Andrew Williams - To Kill a Tsar

Hadfield jumped down and kissed her on both cheeks. Then pulling off a glove, he gently wiped the flakes from her eyebrows with his thumb. ‘I thought skating and then dinner?’

‘Let’s just eat.’

‘Fine. Hey, Vanka — Baskov Street.’

The driver — a bear of a man in his thick furs — nodded sullenly, showed the whip to his horse, and a moment later they were gliding along Nevsky. Hadfield reached for her hand and gave it an affectionate squeeze. ‘I’ve missed you.’

‘But we only saw each other two days ago.’

‘Yes. But I missed you.’ He was a little aggrieved. ‘Haven’t you missed me?’

She laughed and shook her hand free, pulling the fur rug to her chin: ‘It’s going to snow like this for days.’

The restaurant was a simple whitewashed cellar a short distance from the Preobrazhensky barracks, and a number of the regiment’s officers were drinking and bantering noisily at its tables.

‘Are you comfortable here?’ Hadfield whispered as he helped her with her coat.

‘Yes, this is all right.’

They were shown, at his insistence, to a discreet table in a corner where Anna sat with her back to the rest of the restaurant. The waiter took their order and brought a bottle of rustic wine Hadfield declared to be undrinkable.

‘We must have something better,’ he said, clicking his fingers for service. He was on edge, fiddling with his napkin, the cutlery, the stem of his glass, smoothing his hair with the palm of his hand.

‘What is it?’ she asked, leaning forward.

He looked up and, catching her eye, gave her a weak smile. ‘I have acquired two new patients.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Your…’ he paused to let a waiter sweep past, ‘your comrades called upon me again. The unfortunate Valentin has injured his hand in an explosion.’

‘Is he all right?’ she asked mechanically; she barely knew the man.

‘He’ll have to learn to write with his left. But,’ he looked at her sternly, ‘I don’t want you or your Alexander Mikhailov or any of your other “friends” to think they can call on my services.’

‘What do you mean? Isn’t it your job to help the sick?’

‘Yes. But I don’t want to be drawn into your conspiracies. The explosives laboratory, the informer murdered at the clinic…’

‘Executed.’

‘So you knew about that.’

‘Keep your voice down!’ she hissed. ‘This is not the place to talk.’

‘No one can hear us.’ He tried to reach across the table for her hand but she drew it away.

‘You’re afraid,’ she said contemptuously.

‘No. That’s not true. I don’t believe killing anyone will change things for the better in this country. And—’

He stopped abruptly as the waiter approached with their Shchi and bread. As the soup was served, Anna was conscious of him trying to make eye contact and of his foot reaching for hers beneath the table. But she was boiling inside. Did he think so little of her? She had taken a solemn pledge to dedicate her life to the people. After a few seconds she picked up her spoon then banged it down again: ‘I must go.’

‘Why?’

‘I must go.’

‘Not until you explain why. I’m not going to let you just run away.’

‘I can’t explain.’

‘Try.’

‘Because our struggle means more to me than you do.’

There, she had said it. Why had he pushed her? He flushed as if slapped in the face, took a deep breath and lifted his eyes to the ceiling for a moment. Then, drawing the napkin from his lap, he screwed it into a tight ball and dumped it on the table. ‘You don’t have to choose,’ he said at last. ‘Look, you’re right, we can’t talk here.’ And he waved the waiter across.

But it was still snowing hard outside and Anna could tell from his expression that he was no more enthusiastic than she was about the prospect of wandering the streets.

‘Come to my apartment,’ he said.

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

They did not speak and the silence was broken only by the steady crunch of their footsteps in the snow. Anna gazed with envy into the bright halls of the mansions they passed and at the chinks of light between their drawing-room curtains, the tantalising suggestion of warmth and refuge from the street. Why had it become a battle? She knew she was being unreasonable and she was sorry, but her feelings frightened her.

As luck would have it, there was a droshky waiting at the district gendarmerie.

‘Stay here, I’ll call him over,’ said Hadfield.

‘You take it. I can’t afford it anyway.’

‘For God’s sake!’ he said, exasperated. ‘If it makes you happy, we can both use him.’

‘Where shall I tell the driver to take you?’ he asked when they were sitting in the cab. She hesitated, reluctant to commit herself, and Hadfield took her silence for lack of trust.

‘I don’t mean your address, just where you want to be left,’ he said irritably.

‘No, no, I wasn’t trying to — oh, anywhere. The Tsarskoe Selo Station,’ she said, flustered.

He leant forward to give instructions to the driver, but before he could speak, she clutched his hand and gave it a tight squeeze. And he turned to look at her with a smile.

‘Well? Where to?’ the driver demanded bad-temperedly.

‘The Church of St Boris and St Gleb.’

Later, as they lay together on the mattress, his knee between her thighs, his chest warm to hers, rising and falling almost together, she wondered how she would find the strength to turn him away when the time came. Was it a mistake to have shared this intimacy, to have sought and accepted love? She watched him dozing, his auburn hair tousled about his face.

He stirred, opened his eyes and, after gazing into hers for a few seconds, he leant forward to kiss her tenderly. ‘There’s something I must tell you,’ he whispered.

‘Please. Let’s just be happy.’

He smiled and raised his hand to her brow, smoothing away the deep crease between her eyes with his thumb.

‘Do you remember in the restaurant that I said I had two new patients? I must tell you of the other one.’

A letter had been delivered to the hospital from a man called Dobrshinsky who wanted to consult him on a medical matter and requested a visit at home.

‘I was suspicious and contacted my newspaper friend, Dobson. It seems this man is a special investigator at the Third Section.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me sooner?’ Anna exclaimed, raising herself to her elbow.

He rolled on his back and looked up at her with a wry smile. ‘We didn’t get further than Patient Number One, if you remember. And what difference does it make?’

‘What difference? He’ll ask you about me and the party,’ she said crossly.

‘Yes. And I’ll lie.’ He tried to pull her down but she wriggled free.

‘What will you say?’

The story he told to Major Barclay of their meeting at the clinic, he said, his respect for her work as a nurse and his shock when he heard she was a terrorist. ‘Please stop worrying. I’m a respectable member of the medical bourgeoisie. The cream of Russian society is happy to place its life in my hands.’

‘I don’t think you should go. He could arrest you.’ She was tense, but tried to smile.

‘He wouldn’t invite me to his home if he was going to do that.’ He paused and reached up for her again: ‘Come here.’

And this time she let him pull her down. And he kissed her, tenderly at first and then more fiercely, his hands kneading her back and buttocks until, breathless with excitement, he entered her again. And when they had both reached a climax and lay still in each others arms, he whispered, ‘I love you.’

‘You will be careful, won’t you?’ she said.