Field of Mars (53 page)

My dearest Larissa—

By the time you get this I will be gone on my long-promised great adventure. There is nothing here and I am worn out . . .

 

She thought about Pyotr, about his going, about the pain of it and if it would ever go away. Maybe he would land on his feet somewhere safe, maybe he would write. Then again, the promised postcard might never come. She'd be sitting there waiting when she was an old woman. An old, eccentric woman, waiting for a message from the only man that she'd ever truly . . . She'd be the kind of woman everyone whispered about; yes, she used to be pretty, they'd say, and she used to be a dancer, a good dancer. A dancer in Russia, back when that meant something. No, she couldn't wait.

She couldn't, still—

. . . and it may be that I get some correspondence. If so, could you do me the great favour of forwarding . . .

She couldn't live a life counting on Pyotr, a life of always waiting. She was going to stop all that now. She would never wait for anyone again.

And she wasn't going to the river, either. From now on it was going to be Vera, Vera, Vera. She was going to be happy, she was going to feel the sun on her shoulders in January. She was going to fall asleep in a perfumed garden.

. . . hope you will always know that I thank you for all your blessings, all the gifts you have given me. And now, please do not hate me—now I am leaving you to clean up once again . . .

Suddenly, looking up at her mirror, the carefully plucked arch of her brows, the straight nose, the blush of her lips, she became aware of her beauty. She was good as a blonde, she was beautiful, yes. Yes, she was. A man would see her beauty instantaneously, a woman too, given the right kind of light. It was in the eyes, the wide dark eyes. The carriage of her head, the way she looked at herself. She was brave now. All of it had conspired to make her brave and beautiful. She had won.

And, then, she remembered the packet, the letters Pyotr had given her. She took them out of her bag and held them in her hands, turning the envelopes over and over. Inspected his writing, the sharp way he formed his letters. Some little thing inherited from the engineer-father. Fine, then. For you, my only one, for you . . .

One last thing to do on her way out of town.

And so, thank you, my darling. Thank you for all the generous things you have done, all our good times. Wish me well . . . V

She stood, then. Pushed his envelope into one of the big pockets in her raincoat. Now the mirror reflected her chest, the crack splitting her between the breasts, and she took a breath, thinking it might be an omen. A sign that her heart was breaking? That she would be struck dead before she could leave, before she could break free?

At the door Izov saw her, frowned. ‘What do you think you're doing? Where have you been the last few days? Remember you've got a show in less than an hour, girlie . . .'

She didn't even bother smiling at him.

As she walked by the edge of the stage they were proceeding to hang the cat. Someone had rigged up a gallows made of empty wine crates topped with a mop handle. She looked around just as the Professor sprung the trap and Tika fell and swung between the tables.

For a moment the whole room was silent, riveted on the animal swinging there, her legs stuck straight out, wriggling her hind quarters, trembling as if an electric current was being passed through her, claws extended.

And then Vera broke through the ring of ‘jurors', to lift the cat into her arms, hooking a finger under the loop of string they had scrounged to make the noose.

‘Bastards! Filthy bastards!' Groans from some of them, thinking it had all been a set-up, part of one of Khulchaev's elaborately choreographed dramas. A man sitting there reached up to take the cat away from her. For an awful moment Tika fell back, still knotted in the string, but Vera slapped at the man, knocked his ugly, thick hands away from her, grabbed the cat back up again and this time got the string untangled.

‘Hey, damn it!' The man was trying to stand up now, drunk. Angry that a woman had come between him and his enjoyment.

She reached out, found one of the empties and smashed the bottle down on the man's head, breaking it off so that there was only the sharp neck in her hand. Turning now to Khulchaev who had managed to stagger to his feet, not laughing now.

‘Please, Dmitri, just give me an excuse,' she said, poised to plunge the glass into his face. And then she was pushing her way through the crowd as the wave of protest and applause erupted, filling the club behind her.

