Kitty Peck and the Child of Ill-Fortune (17 page)

I nodded. It was the word Moika that caught my eye.

‘Go on then.’

Sam ran his finger down the page. ‘I was talking to a man called Misha Raskalov. He’s come over to look at possible venues. They are very particular about the places where they perform.’

Misha?

Sam looked up and smiled. ‘I’m afraid The Gaudy, The Carnival and not even The Comet, before you brought the house down, would be considered good enough for the illustrious Ballet Moika.’

I shifted forward. ‘This Misha – you spoke to him here in London?’

‘Of course. We arranged to meet outside The Opera House, Covent Garden. He had a parlez there with the management. Then I took him to The Nell Gwynne, but he didn’t seem to like it a great deal. He asked for champagne, Kitty. Can you imagine the cheek of it? Of course I paid up. It will be something for
The London Pictorial
to have the news first. They were said to be a sensation in Paris. All the same it was very expensive.’

‘Did he speak English, only I don’t reckon your Russian—’

‘He told me he speaks six languages fluently – Russian, obviously, French, German, English, Spanish and Italian.’

I tapped the page. ‘So what did he say, then?’

Sam looked down and started to trace the pencil marks with his index finger. He cleared his throat. ‘Mr Raskalov said, in quite impeccable English: “Only the finest dancers and musicians are admitted to our ranks. We enjoy the patronage of the Imperial Family and are fortunate to consider ourselves to be the most favoured of all the great Russian companies. Paris has been good to us, but now it is time to perform to new audiences. We wish to bring the brilliance of The Ballet Moika to London in the summer so that its citizens may be dazzled by our artistry. I assure you, it will be like a new dawn for your capital. When your people see us, they will shield their eyes and then they will faint with pleasure and amazement. Even the jewels of your queen will seem dull in comparison. Truly the English have never seen such majesty, we are extraordinary. Your city will be blessed by our presence.”’

Sam paused and winked at me. ‘He wasn’t exactly modest, I must say. I’m going to have to tone a lot of this down for the readers or they’ll turn up armed with rotten fruit and worse. Do you want me to continue?’

I cocked my head and tried to make out where he was on the page. ‘Is there much more?’

‘No – a couple more paragraphs in very much the same vein, then a bit about someone called Ilya Vershinin, who, according to Misha just here,’ Sam pointed at a couple of squiggles, ‘“is the most remarkable performer of our age. He inhabits the spirit of any character he plays. His mastery of physical transition has been compared to a kind of magic. Ilya Vershinin dances like a god, leaping so high he could pluck down the stars.”’

I thought of Joey – he’d said much the same thing about Ilya, hadn’t he?

Sam flicked over the page. ‘Lovely bit of hyperbole there. I can’t use it. And then there’s some detail about dates and possible venues. Between you and me, I don’t think the meeting at the opera went that well. Humility is a virtue in London, but not, it seems, in Moscow or Paris.’

He leaned back and the chair cracked again. ‘So, do you want me to read that back to you to prove I can do it?’

I shook my head. ‘No, I couldn’t sit through it again. Misha Raskalov – what did he look like?’

Sam raised an eyebrow. ‘Ah – intrigued by the thought of a wild Russian, are we?’

I pursed my lips. ‘And not two minutes ago, Sam Collins, you reckoned I was a Tom. No, I’m professionally interested, that’s all. It doesn’t do any harm to hear about the competition out there. You saw him last week?’

‘On Friday, but he told me he’d been in London researching for almost two weeks now.’

Two weeks?
I clasped my hands together under the desk out of Sam’s view. Lucca’s Misha – it had to be him, didn’t it? – must have arrived in London only a few days after we came back from Paris.

If I had any doubts on the matter, Sam’s next words wiped them clear.

‘He’s quite a striking fellow – tall, piercing blue eyes, very blond. Most particular about his dress. And the smell of him – he was soused in something. All very continental no doubt. When we cut along to The Nelly together I noticed several ladies turn their heads. But to be perfectly frank, Kitty . . .’ he leaned forward conspiratorially, ‘I think Lucca would be more to his tastes, if you follow me.’

You don’t know the half of it, Sam Collins, I thought.

There was a light rap on the door. Right on cue Lucca stepped into the office.

Sam jerked back like he’d been caught dipping a pocket. He sprang up and offered his hand.

‘Mr Fratelli, Lucca, good to see you.’ He shot a guilty look at me as he pumped Lucca’s arm a little too enthusiastically. ‘Actually, we’ve just been talking about you, haven’t we, Kitty?’

I stood up. ‘I was saying that it was time for Mr Collins here to go because you and I have an appointment. You ready then, Lucca?’

