The Concubine's Secret

30

Chang An Lo thanked the gods. He wanted to drop to his knees and touch his forehead to the floor nine times in gratitude to them for granting him the impossible. His fox girl was safe. Alive and safe.

Yet as he observed the two people standing either side of her, the man with the fox hair and the woman with the wounded eyes, he had a sense that they were gnawing at her, wanting a piece of her. It was in the way their glances kept skimming her, reluctant to leave her, a hunger in their eyes that she seemed unaware of.

He bowed respectfully in Chinese custom to Lydia, but shook hands with the man and the woman in the expected manner. For the first time he understood why Westerners chose to shake hands on meeting instead of the cleaner and more civilised habit of bowing to each other. A handshake reveals the secrets of a man’s heart whether he wishes it or not. This man with the fox pelt and the wolf’s eyes had a handshake that was firm, too firm. He was trying to prove something to himself. And to warn Chang off, even though his smile of welcome was so genuine Chang couldn’t spot where the fake began and the real one ended. This Russian, this Comrade Malofeyev, knew well how to control his smiles – but not his handshakes.

The woman was a different matter. Her hand rested so briefly in Chang’s it barely touched his skin, as meaningless as the casual look of detachment she gave him. She saw a Chinese, nothing more. But as his fingers brushed against her gloved ones, he could feel the tremor in them. Was it revulsion… or pain? He couldn’t tell. She hid it too well.

‘I am honoured to be in this great city,’ Chang said, ‘and my delegation humbly anticipates learning much from our Soviet comrades.’

He didn’t look again at Lydia. Wouldn’t let himself. Didn’t trust himself. Instead he introduced his two companions.

‘This is Hu Biao, my assistant.’

Hu Biao bowed low. ‘I am honoured.’

‘And this is Tang Kuan, my invaluable liaison officer.’

He heard Lydia’s breath. Faint as the beat of a butterfly’s wing but so tied to his own he could not mistake it.

Kuan neither bowed nor shook hands. She nodded her head in greeting and said in the perfect Russian he had taught her, ‘It is a privilege to be here in Moscow. It gives us all hope to see the impressive strides Communism has made in our comrades’ great country.’

‘I would be proud to show you around our city,’ wolf-eyes said so smoothly it was as though there were oil on his tongue.

Kuan nodded. ‘Spasibo, comrade, tovarishch. I would very much like to inspect some of the new communal housing.’

‘And the industrial and technological developments,’ Chang added. ‘Perhaps a tour of some of your new factories?’

‘Of course. I believe that has already been arranged.’

‘We would all be honoured to visit Lenin’s Mausoleum in Red Square. To view the greatest man in history, a man whose ideas will change the whole world.’

‘It would be my pleasure to-’

‘Comrade Chang.’ Lydia interrupted the exchange, forcing him to look at her. Her amber eyes glittered brighter than sunlight as she asked, ‘Would you do me the honour of dancing with me?’

His chest tightened. What was she doing, trailing her fingers through the fire? The two Russians stared at her in surprise but she ignored them and smiled at Chang in a way that robbed him of caution.

‘My humble apologies,’ he said, ‘but I do not know your dances.’

‘Then I shall teach you. It’s not hard.’

He bowed. ‘As our intention in coming to Russia is to learn as much as we can of your ways, I thank you and accept with pleasure. ’ The words sneaked out before he could put a chain on them.

At his side Kuan frowned and opened her mouth to say something, but at a look from him shut it again. Under her breath she murmured a few words to Hu Biao who gave a brief nod. Hu Biao would stay close and watch who talked to whom.

Lydia turned with a determined little flounce and walked on to the dance floor. Chang followed.

Her hair smelled of tobacco. As if she’d been breathed on by too many men. Chang felt a twist of jealousy in his gut. Other men in the room were looking at her, and not just because she was breaking unwritten rules by dancing with a Chinese. He could feel their gaze yet she seemed unaware of it. She didn’t pout or preen or toss her head self-consciously, as women so often did when they felt the heat of admiration. She was herself in her green skirt and her plain white blouse.

