Field of Mars (31 page)

Perhaps Tuitchevsky, the local commander, was looking for an excuse to replace Zezulin; if so, why go to all the pretence, why spend the effort when anything would do. It didn't fully explain Zezulin's sudden efficiency, but then . . . what man isn't afraid to lose his job?

The next thing to happen would be something official, an
evaluation
they would call it, someone would come around, someone with more authority than the auditors, or—it would be short and sweet—a simple announcement, a pathetic goodbye party for Zezulin and a rallying speech by the new man, whoever had been selected.

Or perhaps there would be interviews beforehand, he would find himself under the spotlight, all of his actions questioned. He felt the panic rise in his throat.

It was then that he started going through the files himself. If there was any irrgularity he wanted to be the first to discover it, and, filled with guilt and anxiety, he spent the rest of the night stacking and re-arranging ledgers, file reports, dossiers, and procedural requests into their correct pigeon-holes and cabinets, trying to divine a greater logic hidden within the official logic of his office.

By dawn he was exhausted and panicky. So distraught that when Dima Dudenko came in and saw him there—rumpled, with his hair (what little there was left) hanging in greying strings from his pate—and asked if anything was wrong, he dragged him around behind the bookcases and blurted it all out to him in a stage whisper that tore at his throat, and brought tears.

Overnight he had discovered that yes . . . in horrible truth, files were
missing
or had been altered. Multiple pages had been removed, razored out of older bound volumes. It was impossible to say how long any of it had been going on, and doubtless there were official secrets that had to sometimes be . . . rewritten or various forms of evidence that, given the importance of protecting the empire, had to be fabricated. Still! There were safeguards, precautions designed for exactly this circumstance, but inevitably they had been circumvented. Case files. Different reference numbers. There's no way to trace it, of course. It could be the accountants. It could be Velimir Antonovich Zezulin.

‘We must have inadvertently done something, or
he
must have—something to attract their attention! They've pretended it was about expenditures, but . . .' he spluttered into silence.

Dudenko was looking at him with a steady noncommittal expression.

‘The next thing is they'll want to schedule re-posting interviews . . . next week, the week after. Who knows when the axe will fall!' he said, his voice ending up in a wail.

Dudenko was kind enough to put a hand on his shoulder and suggest that he take the day off. ‘Pyotr's coming in and we'll cover for you for a change, eh? Say you're sick, go upstairs and rest.'

The unexpected charity from Dudenko, a young know-it-all, a real cold fish most of the time, who had hardly ever spoken to him, caused Izachik to tear up again. He didn't even have the strength to reply, but walked quickly out of the room, and headed directly for the stairs, grateful to be told what to do. Dudenko followed him out. ‘I'll bring you some tea in an hour or two, don't worry,' he said.

And, when Pyotr Ryzhkov arrived some minutes later, he told him all about it.

TWENTY-NINE

Like a princess she stepped from the Renault, remembering to cling to Fauré's arm, remembering to smile, remembering to walk, yes, like a princess up the short flight of steps. Remembering all of her instructions. Not nervous at all, she told herself. No, she was beyond all that, beyond nerves, beyond feelings. Numb.

Her smile came naturally, giddily. After all, this fabulous party was what she had always wanted. Maybe I can enjoy it for a while, she thought. Thinking too that the whole thing would be better after a few champagnes, remembering that all she had to do was stay awake. And then she was inside the doors, laughing and nodding to other guests, people Fauré knew, all the men staring. And for a few moments, yes, it was fabulous. Not everyone got to go to a ball like this, held at the Yusupov ‘Palace' at the end of the Moika, one of the architectural wonders of the city, occupying nearly an entire block, splendid with its modernistic façade. It was the kind of place that you walked by and wondered what went on inside. And now, here she was.

‘. . . and this is my niece, Katya . . .' Fauré was telling an old man dressed in a scarlet uniform, who chuckled politely. For tonight, she was Katya. At first she said no, but Fauré had insisted, so she would remember why she was doing it. Oh, yes. So, it would be a penance, a way of cleansing herself of not getting through the iron door a little faster, a way of assuaging guilt. After tonight she'd be free, she had told herself. But deep down she knew it was a lie.

