Andrew Williams - To Kill a Tsar

He knocked sharply, stamping impatiently and blowing on his fingers. The door was opened by an old lady in a shapeless bundle of shawls and blankets, her brown wrinkled face tightly framed by a scarf. She said something to Vasili in a low voice then stepped back to let them pass into the dark hall. But the boy shook his head and turned quickly away, breaking into a heavy-footed trot along the street. Hadfield followed the old woman down the dark hall and slowly up two flights of stairs to a door on the right of the landing. Opening it, she led him through another series of interconnecting rooms with families living cheek by jowl, huddled about a table or a smoking stove. He felt as if he was in a peculiarly Russian dream, required to wander from room to dark corridor to room in search of Anna. Finally, the old lady swept back a curtain and he saw her sitting at a table with her head resting on her arms. Roused by the rattle of the curtain, she rose quickly with a smile:

‘You came.’

‘Yes.’ His voice sounded hoarse.

‘I’m glad.’

She was wearing a white blouse and navy blue skirt, a woollen shawl pulled tightly about her shoulders and upper arms.

‘You had no trouble on the way?’

‘No. No difficulty.’

They stood in awkward silence. He was conscious of the old lady beside him and of others within earshot, a shadow across a curtain, a whispered conversation, suppressed laughter.

‘Would you like some tea?’

‘Yes. Please.’

Anna spoke to the babushka in Ukrainian and she hobbled to the corner of the room and pulled back a drape. He caught a glimpse of two girls bent self-consciously over their sewing before the drape fell back into place.

‘Is it safe for you here?’

Her eyes twinkled in the candlelight: ‘As safe as it is anywhere.’

‘You must go away. I can help you.’

‘Let’s not talk of it.’

‘Switzerland…’

‘Please.’ Her dark eyebrows were knotted in a frown. What was she thinking? Hadfield tried to catch and hold her gaze but it flicked to his face and away. She would not look him in the eye. The old lady came back with the tea, placed it on the table between them then left.

‘I’m sorry I couldn’t meet you at the library.’

‘Why do you want to see me?’

She glanced up at him reproachfully. It was enough for him to find some courage. Still she refused to look him in the eye, but she smiled as he reached a trembling hand to her face. He heard her breath quicken as he caressed her hair, his hand slipping to the nape of her neck. She took his other hand and squeezed it gently. Then she reached up to remove an ebony clip and shook her hair loose over her shoulders. She lifted her face, her eyes half closed, her lips parted, and he kissed her. Breathless, they broke apart. He folded his arms around her slight shoulders. She was scented like an evening rose.

‘Anna, I want you to…’

‘Shhhh.’ She lifted a finger to his lips. Then she picked the candle from the table and, taking his hand, led him across the room to an open doorway.

It was no more than a cubicle, a flimsy partition from the rest of the room with a single mattress on the floor and a stool. She bent to place the candle on the stool and he put his arms about her, even as she rose and turned to face him. They kissed, harder this time, and when they separated he could not help a groan of longing and joy and fullness. But again she pressed her forefinger to his lips: ‘Shhhh. They will hear.’

Then she turned her back on him and began to undress. Conscious that he was watching her, she leant across to the stool and blew out the candle: ‘Please.’

There was a quiet intensity to their lovemaking. He knew Anna was no innocent but he was surprised by her confidence and sensuality. Her lips and hands roamed freely and firmly about his body and, as she stooped to kiss him, the intoxicating scent of her hair fell about his face. He was lost inside her, consumed, without reason, conscious of nothing but the fierce heat of her body and her hands on his chest urging him on until she came with a breathless whimper.

Later, he could not sleep. He lay with her small frame against his, her white shoulders just visible above the blanket, the dull weight of her head on his arm. He listened to the calm rhythm of her breathing, rising and falling like waves on a distant shore. He felt a stillness in her arms he had never felt before. He felt a tenderness he had never felt for anyone before. And he tried to push thoughts of morning away.

They made love again. He was careless they were without the dignity of privacy, losing himself in her once more. But he was conscious there was something of her that was separate, elusive, a part of her she did not want to surrender. Perhaps that was why he had to tell her he loved her. She smiled and leant forward to kiss him and stroke his face.

They talked in whispers, her breath on his cheek. She was living in the city with her comrades, she said, but she would not say where. She was not afraid of what would happen, their work was too important: Russia must change, it would change. He told her of his visit to Alexandrovskaya. She was cross with him, the deep frown returning to her brow.

‘Why did you go?’

He reassured her that he had said nothing and the police knew nothing. ‘Don’t you trust me?’

‘Don’t be silly.’

A little before sunrise, Anna told him he should go. He picked up his clothes from the floor and dressed, then bent to kiss her, naked still beneath the rough blankets. And he could not help lying beside her again.

‘Will you come away with me?’

Her face was grey with exhaustion in the first light of morning. She smiled but did not open her eyes.

‘When will I see you again?’

‘I will contact you.’

‘Can I contact you?’

‘No. It isn’t safe.’ She opened her ice-blue eyes and fixed him with a determined look: ‘Promise me you won’t try?’

‘I promise.’

And she leant forward to kiss him, her fingers brushing his cheek. ‘Now you must go.’

The boy Vasili was waiting to lead him to the stairs and into the street. They walked in silence. This is not me, he said to himself, not me. I am not here. He could feel her warmth still, smell his sex upon her skin, hear the words she whispered to him, see the comfort of her smile. But then Vasili spoke to him and held out his hand for money. And suddenly he was tied to the morning, to the here and now, to the empty square before him, to the shell of St Boris and St Gleb, left to find his own way back.

‘Did I mention the lodger downstairs, Alexander Dmitrievich? The milliner? A spy. I’m sure of it.’

Mikhailov nodded indulgently. ‘Yes, you did speak of her. We must all be careful, my dear fellow, especially when our cause is close to success. Now sit here beside me and tell me the news from the ministry.’

But Councillor Ivan Tarakanov was too agitated to sit for even a second, pacing his drawing room as if he was intent on wearing a hole in his expensive Persian rug.

‘I don’t know how you can talk of success. The papers are full of the arrest of Kviatkovsky.’

‘Yes. A great pity,’ said Mikhailov, running a hand through his hair in exasperation. ‘But The People’s Will has not been idle. You will see.’

‘Yes, but I…’

There was a sharp knock at the door, and the old man began prancing with anxiety and self-pity.

‘Calm yourself, calm yourself,’ said Mikhailov, rising from the divan. ‘It’s our friend.’

‘No — you must hide! Please,’ Tarakanov stammered. ‘It may be the police.’

Mikhailov shrugged. ‘Yes, of course.’ But as soon as the councillor left the room he settled back on the couch and reached across the table for the glass of claret his host had reluctantly poured for him. A moment later, Tarakanov was back with the new arrival at his heels.