Thirteen Years Later (31 page)

‘Don’t you hate me sometimes?’ he asked. He had changed the subject, but apparently not her mood.

‘Constantly,’ she replied. ‘Any specific reason you want to focus on?’

‘For my absence.’

‘I could only hate you for your absence because I love you for your presence.’

‘You could love another man who was never absent.’

She paused. ‘Lyosha,’ she asked. ‘Have you made love to any other woman since we met?’

‘There’s Marfa, obviously,’ he mumbled.

‘I understand that,’ she said. ‘That’s marriage. But anyone else?’

Embarrassingly, Aleksei had to think. There had been several women in his life over the years, even since he and Marfa had married, but it was a case of going through them in his mind to see if any had been since he had first met Domnikiia – seen her, met her and screwed her, all within the space of about half an hour – back in late 1811.

‘You haven’t,’ she said, before he could reply, ‘and believe me, I’d know. But I’m glad you had to think about it, because that’s the point.’

‘Glad?’

‘Absolutely. Ask yourself why you haven’t. You never made any promise to me of your undying faith. And even if I found out, I’d probably let you get away with it – a couple of times.’

‘Really?’ He didn’t have the conviction to convey any real interest in the prospect.

‘Really. But you wouldn’t want to, however much you pretend to, for the sake of God knows who. And why wouldn’t you want to?’

‘You tell me.’

‘Because you know full well she’d be a pathetic disappointment compared with me. Not just in bed – everything about her. You’d
get more pleasure by closing your eyes and imagining watching me from half a verst away than you would with her.’

Despite her delightful arrogance, Domnikiia was right, not just about the fact there had been no other women – he’d got through his mental list and verified that – but about the reason. Even in Paris in 1814 and again in 1816 he’d remained faithful, despite the obvious temptations. There were many reasons why a man might be faithful to a woman – because he feared she would leave him if she found out, because he didn’t want to hurt her – but Aleksei supposed he was lucky, and perhaps a rarity, in that he knew it simply wouldn’t be half as much fun.

‘And how do you know all this?’ he asked her.

For the first time in several minutes her eyes dropped away from him. Her speech was close to a whisper. ‘Because that’s how I feel about you.’

She had not needed to look at him, but still another wave of passion – not just physical passion – washed through him. He drank his tea and bit hard on to the glass.

They sat in silence for a few minutes. There was no rush. Yelena Vadimovna was looking after Tamara. They had gone to visit friends near Bogorodsk and would not be back till much later. Aleksei nibbled on a
khvorost
.

‘You didn’t answer my question,’ said Domnikiia.

‘You ask so many questions, my dear.’

‘You know which one.’

Aleksei honestly didn’t, and Domnikiia chose not to prevaricate.

‘Do I get a say?’

‘Oh, that,’ he said with a smile. ‘Of course you do.’

‘Good,’ she said. ‘Then let’s go home.’

They cut through sidestreets to find the shortest way back to Arbatskaya. Their conversation was trivial as they teased each other with attempted distractions from what was to come. They walked briskly, but again, each deliberately held the other back a
little. Even so, their pace meant they did not hold hands, which proved to be fortunate.

Neither of them saw him as he approached, and he was upon them before either could react in any way.

‘Papa!’

Aleksei felt his features freeze for a moment, and then re-form into a smile, which he hoped would be all that Dmitry would perceive.

‘Dmitry,’ he said. ‘I was meaning to come and find you.’

‘I’ve just been at your hotel,’ replied Dmitry, but he had quickly stopped paying attention to his father and was looking at Domnikiia.

‘Have you met Domnikiia Semyonovna?’

‘No, I haven’t,’ said Dmitry. It was with mixed feelings that Aleksei noted that his son’s reaction to Domnikiia was not dissimilar to that of most other men, not least because, as a father, he felt his son should not have eyes for a woman fourteen years older than himself. Domnikiia raised her hand and allowed Dmitry to kiss it.

