Ian Hocking - The Amber Rooms

‘What about the inquest?’

‘There we are lucky. Our foremost investigating magistrate was an unsuccessful suitor to my sister. During their courtship, we became fast friends. If he is assigned the case, which all but certain, I will ask him to give me leave to collect evidence. I will tell him that it would be better for the family, and for Lidka, if I were to make some initial investigations.’

‘You have done excellently, Pasha.’ Saskia watched her feet. Her plum-coloured skirt seemed to wash over the pink pavement. ‘For my part, I’m so tired I can’t think straight. Are you sure you wish to help me?’

‘It is not revenge,’ he said, and the boyish haste in his voice made Saskia smile inwardly. ‘My father and I agreed on little. Reading his diary, I see we agreed on even less than that. I do not hold with these Marxist or anarchist ideas, and I consider it my duty to prevent these monies being spent on revolutionary activities. The sum is mentioned by my father in his diary: 250,000 roubles hidden in the base of the Frederick the Great model in the Amber Room, which is now missing. They have stolen a sum greater than the annual salary of the Tsar.’

They continued in silence until someone in the dispersed crowd began a hearty recitation of Pushkin’s poem “Thoughts”. As though this was something he did not wish Saskia to hear, Pasha said, ‘How did you know my sister’s date of birth?’

‘A little bird told me.’

‘Well, thank goodness for little birds.’

‘Yes,’ said Saskia. ‘Thank goodness.’

Ego fluttered against her chest, Morsing: You are welcome .

The man reached the line in poem, “And where will fate send death to me? / In battle, in my travels, or on the seas?” before he faltered, and stopped with a laugh, accepting the backslaps of his companions with the modesty of the quietly victorious. Saskia nodded. As one of her last memories of St Petersburg, it would do well.

Some hours later, wrapped in the luxury of the Grand, Saskia twisted in her bed. She could feel the silk sheets but also a breeze. She knew her eyes were shut but she could see the growing brightness of a shore and, beyond, a forest of birch. She could not move but her feet took her on a line parallel to the wood. Its interior was impenetrable. In this dream, despite its lucid nature, she could not command her vision to improve.

Here I am again , she thought. Saskia Beta can communicate with Ute, too. Even the way the bark peels on the birch trees is the same. But no sparrows, this time.

Saskia came across a girl building a sand castle. The girl was no more than twelve years and dressed for the beach: a black swimsuit with baggy blue shorts on top. She had a yellow, plastic spade and ignored Saskia as she put the last touches to the sand castle. It was a moated hummock with crude crenellations around the peak. Saskia smiled as she watched. The girl was recognisable as herself—that is, the body she saw in mirrors—and this scene had the pleasing nostalgia of a memory. They might have been on one of the islands to the north of Germany.

‘I like your castle, little heart,’ said Saskia.

Ute looked up. The concentration on her face lingered for a moment. Then the inevitable fear swept across her. She jumped onto the castle and balanced on it, holding the spade like a sword.

‘You can’t get me here.’

‘I don’t want to get you,’ Saskia replied. She raised her palms.

‘No,’ said Ute. She screwed her eyes shut. ‘No spells.’

Saskia frowned and looked at her hands. From her own perspective, they were identical to the hands she saw while awake, if a trifle pale and with longer nails.

‘What do you see, little heart?’

Ute did not open her eyes. Wobbling, she said, ‘What I always see. A witch. Except …’

Saskia spoke with a quiet voice. ‘Except?’

‘Today, you don’t have your awful cat.’

‘Which cat?’

Ute opened one eye. ‘Ego, you call him. Sometimes he sits on top of your moving house and says unpleasant things to me.’ She opened both eyes. ‘Where is your house?’

‘Tell me about my house.’

Ute lowered the spade and cocked her head at Saskia. She was the picture of suspicion. ‘Why should I need to? It’s your house. And an ugly house to boot.’

‘Ute, I want you to listen to me,’ said Saskia. She tried to invest as much kindness and beauty in her voice as she could. ‘Today, I’m different. The person who sometimes visits you looking like me … that person is gone.’

The girl dropped to a crouch. She hugged her knees. ‘Is this a trick? Are you going to hurt me again?’

‘No, little heart.’

Ute seemed to consider this. ‘I understand that some things can look the same on top but be different underneath. I’m not stupid.’

Saskia smiled. ‘Of course not.’

‘Your house has chicken legs and walks behind you. Some nights I hear it walking through the forest of birch.’

Baba Yaga , Saskia thought. The witch of Slavic and German mythology.

‘How long have you been building that sand castle?’

Ute shrugged and looked away to the horizon. There was weariness beyond twelve years. ‘It seems like forever.’

‘I like to pass the time with stories,’ Saskia said, sitting down cross-legged. ‘Why don’t you tell me one?’

‘I can’t,’ Ute said in a despondent tone. ‘I don’t know anything. I couldn’t tell you what’s in the forest or in the sea. Sometimes, I feel like this is the first time I’ve been here. But, other times, it seems like—’

‘Forever.’

‘Yeah.’

Saskia let a moment pass by. They looked at the waves. She was certain they would never retreat or encroach. This shore was tideless. The castle was safe.

‘Why don’t you tell me about your dreams?’

‘They’re boring. They’re always the same.’

‘The same how?’

‘I always dream I’m the same person,’ said Ute, clenching and unclenching her toes in the sand. ‘In the dreams, I’m sad.’

Saskia felt a sparkle of grief in her throat. She tried to swallow it down but soon her breaths were juddering. Tears collected in her eyes. She looked at Ute and opened her arms. The girl hesitated, but curiosity seemed to beat fear. She stepped from her castle and sat in Saskia’s lap so that they both faced the sea. Saskia put her arms around her.

‘I need to look at the sea,’ said Ute. ‘It’s easier than looking at you.’

Saskia coughed. Then she said, ‘I understand.’

‘So you’re different on the inside but not on the outside?’

‘Yes. Tell me about Saskia.’

‘Who?’

‘Your dreams, little heart. Who do you play in your dreams?’

‘I’m a spy, I think, or something like that. I do dangerous things for them.’

‘Who?’

‘Meta.’

Saskia frowned at the word. ‘Meta?’

‘Meta,’ said Ute. ‘M. E. T. A. They want me to travel in time and I do. I have a helper who whispers in my ear.’ Ute laughed. ‘And I can speak to foreigners! And I climb things, jump over things, and …’

Saskia loosened her hug. When she turned to look at Ute’s face, she saw shock.

‘And what, little heart?’

‘Kill people,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m not a nice person. Please, whoever you are, I don’t want to talk about my dreams any more. How long can you stay?’

Saskia dropped her chin to Ute’s shoulder and closed her eyes.

‘Until the tide washes us away, little heart.’

Saskia had never believed she would leave St Petersburg in so archaic a device as a steam locomotive. She had longed for the Amber Room to be her rescue. Yet here she sat, at a private table in one of the more comfortable cars, watching the retreat of the busy platform while Pasha handled the last of their arrangements. She wore a genuine Countess Ludmilla Nakhimov dress, which was a gift made at the insistence of Pasha’s sister. The layered honey silks made a cumbersome ensemble. The hat was a particular burden. The skirt was also a trifle short. She had, however, moved with some satisfaction through the Petersburgers and tourists in the baroque foyer of the Grand, regal as a swan at dusk.