The Jewel of St Petersburg

Seventeen

VALENTINA LAY SUNK DEEP IN HER PILLOWS. DRIFTS OF snowflakes buffeted the window as icy patterns clung to the corners of the glass, delicate as spiders’ webs, cold and unwanted as the thoughts in her head.

Time was passing. She wasn’t sure how long. Two weeks, three weeks? More? She’d been ill, the days blurred; a fever burned inside her, drenching the bedclothes with sweat, tying her limbs in knots in the sheets. She’d welcomed it. In her more conscious moments she knew it was a lung infection from the sewer water, but in her wilder spasms she was certain it was a punishment. Madam Davidova had drowned, her body washed up against a sluice grid, while Valentina had survived because she had climbed that ladder ahead of her.

At times the woman’s gentle face came to Valentina in her dreams and said sweet words. But other times, at night when the darkness grew too hot and heavy inside her head, Madam Davidova came like a fiend out of hell. Eyes blazing fire. Mouth spitting obscenities. Then Valentina screamed. Nurse Sonya was always there, telling her, “Ssh, malishka, quiet now.”

Something cold on her brow, a sip of liquid on her lips. Sometimes the bitter taste of laudanum.

The door opened quietly and there was the whisper of wheels on carpet. “Are you awake?”

“Yes. Good morning, Katya. You’re looking well.”

It was true, Katya did look well. Her skin had color, her hair was freshly washed, and she was sitting more upright in her chair.

“I’ve brought you some pineapple. Look.”

She placed a dish on Valentina’s side table. Inside a bowl lay two slices of canary-yellow pineapple, their fragrance drifting around the wintry room and turning it into summertime.

“How are you feeling?” Katya asked.

“Better.”

“Good. Will you come downstairs today?”

Valentina closed her eyes. “No. I have a thumping headache.”

“Nurse can give you something for it. You could get up and-”

“No. Not today, Katya.”

There was a long silence. The window danced and rattled in its frame. Valentina felt her hand lifted by Katya’s fingers.

“Valentina, you can’t go on like this.”

More silence. Thicker this time, harder to breathe.

“Nurse tells me,” Katya said gently, “that your fever is cured. That you are better.”

“But I feel weak.” Eyes still closed.

“Too weak to walk downstairs?”

Valentina nodded.

The small fingers soothed her own with soft feathery strokes. “I hear you, my sweet Valentina, I hear you every night.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Of course you do. I hear you creep past my room every night when you think the whole house is asleep. You go downstairs and you play the piano. Sometimes for hours, even for most of the night.”

“No.”

“Yes. You creep back just before the servants start to stir. Admit it.” Katya squeezed her hand hard, jerking Valentina’s eyes open. “So,” Katya said, “now you will look at me?”

Valentina looked. This wasn’t her Katya, this was someone who had slid under her sister’s skin. The blue eyes were cold and pale as moonstones. This person was masquerading as Katya, getting it all wrong.

“Valentina, what is the matter with you? What is it that has paralyzed you as totally as the bomb paralyzed me? You’re not hurt. You’re not ill. Yet you’re hiding away up here. You didn’t even bother with your birthday. Where has all your spirit gone?”

“It was washed away in the sewers.”

“You’re alive. You weren’t crushed and you didn’t drown, nor did you lose part of your leg like the surveyor did.”

“The surveyor? Lost his leg?”

“Below the knee. Amputated.”

Valentina recalled his young face. Sweat-covered. Frightened. His arms around Jens’s neck, tight as tentacles.

“He’ll be able to walk with a crutch,” Katya said.

“Madam Davidova will never walk again.”

“No.”

“I saw her die, Katya. I watched this good woman drown.”

Katya’s hand slackened its grip, and her tone grew gentler. “Grieve for her. Yes, that’s your right, but don’t stop living because of her.”

Valentina slumped against her pillows. “Katya, it should have been me. She should have been on that ladder, not me.”

“But she wasn’t. She died; you didn’t. So get on with your life.”

“Jens put me on the ladder.”

“Thank God for Jens Friis. Though he shouldn’t have invited you down there in the first place.”

“Shut up, Katya. It’s not his fault that bloody revolutionaries meant to murder us.”

“Good.” Katya was smiling. “A spark at last. You owe it to Jens to come back to life.”

But Valentina yanked the quilt over her face. “Go away, Katya.”

The quilt was wrenched from her grasp. “Look at you!” Katya shouted.

Valentina looked down at herself. A grubby nightdress, her hair lank and knotted. She started to close her eyes, to shut it out, when she felt a quick sharp slap on her cheek.

