The Third Section (47 page)

The door creaked as she pushed it – it always had. The large double bed, in which she had spent so many nights, was still
there
, and beyond it the window. The bed was made up – ready for whenever Tamara chose to come home, but she’d never once stayed there since her marriage. To the left, there was another room, which could also be accessed straight from the landing. Tamara always thought of it as the study, but she never recalled it being used as such. She looked inside, but it was just boxes, as it had always been. Valentin had his own study, downstairs, so why should he need to use this as one?

She went back into the bedroom. To the right, near to the bed, a smaller room led off. She went into it. Here there was another bed – a child’s bed. She had slept in here too, when she was small enough to fit in the bed; she had almost forgotten. And her nanny had slept in the main room then.

Tamara felt a shiver. She tried to hold on to the thought – the memory. She was sure of it. As a little girl, she had slept in the small bed and a woman – such a beautiful woman – had slept in the bed in the other room. It could only have been her nanny. She remembered being put to bed and having lullabies sung to her. She tried to picture the woman, but could not see her face. Then that sweet, soft voice came flooding into her mind.

Bayoo, babshkee, bayoo
,

Zheevyet myelneek na krayoo
,

On nye byedyen, nye bogat
,

Polna gorneetsa rebyat
.

Vsye po lavochkam seedyat
,

Kashoo maslyenoo yedyat
.

Kasha maslenaya
,

Lozhka krashenaya
,

Lozhka gnyetsa
,

Rot smyeyetsya
,

Doosha radooyetsya
.

Bayoo, babshkee, bayoo
.

Bayoo, babshkee, bayoo
.

Tamara went back to the main room and another image came: her nanny standing at the window looking out. She could only picture her from behind, but she was as real as had been her
grandfather’s
ghastly, dead face minutes before. A long plait of dark hair ran straight down her back. It was a strange image to have of the woman just standing there – watching and waiting. But it was how she most remembered her.

And then Tamara recalled that she herself had done the same – stood in that same pose, sometimes beside her nanny, sometimes alone. She went over to the window and put her hand down to touch the ledge. It scarcely reached her waist, and yet she remembered a time when she had only just been able to peek over it. Outside in the snow, a man had stood watching, always watching. He had been tall – and young – but Tamara could remember his face no more than she could her nanny’s. And just as the face would not come to her, neither would the name. She stared down into the street below.

‘Domnikiia Semyonovna.’ The two words cut through the room and through her recollections, shattering the images that played in her mind and dragging her, unwillingly, to the present. Before she could turn to look, the door had closed, but she knew well enough who had spoken.

Rodion had been there, all those years ago when Tamara was a child, though he would have been in his teens. He would have known about everything. And then later, the first time Tamara had asked the Lavrovs about her true parents, he’d witnessed that too. Their reaction then would have been enough for him – as a loyal son – to keep whatever he knew to himself, and Tamara had never spoken to him on the subject. She had no idea what he knew, but now he had given her something – a name; the name of a nanny who until yesterday she had not known existed. And it was a name with which she was already familiar. There had been several names on that list of witnesses to the first murder, in Degtyarny Lane, in 1812. Aleksei’s had been one. Another was Domnikiia Semyonovna Beketova.

Again she let the image of the woman standing, waiting, staring out of the window come to her. But what was it that Domnikiia Semyonovna had been waiting for? Tamara remembered herself, standing beside her nanny, just where she stood now, also waiting; waiting for her parents, she felt sure of that. She glanced down into the street again and felt her blood chill at what she saw. Her
memories
had come to life. There stood that same tall, brooding figure in silent vigil, just as he had done when Tamara was a child. Another memory came. The man had made Domnikiia cry. He had hit her. As a child it had made her sad, but now she felt only anger towards the man who had done it. Could it be that same man who stood there now, or was it mere coincidence?

She studied the figure. His back was turned and she could not see his face. He was unusually tall. Could it be Tyeplov? It made no sense that he would have been here thirty years before. And as a
voordalak
he shouldn’t be here now in broad daylight, unless that aspect of their nature truly was a myth.

The figure turned and walked purposefully away down the street, allowing Tamara the briefest glimpse of his face. She stepped back from the window and put her hand to her mouth, stifling a gasp. The figure was not Tyeplov, but it was a face she knew well. And she was now certain that it had been the same man, though much younger, who had maintained his vigil there when she was a child.

It was Dmitry.

They had one last passionate night together. Now it was over, and Dmitry lay in Raisa’s bed, in her room in the brothel on Degtyarny Lane. He felt her warm body pressed against his, with scarcely a gap where their skins were not touching, from the point at which her temple pressed against his chest down to where their insteps lay gently against one another. Her breathing was quiet, but he felt her body moving. His own slow inhalation and exhalation matched hers exactly.

It was a rare treat; to be in bed with her like this, and to have the luxury of remaining still and silent for so long. It was a happy side effect of the danger they faced. Last night, after Tyeplov’s visit, they had been able to stay together, and again tonight. Normally he would have been thrown out, just like any other customer, when the doors were finally locked in the small hours of the morning; it was the rule of the house.

After visiting Yudin, Dmitry had gone to see the Lavrovs, but he had been too late. Tamara was already there. He’d seen her, up at her bedroom window, just as when he’d looked up at her when
she
was a little girl. Then he’d believed what he was meant to believe – that she was the Lavrovs’ daughter and that Domnikiia was merely her nanny. He remembered his loathing for Domnikiia then, for taking his father from his mother, and worse, for taking his father from him. But he had grown to realize that neither was true.