There wasn't much rehearsing. Not enough.

She was playing the part of Boris's latest niece, a dancer who'd spent the last six years in Paris. That's where they'd met and she'd let Boris charm her. The idea was to be exotic, a rare bird. A special treat. They went over street maps, they picked out a fantasy apartment and furnished it. It was safe, Fauré said. She hated him, hated his confidence, his assurance. The way he had planned it so that there was no escape. Hated Pyotr for sitting there and saying nothing while she got a headache from memorizing the faces of the little one's friends. Why me? she was thinking all through it. Why me?

Well, because she hadn't been on her guard . . . because she, too, hated the ones who'd done it. Because she wanted to forget, and because it was a debt she wanted to cancel. Because a lot of things.

So, she'd memorized the salient events of their whirlwind courtship, listened while Fauré told stories of childhood frolics at the family compound in the Crimea. He was the writer, spinning out his fictions. ‘Oh, our winters were . . . glorious! We had nine different kinds of palm trees,' he said with a gauzy look in his eye.

The fat man was the director, she decided. He was the one who took Fauré's part, rehearsed her in the dances; made her go over her French bedroom phrases. Practise how to drink out of a champagne flute. It wasn't that hard, and he was relieved. She knew all that. She had been practising for this all her life. It was just a quick run-through, a waltz across the floor of an abandoned sweatshop. A tango to take her measure, to check her abilities. She knew all the dances, they didn't have to worry. She could be Fauré's real niece if she took the notion and no one would be able to tell the difference.

She couldn't avoid Pyotr. He'd been assigned as the stage manager, sitting like a cold statue watching it all, ducking out to make telephone calls, to take care of production details. It helped to think of it that way, like a play, a great extravaganza. He kept his distance from the artists like a good stage manager. They hadn't talked since she'd been revealed as the procurer of Katya Lvova. No regret. No apology. That's the way the world turned, she decided. So . . . he did what they made him do, and she did the same. When they were all done, he'd make sure she had a cab home at night. Then she'd go to sleep and try to forget all about it.

It wasn't much of a plan.

From her studies of the portraits of the men who were coming to the Yusupov ball she knew the guest of honour—the Prime Minister of Serbia, Nicola Pasic, a bright-eyed little man with a prominent bald head and a monocle. He was in town to buy rifles and to ask the Tsar if it would be appropriate for Crown Prince Alexander to seek the hand of the lovely Grand Duchess Olga, with whom he had become friends when he was a military cadet in the city and she was just a child. A very delicate, festive mission. An attempt to bind Serbia to Russia with bonds of steel and blood. In the nicest way, of course.

Escorting the prime minister would be most of Russia's diplomats who were posted to the Serbian capital of Belgrade—Ambassador Hartwig, (remember, it's ‘Henry' to his friends) and his military attaché, Colonel Artamonov, (nothing cute, just plain ‘Victor'). A few others they were interested in: Prince Evdaev, a soldier with old money, and a troika of industrialists— all of them connected to Smyrba.

‘What about him?' she'd asked, pulling Smyrba's picture off the pile. ‘If he's there he might recognize me.'

‘He won't be there. He's out of town,' Tomlinovich said, and slid Smyrba's rodent face away.

A great screech of laughing pulled her into the moment. Fauré was making a joke, a servant came by and offered them iced champagne, she'd had two already and felt confident now, making eyes at the little knot of aristocrats that had surrounded them.

‘. . . and I understand that you have been away? Living in Paris?' a man was saying to her. He was huge with twin side-whiskers that extended below his chin. A count somebody, his wife was by his side.

‘It's been wonderful, the most glorious city,' she gushed.

‘It is, isn't it, simply glorious . . .' the countess smiled and gripped the count's arm tightly, trying to will his eyes to elevate themselves from the altogether too-pleasant view of Katya's chest.

The revealing bodice had been necessary. Everything had been necessary. Once in the game, there was no way out, no other choice. No escape.