‘Domnikiia Semyonovna is nanny to Yelena and Valentin’s little daughter. I just happened to bump into her. Do you remember them?’

‘Of course, though I’ve never seen the daughter. I’ve meant to call on them since I’ve been in Moscow.’

There was a formality in both men’s manners which Aleksei felt Dmitry must notice as easily as he did. He hoped he would not understand its cause.

‘This is Dmitry Alekseevich, my son,’ he said to Domnikiia.

Dmitry was taller than his father and, in turn, towered above Domnikiia. She tilted her head upwards and smiled only slightly, but her eyes fixed on his in a way Aleksei found familiar.

‘I’m heading back home now,’ she said, giving the impression that Aleksei was quite forgotten. ‘Perhaps you’d like to accompany me. I’m sure they’d be delighted to see you.’ The last sentence seemed almost an afterthought.

‘We do really need to talk, Dmitry,’ said Aleksei.

Dmitry thought for a moment, his eyes still on Domnikiia, before acquiescing. ‘Yes, absolutely. Another time, Domnikiia Semyonovna.’

‘I do hope so,’ said Domnikiia. She smiled at Aleksei and he gave her a brief nod. She glided away down the street, turning back briefly after a couple of dozen paces to see both men still looking at her. Aleksei suspected it was in Dmitry’s direction that her face was turned.

‘What a charming woman,’ said Dmitry.

‘I went to the meeting as usual last night,’ said Aleksei, without any acknowledgement of his son’s comment. ‘Kyesha didn’t come.’

‘As you expected.’ Dmitry’s tone was at once deadly serious. ‘I spoke to Kirill Antonovich,’ he continued. ‘The police officer you saw in Theatre Square.’

‘Has he discovered anything?’

‘No, but he’s linking Obukhov’s death with the other murders – which now seem to have stopped. Captain Obukhov was the last.’

‘It’s only been two days,’ said Aleksei.

‘True, but there was a death almost every night while Kyesha was here. It fits in with his having left.’

‘Just one? Never more?’ Aleksei had not really been keeping track of the details. The presence of a
voordalak
meant death – what more did there need to be to it? For those other victims, he felt less empathy than he had even with Obukhov.

‘Never more, sometimes none at all – unless there are still bodies to be discovered.’ Perhaps Kyesha had been restraining himself. In 1812, the Oprichniki had been far less disciplined. Then, though, the city had been in chaos under the occupation, so there was less threat of discovery. And, of course, Aleksei himself had asked them to kill as many French as they possibly could. Even so, it might just be the case that Kyesha was of a different caste of vampire from the Oprichniki, as he seemed to be in other ways.

‘What was in the package?’ asked Dmitry.

‘A book – handwritten. A notebook, really.’

‘What does it say?’

‘I don’t know, it’s in English.’ Aleksei knew well enough that his son had no more ability in the language than he did.

‘I’ll ask around, see if I can find a translator,’ said Dmitry.

‘Someone we can trust.’

Dmitry nodded.

‘I’ll go to the meeting tonight, just in case,’ said Aleksei.

‘Where is it?’

‘Red Square. We spoke in the Lobnoye Mesto last time.’

‘Want me to come?’

‘I’ll be all right. I’ll talk to you about it tomorrow.’

They parted. Dmitry turned north, and Aleksei headed southeast, towards his hotel. At the next junction, having checked Dmitry was out of sight, he turned right and then right again, and was soon once more heading west.

Domnikiia was already naked when Aleksei entered the room. She could not have got there more than five minutes ahead of him, but had not wasted any time. The blankets had been thrown to the side of the bed and she lay centrally on her back, her legs together and her arms by her sides. The long plait of her dark hair curved from behind her head and over her left shoulder, hiding her left nipple and lying across her belly. There was only a small gap of white flesh between it and the matching triangle of hair that nestled between the tops of her thighs. Her eyes were closed, but it was obvious she was not asleep. Aleksei took off his clothes and then ran his finger down her chest, between her breasts.

