The Third Section Part 18

She had told him the story of her marriage and her time in Petersburg. Not the whole of it she had missed off any mention of Prince Larionov or any of the other men she had met through him. But she told him of how she believed she was not the Lavrovs' child, and of her search for her true parents. She had explained that she had been married to Vitya and had borne Milenochka, Stasik and Luka. She had told him about the epidemic of 1848, of her flight to Pavlovsk, of the deaths of Milena and Stanislav, and of the murder of Vitya. She told it all as she had previously told those few friends in whom she felt she could confide.

But when it came to Luka, her youngest boy, for once she told the truth.

'After I came back to Petersburg with Luka, and found that Vitya was dead, I fell ill again.'

'Another attack of cholera?' asked Konstantin.

'No. Melancholia, some doctors said others, hysteria. They say I screamed whenever they tried to bring Luka into the room, and hid my face in the pillows.'

'"They say"?'

'I don't remember very much, but I do remember hating Luka. I can't understand it now, but I hated him in the same way I hated myself we'd both survived.'

'Something to praise G.o.d for.'

'For killing three and sparing two?' she snapped. Konstantin did not try to defend the idea. 'But in the end, I did learn to be thankful. Not to G.o.d, not to anyone, but I was overjoyed that Luka was alive, and that I was there to be with him.'

'So why does seeing him make you cry?'

'Because by that time they'd decided I wasn't fit to keep him. How could they trust me, after the way I'd been?'

'A mother can always be trusted.'

'You wouldn't say that if you'd seen me. And in the end, they persuaded me they were right.'

'Who did?'

'Two doctors. They'd been friends of Vitya's, so they understood what he would say.'

'From what you've said, it doesn't sound as though they did,' said Konstantin.

'Perhaps not, but I believed them. They even let me meet the couple who were going to take Luka. Fine people. That's how I recognized the mother today.'

'The mother?'

'When I saw her with Luka, on Nevsky Prospekt.'

She felt him place his hand on top of hers between them on the divan. She looked up at him for the first time in several minutes. Konstantin gazed up at her over his spectacles, looking small and not at all regal.

'Was that the first time?'

'No. They live in Petersburg, so I've seen him three or four times.'

'Have you tried to see him?'

Tamara smiled sadly. Konstantin was very astute. 'Only once,' she said, 'on the spur of the moment. It was in the Summer Garden. I was sitting outside the coffee house and I saw them. All three of them. I don't even know if I was going to approach them, or just walk past as close to Luka as I could. But she saw me and said something to her husband, and he bundled Luka away, and she stood and blocked my path. She didn't say much. She had a strange look of confusion on her face. I don't know which I hated more the anger or the pity.'

'It must be very difficult for them,' he said. She looked at him almost as if he had betrayed her. She felt him squeeze her hand. 'I'm sorry,' he said gently, 'but it must. Nothing like what it must be for you though.'

She smiled and squeezed his hand back.

'You know their names? Where they live?' he asked.

'Oh, yes.' That had been easy to find out. 'But there's nothing I can do.' She lapsed into silence for a few moments, before adding, 'They still call him Luka.'

'Good,' he said, then a little more brightly, 'Do you think that's why you're so keen to find your parents?'

'What?'

'In the hope that one day Luka will do the same and look for you?'

It had never occurred to her as plainly as that, but it could well be true. She allowed the scene of an adult Luka, having searched as she had searched, finally being reunited with her to play itself out in her mind, and felt her eyes well with tears. Then she felt Konstantin's arm around her.

'I'm sorry,' he muttered. 'I shouldn't have said that.'

'No. It was very perceptive.'

'It's not for me to tell you what you think,' said Konstantin. 'Not for anyone.' He stood up and walked across the room, his hands clasped behind his back. Her eyes followed him. He kept his back to her as he spoke.

'I lost someone very dear to me,' he told her. 'My favourite sister, Adini. She was only nineteen. Consumption.'

Tamara thought to say the words 'I'm sorry,' but decided they were inadequate.

'And then when I married Aleksandra, everyone said it was because she reminded me of Adini.'

'Do you love her?' asked Tamara. 'Your wife?'

