Under a Blood Red Sky (48 page)

Vasily.

Mikhail.

She loved them both. Her body ached with loving him, but it was nothing compared with the desperate ache at the knowledge that she was about to lose him. So softly that he didn’t break the rhythm of his dreams, Sofia dropped her clothes to the floor and slid in beside him between the sheets. His naked body smelled warm and musky. Her lips touched his skin. She curled her body around his and lay like that for an hour, maybe two. When eventually his hand found her in his sleep, she smiled. Slowly, without opening his eyes, he started to caress her breasts till a moan crept from between her lips and she heard his breath quicken.

‘Ssh,’ she whispered, ‘you need sleep.’

‘No, I need you.’

He opened his eyes and grinned at her on the pillow. Gently she kissed his split lip and drew it into her own mouth where her tongue soothed it. His groan vibrated through her own lungs and together they started to explore each other’s bodies once more. It was leisurely this time as their hands moved or lingered and teased desire to breaking point – until he was inside her.

As he thrust deep within her, his lips hard on hers, she kept her eyes open, fixed on his, so close they were almost a part of her. His gaze never wavered from hers. And suddenly the terrible ache and the fear left Sofia. The ache of loving. The fear of losing. There was just this, just him, just her. Together.

‘I’ve been waiting for you.’

Rafik was seated at the table in his
izba
, his hands flat on its rough planks. He was wearing the white band round his head, stark against his thick black hair, and a soft white shirt with loose sleeves and, on its front, a strange geometric design picked out in intricate white embroidery. He indicated the two chairs opposite him.

Sofia and Mikhail sat down. Sofia’s eyes focused immediately on the white stone that lay on the surface of the table.

‘Sofia,’ Rafik said and smiled at her. ‘It is time for you to know more. But first,’ his gaze shifted to Mikhail, ‘what is it you want of me, Comrade Pashin?’

Mikhail gave the stone no more than a cursory glance, but he draped a protective arm along the back of Sofia’s chair. ‘Rafik,’ he said, ‘yesterday I was incarcerated in a filthy cell looking at a future in a labour camp – at best. Today I am here in Tivil, a free man.’ He leaned forward, searching the gypsy’s face. ‘It’s a miracle, and I don’t believe in miracles.’

‘No, it’s not a miracle. You were saved by Sofia.’

Mikhail thumped a hand on the table, making the stone leap from its place. Rafik flinched but didn’t touch it.

‘Rafik, you say Sofia saved me but she claims that you did. I need to know what is going on here. People have always whispered that you have strange mystic powers but I dismissed it as village tittle-tattle, the fantasies of idle minds, but now…’ He drew a deep breath and Sofia could see a pulse beating below his ear.

‘Mikhail,’ Rafik said in a soothing tone, ‘I’m going to tell you a history.’ With his words the thoughts in Sofia’s head seemed to grow heavy. ‘For centuries,’ he continued, ‘generations of my family were advisers and astrologers to the Kings of Persia. Their knowledge and intimacy with the Spirits made them a force that guided one of the greatest Empires in history through times of war and times of peace. But nothing…’ he brushed a finger over the stone and eased it back into its position, ‘nothing lasts for ever – not even Communism.’

He frowned, drawing his heavy black brows together. ‘My ancestors were driven from their Land of Honey and fled throughout the known world, some escaping to Europe, others to India and further into the Orient, as the Empire crumbled.’

Sofia closed her eyes for a moment. ‘I feel it,’ she murmured.

Mikhail’s solemn gaze scrutinised her face, then he passed a hand in a gentle caress over her forehead and through the silky threads of her white-blonde hair.

‘What does she mean?’

Rafik took Sofia’s hands between his own, palms together as in prayer.

‘She is like me,’ he said.

‘She’s not a gypsy.’

‘No. I am the seventh son of a seventh son, going back through generations of seventh sons all the way to Persia. That’s where my power comes from, passed on in a mystic connection of blood. Sofia is the same.’

‘What do you mean? Is she the daughter of a seventh son?’

‘No. She is the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, going back through generations. Because her mother died when Sofia was so young, she never learned from her mother what she should have been told about the power that is centred in her, drawn from the strength and the knowledge of others before her.’ He pressed Sofia’s hands tight together. ‘My will is strong, and so is hers. But together,’ Rafik continued, his black eyes searching hers, ‘we are stronger.’