He nodded. ‘
Sì
, but it is raining again. We will need an umbrella even if we take a hack. The streets outside are like rivers. It’s the drains again. You might need to take a look at the cellars here.’

‘I’ll get Fitzy on it. He likes to wallow in filth.’ I reached for my bag and pushed the letter down inside before snapping the clasp shut. Lucca took my coat from the hook on the back of the office door and passed it to me. As I pushed my arms into the sleeves I wondered how to tell him about Misha.

I glanced over – he was looking at the open notebook on the desk.

‘Another story for
The London Pictorial
, Fannella?’

Sam swiped up the notebook and shoved it back into his jacket pocket. He grinned awkwardly and jerked his fringe back from his eyes. ‘I’ll make sure you and your halls get a good showing, Kitty. It’s a fine story – rags to riches and all that. A just reward for a plucky young woman. “Songbird Spreads Her Wings!” There – that’s my title! The readers will like it.’

I smiled. ‘You wrote that too before you came, didn’t you?’

‘Smoked again!’ Sam held out his hands, the palms and fingers were smudged with ink. He looked like a naughty schoolboy.

I buttoned my coat. ‘We’ll walk out to the street with you. Normally I’d offer you a ride, Sam, but on this occasion I don’t think I’m going your way.’

The cab swayed to a halt and the driver opened the little trap above my head.

‘Can’t take you any further, Miss. It’s a warren through there.’

Lucca pushed some coins up to him and shifted to open the door. He helped me down to the cobbles and sheltered me under his umbrella. He looked up at the driver. ‘Where is Pearmans Yard from here, please?’

The driver pointed to a narrow passage with his whip. ‘Look for Providence Buildings a hundred yards or so along there. You won’t miss it – great black block it is, with half the windows shuttered over. Take a sharp left when you’ve passed by and then you’d best ask someone. Little Jewry is a maze.’

He tipped his sodden hat, clicked his tongue and the horse trotted off.

It was as if the rain had washed the colour from Brick Lane. Everything around us was a shade of grey, and that included the grim-set faces of the men and women who jostled past. Across the street a score of dripping wicker baskets hung at angles from a tattered awning. The shopkeeper hadn’t bothered to bring them in. Just above the entrance, there was a wooden cage with a dull brown bird huddled in the corner. There was nothing for it to sing about today.

I dodged back against the boarded shop front behind us as a cart splashed mud up my skirt.

‘Little Jewry? Is Old Peter Jewish then?’

Lucca nodded. ‘Of course, half the orchestra are sons of Abraham. Did you not know that? Music is their gift to the world, just as art – painting, I mean – is the gift of my own people.’

‘I know, The Trinity – Old Mickey, Leonardo and Raphael.’ I tapped the side of my head. ‘See, I do listen to you sometimes. So, it’s Hebrew, is it – that word on the paper?’

Lucca shook his head. ‘I think it to be Russian. I . . . I asked Peter to help me write a letter and I recognised the script. In Russia they use the Cyrillic alphabet. It’s quite different.’ He paused and then continued softly, ‘It was a gesture. Even though he speaks and reads many languages I wanted to show him how important our time together was . . . to me.’

I knew immediately that Lucca wasn’t talking about Old Peter just then.

I hadn’t told him what Sam had said about Misha Raskalov being here in London. I’d thought about it during the cab ride over to Tenterground, gone over it in my head trying to find the words, but they didn’t come, and anyway, I couldn’t find the moment.

I bit my lip as I stared up at Lucca’s face. Raindrops were sliding down the crimpled scars on his cheek.
How could anyone love a ruin?
That’s what he’d said once. He thought he’d found someone in Paris, but now . . .

I dropped my eyes to my boots and watched as a half-rotten cabbage head bobbed past in the gutter, its passage blocked by a pile of greasy black muck wedged between some broken stones. At best, Misha had decided to ignore Lucca, not even bothering to look him up in London. At worst . . .

I thought about Peggy and Robbie and that meeting in the churchyard. Had that been Misha Raskalov? I brought my fingers up to the ragged tear in my ear. It was healing now, but the wound still smarted if I rubbed it too hard or caught it with the brush when I was pinning up my hair. Was it Misha who was there in the shadows at The Gaudy that night? According to Sam he would have been in London then.

I huddled closer to Lucca, pushing my arm round his waist. ‘You got room for me under here?’

He dipped the canopy to shield us both and we stepped into the passage, following the cabman’s directions. After Providence Buildings, which certainly didn’t warrant the name, we turned left through a brick arch and into a scruffy circular courtyard with dark alleyways fanning out around us in the way of a dial.

‘Which one, Lucca?’

There was a scuffling sound from behind. We turned to see a scrap of a lad watching us from one of the gloomy entrances. I say lad – he can’t have been more than ten years old, but the black eyes in his hollowed face belonged to a man three times his age.