'Of course,' he said. Then he turned and Tamara could see that he was smiling. He came back and sat beside her. 'I mean really. Yes.'

'Then why am I here?'

'You're nothing like my wife or like Adini.'

He suddenly looked very young and very innocent, though Tamara knew full well that he was nothing of the sort. She leaned forward and kissed his lips. He seemed for a moment surprised, but then his mouth opened and he pushed his body forward, as if to take charge. When they separated, she was reclining on the divan and he was above her.

'Why did you do that?' he asked. He sounded genuinely curious.

'You deserved it; for being happy to sit here and listen.'

'I'd have done that for nothing,' he replied.

She believed him that was why she was still here. 'I deserve it,' she said, and she meant that too. A little forgetful abandon would take her away from her troubles, if only for a while. It had been a long time since she had had the chance to sleep with a man for her own pleasure. She felt a warmth inside her at the prospect.

'People don't always get what they deserve,' said Konstantin.

'I think I will,' she replied.

Konstantin stood and took her hand and led her to a door at the side of the room.

'I expected you earlier.'

Dmitry felt as though he were a guest in his own house. The footman, Konyev, had only been employed a few months before his last departure, so although they recognized one another, Dmitry felt immediately that Konyev was more at home in the apartment than he was. He was shown to the drawing room, where Svetlana was sitting, waiting for him. She had scarcely looked up as she spoke.

He stood still, like a child being upbraided by its mother. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I ... I ... I didn't know what you'd make of me.' Was that the reason? He doubted that was the whole thing, but it was in there somewhere.

She raised her head sharply. 'Make of you?'

He held his stick a little towards her to make it clear, and with his left hand indicated his ankle. Then he walked across the room with, he knew, exaggerated fort.i.tude and dropped himself into the armchair beside her with a loud sigh of relief. She leaned forward and clasped his hand in hers.

'Oh Mitka, I'm sorry. I never thought. I've been so worried, wondering how bad it was for you. It never occurred to me that you'd be thinking of how it affected me.'

'Do you mind?'

'Mind? How could I mind? It makes you look quite distinguished. Everyone will know I'm married to a hero now.'

'You used to think you were married to a G.o.d.' He suddenly feared that she would give him the honest answer, and say how she gave up on that long ago, but, as ever, she would make no admission that anything was wrong.

'You still are a G.o.d, Mitka. One with feet of clay.' He didn't smile, so she tried another approach. 'It's only a limp.'

'Only!' His outrage was affected, but he knew she would be expecting it.

'From the outside, I mean,' she pleaded. 'I know it must hurt you terribly, but it's not like some horrible scar or as if you've lost an arm or even ...'

Dmitry knew why she had stopped. She was about to mention his father's missing fingers. Svetlana had never met Aleksei, but Dmitry had told her about the disfigurement, and she had been unable to hide her disgust. If his ankle was causing her disgust now, she hid it better. And perhaps she was right a wounded soldier could seem all the more valiant, but as the scars grew deeper and more obvious, he would become in the eyes of the world a monster.

He stood and walked over to the piano, now doing his best not to limp, but that made it hurt more. He sat down, resting his cane at the top end of the keyboard, and considered what to play.

'You said in your letters that you managed to play down there,' said Svetlana.

'There was a piano in the mess, but I had to wait my turn. And it wasn't in tune.' His mind drifted to the memory of his playing for Tyeplov, and he forced it out. 'I didn't get a chance on the journey home.'

He began to play the fast triplets of Chopin's nineteenth prelude. It was a moderately easy work, suitable for fingers that had not been stretched for many weeks. They moved swiftly and nimbly, as though they had been playing the piece only yesterday. The piano was out of tune Svetlana didn't understand these things, however much he explained them but that could be remedied in a few days, and he could hear enough through the slight clashes between strings of the same note, especially on the high E, to know that he was playing well. Then, after about four bars, he suddenly stopped, s.n.a.t.c.hing up his leg and rubbing his ankle.

'What's wrong?' asked Svetlana.

'I can't b.l.o.o.d.y pedal!' he shouted, slamming his hand on the keys to produce a raucous crash of notes. Although his ankle could take most of his weight now, it had very little movement. He'd not even thought about it, and gone at the piece pressing the pedal on almost every beat. The pain had been sudden and searing, forcing him to stop.