He was sure that Tamara had seen him and recognized him. Perhaps she even remembered him standing on that same spot all those years before, his eyes blazing with hatred for her mother. But when they met again that evening, Tamara had said nothing. Dmitry did not speak to the Lavrovs. It was better to leave their secrets undisturbed.

He had returned to Degtyarny Lane to be surprised how easy it was to convince Raisa to leave Moscow. Perhaps she had seen from the first that he was going to have his way, regardless of her objections. He’d have locked her in a trunk and thrown her into the luggage wagon if need be. In the end, he hadn’t even needed to explain to her the full nature of the threat she faced. He’d discussed it with Yudin, and they’d decided it was best to avoid it if possible. She understood well enough that a vampire could kill her; there was no need to tell her that it could also capture her soul.

There was a knock at the door. Dmitry had been expecting it, but he didn’t respond. The door opened slightly and the light of a candle shone in.

‘It’s nearly time.’ It was, as he had known it would be, Tamara’s voice. ‘He’ll be here soon.’

‘We’ll start moving,’ he said, turning his head towards her. She left the candle on the table, along with a jug of hot water, and departed.

‘Do we have to?’ Raisa had been woken by Tamara’s arrival, but she still sounded sleepy. She coughed heavily, but waved Dmitry away when he showed concern.

‘You know we do,’ he said, when she’d recovered.

‘Then you come too.’

‘You know I can’t.’

She rolled over and pushed herself up with her arms, straddling him on all fours. Her loose, golden hair, translucent in the
candlelight
, hung down over him, tickling his shoulders and his forehead.

‘Aren’t you going to miss me?’ she asked, rubbing herself up and down against his belly.

‘Of course.’ He pulled her down on to him and pressed his lips to hers, knowing that if she continued, he would not be able to resist her. They didn’t have time. He rolled her over on to her back, so that he was now above her, then gave her one final kiss before standing up. He washed and dressed quickly, then went to the door, leaving her running a comb through her shimmering hair.

‘I’ll wait downstairs,’ he said, then departed.

In the salon, Yudin was already waiting. He had in his hand a glass of tea. Tamara offered one to Dmitry. He sipped it.

‘I should come with you,’ he said. ‘At least to the station.’

‘We’re not going to the station,’ said Yudin. ‘Not in Moscow, anyway.’

‘What?’

‘It’s too obvious. I have a carriage. I’ll take her to Khimki and she can get the train from there.’

‘Can you trust the carriage driver?’ asked Tamara.

‘Oh, I think so,’ said Yudin, with the slightest of smiles.

Then both Yudin and Tamara looked up, to the top of the stairs. Raisa stood there, wrapped in a light overcoat, her hair hidden by her hat, a small valise in her hand. She looked utterly demure – quite unlike the woman whose body he had caressed not twenty minutes before. He rushed up the stairs to take her case from her, but his ankle still slowed him. She was halfway down when they met, and brushed aside his offers of assistance.

She went to Tamara first, kissing her on both cheeks and then taking her hand. ‘Goodbye, Toma,’ she said. ‘I hope you’ll be able to carry on here without me.’

‘You’ll be hard to replace,’ said Tamara.

Then Raisa turned to Dmitry. She said nothing, but merely raised her eyes up to his. He threw his arms around her and squeezed her as tightly as he could, as if it would keep her from going. She didn’t even breathe but stood quite still, her face buried in his neck, until he finally let go of her. She gave him the most
knowing
of smiles, which told him everything about her. His own broad smile caused hers to widen. He leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the lips. Then they separated.

Tamara turned the key in the door and drew back the two large bolts, then opened it and stepped outside. Between them Dmitry and Yudin picked up Raisa’s large trunk, which had been packed and brought down the night before, and carried it outside. They strapped it on to the barouche that waited there. By the time they were done, Raisa had already climbed aboard. Dmitry heard her cough again.

The coachman’s seat, behind the two black horses that would pull the carriage, was empty. Yudin clambered up and took the reins. He grinned down at Dmitry.

‘No need to let anyone else in on this, I don’t think,’ he said.

Tamara and Dmitry stepped back towards the house. In the early morning darkness, Raisa was scarcely visible, sitting back beneath the half-hood. Dressed all in black, Yudin perched above her and in front, leaning out over the two horses like the expert driver that Dmitry knew him to be. He flicked them with his whip and the two beasts began to move. Raisa was out of sight in a moment, hidden by the black canopy, but Yudin remained visible until the carriage turned the corner. He gave a cheery wave as he disappeared from view.

Dmitry felt Tamara’s comforting hand on his back. He felt an almost overwhelming urge to embrace her, but for it to have made any sense she would have had to know she was his sister, and now, more than ever, that knowledge could only bring her danger.

‘Are you coming back in?’ she asked.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ll head off.’

She smiled briefly and stepped back inside. Dmitry waited until he heard the bolts drawn shut, and then walked away, wondering when he would ever see Raisa again.

My dear little Mityenka
,

It seems so long since I was last in your arms, and yet it was only this morning when we said goodbye. Everything went as you and Vasiliy Innokyentievich told me it would. We made good time out of Moscow and were soon on the chaussée. As dawn broke, I made him stop the coach and looked back on the city in the morning sunlight. It was quite the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, but it saddened me to think that somewhere among those gleaming church domes and clusters of buildings you were there, alone, and probably already back to sleep, knowing you
.