The Master of Rain Part 53

Field lit another cigarette and forced himself to smoke it.

The door opened and she came down the steps to the sidewalk, her head bent, so that he could not see her face.

He moved quickly, the blood pounding through his head. He took hold of her roughly, pulled her across the road.

"Get in," he said.

She resisted.

"Get in. Foochow Road," he told the man. "Hurry."

"He will have seen," she said as they pulled away.

Natasha was watching the rickshaw man's back, her face impa.s.sive and cold. She did not speak until she had opened the door of her apartment. "Please go," she said, once she had moved inside.

"What happened?"

"Please leave."

"What happened?"

In an instant she crumpled and he caught her. He lifted her and carried her to a chair by the window. He gripped her tightly, with stretched fingers, so that her head was on his shoulder, her hair once again in his face. He closed his eyes.

And then, just as quickly, she was struggling to be free and pushing him away. She got to her feet again. "No," she said. "No."

"What happened?"

"He knows."

Field stood. "Knows what?"

"He knows." She shook violently. "Something was different."

"What was different?"

"In his eyes. He was less . . . not so far away with the drugs and he made me stand there such a long time, just staring."

"Did he say anything?"

"Normally, he is hardly looking at me. Just so drugged and-"

"How long?"

"An hour, I don't know. And he did not say I could go. I could not stand it anymore and I went and picked up my clothes and left and-"

"He just looked at you?"

She did not answer.

"He didn't talk? He didn't say anything?"

Slowly, she raised her head. "He asked me if I liked to wear stockings. Why did I not wear them?"

"What did you say?"

"I said I would wear them the next time."

"He didn't touch you?"

Natasha stared at the floor.

"Did he touch you?"

"It is not your business."

"Did he touch you?"

"In the dressing room there were two ledgers." She looked up. "A chest was open. They were on top."

"And you looked?"

"I was frightened."

"But you looked?"

"There were many figures. All the writing was in Chinese."

"But you could read it."

"No, I-"

"I can see it in your face." She stared at the floor again. "And you saw something." Field took a step closer. "You knew what to look for."

Natasha did not respond.

Field frowned. "You have seen them before? Whatever it was that Lena knew, you know, too. She told you. She was like a sister to you."

Her face was hostile, a brittle anger in her eyes, her mouth tight. She held her arms protectively across her chest. "You have brought me fear again."

"I have brought you nothing you haven't brought upon yourself." He was inches away from her now. "Lena was like a sister to you, Natasha. How does that feel? She lived the life your sister lived, and she died the death your sister died." He reached out and put his hand under her chin, forcing her to look at him. "Natalya Simonov was your sister, Natasha. I've seen her grave. And your father's."

Her eyes filled with pain, but the anger burned within him. "All the time I've been chasing around trying to find the truth," he said, "you have just been playing me along." Field's teeth clenched and he tightened his grip. "If your father died in Russia, Natasha, or on the ship from Vladivostok, how is it that he's buried here?"

"What is it to you?"

"That's why the photograph of Natalya is no longer on your bookshelf, isn't it? You thought I'd recognize her." He let her go. "Do you know what I felt when I saw the picture of her body? For Christ's sake, I thought it was you." Field walked to the window, then turned. "What purpose have I served?"

Her eyes had followed him. "What do you mean?"

"I mean what purpose have I really served? Tell me where I fit in."

"I don't understand."

"Well, it can't be love, can it?" He spread his hands. "Or even s.e.x. Did you feel anything? Or are you so practiced in the art of deception that-"

"Stop it, Richard."

"Stop it?" He took a pace toward her again. "Stop it?"

"Why are you being-"

"She was your sister! sister! Do you think I am so f.u.c.king stupid?" He thrust his face close to hers. "Do you?" There were tears in her eyes. "Anna Natalya Medvedev. What made her change her name? Was it shame, Natasha? She was buried in Little Russia, beside General Feodor Medvedev, beloved father to Natasha Olga Medvedev." Do you think I am so f.u.c.king stupid?" He thrust his face close to hers. "Do you?" There were tears in her eyes. "Anna Natalya Medvedev. What made her change her name? Was it shame, Natasha? She was buried in Little Russia, beside General Feodor Medvedev, beloved father to Natasha Olga Medvedev."

"Please stop, Richard."

"Is this causing you pain, Natasha? Is this hurting you?"

"Stop it."

"She was your sister."

"Please."

"She was your f.u.c.king sister."

"I knew that you would find out."

"Did you really?" Field breathed in heavily in an attempt to try to control himself. "I'm a policeman, for G.o.d's sake. Of course I would find out. It happens, even in Shanghai, occasionally. So where did she live? Which number on Avenue Joffre?"

"I could not tell you."

"Which number?"

"Number 73. On the ground floor."

"Who was she seeing?"

"I don't know."

"She was your sister."

"We did not talk of it."

"What about Lena?"

"I don't know." Natasha shook her head. "I just do not know. It was sensitive for both of us, for all of us, so we did not talk of it. It is dangerous to know these things."

"But Lena told you about the shipments?"

Natasha didn't answer.

"So what about me, Natasha? Where do I fit in? Can you tell me that, at least?"

"I could not tell you."

"This man either killed your sister or was involved in her murder, and still you go down there and take off your clothes and let him-"

"Stop it!" Her eyes were wild.

