Lauren Chater - Lace Weaver

Inside the warm fug of the cinema, Joachim’s hands were busy as soon as the lights dimmed. I felt his fingers caress my neck, his mouth moving to cover mine. He tasted of cinnamon pastry and cigarettes. I tried my best to kiss him with matching fervour, although the arm of the seat dug into my leg and my back ached from being twisted about. Relax , I scolded. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? To be ordinary. Not a princess locked in a tower. A normal girl with normal desires and dreams.

On the screen, Greta Garbo lifted a hand to her heavily pencilled brow, her mouth an O of pain. ‘I have grown up in a great man’s shadow,’ she cried. ‘I long to escape my destiny!’

I stiffened. Although the film marched on, the words lodged inside my brain.

Joachim pulled away. He was breathing heavily. I felt my cheeks burn and was glad of the darkness. ‘Lida?’ he whispered. ‘What’s wrong?’ A loose spiral of my hair had escaped its pins. He tucked it back, his fingers lingering on my earlobe.

I tried to answer but my mouth was dry. What was wrong with me? Greta Garbo continued to agonise as Queen Christina, the seventeenth-century monarch of Sweden. The movie was a re-run; the first time we saw it we had laughed about it, Joachim joking that he was the lovesick peasant and I the rebellious princess who conspired to change her fate. Yet today the words seemed laden with special meaning. Perhaps I was simply unprepared for the way our relationship had moved so quickly into the physical realm. Meeting for conversation and coffee seemed far less dangerous than what we were doing now. Kissing boys in the back of a theatre was not the sort of arrangement made by daughters of the elite.

Breathing deeply, I shook my head. ‘Nothing.’ I was angry with myself for spoiling my few brief hours of freedom. Soon enough, the lights would come up and life would return to its usual monotony. I would take the tram back to the apartment, Kirvenko trundling behind. Olga would, of course, be waiting. Sometimes I would be allowed to visit our cook Zoya in the kitchen while she prepared our meals, listening while she prattled on about those who had been recently arrested for being enemies of the people or encouraging anti-Soviet sentiments.

‘They are parasites!’ she would cry as her fists pummelled the dough for our bread. ‘They should be burned alive for their wicked deeds!’

I would nod and sip my tea, waiting for her to grow bored and perhaps tell me instead about what life was like outside my sheltered existence, about the things she had done and seen before she came to live with us. Everyone agreed that anti-Communists should be punished. At least there were fewer arrests these days. Five years ago, it had not been surprising for me to come home from school to find our neighbours gone, taken off for questioning. Although everyone expressed surprise and shock, there was no question that they deserved whatever fate awaited them. There were occasional mix-ups, of course; that was unavoidable when so many dangerous elements were conspiring to ensure the downfall of Communism. Sometimes even Uncle and his advisors could not unravel the complex plots being woven around us. But there was no disputing that anyone truly innocent need be worried; the NKVD did not make mistakes, as my uncle often said himself.

At dinnertime, Olga would coordinate supper and help Zoya bring out the slices of thick bread and soft cheese, caviar and pickled herrings swimming in oil. At night, she would tuck me into bed, a glass of warm kakavella – cocoa beans roasted with milk – clutched in her hand and a story on her lips, just as she had when I was a child.

Shaking off caution, I leaned forward and pressed my lips against Joachim’s mouth. I felt his breath catch with surprise before he responded, his hands moving hesitantly up my stomach to cup my breasts. A thrill arced up my body, electrifying my limbs. I was not some captive; I was in charge of my own destiny.

The lobby was warm and bright when we at last emerged. I knew my cheeks were flushed. I wanted to splash water on my face but Joachim’s arm was around my shoulders, heavy and languid. He was wearing a smile and kept shooting puzzled glances my way, as if he was surprised to find it was me he had spent the past hour kissing, not someone else.

‘What’s the matter?’ I said as we strolled towards the exit.

‘Nothing.’ He paused near the door, forcing me to stop too, and bent forward to nuzzle my ear. A long art-deco mirror, speckled with age, hung over a potted plant near the doors. I caught a glimpse of my reflection; thick strands of dark ginger hair coming loose. A slim face with a strong jawline which angled down to terminate on a decidedly pointed chin. My freckles stood out vividly; a constellation of tiny marks swirling across cheeks made crimson by our activities inside the cinema.

I looked wild and dishevelled. Even my eyes had a shifty look, the pupils dilated to pinpricks so the rich blue of them seemed to dominate, lids half-lowered beneath eyebrows the colour of strong tea.

Joachim’s warm mouth tickled my skin. I pushed him gently, angling my body so he had no choice but to move away.

‘We should be more careful,’ I told him. Other patrons pushed past us, eager to reach the tram stop before the next service arrived.

‘Why?’ He shrugged a shoulder. ‘Your uncle knows.’

‘What?’ I whirled to face him. ‘What did you say?’

‘Don’t worry. I think he got the message.’ Joachim smirked. He tried to catch my hand but it eluded his grasp, as slippery as a fish.

‘What do you mean, he knows? Did you speak to him?’ My voice had risen. I could feel people staring at us. Pulling him roughly by the shoulder, I dragged him outside. It was warm on the boulevard. The sun peeped through the cinema’s curled iron awning, casting lace shadows upon the road.

Joachim put up his hands. ‘Listen. Calm down.’ He straightened his jacket, smoothing out the rumples where I had grasped his sleeve. ‘You’re overreacting. I didn’t speak to your uncle but I took a call from a Colonel Rumyanstev. Last week.’

I tried to swallow but couldn’t. Colonel Rumyanstev was the second in command of my uncle’s security detail. I had met him once at a dinner and could still recall the way his small eyes roved about the room, never resting, even as he chatted with my uncle about politics in the Baltics and the backlash against the revolting kulaks in Belarus.

‘They cannot keep fighting us forever.’ Ice had clinked in his glass as he swallowed. ‘We know they are hoarding grain and meat for the winter. Some of them have started circulating pamphlets to encourage resistance. It’s time to shut down the black markets permanently. Even the flea markets. Nothing can be spared. Wool, grain, timber. Everyone must sacrifice, for the greater good. Look at this. There’s more ice in this glass than spirits. You see? We too must be prepared to set an example and forgo.’

A tram going the other direction dinged to a halt not far away. I wanted to push Joachim onto it and tell him to run, to jump aboard and ride it all the way to the end of the line. But I had to know what had happened. ‘What did he say?’

‘He told me the security detail knows everything; they’ve been tracking us for weeks. He said I was to leave Moscow. Immediately.’ Joachim rolled his eyes. ‘I asked him if he knew my father. He said he did.’

‘And then?’

Joachim folded his arms. ‘Then, nothing. I’m still here, aren’t I?’

‘But you won’t stay here.’ I raised my thumb to my mouth, tearing wildly at the nail, ignoring the sharp sting as my teeth raked the nail bed. ‘You’ll ask your father to send you somewhere. Anywhere. Didn’t you say he has friends in Hollywood?’