“Get up!” Katya yelled. “Get out of that bed.”

“Don’t!”

“Are you just going to stay in your pit and rot?”

“Yes. Leave me alone.”

“Look at yourself. You have everything. Everything. You have no reason to hate the world. None.”

Valentina said nothing, in case she said too much.

“Poor Madam Davidova would give anything to be you right now,” Katya cried out. She sat back in the wheelchair, holding her hand to her throat as if holding something in. “Valentina,” she said in a harsh whisper, “I would give my eternal soul to be you.”

A swirl of wheels and she was gone from the room. Valentina gave a long moan and turned her face to the wall.

SHE FELT SOMETHING MOVING INSIDE HER HEAD. SOMETHING slithering like a snake around her thoughts until it was throttling them as efficiently as a rope around a pickpocket’s neck.

Guilt was crushing her. Breaking her back. Pressing her face down in the dirt. Katya. Her mother. Her father. Madam Davidova. The amputated leg of the surveyor. Even her beautiful discarded horse, Dasha, still unridden since the day of the explosion.

And a thought kept intruding, like a voice murmuring in her ear, so low she could barely hear it. If it hadn’t been for her, would Jens have arranged the visit to the new sewers at all? If he hadn’t wanted to steal her away from Captain Chernov, would all those others still be alive? Was it all her fault?

Staring blank-eyed at the wall, she slowly took herself apart.

Piece by piece she attempted to put herself back together. It took a long time to make what was left fit together.

It was the pineapple that finally drove her out of bed. With each breath she inhaled of its fragrance, something of Jens imprinted inside her. She could feel it seeping through her lungs and into her bloodstream, pumping along the twisting paths of her veins. Because only Jens would have brought her a pineapple. He must have been here. Called at the house. He wasn’t curled up in bed like a wounded animal. She threw off the quilt and swung her feet to the floor.

Pulling off the nightdress, she picked up a segment of pineapple and slid it onto her tongue. A burst of sunshine in her mouth. She walked over to her writing table, unlocked the drawer, and took out the list. Pen in hand, she started to write.

11. Come to an arrangement with Papa.

THE STREET WAS DRAB. A RAW WIND OFF THE SEA SWEPT along the dirt road, chasing the falling snow so that it flounced in lacy swirls through the air, as grubby as a whore’s petticoat. Jens paced along the stretch of scrubland, his thoughts busy, jotting down his calculations. He almost didn’t spot the lone figure hunched in a heavy overcoat that seemed to belong to a broader man. Jens tucked his pad and pen in his pocket, stamped the ice from his valenki boots and moved forward.

“Good morning, Minister Davidov, dobroye utro.”

Davidov did not even attempt to look pleased to see him. These days nothing and nobody pleased the widowed minister. Least of all himself.

“We are making progress,” Jens announced.

“Is the sale of the land agreed?”

“The papers are drawn up and ready. Did you arrange the bank transfer?”

“Da.”

Jens nodded, satisfied. That was what he needed to hear. This tract of wasteland and the jumble of shabby shacks next to it would soon be under new ownership and ripe for rebuilding. He glanced at the shacks, no better than dog kennels.

“When it’s signed and sealed,” Jens said, “I shall announce the extension of the sewers to this district next spring.”

Davidov sank his fists into his pockets and sniffed the air. What was he expecting to smell? Money? Fat greasy roubles lining the plot of land? A woman in a headscarf and shoes made out of rope came out of one of the shacks with a zinc bucket full of liquid waste and tipped it into the dirt road. Jens turned his head away. The street stank of piss. The woman stood in the cold and watched them, shoulders slumped.

“So?” Davidov asked.

“So you will have steered the committee into voting by then.” He stepped forward, crowding just a little, his height an advantage.

Davidov murmured something, more to himself than to anyone, but the wind carried it away.

“Is there a problem?” Jens demanded.

“I am sick of sewers. I don’t want anything more to do with them now; neither does the committee after-”

“Minister, we agreed. It is your duty to correct the misunderstanding of the committee.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cigarette case, a gift from Countess Serova, exquisite silver work from Fabergé. He handed a cigarette to his companion, took one himself, and lit them both with a match, cupping its flame against the wind, drawing Davidov into an intimate closeness.

“Minister, don’t lose your backbone now. You are the one who decides what the committee thinks; we both know that.”

He saw Davidov swell slightly, as though the flattery slid like cushions of fat under his skin.

“The committee’s idea is that-”

“To hell with the committee’s ideas,” Jens snapped.

