The Concubine's Secret Part 33

'Edik.'

'Yeah?'

She reached into her pocket, pulled out a ten-rouble note and waved it in the air. His eyes followed the white note hungrily, the way Misty's followed a biscuit.

'Here,' she said, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g it up into a ball and tossing it to him.

It was in his pocket before she could blink.

He grinned. 'What now?'

'I need you to go to the Hotel Triumfal again and watch out for the same Chinese man. He will pa.s.s you a note for me.'

'Is that all? For all this money?'

'Take care, Edik.'

He jumped to his feet, grabbing his new coat under one arm and his dog under the other. 'The trouble with you, Lydia,' this time his smile was shy, but it leapt the gap between them effortlessly, 'you're too easy to please.'

She laughed and felt the guilt s.h.i.+ft a fraction under her ribs. 'Don't-'

A sharp knock on the door silenced her.

It was Dmitri Malofeyev. He was standing in the doorway of the shabby room in his elegantly tailored leather coat, a white silk scarf at his neck. In one hand he carried a large brown paper bag, in the other a bunch of flowers that looked as if they might be lilies. Where the h.e.l.l he'd got them in the middle of winter she couldn't imagine.

'h.e.l.lo, Lydia.'

'Comrade Malofeyev, this is a surprise.'

'May I come in?'

'Of course.'

But she hesitated. To let this man with his s.h.i.+ny shoes and polished white teeth into her home was like inviting a crocodile into her bed.

She smiled at him, matching him tooth for tooth. 'Come in.'

He walked in, his male presence filling every corner of the drab room. 'So this is where you hide.'

Hide? Why did he use that word?

'It's where I live, yes. How did you find me?'

'Not hard.'

'No, I bet it wasn't. For a member of the Party elite, nothing comes hard.' She said it with a smile.

He returned the smile and with a gallant bow presented her with the flowers. As she accepted them she bent her head to inhale their fragrance and realised they were made of silk. Stupidly, she felt cheated.

'Thank you.'

Her guest looked round the room with interest. His gaze settled on Edik and registered surprise. Whatever he'd gleaned from the concierge's t.i.ttle-tattle a boy and a dog were clearly not part of the picture. He nodded a greeting of sorts, then reached into the paper bag under his arm, pulled out a pack of biscuits and tossed it across the room.

'Here, young man,' he said, 'take this. And get out.'

It was said so politely that it was impossible to judge how serious he was.

The boy didn't put out a hand to the biscuits. He just let them spin through the air and fall to the floor with a crunch. He didn't even give Malofeyev the courtesy of looking at him. Instead he focused on Lydia.

'Do you want me to stay?' he muttered.

She loved him for it and at that moment he seemed to become part of her family. Like Chang had said, you don't need the bond of blood.

'No,' she answered and gave him a grateful smile. 'You can go. I believe you have an errand to run.'

Edik put down the dog, shrugged into the coat that was far too big for his slight frame and, without a glance at the visitor, slouched out of the door. The dog s.n.a.t.c.hed up the biscuits between its tiny teeth and trotted after him.

She made him tea. It was the least she could do. On her bed was spread an array of food the likes of which she hadn't set eyes on since she'd entered Russia. Not even in the shops did they have such riches. Tins of glossy caviar from the Caspian Sea. Almond biscuits and ginger cake. Bars of Swiss chocolate and silvered boxes of glace fruits from Paris. A leg of smoked ham that made the room smell wonderful, and numerous kinds of fat spicy sausage. She had laid it all out on the bed with care, the way a woman would lay out her gowns and stand back to admire them. When she lifted out from the bottom of the bag a bottle of vodka and a metal case of five fat cigars, she had looked at Malofeyev and raised one eyebrow.

'You think I'm a secret smoker?' She laughed, then hesitated and added a little stiffly, 'Or are these meant for your own use?'

'No.' He was sitting on the window sill, legs crossed, swinging one foot and watching her. 'They're for you to use. As trade for whatever else you need. Kerosene perhaps.'

'Ah.' Lydia placed the cigars between a jar of Greek olives and a packet of roast coffee, patted them affectionately like long-lost children and imagined what a guard might be persuaded to do in exchange for such a gift. 'Spasibo.' She smiled, not sure whether it was at him or at the food, and tried not to feel bought. Her feet wouldn't move from the bed and she was frightened that if she looked away it might all disappear in a puff of smoke.

'You're welcome, Lydia.'

She waited for more words but none came.

'Comrade Malofeyev, what do I owe you for this?'

'Nothing. Don't worry,' he smiled at her, 'there's no price tag.'

She picked up the olives, succulent and tangy, and recalled how her mother would have slit her own throat for such a jar.

'No price tag on the food?' She made herself replace the olives. 'Or on the information I asked for?'

'Not much success there, I'm afraid.'

A small silence tumbled into the ragged gap between them but he didn't seem to notice it. It made her uncomfortable.

'You've not found where Jens Friis is?' she asked at last.

'No.'

Another silence. He swung his leg carelessly and she wanted to seize it and wrap it round his neck.

'But I thought . . .' she started. The words tailed off. What was the point of them?

'So did I.'

'Is that why you brought the food? In place of any information?'

