Under A Blood Red Sky Part 23

'Grigori, you can't hide yourself away among your Italian paintings and your Arab stallions and refuse to see that Russia is in crisis.'

'I can, Nikolai. And I will.'

'd.a.m.n it, man, these young people have ideals that-'

'Don't give me that tosh. Ideology is a word used to hide evil actions behind a cloak of justice. These b.l.o.o.d.y Mensheviks and Bolsheviks will bring about the disintegration of our country, and then we can never go back.'

'Grigori, I love you like a brother, but you are blind. The Romanovs' Russia is not an ordered Utopia and never has been. It's a doomed system.'

Grigori rose to his feet and strode over to stand with his back to the log fire, the colour deepening in his whiskered cheeks. 'Do these fools really think their Party membership card will be the answer to all their problems? I tell you, Nikolai, they have a lot to learn.'

'Maybe it's we who have a lot to learn,' Papa said hotly.

'Don't be absurd.'

'Listen to me, Grigori. Do you know that Petrograd, this glorious capital city of ours, has the highest industrial accident rate in Russia? At the Putilov works alone there are fifteen accidents a month and no one is doing a d.a.m.n thing about it. No wonder the unions are angry.'

'Papa,' Anna interrupted, quoting something she read herself in the newspaper the day before, 'this is the twentieth century, yet nearly half the homes in this city are without a water or sewage system.'

'Exactly my point. But does Tsar Nicholas care? No, no more than he does about the bread shortages.'

'That doesn't mean we have to face the downfall of the tsars,' snapped Grigori.

'I rather fear it does,' Papa retorted.

'Enough, gentlemen!' From her place on the sofa beside the fire Svetlana Dyuzheyeva scolded her husband and his friend, shaking an elegant finger at them both. 'Stop your politicking at once and pour us all a drink, Grigori. Anna and I are bored to tears with it all, aren't we, malishka malishka?'

But Anna wasn't actually bored. Recently she'd taken to dipping into Papa's newspaper when he'd finished with it and was alarmed by the reports of sabre charges by the cavalry in the street. Blood had been spilled on both sides.

'Isn't Vasily supposed to be here by now?' she asked, but was careful to keep her concern out of her voice.

'The infernal boy is late again,' Grigori grumbled as he went over to the drinks table and picked up the vodka bottle.

The furnishings in the drawing room were as ornate and elaborate as the house itself, all elegant tables and highly polished cabinets on delicately carved legs. Two electric chandeliers glittered down on beautiful ornaments of fine porcelain, each as thin as paper.

'Give him time,' Svetlana smiled, as indulgent as ever.

Anna abandoned the chess table with its inlaid squares of ivory and ebony and took up a new position on the padded window seat.

Don't die without me.

She whispered the words to the window pane and watched it cloud over with the warmth of her breath, blocking off the white frosted world outside.

Don't die without me, Vasily.

All kinds of imaginings jostled each other inside her head as the reason why Vasily hadn't yet appeared, each one sending shivers racing down her spine.

'Are you cold?' asked Maria, Anna's governess, who was quietly bent over a piece of needlework on her lap.

'No, I'm not cold.'

'Anna, why don't you come and sit over here by the fire?' Svetlana Dyuzheyeva asked with an encouraging smile. 'It's warmer than by the window.'

Anna looked round at her. Her own mother had died when she was born, so her ideas of what a mother should be were all pinned on Svetlana. She was beautiful, with alabaster skin and soft brown eyes, and she was kind. Vasily complained that she was too strict but when Anna whispered it to Papa, he said it was for the boy's own good and, in fact, a sound thrashing from time to time would keep him more in line, instead of roaming the streets with the trade unionist demonstrators and getting himself into trouble.

'No, thank you,' Anna replied politely to Svetlana. 'I prefer to sit here.'

'Don't worry, he won't be much longer, I'm certain,' Svetlana smiled gently. 'Not when he knows you're here.'

Anna nodded to please Svetlana, though she didn't believe a word of it. She knew too well how strongly the activity in the streets drew Vasily into its coils. On the other side of the window the lawns were covered in a crisp coating of fresh snow that glittered sharp and silent in the intermittent sunshine, as they tumbled away from the house like billowing white skirts all the way down to the lake. With her fingertip she made a tiny round s.p.a.ce in the mist on the gla.s.s, exactly like a bullet hole, and put her eye to it. The drive was still empty.

She couldn't ever remember a time in her life without Vasily's laughter and his teasing grey eyes, or his soft brown hair to cling to when he galloped her round the lawns on his back. But recently he had become more elusive and he was changing in ways that unnerved her. Even when he did sit quietly at home she could see his mind was rushing out into the streets. Turbulent Turbulent, he called them, and that just frightened her more. That's when she suggested she should go with him.

