Pravda (56 page)

Isabella was silent awhile. The river ran on.

"And yet, Dad, there are some lies still, even in what you've just said. Because you
did
have the bills paid, you
did
have security. Okay, we never had much money, I know that, but—"

"Some lies too." Nicholas interrupted her quietly. "Always some lies. The salt."

"But in fact," Isabella continued, ignoring him, "you never had to worry about feeding or clothing your children. Our true father saw to that. If we'd only known the real reason he was giving you money. We both thought he was just being a nice grandpa! Christ, did you ever have any of your own, Dad? Was it all his? I bet Mum paid for our summer holidays with the money she
earned.
But how did you fund all those trips abroad that none of us went on?"

Nicholas said nothing. And suddenly she was empty and tired and she wanted desperately to leave him. To go, swiftly, directly. To Russia. She turned away. "Do you have anyone? Apart from Alessandro."

"I have lots of friends here."

"You know what I mean."

"There is a woman—Chloe—whom I would like you to meet..." He hesitated. "If we are to become friends again."

"Is that what you want?" she asked. She felt his eyes on the side of her face.

"I would like it if we could see each other from time to time. Continue this conversation."

"I don't know if I can ever have this conversation with you again. I'm sorry, Dad." She looked at him again but could not meet his eyes anymore. "You're right. I
am
your daughter. Maybe not born but made so. And I can't suddenly be your friend and ... and everything. Not just like that."

"I do not expect anything to be quick. But let's at least admit that
we find each other interesting company, if nothing more." He tapped his cane. "Where are you staying?"

"No. I am not staying. I'm going home this evening. Back to London with Gabriel."

"What about Christmas?"

"We are ignoring Christmas. We are going to Petersburg. We'll have Russian Christmas in January."

She stood.

Nicholas nodded slowly. "Your mother's flat is paid for and empty until the summer, if you wish to stay there."

"I'm not sure."

"And what about you, Isabella, what do you want?"

"I want what Mum wanted. I want you to pay for the course for Arkady. I want you to write me a check for the full amount now. You can give it to me with the letter when we go back. Then I want you to set up a fund so that he gets enough to live on for the next ten years. If you don't have enough, then you must sell the Highgate house and do it with that money."

"Is he any good, this Arkady?"

"I don't know."

Nicholas held up his arms, asking to be pulled up. "You don't know?"

She had no choice but to help him to his feet. "I haven't heard him play."

I am going." Arkady spoke suddenly from behind them.

They had left him only five minutes. They themselves were still looking, scraping off the snow and trying to read the names. Gabriel turned.

The Russian stayed back on the shoveled path. "Thank you," he said. "For showing me the place. It is a coincidence—I came through here many times."

Isabella straightened and tried to smile, but it felt like her skin was frozen and cracking, even deep inside her rabbit-fur hat.

"So. It's cold, no?" There was a trace of humor in Arkady's voice.

"Yes," Isabella said. "Properly cold."

"How long will you be?" He indicated their work.

They had uncovered a dozen names between them. There was only four hours of light per day. Barely that. An hour or so left. And though Isabella had brought a flashlight, neither wanted to spend any time out here in the darkness.

"Not too long." Gabriel stopped and stamped his feet. The snow fell in wedges from his soles. "We know it is one of these. We will do a few more. Come back tomorrow if we don't find it."

Arkady nodded in the manner of someone trying to be polite while urgently required elsewhere.

Gabriel squeezed his nose, which was starting to freeze. "Then Yana is going to take us straight to Cosmonaut, if you want to come."

They had all driven out to the Smolensky together in Yana's wreck.

"Some people we know will be there," Isabella added. "It will be fun. Bring your friends. Bring Henry."

"No.I..."

"Or come down later." Gabriel grinned. "I promise I won't buy you a drink."

"No. Thank you." Arkady looked up. A flock of black birds was flying across the white page of the sky like an ever-changing bar of music. "I need to practice. I need very much to practice."

Isabella spoke from deep within her hat. "You are going back to play Mum's piano?"

"Yes. I am going to play this piano."

"That's great." Isabella spoke excitedly.

"The spare keys are stiff, but they do work," Gabriel said. "You remember the combination to the main gate?"

"Yes." Arkady nodded. Then, his voice matter-of-fact, he added, "You should know—Henry is dead."

"What? Henry is dead?" This from Gabriel.

"Yes."

Isabella took a step forward. "That's terrible," she said. "That's really terrible. We were going to ... God. I'm so sorry."

"It's okay." Arkady's face was blank.

"Was he ill? Was it an accident or something?" Gabriel asked.

"No. But I think he did not want to live." Arkady shrugged. "Some people do not think life is so great."

"Jesus. Well, I'm very sorry to hear about that." Gabriel shook his head in a gesture that expressed sympathy as best he could from beneath two wool hats.