‘A miracle! A miracle!' someone was shouting behind her as she made it to the doors, moving fast so they wouldn't see her tears, dropping the broken bottle-neck on the bar as she crashed outside.

She was talking to the cat as she walked down the street, reprimanding it, giving it advice. Telling it to behave and whatever happened, to never, never go back there again. And then, at the end of the street, with nothing else to do, and no real plan in mind, she knelt and tossed the cat into an alley. Watched her skitter away, knowing Tika was just as big a fool as the people gathered at the club, and that no matter what miracles occurred, she would always find her way home.

Ahead of her, at the intersection of Sadovaya Street, was a parade. Drums were crashing, music was playing and men and women were waving little flags of France and Russia. Everything was a sea of music and colour.

There were women there at the edge of the crowd. For a moment she thought they were nuns. Their heads were covered in immaculate white kerchiefs, their aprons were spotless. Across their breasts had been stitched perfect red crosses.

They were handing out leaflets to anyone who passed by.

Vera walked closer and closer to the women. One of them smiled at her and said something, words that were drowned out by a blare of trumpets. There was a sharp crackle of hooves on cobbles as a shining regiment of hussars passed them. The girl looked up at her, reached out with a leaflet. She was young, with clear skin and dark eyes.

Vera leaned closer so she could hear.

They would be needing nurses, the girl shouted over the music. They would need plenty of nurses, to care for all the brave young men who would be wounded in the war.

They would need lots of nurses, the girl said, and pressed the leaflet into her hand.

It was something a woman could do.

FORTY-NINE

Once Vera had told him, it all made sense, made things suddenly urgent, made things turn upon themselves in accord with greater forces; the Sun, the Moon, the direction and force of the winds, the tides.

He limped across the city while everyone enjoyed the summer evening. Peaceful. The sound of music, laughter, conversations floating from the windows. As he went, he worked out which tram to take across the Neva, seeking the most crowded stations where he would be most likely to avoid detection, the safest connections that would carry him all the way to the top of Krestovsky Island and the marina where Andrianov tied up his yacht.

Finally, it was a single detail in one of the photographs that undid Andrianov, a detail he'd remembered from the annuals of the Imperial Yacht Club.

The book was formal, expensively produced, distributed gratis to the members of the club; a chronicle of race results, noted speakers, statistics, and posed photographs of the officers and members. But amateur photography was very much in vogue among those who could afford it, and the final section of the book had been given over to casual photographs. He had been following Gulka's rise, letting his eyes roam through the pictures, noting the décor in his old academy office—a posed photograph meant to depict the distinguished military academic. Gulka pretending to be looking at some papers, securely surrounded by his books, his maps, and—the ship models, their hulls intricately carved. And Ryzhkov remembering—because it had never quite fitted—the crossed oars of the rowing club, the nautical fascination, the strong attraction for the water, so unusual for an army man.

And then he had seen Andrianov in another annual, with Gulka and Evdaev beside him, all of them posed on Andrianov's new 6-metre
Firebird
. At the next stop there was confirmation: a woman was reading a newspaper as they rocked along the Prospekt, she turned her pages and he saw the announcement of tomorrow's regatta to escort Poincaré and the France out of the city.

By the time he got to the Krestovsky Gardens he was the last person on the tram, and when he got off the car he kept his head down, his elbow tight to his side to hide the gun, and tried not to limp.

On some ordinary occasion it would be a pleasant walk through the little resort community that had grown up along the narrow arm of the river. He walked slowly and tried to loosen his ankle. Each step brought a sharp pain and a misstep nearly sent him to his knees. Vera, as usual, had been right. In a fight he would be hopeless, running away would be suicidal.

So, he moved cautiously, sitting down, taking his time, thinking about how it would be. Meandering towards the river—the Nevka it was called, to distinguish it from its huge parent to the south. He had all night to get to the dock, and thinking that he would be more likely to meet a gendarme along the embankment, he cut through the unpaved streets, walked down the back lanes until he found a path that led more or less in the direction of the yacht club.

