The Jewel of St Petersburg (69 page)

A
RKIN DIDN’T RISE FROM HIS SEAT. BUT IT WAS HARD NOT to show Elizaveta that much respect.

“Prisoner Nicholai Ivanov,” he said, “I order you to be taken before the tribunal and tried as a traitor to your country.”

“You sniveling little nobody, what do you and your kind know about this country? I served it loyally for—”

Arkin nodded at the guard, and a rifle butt jabbed at the minister’s face. His hands were roped behind his back so he could not stop the blood dripping from his mouth.

“Don’t.” It was the first time Elizaveta had spoken. “Please don’t.”

He allowed himself to look at her. To gather into his mind the exact shade of the gold of her hair and the smooth texture of her cheek, of her throat.

“Madam Ivanova.” He could hear the respect in his own voice, but he couldn’t hide it. He focused on the two sheets of paper on his desk, one with the name of Nicholai Ivanov on it, the other with Elizaveta Ivanova. He picked up a pen but rested the tips of his fingers on her name. It was the nearest he could come to touching her. “You are also to be tried for treason because you assisted your husband in his exploitation of the proletariat to fill the Romanov coffers.”

She said nothing. Still he couldn’t look at her. “Take them away.”

“Immediately, Comrade Erikov.”

But when the guard seized her husband roughly by the arm, Elizaveta said, “Wait.”

The guard hesitated, the habit of obedience running deep. With her hands tied behind her back, she turned to her husband and kissed his cheek. “Good-bye, Nicholai. God bless you. We won’t see each other again in this lifetime.”

“Elizaveta, my wife, I need—”

“Take him away. Let her remain,” Arkin ordered.

“Elizaveta,” Ivanov cried out as he was dragged from the room, “I love—”

The guard slammed the door behind him. For a long moment Arkin and Elizaveta gazed at each other, alone in the room.

“I can’t save you,” he said at last.

“I know.”

She smiled at him as intimately as she had on the lacy pillows of the Hotel de Russie. No sign of sorrow or regret in the curve of her full lips as she stood in his office.

“Chyort!”
He threw his pen down on his desk and moved across the room till he was close enough to touch her, but he kept his hand at his side. “Elizaveta, I would if I could. But you are a government minister’s wife. God knows, I would save you if I could.”

Her blue eyes glittered with pleasure. “I know. Don’t worry about me.” Her elegant clothes were dirty and ripped on one sleeve. He wondered what rough hand had torn it. “I want to look at you one last time,” she said quietly.

He touched her then, his fingers on her pale cheek. She tilted her head and gently leaned into his hand. “Take care of yourself, Viktor. These are such dangerous times and I want you to”—she swallowed and turned her mouth to kiss his fingers—“to be safe. I hate all that you stand for, I hate what you Bolsheviks will do to my country, but”—she lifted her head—“I can’t hate you.”

“Elizaveta, I shall do all I can to save you from the tribunal’s wrath, but—”

“No, Viktor, do nothing for me, I beg you.” She spoke the words slowly and thoughtfully, as though to impress their meaning on him. “I have lived more in these last years than ever before in my life. Lived more and loved more. That is enough for me. You brought me a joy I didn’t know existed.
Spasibo.”

He smiled at her, a tender smile that did not attempt to hide from her the sharp ache under his ribs.
“Spasibo,”
he echoed.

“God keep you,” she murmured, and walked to the door.

W
HEN VALENTINA RETURNED HOME, LYDIA WAS KNEELING at the top of the stairs throwing dried sultanas one by one to the two ragged boys in the hall below. Valentina didn’t waste time on scolding her but seized her wrist, pulled her into their room, and knelt down in front of her so that their eyes were on a level.

“Lydia, I have an appointment to see a man, and I want you to come with me.”

“Is it Papa?”

“No.
Dochenka
, my daughter, don’t look so sad. If we do this right, we’ll be seeing Papa soon.”

“You say that every day.”

“Well, today it’s true.”

She dressed them carefully, plain dresses, plain coats, no frills, no furs. She tucked Lydia’s fiery locks under a brown headscarf and then pulled a felt hat down on top of it. “You must look like a workman’s daughter today.”

They studied their drab clothes in the mirror.

“You look beautiful in yours, Mama. But I look ugly in mine.”

Valentina swung Lydia up into her arms and kissed her forehead. “You couldn’t look ugly if you tried, my angel. Now listen to me. There are things I want you to say.”

I
THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD,” VALENTINA SAID.

Valentina had walked into Comrade Erikov’s office and stared at Arkin’s face, at his gray uniform, at the new arrogance in his eyes, and for the thousandth time wished she had stuck Dr. Fedorin’s scalpel into his throat that day of the duel on Pistol Ridge.

“I thought you would have died of gangrene,” she said.

“I am not so easy to kill.” But his eyes were not on her, they were on the child.

“Viktor, this is your daughter, Lydia.”

Arkin’s face remained blank. Not even a smile for the child. Valentina shuddered inwardly as she released her daughter’s small hand and saw her skip forward to stand like a little elf before the tall figure behind the desk. Valentina’s throat tightened at the sight of her young courage.

