swinging loose. ‘I’m warning you.’
‘Warning me of what?’
‘Of not sticking your nose in places that-’
‘Comrade Pokrovsky, I already know what’s in that hut and who goes there.’
He dragged air noisily through his teeth and his barrel chest swelled. She took a step away from him, before she could stop herself. His intimidating presence acted like a physical pressure on her, even though he hadn’t actually touched her.
‘Stay away from the hut,’ he growled.
‘Chairman Fomenko goes up there to…’
‘Stay away from our Comrade Chairman.’
‘I thought you were trying to help this village, as part of Rafik’s circle. So why…?’
Riddled with informers eager to earn a cheap rouble. Elizaveta’s words slid like slime into her mind and she felt suddenly sick with disappointment as she realised what this man was up to.
‘You’re working for both sides, aren’t you, Comrade Pokrovsky?’ she said hoarsely.
He moved so close she had to tip her head right back to look him in the eyes. This time she didn’t step away.
‘Leave Fomenko alone,’ he warned.
‘Why? What is he to you?’
The blacksmith lowered his bull neck till his eyes were on a level with hers. The sparks were there inside them now. ‘Leave Fomenko alone. Because I say so.’
She spun on her heel and strode out of the forge.
‘Comrade Morozova, shouldn’t you be out with your brigade in the fields?’
Sofia would have ignored him if she could, but Aleksei Fomenko and his lean-limbed hound had stepped right into her path before she was aware of them. Her mind was churning with fears about what Pokrovsky would say to his rouble-paymasters, and all she wanted was to reach Mikhail’s izba as quickly as possible. Now this rebuke. She couldn’t bring herself to look at the Chairman, so she stared at the gentle brown eyes of his dog.
‘Did you tell them?’ she demanded.
‘Tell who?’
‘Tell the interrogators to release Comrade Pashin.’
He laughed, a harsh bark that could almost have come from the dog. ‘Don’t be absurd, comrade. I don’t have that kind of power.’
She looked up at him for the first time. His jaw was set in a stern line but today his eyes were as gentle as his dog’s. She’d learned not to trust gentle eyes.
‘Don’t you?’ she asked.
‘No.’
‘I see.’
She did see. She saw that Rafik’s binding together of Tivil’s strengths last night did produce some kind of force. Unless Fomenko was lying to her and he was the one who organised Mikhail’s release. But why would he do that?
His gaze fixed on her and the strong sunlight bleached the creases from his skin, so that for a moment his face looked as smooth as a boy’s. Sofia could picture him, rifle in his hand, the boy who shot Anna’s father.
‘Don’t miss your shift in the fields,’ he reminded her.
She shook her head and walked on.
She slipped into the bedroom where Mikhail was sleeping. One arm was thrown out in a wide gesture of abandon as if letting go in his sleep of what he couldn’t release when awake. Sofia moved silently to the bed. There were signs of his having been up and about, an empty cup by the bed and his shirt hanging on the rack of hooks in the corner, instead of thrown on the floor when she slid it from his shoulders last night.
She stood there quietly and studied him, watched him breathe, the slow even rhythm, the soft tiny movements of his lips. She absorbed every detail of him, not just into her mind but into her body, deep into her blood and her bones. The fineness of him, the line of his cheekbone, the thick fan of his dark lashes, even the black and swollen bruise around his eye. His chin was dark with stubble that she longed to kiss. She imagined him laughing in the snow, building a sleigh of ice. Skating on the lake and smiling with contentment as he roasted potatoes on the fire. All these things she knew he’d done, and many more when he was Vasily. But then he stuck a knife in the throat of his father’s killer and Vasily died. Mikhail was born. It made no difference to her.
Vasily.
Mikhail.
She loved them both. Her body ached with loving him, but it was nothing compared with the desperate ache at the knowledge that she was about to lose him. So softly that he didn’t break the rhythm of his dreams, Sofia dropped her clothes to the floor and slid in beside him between the sheets. His naked body smelled warm and musky. Her lips touched his skin. She curled her body around his and lay like that for an hour, maybe two. When eventually his hand found her in his sleep, she smiled. Slowly, without opening his eyes, he started to caress her breasts till a moan crept from between her lips and she heard his breath quicken.
‘Ssh,’ she whispered, ‘you need sleep.’
‘No, I need you.’
He opened his eyes and grinned at her on the pillow. Gently she kissed his split lip and drew it into her own mouth where her tongue soothed it. His groan vibrated through her own lungs and together they started to explore each other’s bodies once more. It was leisurely this time as their hands moved or lingered and teased desire to breaking point – until he was inside her.
As he thrust deep within her, his lips hard on hers, she kept her eyes open, fixed on his, so close they were almost a part of her. His gaze never wavered from hers. And suddenly the terrible ache and the fear left Sofia. The ache of loving. The fear of losing. There was just this, just him, just her. Together.
49
‘I’ve been waiting for you.’
Rafik was seated at the table in his izba, his hands flat on its rough planks. He was wearing the white band round his head, stark against his thick black hair, and a soft white shirt with loose sleeves and, on its front, a strange geometric design picked out in intricate white embroidery. He indicated the two chairs opposite him.
Sofia and Mikhail sat down. Sofia’s eyes focused immediately on the white stone that lay on the surface of the table.
‘Sofia,’ Rafik said and smiled at her. ‘It is time for you to know more. But first,’ his gaze shifted to Mikhail, ‘what is it you want of me, Comrade Pashin?’
Mikhail gave the stone no more than a cursory glance, but he draped a protective arm along the back of Sofia’s chair. ‘Rafik,’ he said, ‘yesterday I was incarcerated in a filthy cell looking at a future in a labour camp – at best. Today I am here in Tivil, a free man.’ He leaned forward, searching the gypsy’s face. ‘It’s a miracle, and I don’t believe in miracles.’