The fat man had taken her shopping, and she marvelled at his refined taste. They must have rejected a hundred dresses and finally left the shops, worn out and depressed. He wouldn't talk to her since he'd decided that she had no brains, that she was just Pyotr's actress-whore. Three days later a selection of dresses arrived from Paris. They hung up some blankets for her and she changed and unchanged until all the men were happy.

She did it all in a haze, exhausted from the show at the Komet, pretending to hustle out with Pyotr to her ‘love nest', all the posing dropped as they went out the door, then a grim and silent carriage ride, nothing said between them. It seemed to be all right for him, but for her, after the evening's work, the real work began.

She tried on a dozen different gowns while they watched her, she walked across the factory floor, trying to stay awake. Still, it must have worked, she could tell by the way they watched her. All of them found a way to be there for the show, little Dziga and big Jekes. Hokhodiev, who was the one who'd helped hang up the curtains for her.

She ate and listened to them debate the merits of the dress, worrying up until the last minute that it would be too risqué. She had to agree, since it was nothing more than an elongated sheath of transparent silk dyed in bizarre swirls. Everything showed through depending on the light. Well, that was the idea, after all. They talked about the underclothes for hours, the underclothes must be right. All of them were the latest thing, invisible little camisoles, everything made of the finest silk. It must have cost a fortune. They wouldn't let her take them out of the factory.

‘Oh, my God! Boris!' she heard a tall man call out to them. She recognized him as Prince Evdaev, Nestor, friend of the Yusupovs. Artamonov, the Russian attaché in Belgrade was there beside him. She had thought

Evdaev looked familiar when she'd been given the photographs and, now that she heard his voice—a little too highly pitched, a little strident, a little too loud—she was sure she remembered him.

‘Ahh, Katya . . . someone I'd like you to meet.' Fauré neatly pulled them away from another knot of fools and across the ballroom. She moved through the crowd like a swan, like a princess-swan towards the knot of men. She didn't look at Evdaev right away, instead she smiled, let him appraise her while Fauré shook hands. ‘Nestor, it's so good to see you again. It's been far, far too long. This is my niece, Ekatarina,' Fauré said with a laugh.

‘Well—' Evdaev said, his eyes drinking her up. ‘You certainly have a charming family, Boris.'

‘Certainly,' Fauré said. Evdaev took a moment to bow and kiss her hand, and Artamonov smoothly imitated the gesture.

She stared into Artamonov's eyes for a moment, then turned shyly away from his gaze. ‘It's true,' she laughed. ‘We're the most charming, especially the French side of the family . . .' And all the men laughed. Just keep them laughing, keep them all off their guard.

‘Katya's been living in Paris, where they grow up fast, eh?' Fauré jested.

‘Well, Katya, you've made the party a success all by yourself,' Evdaev said with formal charm. She kept her eyes locked on his. Fauré had fallen silent. It was a little golden moment there, with too much unsaid. There was a blaring of music and Fauré pulled her away from them, out on to the floor to dance, but as they glided away her eyes held Evdaev's and set the hook.

‘Good, we're on track so far . . .' Fauré said in her ear as they whirled their way through a waltz, and she let her head fall back, exposing the diamond collar— ‘. . . a collar? Too obvious? No, he'll like that, he's the kind'— they'd picked out for her. She let herself laugh, as if her uncle had just said something far too witty.

From then on it was, pathetically easy. They watched and mingled. All she had to do was have fun, drink the best champagne from the best crystal. Laugh at things that she couldn't hear over the music. Throughout it all, they watched the men on her list, kept track of their dancing partners, waiting for a vacuum that Katya could fill.

The dancers whirled, the champagne bubbled, the sophisticates laughed, but nothing she could do would hold back time. It grew late, and finally Evdaev and PaȈsic were striking up a polite conversation.

‘Now . . .' Fauré said, and they hurried over casually. ‘What fun, eh?' Fauré said, playing the part of a slightly exhausted party-goer. ‘I don't think I've danced as much in years.'

‘Come on,' she said with just a trace of disappointment. ‘You're good for a few more.'

‘Ah . . . ah . . . I don't think so . . . Too much time behind a desk. I tell you, gentlemen, this girl can dance.'