‘But my father was a priest of the Russian Orthodox church,’ she pointed out. ‘Surely his faith would have clashed with my mother’s… if what you say is true.’

‘Faiths can work together. The bond they create can be a powerful force.’

She nodded. ‘Have you ever spoken to Priest Logvinov here in Tivil? About working together?’

‘He’s not ready. Until he is, I protect him.’

Mikhail leaned forward, intent on Rafik. ‘That explains why the crazy fool still has his life in one piece. I’ve never been able to understand why he wasn’t shot or exiled long ago by the authorities. He takes risks, big risks.’

Rafik looked at Mikhail. ‘So do you.’

Mikhail’s mouth closed into a hard line and he sat back in his chair, eyes narrowed. ‘What is it you know, Rafik?’

‘I know you bring a saddlebag of food home from your factory canteen each day for the Tushkov family.’

Mikhail said firmly, ‘That would be illegal. The canteen food is meant for the Levitsky workers only.’

‘Please be careful, my love,’ Sofia whispered.

A shout in the street shattered the moment. They heard the sound of boots pounding outside, the growl of a truck engine revving impatiently. Children were bounding up from the school, voices in the street raised in dispute. Rafik and Mikhail hurried to the door.

Only Sofia remained where she was. She was staring at the white pebble. She touched it and it was ice cold.

‘Sofia,’ Rafik demanded harshly behind her. ‘What have you done?’

Aleksei Fomenko, the Chairman of the Red Arrow kolkhoz, stood in the grip of two burly soldiers outside his house. Around them swarmed the
kolkhozniki
. News travelled fast in the fields.

Sofia forced herself to watch. The way the uniformed soldiers manhandled him as though he were dirt. The erect manner with which he carried himself in his check shirt and work trousers as though proud of them, the straight back, the accusing grey eyes that swept the crowd. The black Russian soil ingrained in the leather of his boots. At his feet lay three sacks, each one packed with secret plunder.

‘Hoarder!’

‘Thief!’

‘Filthy scum!’

‘You disgusting hypocrite, after all the food you took from us-’

‘Liar! All the time you were stealing for yourself.’

‘Bastard!’

A stone flew from a woman’s hand and then another, which hit its target. Sofia could see the blood trickle along Fomenko’s scalp. She made herself watch, but where was the sense of satisfaction she had expected? Why wasn’t she enjoying the gloating and the triumph? This was what she’d wanted, wasn’t it? This was what she’d sworn to do, so why did revenge taste so sour?

‘We were all shocked,’ Mikhail said and shook his head, his wet hair scattering water. ‘I’d never have believed it of Fomenko.’

Sofia was very quiet.

Mikhail lifted another ladle of water out of the enamel jug and tipped it over the hot stones. Steam rose in a great hiss and he almost lost sight of her.

They were in his banya, the bath hut at the back of his yard. It was a small dark building constructed of wood with a slatted bench to sit on, a stove, and one tiny window high up to let in a sliver of light. In the hot moist air they had scraped each other’s skin in turn with the veniki, the birch twigs, and in the gloom she had massaged oils into the cuts and bruises that criss-crossed his body, kissing each one with such tenderness that he could barely keep from scooping her into his arms.

But she wouldn’t let him. All afternoon she’d been subdued. She’d walked away from Rafik after Fomenko’s arrest, but instead of being annoyed the gypsy had seized Mikhail’s arm.

‘Go to her, Mikhail. Don’t leave her side.’

Mikhail had felt a thin trickle of fear.

‘What is it? Is she in danger?’

‘I see dark shadows gathering around her and…’ He stopped.

‘And what?’

Rafik rubbed his eyes hard. ‘Just stay at her side.’

When Mikhail suggested the banya to Sofia, it had elicited her glorious smile and her blue eyes had lit up with delight.

‘As long as I get to clean you and you get to clean me,’ she’d teased.

‘Agreed.’