Abruptly the leg stilled its movement. 'Lydia, I am no longer involved with prisons or labour camps.'

'Do you remember him at Trovitsk camp? Jens Friis. Tall and red-haired.'

'Of course not. There were hundreds of prisoners there and I had little to do with them myself. I was just there to ensure the work norms were fulfilled and the timber s.h.i.+pped south. I didn't sit and hold a prisoner's hand and tell him bedtime stories, if that's what you mean.'

She stared at him.

He didn't smile, just looked back at her, a patient expression on his face. It goaded her further.

'But I told you,' she said. 'I gave you the exact number of the prison that he's supposed to be held in - number 1908. Surely you can find out from your contacts where it is in Moscow.' She s.h.i.+fted impatiently from one foot to the other. 'Even if you can't find out whether he's in there.'

'Lydia, my dear girl, I would if I could, I promise you. But you must understand, some secrets are secret even from me.' His forehead was furrowed and she wasn't sure whether it was concern or annoyance. 'I'm sorry I can't help you more.' As an afterthought he added, 'I wish I could.'

Lydia stooped and picked up the large brown paper bag on the floor. One by one she started to place the food items back inside it. Malofeyev made no comment.

'I don't believe you,' she said quietly, her back to him.

She left the cigars till last, then positioned them neatly on top. They made her think of Alexei and how he would have enjoyed them. She turned to face Malofeyev.

'Dmitri, why are you doing this? Helping me, I mean. Bringing me such lavish gifts when you barely know me and certainly owe me nothing. You know as well as I do that just one of those cans of caviar would buy you any girl of your choice here in Moscow.' She studied his face. Saw it soften and heard a sigh start to escape before it was cut off.

'Ah Lydia, I'm not here to buy you.'

'Aren't you?'

'No.'

'Then why are you here?'

He observed her thoughtfully. 'Because one day I want you to look at me just the way you looked at your Chinese friend at the Metropol the other evening.'

Something hot flared in Lydia's chest. 'We danced, that's all. Rather badly.'

'No. That wasn't all.'

'What do you mean?'

'You know exactly what I mean.'

'No, I don't. Anyway, Dmitri, you seem to be forgetting that you have a beautiful wife at home.'

'Ah yes, my Antonina. But you're wrong, Lydia, not for one second do I ever forget my beautiful wife.' There was a sadness, grey and soft as a shadow in his voice. 'In fact it was she who suggested that, as I couldn't help you in any other way, I should come over with these gifts.'

'How convenient.'

He smiled politely.

Lydia tried to ignore the elegance that hung on him as effortlessly as his leather coat, and the fiery red hair that triggered all sorts of memories of her father. They ran like ripples under her skin. For some reason she couldn't understand, when she was in the presence of this man her life in China seemed oddly opaque and far away. That annoyed her more than she cared to admit.

'Comrade,' she said with an abrupt change of tone, 'thank you for your generosity but I cannot accept these gifts.' Yet her hand was treacherous. It hovered there, touching the bulges of the brown paper bag with the same caress it used to fondle Misty's ears. She s.n.a.t.c.hed it away.

'I'm trying to help you, Lydia. Remember that.'

'In which case tell me, Dmitri, please, which street prison 1908 is in.'

'Oh Lydia, I would if I knew.'

'Maybe you don't want to know.'

'Maybe.'

If she was going to find her father she needed Malofeyev, needed his knowledge and contacts and familiarity with the prison system. It unnerved her to think that someone a rung above him on the Soviet ladder was stamping on his fingers.

'Who knows you're here?' she asked.

He didn't answer the question but picked up the tea that was growing cold on the sill beside him, sipped it with a quiet delicacy as if lost in his thoughts and replaced it. Only then did he focus on Lydia and immediately she could see a change in him. His gaze was fixed and fierce and reminded her that he'd very recently been the Commandant of a prison camp.

'Lydia, listen to me. Soviet Russia is still just a child. It is growing and learning. Every day we are drawing closer to our goal: a just and well-balanced society where equality is so taken for granted that we will be astonished at what our fathers and grandfathers were stupid enough to put up with.'

She didn't react, didn't look away. The pulse in her wrist was racing and the dying light from the window behind him seemed to be setting fire to his hair.

'And the prison camps?' she asked. 'Is that how you teach this growing child of Soviet Russia to behave?'

He nodded.

'Through fear?' she demanded. 'Through informers?'

'Yes.' He rose from the sill, a slow casual movement that nevertheless made Lydia watchful. He'd grown taller and suddenly darker as he stepped away from the window. 'The people of Russia have to be taught to rethink themselves.'

He came closer.

Her heart thumped. 'Jens Friis is not even a Soviet citizen,' she pointed out. 'He's Danish. What good can teaching him to rethink rethink possibly achieve?' possibly achieve?'

'As an example to others. It demonstrates that no one is safe if they indulge in anti-Soviet activities. No one, Lydia. Not one single person is more important than the Soviet State. Not me.' He paused, his words suddenly soft. 'And not you.'

She tried to slow her breathing but couldn't. Abruptly he seized both her wrists and shook her hard. Wordlessly she fought to break free but his fingers held her with ease so she ceased her struggles.