'You could play something else.' She meant it sincerely she had no idea. He put his hands back on the keyboard and played a Bach invention, going as fast as he was capable. It was written for harpsichord, before the concept of controlling the sustain of a note after the key had been released, and of letting the other strings resonate with it, had ever been thought of. It led to music that was complex, but had no soul. He could learn to pedal with his left foot, but it would take months, and it would never feel natural.

He stood up and walked back to his seat beside Svetlana. 'You just need to exercise it,' she said. 'It took you long enough to be able to walk.' She leaned forward and lifted up his foot. He was wearing a laced boot, which he found unfas.h.i.+onable and effeminate, but his ankle was still too stiff to pull in and out of a normal riding boot. She untied the laces and took it off, placing his foot in her lap. She put one hand under his heel and gripped the foot with the other, just below his toes. Then she began to rock it backwards and forwards, with very slight movements, stopping and reversing direction as soon as she hit resistance.

'Ow!' he said petulantly, although it didn't really hurt very much, and felt as though it would do him good.

'A woman came to see you,' she said after a few minutes.

'A woman?'

'She was asking about your father.'

'Ah! Tamara Valentinovna. I saw her in Moscow.'

'What does she want to know?'

'Some historical case that Papa was investigating before ...'

'You make him sound like more of a policeman than a soldier.'

'He was a bit of both,' said Dmitry.

'She's pretty.'

'Who?' Dmitry felt pain in his foot as Svetlana bent it a little further forward than it wanted to go. It had been a mistake for him to play dumb.

'Tamara. Wonderful hair.'

'I suppose,' he said. Like everyone else, Svetlana did not seem to notice the similarities between them that Dmitry had found so obvious. It was the hair that was the most striking thing about her. Neither Aleksei nor Domnikiia had had red hair but that didn't lead Dmitry to doubt for a moment that they were her parents.

'She's a little plump,' said Svetlana. It might be true, but it suited her. It would suit Svetlana to be a little less skinny, but she seemed proud of it so he never told her. Women men too, he supposed had a natural shape and did well to conform to it. Raisa was slim and was meant to be. He smiled to himself. It was odd that she should pop into his mind, but not unpleasant.

Svetlana had stopped ma.s.saging his ankle. Now she was gently tickling the skin just behind it, on both sides. 'Have you eaten?' she asked.

'Yes,' he said. 'I'm sorry. I should have waited until we were together.'

'I'm not hungry.'

A silence descended. Dmitry laid his head back and prepared to hear music. It came, but not as quickly as usual, and as a distant memory he could still hear the boom of French and British cannon, spoiling his enjoyment of the melody and harmony. But it was better than nothing.

'It's been two years, Mitka,' said Svetlana softly. 'Since we were together.'

'A long time,' he said.

'A long time to be alone.' She stood and took his hand. He wasn't sure whether she had meant that he, she or both of them had been alone. He had felt no more alone in Sevastopol than he did here. But for her, the solitude must have been agonizing and he knew she would not have taken a lover. He rose to his feet, finding it harder than ever to walk with only one boot, and followed her into the bedroom.

CHAPTER XV.

INSIDE THE CHURCH all was quiet, but for the sound of three pairs of lungs breathing each reflecting a different state of mind in its owner.

The drunk from the tavern was drifting between consciousness and unconsciousness, breaths rasping and interrupted. When Yudin had entered the church, the voordalak who had brought the man had already put him to one side, to deal with later. Both the man's legs were broken just below the knee and were splaying out as though he were a frog freshly jumped from a pond. Yudin had not seen how it had been done, but it would not have been difficult with a voordalak's strength. It was easier than tying him up, and ensured he would not escape. Occasionally, when the man's desire for life overcame the pain, he dragged himself across the mosaic floor using only his hands, but like a fool he headed not for the door and possible freedom but towards the iconostasis and the Beautiful Gate, in the hope of unlikely salvation. It didn't matter. Even if he had made it halfway to the door, his captor could easily have strode across the nave and dragged him back to begin his journey again.

At least his captor might have been able to do that, until Yudin had arrived.