She floated, weightless as sunlight in his arms as he moved with her in time to the music, fitting herself with ease to his unstructured steps. Neither spoke. If he did, the words would never stop. He let his eyes take their time, let them dwell on each precious part of her face. The delicate balance of its bones, the arch of each eyebrow, the full soft sweep of her lips. The nose that was too long for Chinese taste and the chin too strong. A tiny white scar on the angle of her jaw was new, and a hollow-ness under her cheekbones.

These things he absorbed to join those parts of her already living and breathing inside him. Her hair – which he had touched a thousand times in his dreams – was longer, and he allowed his fingers to trace its fiery ends where his hand lay on her back. A small, recent wound had not yet healed on the skin of her pale hand where it nestled like a bird in his palm. Yet she was still his fox girl, still Lydia.

But there were changes in her. In her eyes. The loss of her mother, of her home, maybe even of himself, had done something to her. There was a sadness at the back of her eyes that hadn’t been there before and he longed to kiss it away. She moved differently as well, more from her hips like a young woman, not like a girl any more. She had grown up. While they had been apart his fox girl had matured at some deeper level that he had not expected, and it grieved him to know he had not been there to keep the bad spirits from stealing her laughter.

He had deserted her – though he’d sworn it was only for as long as it took to fight for the future of China, and for the ideals that were wrapped around his soul. Denying himself. Denying her. Communism had demanded everything of him and he had given it.

But now… now things had changed.

‘I’ve missed you.’

She breathed the words softly. He inhaled them. Did not let them go.

‘I have missed you too, Lydia. Like an eagle misses its wings.’

She didn’t smile as they drifted round the room. It seemed that her smiles were not as easy to find as they used to be in China, but her eyes never left his face.

‘Lydia, my love.’

He felt her tremble. Saw the pulse at the edge of her delicate jaw.

‘Lydia, I am watched every moment. The Soviet wolves circle our delegation day and night, wherever we go, regulating who we speak to and what we see. They will not let our delegation be contaminated.’ His thumb imperceptibly stroked one of her fingers. Her eyes flickered, half closed. ‘If we are seen together you will be seized, taken to the Lubyanka for questioning and not released.’

For the first time during the dance she smiled at him. He wanted to touch her face, to feel her skin.

‘Don’t worry, my love,’ she said, barely above a whisper. ‘I know what you are saying. I won’t put you in danger.’

‘No, Lydia. Don’t put yourself in danger.’

‘I feel safe now. Like this.’ For a moment she let her head tip back with pleasure, the way a cat will when stroked on its throat, and her hair danced free and unfettered. ‘Here with you.’

Their eyes clung to each other.

‘We must stop, my love,’ he told her.

‘I know.’

‘Others are watching.’

‘I know.’

‘Look away.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Then I must.’

‘Don’t.’ She blew a gentle puff of air from her lips to his, more intimate than a kiss. ‘Not yet.’

They were locked together in silence as they danced. With a strange, unfamiliar movement he guided her across the floor, turning her again and again the way he’d seen others turn, so no eyes other than his own could remain on her face for long.

‘Where are you?’ he murmured.

‘In your arms.’

Her eyes were laughing, though her mouth was under control.

‘I meant where are you living?’

‘I know.’

He smiled. To release her would be unthinkable. Unbearable. ‘Your address?’

‘Unit 14, Sidorov Ulitsa 128. In the Sokolniki district.’ She raised one eyebrow at him. ‘Near a tyre factory.’

‘It sounds…’

‘Inviting?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you? Where are you?

‘In the Hotel Triumfal.’

Her lips parted, revealing the soft pink tip of her tongue and her strong white teeth. With the appearance of clumsiness he stepped on her foot, withdrew his hands from her and bowed low.

‘My apologies. I am no good at your dancing. I suggest we return to our comrades.’

She said nothing. Smiled politely. But he saw her swallow, saw the effort it took. As he escorted her back to the table where the Russians and Kuan were waiting, he could hear her breath. Feel it pulling the air from his chest.