"He sounded like a nice guy," Isabella said, raising a mitten to her head. "In his letter, I mean."

"He was. But that makes no difference."

The three stood in silence a moment. There did not seem to be anything more to say. But it was too cold not to be moving.

"Okay. So. I will see you later, maybe. My friends will help me move the piano tomorrow. We will wait until after lunchtime in case you sleep."

"Oh ... Okay." Isabella looked at her brother. Then said quietly, "Well, neither of us can play it."

Gabriel was silent.

Arkady nodded slowly for a moment, seeming to assess them both anew. "Good luck," he said.

Then he turned, murmuring to himself in Russian. He looked like
a soldier in his greatcoat and his bearskin. They watched him go, walking oddly, his hands deep in his coat pockets, hurrying through the snow.

They were nearing the end of their endurance. Isabella was using her flashlight recklessly as a scraping device.

"Give it another five and then we're off," Gabriel said. "Yana will be waiting."

"Hang on. I think I've found it."

Gabriel came over as fast as he could through the drifts.

"Yes, this is it." Isabella rubbed the rest away with her elbow. Frozen flowers.

He was beside her. "Let me see."

Isabella turned on the light. Nothing. She shook it. The sudden illumination made the surrounding snow glimmer, almost blue. They stood back. In Cyrillic letters, the name spelled out was Anastasiya Andreev.

"That's her," Gabriel said.

"Yes." Isabella played the beam back and forth across the name.

After a while the bulb cut out completely. But even then it seemed a shame to stop looking while there was still a little light lingering in the sky.

She spoke softly. "What now?"

"Start again," he said. "Every day, start again."

My thanks go to my friend and agent, Michael Carlisle, for providing that rare blend of brilliance and sound advice. I am also very much indebted to Webster Younce for his insight, for his wise literary counsel, and for being such a fine editor to work alongside. Likewise, Sasheem Silkiss-Hero, Andy Heidel, Martha Kennedy, Liz Duvall, and Carla Gray have all worked hard on this novel, and I am greatly appreciative of their help, their care, and their dedication.

Next a thank-you to my friends in Russia. In particular Angelina, for her indefatigable spirit, for taking me with her to all those parties, and for reading the draft. Also to Lena for a very informative Uzbek lunch and for teaching me "I love you." I am grateful to Sean McColm, formerly of the British Consulate in St. Petersburg, for a beer, his time, and his refreshingly detailed knowledge of the facts. Thanks to Yana for pointing out the best graveyards. Thanks to Sergei for the most dangerous car rides of my life and coming with me on the dodgy stuff; I'll buy you some new tires one day, I promise. Thanks to comrade Paul for his company and conversation through the long nights of whatever it was we were doing and for catching the "Anna Karenin" train with me, just for the ride.

In London I owe a great deal to everyone at the Westminster Drugs Project; they work tirelessly to make troubled lives a little less troubled regardless of the endless farrago of misinformation and misunderstanding "that will carry on for as long as there is fear and loathing." My appreciation especially to "Jacqueline" for her generosity in sharing her experiences with me, most of which were harrowing and painful. Thanks also to "Mark" for holding my hand, for the turkey sessions, and coming off all over again—keep on running. On this subject, I want most especially to express my gratitude
to Dr. Tom Carnwath, long-time friend of my family and one of the country's leading psychiatrists on addiction. Thanks for the hospitality, the patience, and the benefit of three decades of your daily experience. Those who wish to know more should read Dr. Carnwath's book,
Heroin Century,
without doubt the most even-tempered, informed, and informative appraisal of this subject.

I want to acknowledge the support of some kind people who let me hang around their houses while apparently doing nothing. Bob and Elisabeth Boas for their generosity regarding Rome and for providing me with the happiest editing environment to date. And Stuart and Kate, for the use of their apartment on Lake Orta where there really is nothing to do but write the goddamn book; thank you.

I am grateful to Simon Mulligan for an enlightening half-hour on the phone. To my brother-in-law, Dr. Vincent Khoo, consultant at The Royal Marsden, for ensuring medical accuracy where required and pointing me to the right pills. And to Ian Leslie, an early reader, who took me to Veselka when I was starting and El Bulli when I had finished.

Here, too, the fondest of tributes to my brothers and sisters, who always get it, even when no one else does. Especially this time to Adelaide, who has the finest literary taste in the English-speaking world—always quick with that roll of tens; thanks, JP; nothing is revealed.

Last and most important, a great deal more than thanks to Emma—there's nothing I can say that would cover it; you are the beauty and the light and the better part of what I am.

And after it's finished, and before it all begins again, a thank-you to BD: still the greatest living artist, the only soul to whom I listen every day, and one of the few who know what it can cost a man to really get something done around here.