For a while it had worked. He’d lit the stove and ladled the water over the heated stones until the steam opened every pore in their bodies. He adored the sight and the feel of her body, so vulnerable and yet so strong to touch, and he longed to feed her thick greasy morsels of fat and cheese, to watch soft flesh grow over the hard angles of her bones, to see her small undernourished breasts blossom like sweet-smelling flowers. As they stood entwined together, his hands caressed her slender buttocks and he trailed kisses along the delicate line of her shoulder.

‘Sofia, Sofia,’ he whispered over and over.

She had changed everything for him, transformed his world to somewhere clean and worthwhile. This woman was so different from any other he’d known. But when he placed her on the steam-hazed bench she put a finger to his lips and shook her head.

‘Sofia, what is it, my love?’

She took a deep breath, quivered under his touch, but said firmly, ‘I want us to talk.’

‘To talk? Is that all? You frightened me for a moment with your coolness.’ He laughed and sat on the bench beside her. He let just his arm touch hers, no more. ‘So what is it you want to talk about?’

‘I want to talk about… the Dyuzheyevs.’

He stopped breathing.

‘You know the name?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘When I asked before, you claimed you didn’t.’

‘I lied.’

‘Why would you lie about it?’

‘Because… oh Sofia, I don’t want to think back to those times. They’re… over, locked in the past. Nothing can change what happened back then.’

In the silence that followed in the damp hut, Mikhail had a sudden sense of things slipping away. Just the same as that day so long ago in the snow, when his life slipped out of his icy fingers. Not this time, not again, he refused to let it happen again. He stood up quickly and faced her, and was shocked to see that despite the heat and their passion, her skin was bone white.

‘Why are you doing this, Sofia? What are you trying to get out of me? Yes, I knew the Dyuzheyevs. Yes, I saw them die. A day etched into my brain in every detail, however hard I try to forget it. So I’ve answered you. Now leave it, my love, leave it alone. Whatever your connection is with that dreadful day, don’t drag it in here.’

He dropped to his knees on the wooden floor in front of her. The mound of blonde curls at the base of her stomach was barely a breath away, but he gazed only at her deep blue eyes that looked so wretched.

‘Sofia,’ he whispered, ‘my Sofia. Don’t do this.’

‘I must.’

He sat back on his heels and stared up at her.

‘I love you, Sofia.’

‘I love you, Mikhail.’ Her eyes shimmered in the narrow shaft of light.

He gently brushed a thread of moisture from her lip. ‘Very well, my sweetest, what is it you want?’

She didn’t speak. Her throat attempted to swallow but failed, and he waited. Their breathing sounded loud in the silence. Only when she dragged her eyes away from his face towards the small square of daylight outside did the words come.

‘Anna Fedorina is still alive.’

They were dressed and in the house. Mikhail had lit a cigarette but had forgotten it. It burned fitfully in his fingers.

He was angry. Not with Sofia, but with himself. Something that happened sixteen years ago should not still have this power over him. They’d said little more after Sofia’s announcement.

‘Where is she?’ he’d asked.

‘In a labour camp in Siberia.’

He’d sunk his head in his hands and uttered a long moan, but when eventually he looked up, she was gone. He pulled on his clothes and hurried to the house, fearful that she would have left, but no, she was sitting in his chair, face composed, eyes calm. Only her skin was the colour of rain, a strange translucent grey that held no life in it.

He stood in the middle of the room and stared down at the half-built model of the bridge on the table. ‘It’s the Brooklyn Bridge,’ he said flatly. ‘In America. It spans the East River between New York and Brooklyn.’

‘I thought it was the Forth Bridge.’

‘No.’ He frowned. Why was he talking about bridges? ‘The Forth Bridge is cantilevered, this one is a suspension bridge.’ He ran a finger along the top of one of the towers, picking out the intricate woodwork. ‘An amazing feat of construction in the 1870s. Fourteen thousand miles of wire holds it together and each cable has a breaking strain of twelve thousand tons. Its main span is five hundred metres and…’ Slowly he shook his head from side to side. ‘What was I thinking? That one day I could become an engineer again instead of a miserable factory manager? I was a fool.’

With a sudden jab of anger he hammered his fist down on top of the bridge, bringing it crashing down in a thousand pieces as each miniature girder sprang apart.

‘Mikhail!’