“Dobriy den
, good afternoon, Papa.”

A pulse jumped into life at the edge of Arkin’s jaw. His gaze faltered as he reached down and touched the top of the small head with tentative fingers. “How do I know she’s mine?”

“Because I swear to you that she is. I was already pregnant when I married Jens Friis.” Valentina thanked God that Arkin had not been around to know the date of her daughter’s birth.

He took his hand away, but Lydia continued to stare up at him with round eyes.

“That means nothing,” he said. His voice was flat. “She could be Friis’s brat.”

“No.” She glanced away as if embarrassed. “Jens and I always took care that I wouldn’t become pregnant.”

“You could be lying.”

“I am not lying, I swear it on my child’s life. Look at her mouth, it’s yours. Look at her chin. It’s small but the shape is yours.” It was a lie, but she could sense how much he wanted it to be true.

“Her hair?” His hand moved toward the hat.

But Valentina had told Lydia that her hat must not come off. Without hesitation Lydia seized his hand, clutching it tight, and rested her small cheek against it. Her gaze fixed on Arkin with the naked yearning that only a child can possess.

He didn’t snatch his hand away but studied her intently. “Her eyes aren’t mine. Nor are they yours, for that matter.”

“Her eyes are strictly her own. Much of Lydia is strictly her own.”

In the chilly office he crouched down on one heel, the other leg stretched out stiffly to the side, and examined her closely, his expression guarded. But he allowed his fingers to lie captive in the small hands.

“So you are Lydia,” he said to her. His voice was kind.

“And you are my papa,” Lydia said softly. She tipped her head to one side and smiled shyly, then suddenly threw her wispy arms around his neck, hooking them together as if she would never let him go. She uttered a low mewing sound. “Papa.” She kissed his cheek.

Valentina watched. Stunned. She had not instructed her daughter to do this, but as she watched the man she hated, she saw him melt. His bones grew soft in her daughter’s grasp, and a small part of her hatred melted with it. With the child’s cheek nestled against his own, his eyes lost their hard-edged focus and his features seemed to blur as though the structure under them had crumbled. For a long moment man and child remained locked together, and then he kissed her forehead briskly, rose to his full height, and retreated behind his desk without looking at either of them. He took out a form, wrote on it, and held it out to Valentina.

“Here,” he said. “A permit to leave Petrograd. Now go.”

She read it. Looked at Lydia. Tore it up. “My husband’s name is not on it.”

“No.”

“I will not leave Petrograd without him.”

“If you stay in this city, the Red Guards will come for you eventually, Valentina, however much you hide inside your brown coat. You are the minister’s daughter and they will hunt you down. Don’t risk our child’s life.”

“If Jens Friis stays, we stay.”

“Don’t be so foolish, Valentina. Think of Lydia.”

“If he dies, we die.”

“I cannot save you all.”

“Put his name on the travel permit if you want your daughter to live.”

The moment was agony. She thought she had lost him. He seemed to withdraw into himself, and the room became a dead and empty place. But abruptly he fixed his eyes on hers.

“Does your mother love Lydia?” he asked.

Valentina trod warily. “Yes, of course she loves her grand-daughter.”

He nodded but didn’t look at Lydia again as he wrote out another form and handed it to Valentina. “Take it.”

Jens’s name was on it alongside hers and Lydia’s.
“Spasibo.
Thank you.”

“But I warn you, after he is released, they will come for him whether his name is on the permit or not. You have an hour, maybe less, before others will override this permit when they know he is here in Petrograd. He worked for the tsar, and such treachery will not be tolerated.” Anger kicked into his voice. “The time of reckoning has come for people like him, people who think they are protected because they are liberal minded and well skilled. As if his intelligence is enough of a shield.”

“Jens worked for the people of Russia, to help them. What are you Bolsheviks going to do, destroy everyone with a brain who can think for themselves? What hope is there for Russia’s future if you do that?”

“Russia has a great future ahead of it now. Without its tyrants at last.”

Valentina took Lydia’s hand and pulled her close to her skirts. “I hope we do not meet again, Arkin.”

“So take the child and run. It’s what you’re good at. It’s what you did so well in the forest, hiding from tree to tree.”

She stared at him. “What are you talking about?”

He smiled with satisfaction. “Don’t you know even now? I was in the forest with you that day you stumbled into our preparations. I was the one who bombed your house at Tesovo.”

D
ID I DO WELL, MAMA?”

“You did very well,
dochenka,
my daughter.”

“Will Papa be angry with me at home because I called that other man Papa?”

“No. He will kiss you a thousand times.”

“So why are you crying?” Her small hand chafed her mother’s. “Don’t cry.”

“Hurry! We must be quick. We have only an hour.”

“For what?”

“To leave Petrograd.”

Forty-two

V
ALENTINA STOOD INSIDE THE FRONT DOOR, EYES CLOSED, listening. Two dark-skinned boys were sitting on the floor in the hallway playing cards for cigarette butts, but they were so intent on their game that they spoke little. They didn’t disturb her. A narrow bed had appeared in the alcove under the stairs, and a bald man lay on his back within it and snored. Not even he disturbed her because she was concentrating. Listening hard. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself by waiting outside.