The Jewel of St Petersburg (28 page)

T
HE 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.

I
S 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.

V
ALENTINA 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.