‘Thank you for the warning,’ he said smoothly.
‘It wasn’t a warning, it was-’
At that moment Rafik hurried into the room, fully dressed and in a warm wool jacket, with a coarse blanket over one shoulder and a large leather satchel slung from the other.
‘Come, Mikhail,’ he ordered. ‘We must be quick.’
Mikhail Pashin spun round, opened the door and without even a farewell, the two men hurried away into what remained of the night. Sofia watched them go, one figure short and scurrying, the other tall and lean with the long easy stride of a wolfhound. Neither carried a light, as if their feet knew these paths too well.
‘It wasn’t a warning, it was a question,’ she finished.
He’s real. Anna, he’s real. Real flesh. Real blood. Not just existing solely in our minds. He’s solid, so solid I could have touched him had I chosen to and my fingers would not have slipped straight through his body the way they do in my dreams.
He’d come to her, coalescing out of the darkness just as he’d done a thousand times before when she’d summoned him, but never before had he been made of flesh and bone. Never before did he have a voice. A tongue. Skin that had seen the sun. A long hard throat. Hair that smelled of early morning mists and stable straw. His jaw was more angular than in her imaginings and his grey eyes more guarded, but it was him. Vasily.
Mikhail Pashin.
Here in the gypsy’s house she had breathed the same air he breathed. Her heart was pounding and she could still hear his voice: I’m not a pilot of anything.
‘But you’re wrong, Mikhail Pashin,’ she whispered and brushed her hand through the air where he had stood, as if she could hold on to his shadow. ‘You brought me here. You guided my footsteps to this village of Tivil.’
And what had she done with the precious moment? Wasted it. Her foolish tongue had frightened him off with a question that sounded to his ears too much like a threat. Damn it, damn it. Where were the soft words she’d planned for him?
‘Next time,’ she murmured, angry with herself, ‘next time I swear I’ll touch you. I’ll place my fingers on the muscles of your arm and feel the hard bone underneath your skin.’ Abruptly she slumped down at the table and stared blindly into the shimmering flame. ‘He’s Anna’s,’ she whispered to the night.
Elizaveta Lishnikova felt sorry for the man in the chamber. She was the one who had started calling the dark and dingy underground room a chamber to give it a degree of dignity, rather than ‘the hole’, which was how it had been referred to before. It was only three metres squared, its earthen walls lined with planking. A single candle on a shelf threw out strange-angled shadows that Elizaveta had often noticed made the occupant even more jumpy. Only one hard-backed chair stood against a wall smelling of mildew, and there was a bundle of blankets folded on top of some sacking on the floor. A bible lay on the shelf next to the candle. Elizaveta had placed it there but tonight it was obvious it had not been touched.
The man’s hand was shaking, but otherwise he was putting up a good show of confidence. His fair hair was combed into a neat parting, his shirt collar was clean and he was managing to keep his shoulders straight. She didn’t like it when they arrived out of the darkness in crumpled rags, their bodies hunched and boneless with fear. But that was just a quirk of hers. She liked to see a bit of backbone on display. Though God only knew how desperately each package had good reason to be fearful.
‘Now, Comrade Gorkin – that’s your new name, by the way: Andrei Gorkin. Start getting used to it.’
He blinked, as if to seal the name into his mind. ‘I won’t forget,’ he said.
Elizaveta registered the refinement of his speech. Another intellectual, maybe a university lecturer who’d said one word too many in praise of the wrong kind of book or the wrong kind of music. She pulled her grey woollen shawl round her bony shoulders to keep out the chill of such thoughts.
‘Here,’ she offered a small bundle wrapped in muslin, ‘something to eat now. And something more for the journey. It’s only black bread and a cone of sunflower seeds but it’ll start you on your way.’
‘Spasibo.’ His voice was shaky and he wiped a hand across his eyes.
‘None of that,’ she said gently, in the tone she would use to one of the little girls in her class. ‘This is a time when you must be…’ She was going to say strong, but one look into his nervous eyes and she changed her mind. ‘You must be prepared for a little hardship. Keep your wits about you, do exactly as you’re told and you’ll get through it safely.’
‘I can’t thank you enough for-’
‘Hush. Eat up. You’ll be moving on any moment now.’
She rested a hand on the ancient iron latch of the door, ready to open it the second she heard the coded knock, and watched him force himself to eat. Clearly he had no stomach for food tonight. She didn’t blame him. Nights like this set her own innards churning and she sighed at the thought of a whole generation of intellectuals being wiped out, anyone with a thought of their own. Who was going to teach the next generation to think?
‘You must regard me as wretched,’ he said, smoothing his pale hair in an attempt to appear anything but wretched.
‘No.’
‘I had a good job in Moscow in the-’
‘Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.’
He sat down on the chair as suddenly as if she’d slapped him. Dear God, sometimes these packages expected too much from her.
‘It’s safer,’ she explained. ‘The less I know, the better for both of us.’
‘Yes, I understand.’
The candle hissed as a draught took the flame and she heard the rap of knuckles on old wood.
‘Your guide is here,’ she whispered.
She unlocked the door and the large figure of Pokrovsky slipped into the gloomy chamber. Not for the first time she thought how light on his feet the blacksmith was for a big man. He seemed to take up half the available space and she couldn’t resist a smile at the black bear-fur hat on his head. It was to hide any telltale gleam of moonlight his shaven scalp might catch in the darkness of the forest, he’d told her before. But it always amused her nonetheless.
‘Ready?’ Pokrovsky demanded of the man.
‘Yes.’
‘Do you have your new identity papers?’
‘Yes, here in my pocket.’ He patted his jacket.
‘Then let’s go.’
Elizaveta opened the door quietly and the man stepped out into the fresh night air. She saw him hesitate. Everything was black under a thin cloud layer and she could almost hear his heart rate pick up.
‘I wish there was a moon tonight,’ he muttered.
‘Then you’re a fool,’ Pokrovsky growled.
A wind rustled through the nearby stand of poplars. It could just as easily have been boots creeping over dead leaves on the ground. Elizaveta laid a hand on Pokrovsky’s massive arm.
‘My friend,’ she said softly, ‘take care.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll deliver your package safely.’
His expression was hidden from her in the darkness but he grunted, blew out through his nostrils like a horse at water and swung away from her, so that her arm fell to her side. He set off at speed and the package had to scurry to keep up.
‘You’re not in bed.’
‘No, Zenia. I’ve made you tea,’ Sofia said. She tried a smile but it got her nowhere.
The gypsy girl had just emerged from the tiny closet that was her bedroom and yawned loudly, her body still soft with sleep. She stretched, arching her supple spine, hitched her nightdress up to her knees and stepped on to one of the chairs at the table.