He turned, sent his cigarette case arcing through the air, and watched it land with a clatter at the feet of the woman in the homemade shoes. She jumped, startled, dropped her empty bucket, and snatched up the silver case. She scurried back into her kennel like a dog with a bone.

“We have an agreement,” Jens continued. “When the ownership of the land is in your name, you will order the release of further government funds for next year’s extension to the sewers.”

Davidov drew on his cigarette and stared at the empty wasteland scattered with rusting metal and broken bedsteads. “It’s not the same,” he said with an ache in his voice. “Not without her.”

“I hear,” Jens said quietly, “that it’s certainly not the same. For you, I mean.”

Something in his voice alerted Davidov. “What?” he demanded. “What have you heard?”

“That your wife’s brother had extravagant gambling debts. That in her will she left her money to him to pay them off.” He spoke gently. “That you, Minister, need to invest wisely to recoup such a loss. It must have come as a blow.”

He meant the money. He didn’t mean her death. Couldn’t mention her death. It stuck in his throat like glass.

Davidov exhaled a plume of smoke into the snow and watched it curl around the falling flakes. “You are remarkably well informed,” he said stiffly.

“Minister, do as we agreed. You can bend this committee to your will. You’re good at that.”

He left it there. Enough had been said. He returned to his pacing across the wasteland, jotting down numbers with cold fingers.

IS SHE ANY BETTER TODAY?” JENS ASKED.

“Come with me.”

Katya spun her wheelchair with deft hands and set off at a fast pace along a wide corridor lined with antique silk tapestries.

He strode along behind her between the thin wheel tracks on the dark-green-and-gold carpet. It was always visible, where she had been. Always audible, where she was going. Never able to move silently. No privacy. A world where people looked down at the top of her head and she had to crane back her neck to meet them eye to eye. He had no concept of how to live in such a world. “Katya,” he said cheerfully, “you have the speed of a wolfhound. What strong wrists you must possess. I’ll have to get you welding my metal joists for me.”

She laughed and speeded up, so that he almost had to run to keep up with her, but he stopped dead when he heard the music. It hit him in the center of his chest like the flat of a hand. It came rippling under the door, a bright fluid Russian folk song bursting with energy. Katya glanced over her shoulder, shaking her blond curls at him with a grin.

“Come on, she doesn’t bite.”

“I don’t want to disturb her.”

“You won’t,” she said, and pushed open the door.

VALENTINA ROSE FROM THE PIANO STOOL. SHE WAS WEARING a pale silvery dress that hung loose on her because she had grown painfully thin. She extended a hand. He took her fingers and felt a knot of pain at the base of his throat.

“Jens,” she said, smiling at him.

Her dark eyes looked huge in her face, the lines of her cheeks hollowed into shadows, her skin so transparent he could trace the fine veins. But her hair swayed in soft waves that he found hard not to touch.

“Jens?” she said again.

“Dobroye utro, good morning, Valentina. I’m delighted to see you recovered from your indisposition.”

“Indisposition?” She raised an eyebrow at him. “Is that what it was? I did wonder.”

He smiled and her gaze lingered on his face. If he scooped her into his arms and pressed her fragile skull close to his chest, would she slap him? You overstep yourself, you Danish tunnel builder. You drowner of women. You gazer at stars. Take your hands off me.

Is that what she would say?

And what would she say if he were to sweep her up, tuck her under his arm, and run from the house like a thief stealing a carpet? Would she roll her eyes at him and laugh?

“Valentina, please play for me?”

“I’ll need my hand.”

He looked at the delicate hand in his own, kissed its fingers, and released them.

“What would you like me to play?”

“You choose.”

“Play some Chopin,” Katya suggested.

Valentina gave a small shake of her head. “This one. I think it might suit you.”

She sat down at the piano and turned her back to him, but he picked up a chair and moved it so that he could view the side of her face as she played. Katya parked her chair by the window as though it were her usual place and gazed out at the skeletal trees. The room was large but muted in its colors, so that it felt surprisingly intimate, dominated by the large grand piano. It dwarfed the small figure of Valentina, and for a moment she sat quietly, unmoving, her hands stilled, as though silence were part of the piece.

When she finally began, she played something dark and complex, something he had never heard before, a difficult piece, and her fingers flew with a rhythmic assurance that stirred him, raking his emotions and drawing out of him thorns that were buried deep. Yes, she was right. It suited him. Suited his mood these days. Dark and deep and as twisting as the tunnels he had built that almost buried them both alive.

Abruptly the music ceased in midflight. Her hands were poised above the keys, eager to plunge into the music once more, but she held them back.

“Did you tell her?” she asked.