Lucca tipped the umbrella and peered out. ‘Do you know Mr Ash? Peter? We are looking for him.’

The boy’s eyes widened with horror as he took in Lucca’s scars. He backed into the shadows. I felt Lucca stiffen beside me and thought again how hard it must be to negotiate your way through a world that takes everything at face value.

‘Wait!’ I called. ‘There’s a penny in it for you.’ I ducked out from under the umbrella and reached into my coat pocket. I always kept some change there. I stepped forward. ‘Here. Mr Ash. He’s a musician – he plays a cornet. Do you know where he lives?’

The boy grinned and reached for the coin, but I snatched it away.

‘Oi! Not so fast, young man. Which one of these passages is Pearmans Yard? It’s where he lives.’

The dark eyes became wary. ‘He done somefink wrong?’

I shook my head. ‘I need him to help me with something, that’s all. He’s a . . . a sort of friend, you might say.’

The boy looked doubtful and glanced at Lucca.

‘Listen – it’s nothing bad. Do you want this penny or not?’

He nodded sullenly, wiped a ripe bulb of snot from his nose and pointed at an alleyway behind us over to the right.

‘Fifth entrance down there. Four floors up. He’s got the room at the top.’ The boy held out his hand and I dropped the penny into his palm.

‘Thank you.’ I winked at him. ‘Nothing bad. I promise.’

Old Peter raised the mug and slurped a mouthful of steaming tea.

‘Good, yes?’ He slammed a fist down hard on the wood and beamed across the table at me. I tried to nod and smile. It was filthy stuff. I’d lay a bet it was worse than anything Sam Collins had ever encountered in the offices of
The London Pictorial News
.

I’d watched Peter dissolve a knob of butter in the black tea he’d poured from a gleaming kettle on the hearth. The sour taste of that was bad enough, but there was something else in there too. Something that stung the back of my throat and made my belly boil over like a wash-day copper.

‘The butter was my mother’s secret – she had it from a servant from the Eastern provinces. In the winter or on days such as this it warms.’ He took another swig and dabbed his bearded lips quite daintily with a napkin.

‘It’s not just the butter, is it?’ I set the painted tin mug on the table and watched the floating yellow blobs disintegrate into the blackness. There was a thin film now on the surface of the tea.

Peter laughed. ‘Of course – wodkya, firewater. It is life!’

He raised his mug and indicated that me and Lucca should do the same.

‘
Zda-róv-ye!
Health!’

He clinked his mug against ours and turned to me. ‘Now, Mistress Kitty. You do my home great honour. Are you comfortable?’

Tell truth, apart from the tea, I was. Despite the fact Peter lived down a mud-dark passage, four floors up in a narrow black building that looked like a broken tooth in the middle of a row of rotten stumps, he had managed to make quite a nest for himself and for Zhena. I noted that his beloved cornet sat on its own chair in the corner.

His room at the top of forty-four dingy twisting stairs was small, but comfortable. Colourful squares of patterned material were pinned to the walls, every chair had a fat cushion, good china and polished brass glinted on shelves above the little fireplace and a couple of small paintings hung on the wall over the box bed.

I nodded. ‘Thank you, you’ve made us very welcome.’

‘It is the way – a guest must be honoured. Drink first and then you can tell me the reason for your visit.’ His smile faltered as he stared across the square table at me and then he looked mournfully at Zhena. ‘You are planning to make changes. Is this why you have come, Mistress?’

‘It’s Kitty, remember? And no, that’s not why we’ve come. You and all the orchestra boys – you got nothing to fret about on that score. You’re bleedin’ good, all of you.’

I felt, rather than saw, Lucca wince as I continued. ‘I’ve come about a letter.’

Peter turned to Lucca. ‘Ah, she knows. The lover – has he replied yet?’

Lucca stared at the greasy specks swirling in his tea. He shook his head, but didn’t say anything. Peter shrugged and leaned over to pat his hand. ‘Maybe soon, eh? It was a good letter – strong, honest. How could he not reply? It was an honour to translate it for you.’

Lucca raised the mug to his lips and took a swig. I reckoned it was firewater he needed right then. I cleared my throat. ‘Actually, that’s why we came. Not about the letter you helped Lucca with, but about a translation. It’s very simple. I think – well, that’s to say, Lucca thinks, it’s Russian. Just the one word.’

I reached for my bag under the table and brought it to my lap.

‘Here.’ I handed Peter the folded letter and watched him open it out. He looked down at the word and frowned. Then he ran the tips of his fingers over the pattern pressed into the paper at the top of the page.