‘Who’s that?’ she asked, with a smile.

Aleksei threw himself on the bed beside her and pulled her over towards him. She opened her eyes and grinned at him.

‘Who did you think it might be?’ he asked.

‘I met a very charming young man out in the street just now.’

‘Man?’ It was genuinely an odd word for Aleksei to hear describing his son. ‘He’s just a boy.’

‘I’d make him a man,’ giggled Domnikiia. It should have been an uncomfortable conversation, but from her it had a charm that banished all his concerns. He was reminded of how, by way of business, she had slept with Maks. But that had been different; he had been unsure of her then – and sure of Maks. His certainty in Maks had proved misplaced. He had learned to live with his uncertainty of Domnikiia.

‘I don’t think that would be wise,’ he said.

‘Afraid you’d lose me to a less wrinkly version of yourself?’

‘Afraid I’d lose my son to a lascivious succubus.’

She leaned over him. He felt her breast brush against his chest. ‘I’d be offended if I knew what that meant,’ she said.

He raised his head so that their noses touched. ‘A dirty whore,’ he whispered. There had been a time when such a reference to her former profession would have offended her. Now they both revelled in it.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘you’d better keep my attention from straying then, hadn’t you?’

He pushed himself up off the bed with his elbow and flipped her on to her back. She looked up at him and he gazed down into her eyes. Still they revealed more of her vulnerability than any of the cool, pale flesh that lay beneath him.

Part of him knew he should be in the next room, working on the translation of the notebook, but the mysteries of a few pages of English offered little temptation in comparison with this Russian enigma, which he had so often unravelled, but which always revealed yet one more conundrum within.

However many times Dmitry visited Red Square, he could never get over the vastness of it. In the past, he’d only come here as a tourist, but since he’d been living in Moscow, although he’d walked through it or close to it almost every day, it had still failed to diminish in its impact. He’d crept into the square through the
market stalls between Saint Vasiliy’s and the river, arriving at about half past eight; thirty minutes before the appointed time. This was where he had followed his father the previous week, and where he did not now need to follow him, but simply to hide and wait for him to arrive.

He skirted round to the east of the cathedral. Glancing up, he saw that no one had yet repaired the broken glass of the window in the central tower. They might not even have noticed. From there he edged along the side of the square, finally secreting himself amongst the low, wooden shops on the eastern perimeter. He could see the Lobnoye Mesto clearly, though the entrance – a gap cut in its cylindrical wall – was on the opposite side from him. Even so, no one would be able to reach that entrance without him seeing their approach.

By a quarter past nine, there was still no sign of anyone. He – like his father – had doubted whether Kyesha would show up, but he had at least expected Aleksei to. Perhaps he had been delayed. Perhaps Kyesha had intercepted him on his way to the rendezvous and . . . It was unlikely. Aleksei might brag, but Dmitry felt convinced that the stories of his defeats of these creatures, told to him hurriedly since that first revelation inside Saint Vasiliy’s, meant that he would not be so easily caught out. And he was right to reason that Kyesha did not seem to be a threat to either of them.

Suddenly, a head popped above the parapet of the Lobnoye Mesto. A figure hoisted itself up on to the wall and then sat there, one leg out straight, the other slightly bent. It was Aleksei. He must have been inside the platform, sitting too low to be seen, even before Dmitry had arrived. There was a brief flash of light, and Dmitry realized that his father was lighting a flame. Only the wide crescent moon illuminated the scene, giving Aleksei an ethereal pallor, but Dmitry could still see the small clay pipe grasped in his hand as he drew deeply on its smoke.

It was unusual for Aleksei to smoke, though not completely unheard of. The reason might be that he couldn’t get a drink here
in the middle of the square. But on the other hand, Dmitry couldn’t help but notice the way his father gazed up at the moon, its rays splintered by the many domes of the cathedral, and observe how contented he looked for once in his life.