He didn’t ask who.

“Yes, of course. I told Countess Serova.”

“So it is settled?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Her eyes scanned him from head to toe as if seeing something different in him, and then she swung back to the music.

Did you tell her?

Yes, of course. I told Countess Serova.

He’d told Natalia. In her garden on a cold sunlit morning, deep snow on the ground. They were walking down the path, Natalia’s arm through his, and she was talking too much. Unlike her. As though nervous of any silences. Ever since the bomb she had been like this, tense around him. But his gaze was fixed on Alexei, who plowed through the snow with his new puppy. The dog would grow into a good hunter, he was certain. He wondered if the boy would too. His noise disguised the silences; his laughter filled the chill air with warmth and made Jens smile. Recently he wasn’t good at finding smiles. The tunnels had seen to that.

“It’s good to see Alexei so happy,” he said.

“You were right, I admit it. The puppy is already his best friend.” She tapped her fingers on his sleeve. “Jens, whatever it is you have come here to say today, spit it out. I’m tired of the wait.” She pulled her fur coat around her like armor.

“Natalia, I’m sorry.” He was frank with her, brutally frank. It was the only option with a woman like the countess, so used to having her own way in everything. “It’s over between us.”

Her hand didn’t move from his sleeve, but for one brief moment her jaw dropped. He heard a moan before she gathered herself together once more and gave him a cold stare.

“I see,” she said. “How dull of you. Who is she?”

“She?”,

“Don’t play games.”

“Her name is Valentina.”

‘Ah! The little snippet of a pianist. The one in the tunnel with you. That Valentina?”

He nodded curtly. He did not intend to discuss her. Gently he removed Natalia’s arm from his and called to Alexei. He threw snowballs for the pup to chase and a flurry of them at Alexei, who squealed with laughter. Jens was giving Natalia time to become a countess again, but when they reached the wide steps into the house he stopped.

“Won’t you come in?” she asked. “For a warm brandy.”

“I think not.”

She nodded indifferently. “Very well.”

“But I will call again, if I may.”

“For the boy. You care more for him than you do for me.” An edge of hostility bad crept into her voice. “Some put it about that you are his father,” she said coolly. “It’s the green eyes.”

“You and I both know they are mistaken.”

“So why bother with him at all?”

He looked her full in the face, at the arrogant set of the mouth, at the intelligence behind the blue eyes, and a flash of anger shot through him.

“Because if I don’t,” he said, “no one else will.”

Jens lost track of time. The music enthralled him. When it finally ceased, he drew a deep breath. He felt as he did after a long hard ride through the forest. Exhilarated. More alive.

“That was wonderful, Valentina. Thank you.”

She sat very still on the stool, and he could see the rise and fall as she breathed. Without looking at him she asked, “How is the surveyor?”

“He is recovering well.” He said it briskly. “I still employ him because there’s no reason the fellow can’t do desk work.”

She turned to study him. What had she heard behind his carefully chosen words? With an abrupt shift of mood she swung back to the piano and broke into a lively Russian folk song bouncing with energy.

“Look!” Katya said pointing to the window.

“Good God!” Jens almost fell off his chair.

Outside in the snow a massive young man was dancing a wild Cossack dance. He was crouched down on his haunches, kicking out his legs in traditional style with his arms across his chest. Then up on his toes on one leg, spinning and kicking and leaping.

“It’s Liev Popkov,” Valentina laughed.

When it ended with an outburst of laughter and applause, the Cossack bowed politely and departed, the falling snow filling his footprints.

They looked at each other, smiling. Jens could not remember a moment when the rest of the world had seemed so far away. Valentina’s cheeks were flushed and she was laughing, when abruptly the door burst open and Elizaveta Ivanova entered the room.

“Ah,” she said stiffly as her gaze settled on Jens. “I had no idea you were here.”

“Good morning.” He rose to his feet and bowed.

“Jens came to inquire after Valentina’s health,” Katya said quickly.

“I am happy to find her so well,” he smiled. “She has been well cared for.”

Elizaveta Ivanova noted the color in her daughter’s cheeks. “You have a visitor,” she announced.

“Tell whoever it is that I am busy, please, Mama.”

“I will do no such thing. It is Captain Chernov. He is waiting for you in the drawing room.”

Valentina stiffened.

For a second Jens expected her to refuse her mother’s request. She had promised him, I will have nothing to do with Captain Chernov. But he saw the fractional moment in her dark eyes when she made the decision to break her promise.

“What an unexpected pleasure,” she said coolly, and walked out of the room. “Thank you for the pineapple.” Five words trailing softly behind her.