Immediately he dropped the paper on the table and wiped his hands. He hissed something through his teeth. I didn’t catch the word, but I caught the meaning all right. He looked at me and his sad brown eyes hardened.

‘Where did you get this?’

‘Is it Russian?’

He just repeated the question. ‘Where, Kitty?’

‘It was sent to me. I can’t make head nor tail of it, but Lucca thought you might be able to read it. And he was right, wasn’t he?’

Peter nodded. He looked down at the sheet, but he didn’t touch it. He folded his arms, hands tucked beneath his shirt sleeves and sat back from the table.

I tried again. ‘What is it then, please? That word there?’ I pointed at the neat letters written in the middle of the page.

Peter reached for his tin mug. ‘It is pronounced “krov”.’

He swirled the tea around and gulped back a mouthful. ‘Blood – the word is blood.’

The fine hairs at the back of my neck stood guard as I looked at the letter. Of an instant I heard my grandmother’s voice again – almost the last thing she’d said to me:

He is your blood, he is your family. Think on those words.

I thought on them now but it still didn’t make no sense despite being set down there in black ink. I turned the sheet round and stared at the letters. She’d said it was a message, hadn’t she? What’s more she said it was a message for both of us, me and her.

Blood?

Peter slammed the mug down hard on the table.

‘Do you know whose crest that is?’ He pointed at the marks embossed into the paper.

I shook my head. Lucca reached for the page and held it against the fire so the unnatural bird showed up clear.

‘The two-headed eagle is the symbol of the House of Romanov – the Imperial Family of Russia.’ Peter nodded at the paper between Lucca’s hands. ‘Do you see the three crowns above the heads? And in the claws a sceptre and orb. The signs of majesty.’

He grunted, leaned back and spat past the paper into the little fire.

‘
Ublyudki!
’

Whatever that meant, I was sure it wasn’t a compliment.

‘How did you come by this, Kitty?’

‘I . . . I was sent it. I don’t know anything about the . . . Romanov, you say?’

Peter stared into the fire. ‘Then you are lucky. If it wasn’t for them and their need for an army I wouldn’t have been taken from my family at the age of eleven, and sent four hundred miles from my home to a frozen, stinking canton.’

I glanced uncertainly at Lucca. He placed the letter on the table, raised his eyebrow and shook his head just once. We waited for Peter to continue, but he pushed his chair back, rose and went over to the alcove at the back of the room. He pulled at the curtain that half-screened the bed so the little pictures showed more clearly. I could see now that they were portraits – a man and a woman, painted to face each other as they hung on a wall. Peter stood with his back to us. After a moment he started to talk again, very quietly.

‘Twenty young male conscripts from every thousand head of the Jewish population were sent to the military colleges. It was not an honour – they were the harshest place you can imagine. We stole food from each other to stay alive. We fought in the snow-crusted yards over scraps of stale, worm-riddled bread. At night we picked our pallets open and filled our mouths with straw.

‘Everyone knew how cruel the conditions were. The wealthy families – the merchants, the factory owners – paid to keep their boys at home. My parents were comfortable too, but the
qahal
chose me to punish them. We were
haskalah
– enlightened.’ He paused and laughed bitterly.

‘My mother would have gone barefoot to the synagogue every day, even in winter, if it meant they would have spared me. Here they are, my mother and father. I never saw either of them alive again after the day I was taken.’

He reached over the bed, murmured and touched his mother’s forehead. ‘So, the orchestra is my family now – and Zhena.’ He turned, walked over to the chair and lifted the cornet from its cushion.

‘She saved my life. If it hadn’t been for the fact that I was musical and was chosen for the military band, I would be gone like the boys who starved in the schools and died out on the battlefield fighting for the glory of our Romanov masters.’

He spat into the fire again as if the words were poison in his mouth.

‘But . . . how did you end up here in London, Peter?’ I watched as he stroked the red cords hanging from the instrument, gently untangling the knots with long tapering fingers.

‘Simple. I ran away at the age of fifteen. It was winter and I nearly died on the road, but people were kind. I played for them in return for their hospitality. When, finally, I reached my town, my parents and Lifsha, my little sister, were dead. I was told I was the lucky one.’ He grunted. ‘If I had stayed, the elders said, the influenza would have killed me too. I’d be with my family beneath the snow in the cemetery.’

He took a deep breath. ‘I wasn’t safe – too many spies eager to make friends in high places, besides there was nothing to stay for. Everything was different by then – even my name. Peter is what they called me at the canton – a good Russian name, but it has served me well. My real name is Pesach. All my family’s possessions had been sold except the pictures over there. A friend of my mother’s saved them as mementoes, but she gave them to me. So, Zhena and I travelled through Europe, but when we came here more than twenty years ago now, we stayed.’