"Did you see Natalya's body, Natasha? Did you see what he did to her? The photograph is in my desk. Do you want me to get-"

She launched herself at him and she was strong. Her arms flailed, her fingers scratching at his eyes. He felt a scalding pain on his cheek as he instinctively kicked her legs out from under her. He fell with her. He pinned her legs and arms.

She spat, her face twisted with fury. "You like this. You like to hurt."

He got to his feet.

"You are just the same as the others," she said, scrambling up and retreating across the room. "You think you're different, but you're just the same."

"You lied to me," he said quietly.

"I could not tell you."

Field put his hand to his cheek. "I don't understand . . ."

"She did it so I wouldn't have to. That was what she did, Richard. Is that what you want to hear? She was a prost.i.tute. A wh.o.r.e. So we could survive, so that her beloved little sister wouldn't have to do the things that I now do. Do you think I would be there if I had a choice? Do you think I have not dreamed of escape?"

"How did your father die?"

"I'll tell you," she said, defeated. "I'll tell you, Richard. One day Papa found out. We had said we were teaching French to rich English children, and to begin with, that was true. But then the family that we taught most left for New York, and there were more and more Russian girls looking to teach English or French or music, or anything at all. We started to get hungry, Richard. It would pick up soon, we told Papa. We sold everything that we had of value, trying to shield our poverty from him, but he knew.

"We went on telling him that we were teaching, and he knew that we were poor but believed that we were honest. But our hunger grew. And then Papa was ill and needed medicine and we had no money for that. At first, Natalya did not tell me. Then she said she could keep it from me no longer. She had done it so that I didn't have to, she said. So that I would only have to dance. My poor, sweet, gentle Natalya. There were no tears in her eyes when she told me. I think she had no tears left to cry. So I cried for her, and I thought I would never stop."

Natasha wiped her eyes. "There was a little more money then. The teaching was getting better, we told Papa, but a friend, a friend, told him it was not true." She stared at him. "Papa was a very proud man, Richard." She nodded. "Like your father, he was so proud. He did not believe his friend. How could he believe that his two beautiful daughters would do such a thing? It was impossible. Impossible. So he came to see for himself. He was ill, shuffling. He had lost everything, but came to be certain that that which was priceless could not have been sold. It was impossible. He knew Shanghai, of course, and he had never chosen to come here. By the time we left Russia, flight to the West was too risky, and we had no family there, so we went east, like Lena, hoping that, by some miracle, the White generals in Vladivostok would turn the tide. And once it was clear Vladivostok would fall, where could we go? We were poor then, living by selling the last of our possessions. Where could we go? Shanghai . . . like so many others. It was better than nothing. Papa knew nothing of commerce, but he was proud and believed we could begin again. He believed we could be poor and honest and he knew his friend's vicious slander must be a mistake. Then he saw her. She was on a raised platform inside the door of this place, and in front were men queuing to f.u.c.k her-his precious, beloved elder daughter, whom he raised himself after Mama died and whom he loved more than life itself. She was in red, she told me. Her best outfit. Red garters, with a corset and fur lining on the collar. That was what Papa saw. And the men were watching her dance, then they-just so, with a flick of the finger, they ordered her. Upstairs to a tiny room with a mattress. And for a few dollars, they could do what they wished, Richard. Anything they wished. They could beat her. They could humiliate her. What could she do? A Russian girl. Once proud and beautiful, the daughter of a general of high breeding, with a farm on the Volga. But now-"

"Stop."

"You want to know-you must know." She wiped her eyes again as she sat. "You must know the end of the story, because it is the story of Natasha. She was Papa's favorite daughter. She would never, never be dancing for money-with anyone who wanted her. General Medvedev would never believe this. It was absolutely impossible. Perhaps Natalya . . . he loved her, of course, she was his firstborn, but perhaps . . . the death of Mama . . . she had been the most affected. Perhaps she was weak, too easily influenced. But Natasha? She was a daughter to adore, to be proud of. One day, he dreamed, she would marry an officer of the regiment. Or perhaps another landowner in Kazan, so that she could be close to home. His heart is so soft that it melts for her. Always. And even here in Shanghai, she is supporting him, looking after him as he gets older." She shook her head. "No. Not Natasha. Please, Lord, if you have any mercy, then not Natasha. It could not be. Not with any man who wants to grab her b.r.e.a.s.t.s for money. It is not possible. A wh.o.r.e and a tea dancer, his two darling girls, keeping him alive by selling themselves." There were tears in her eyes now. "But it was true. It was all true. Everything his friend had said. He saw it with his own eyes. So Papa put on his uniform. A general again in the tsar's army, with everything in its proper place. The crops were almost ready to be harvested. A few weeks in St. Petersburg for the winter. Perhaps he would take us along. We could stay at the Rivoski on Nevsky Prospekt and he would take us shopping. There would be b.a.l.l.s and dinners and perhaps we would even find a husband, Natalya and I. We would be so excited."

"I'm so sorry."

"But we are not in Kazan anymore, Richard, we are in Shanghai." She looked up at him. She was starting to cry. "He put the cold barrel of his army revolver in his mouth, and then he pulled the trigger. Gone. With Mama. To a better, better world. Shanghai killed him. And we did."

The fight went out of her. Her shoulders sagged and she wept, her body racked with pain.

Field took a step toward her. "No," she said firmly, raising a hand. "I haven't deceived you, Richard."

Field didn't answer.