There was a wide creek that cut across the island. You could row along there. It was a popular diversion for lovers, with dark little overhangs where one could tether the boat for an afternoon. The creek was too deep to cross without swimming and so he turned and kept to the bank, heading towards the river, until he came through the brambles and saw a footbridge that paralleled the road that led to the yacht club.

It was a magical walk, like something a character would take in a fairy story, the white light streaking through the trees in rippling threads of silver. Each step down the path sent animals scurrying away from his approach, little rustlings in the flowers and shrubbery, skitterings in the canopy above him.

It seemed entirely appropriate that animals would flee as he strolled along. Yes, run away, he said to himself. Run away fast, because here comes a man carrying death.

He tried to think about exactly what he would do at the docks. How hard it would be to find Andrianov, if there was a guard or a watchman he might have to avoid, or if there was even a way to postpone it all and wait for a better chance. Or if he might have to track Andrianov across Europe and on to a liner for America. It all swirled through his mind, but somehow on the eve of this last fatal act he really couldn't concentrate as he walked along the long swath cut out beneath the trees. There were puddles that reflected the silver light, a breeze stirred above him and made the leaves like mirrors. It was as if he were shedding a skin and with it his thoughts were sloughing away into the white night. Perhaps I died in Sarajevo, he thought. Perhaps this is another world.

At the edge of the forest he paused, stood there and fanned himself with his hat, tried to look as much as possible like a birdwatcher who'd forgotten his binoculars, or an artist who had left his easel at home. He moved along the bank, towards the mouth of the river. The ground was wet there, and marshy. He moved into the bushes and waited out of sight. Loitering was dangerous and he thought he would only get one approach to Andrianov's boat. He leaned back against the trees, checked the gun. In the white night everything was illuminated in a flat silvery glow. He waited there in the bushes until after midnight and then he stood and tested his weight on the ankle before he started off towards the boathouses at the edge of the docks.

Going off the paths was too painful, his foot would turn over in the mud, and it was implausible. The thing to do was to fit in. There would be a watchman, maybe more than one.

He took off his jacket, and put it over his shoulder. He came to a shed and looked around until he found something that he could carry along the docks, to make it look like he had some purpose other than death. He found a canvas bag and a coil of rope, looped the rope over his shoulder and walked around the corner of the little building. He carried the bag along, both his arms wrapped around it, holding it up to his chest, trying to act like it was heavier than it was, stopping to adjust the rope, the jacket, looking around, always looking.

When he saw it, the yacht looked just like the photographs he'd studied in the club annual for 1913; low-slung, fine lines, a modern design with an undercut transom. Small enough to be crewed solo, large enough to sleep four on an overnight excursion.

Firebird
.

He stopped for a moment, put the bag down. Turned away and looked down the marshy river, the Nevka gleaming in the flat light, a long view all the way across to the point of Yelagin Island, and the Finnish coast beyond.

He felt for the gun beneath his shirt, stood and took a short hard breath, turned and picked up his props, then continued down a gangway on to a narrow floating dock where the yacht was moored. He heard a noise, a kind of hissing and then saw a tendril of smoke coming from the galley chimney, took another few steps and then he could smell Andrianov making his breakfast.

When he got to the yacht he set the bag down, as if it had been a gruelling task. Taking the time to look at all the other boats, most of which were smaller, perhaps with no facilities for sleeping aboard. He saw no more smoke, heard no other noises. Stood up, stretched and gave an exaggerated yawn and scratched his neck while he scanned the boathouse at the top of the pier. No one.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the pistol and stepped on to the deck. ‘Excuse me?' he called out in a stage whisper, at the entrance to the cabin. ‘Excuse me, excellency?' sounding as much as he could like a man who was lost, a man who was worried, scared that there might be some irregularity, afraid to make a noise, a busy-body who perhaps had seen the smoke and worried if it was breakfast being cooked or was the immaculate
Firebird
actually on fire?