'Don't be silly, Anna,' he'd laughed and his laughter hurt. 'You'd be trampled to death. I don't want you to be harmed.'

'That's not fair, Vasily. I don't want you to get hurt or be trampled to death either.'

He laughed and shook his head, drawing himself up taller. She'd noticed he was growing so fast these days, he was leaving her far behind.

'Life's not fair,' he said.

'It should be.'

'That's the whole point.' He waved his arms around in exasperation. 'Can't you see, that's why we're all out demonstrating on the streets for a fairer society, risking . . .' He stopped the words before they came out. 'The government will be forced to listen to us.' The grey of his eyes swirled with as many shades as the sea up at Peterhof, and Anna wanted to dip a finger in it.

'Vasily,' she said impatiently, 'take me with you next time. Please, Vasily, I mean it.'

'You don't know what it's like out there, Annochka. However bad you're imagining it, it's far worse.' Slowly his eyes darkened, like the tide coming in. 'The government leaves us no choice but violence.' He took her hand between his own and chafed it hard. 'I don't want you hurt, Anna.'

And now she was stuck here gazing out of the window, wondering where he was. Don't die without me, Vasily Don't die without me, Vasily.

There was the swish of a troika troika, the jingle of its bells.

Before she'd even jumped off the window seat, the door swung open and in strode a tall youth with grey eyes that sparkled brighter than the chandeliers. A dusting of snow still lay on his brown hair as though reluctant to be swept away, and his cheeks glowed red from the wind. He brought a great swirl of vitality into the room, but instead of his usual immaculate jacket and trousers he was wearing what looked to Anna like horrible workman's clothes, brown and baggy and shapeless. A flat cap was twirling in his hand.

There was a bustle of kissing cheeks and shaking hands, then Vasily bowed very stylishly to Anna.

'Don't look so fierce, Anna,' he chided her. 'I know I promised to be here earlier but I was . . . distracted.' He laughed and tugged at a lock of her hair but she was not ready to forgive him yet.

'I thought you'd had your head cut off,' she said accusingly and turned her back on him, just in time to catch Papa giving Grigori an amused wink.

She flounced over to the chaise longue where Svetlana was sitting, elegant in a dove-grey costume, the sleeves trimmed with smoky fur at the cuffs like bracelets. Anna inhaled the wonderful scent of her and glared at the three men.

Vasily came over and knelt before her on the Persian rug. 'Annochka,' his voice was low and it made her scalp tingle, 'please forgive me for being late.'

'Vasily, I was so . . .' but before the words scared for you scared for you rushed out of her mouth, something in her sensed he would not welcome her fears, so she changed it just in time, '. . . so tired of waiting. To dance.' She kissed his cheek. It smelled of tobacco. 'I want you to dance with me.' rushed out of her mouth, something in her sensed he would not welcome her fears, so she changed it just in time, '. . . so tired of waiting. To dance.' She kissed his cheek. It smelled of tobacco. 'I want you to dance with me.'

With another elegant bow that made her heart thump, Vasily swept her up into his arms and twirled her round and round, so that her dress billowed out like a balloon.

'Mama,' he called, 'let's have some music for our ballerina. '

'Let me,' Grigori offered, moving over to the grand piano at the other end of the room. 'Here, how's this?' With a flourish he struck up a lilting piece.

'Ah, a Chopin waltz,' Svetlana sighed with pleasure and rose to her feet, as graceful as the swans on the lake. 'Doktor Nikolai, will you do me the honour?' Nikolai, will you do me the honour?'

'Enchanted,' Papa responded courteously and took her in his arms.

They danced round the room. Outside, the world was cold and growing colder each moment, but inside this room the air was warm and bathed in laughter. Smiling down at her, Vasily held Anna tightly by the waist so that as she twirled in circles her cheek rubbed against the rough serge of his jacket. Every bone in her body was transfixed with joy. She blocked out all thoughts of workers and demonstrators and sabres. Vasily was wrong, she was certain. This world would last for ever.

A knock. The drawing-room door burst open and Maria entered, followed by a maid in black uniform and white lace cap who bobbed a curtsy. Maria's voice was tight and pained.

'Excuse me, madam, but there's been an accident.'

All dancing ceased. The music stopped mid-phrase. Anna felt a shiver of shock in the air.

'What kind of accident?' Grigori Dyuzheyev asked at once.

'There's been trouble, sir,' Maria said. 'Down by the orchard. The head gardener is hurt. A bayonet wound, they say, a bad one.' She was punctuating each sentence with little gasps. 'By a troop of Bolsheviks. I thought Doktor Doktor Fedorin might be able to help.' Fedorin might be able to help.'

Instantly Papa was all business.

'I'm coming right away. I'll just fetch my medical bag from the car.' He was rushing to the door. 'Tell someone to bring clean water, Svetlana,' he called over his shoulder and was gone.

Svetlana hurried from the room. Grigori and Maria followed. Vasily was still holding Anna in his arms and she could feel the rapid pumping of his heart.

'Well, my little friend, it looks like it's just you and me. Let's have one last dance,' he said, his eyes serious. 'There won't be any more dancing after today, Anna.'

He started to twirl her round the room again, even though the music had stopped and there were voices shouting outside. He kissed her on the forehead and she inhaled quickly to capture the scent of him. A single shot rang out. A scream outside. Instantly Vasily was pushing her to the floor and bundling her underneath the chaise longue. She could smell old horsehair and the acid tang of her own fear.

'No, Vasily,' she whispered.

'Yes, Anna. Lie still. You must stay here. Do you hear me?' He was on his knees, leaning sideways to peer into the low gap between the floor and the seat. The lines of his face had changed, sharper now and suddenly older than his fourteen years. 'Whatever happens, Anna, don't come out. Stay here.' He took her hand, kissed a fingertip, and was gone.

But she had no intention of being packed away like a china doll and immediately started to back out from under the chaise longue. She scurried across the floor on her hands and knees, feet catching in her hem, to the window, where she placed her hands flat on the icy pane, nose pressed beside them, looking out. Why was there a pool of cranberry juice in the snow? As though someone's cold fingers had dropped a jar of it. But next to the pool lay Grigori Dyuzheyev. He looked asleep.

28.

Tivil July 1933

'Rafik.'

Sofia leaned closer. The gypsy's answering murmur was faint. His slight figure lay unmoving under the bedcover, a fragile disturbance of the gaily coloured patchwork. At times his eyes seemed to glaze over as they stared up at the ceiling with its moons and planets and its all-seeing eye. The black of his pupils had changed to dull ash-grey.

'Rafik.'

Gently she took his hand in hers. She couldn't understand exactly what had happened to make him so ill, and Zenia was no help. When Sofia asked what the problem was, the gypsy girl averted her eyes, looking suddenly younger, and said, 'You must ask Rafik.' But he was in no state to answer anything. Though his hand was small and narrow-boned in hers, it felt unexpectedly heavy and possessed a heat that seemed to come from deeper than just skin and muscle. She ran a finger over its knotted veins, willing them to keep flowing.

'Rafik, my friend, you don't look so good. Can I give you more . . .?' She waved a hand at the murky bottle beside the bed. She hesitated to call it medicine.

Zenia had left the strange-smelling liquid for him before going to work for the day, with strict instructions for a mouthful to be taken every few hours, more if his head pain worsened. But Rafik had sent Sofia to the Dagorsk apteka apteka specifically to fetch something stronger. The pain must be bad. Sofia feared for him as she spooned the white powder on to his tongue. When he closed his eyes his lips continued to move silently, as though his dreams were too powerful to ignore. specifically to fetch something stronger. The pain must be bad. Sofia feared for him as she spooned the white powder on to his tongue. When he closed his eyes his lips continued to move silently, as though his dreams were too powerful to ignore.

She leaned so close her hair brushed his. 'Stay,' she whispered. 'Stay with me.'

A heavy knock on the front door made her jump. She told herself it was most likely some villager seeking Rafik's help with a horse, but when she opened it she was surprised to find the broad figure of the blacksmith on the threshold.

'May I come in, Comrade Morozova?' he said without preamble. 'I want to speak with you.'

She suddenly remembered the axe, the one she'd stolen. Was that what this was about? She watched his eyes. That's where she knew how to spot danger. But no, the blacksmith's were solemn, no threatening ripple disturbing their dark surface. She stepped back and allowed the big man to enter.

His collarless shirt was undone at the neck, revealing thick corded muscles. He was still clad in his leather ap.r.o.n that smelled of grease, but his manner was polite and his voice soft. It was as if he knew his shaven head and ma.s.sive size were intimidating enough without needing to add to it. The carefully trimmed spade of a beard revealed a touch of vanity that sat oddly with him, and she wondered if there was some woman in his life he was aiming to please.

'So, Comrade Pokrovsky,' Sofia said, 'what can I do for you?'

His brown eyes narrowed as they studied her. 'I've come with an offer for you.'

'An offer? What kind of offer?'

'A job.'

'You're offering me a job?'

'Yes. Zenia told me you were looking for one. Is that right?'

'Yes.'

'Then I'm here to offer you one.'

'I'm not at my best with a hammer and bellows,' she said with a smile.

He frowned, then opened his mouth wide and roared with laughter. The sound almost took her head off. 'Not in the forge. In the school.'