Jasper Kent - Thirteen Years Later

Dmitry had chosen to stay a while longer at Ryleev’s, but Aleksei thought it was best that he himself returned home. It had been an excuse to visit the leaders of the Society first – he had simply been shying away from the encounter with his wife. The fact that Dmitry now knew about him and Domnikiia didn’t change anything – not with regard to Marfa. Aleksei felt certain Dmitry hadn’t and wouldn’t tell her. He could have asked him about it on their journey home, but he was always a coward when it came to things like that. Even so, he felt confident his son would keep his secret. How would it help to let Marfa know?

Aleksei’s apprehension about seeing his wife after over two months was not related to his infidelity, but to hers. He had only just discovered the existence of Vasiliy – Vasya – before his departure. Now he had had time to consider it. Many men were hypocrites. They were happy to screw their own mistresses, but appalled at the idea that someone else might be doing the very same thing to their wives. In fact – as with most hypocrisies – there was a logic to it, deep, deep down. Men did not care so much that their wives had lovers as they feared other men might discover the fact. They did not fear the discovery of their own infidelity – most would admire them for it; most men at least.

Did Aleksei not fear such a discovery? Not greatly – not for himself. He had been so many things in his life – a Jacobin to the French, a Bulgarian to the Turks, a rebel to the revolutionaries – that he had almost completely managed to fortify himself against any consideration of the ill the world in general might think of him. There were four people on the planet whose good opinion he cherished, positioned with an obvious symmetry; two companions, two children: Marfa, Dmitry, Domnikiia, Tamara. There were a few others whose estimation he valued: Yelena Vadimovna, perhaps; Dr Wylie – he was too recent an acquaintance to judge; Tsar Aleksandr – undoubtedly, but the good opinion of the dead was worth little.

He stopped briefly in the street and uttered a single, abrupt laugh, causing a number of his fellow pedestrians on the Nevsky Prospekt to look. Aleksandr was not dead. He had managed, however momentarily, to fool himself. It was a good sign; if he believed it, how many others might? He smiled. The most important thing was that Iuda and Zmyeevich believed it. He cared little for Zmyeevich, but it dawned on him how much pride he felt to have fooled Iuda – Iuda, who had so often played him for the fool. It was a shame Iuda could never know.

Aleksei began walking again, through the snow. It was dark now, as it was for the vast majority of the day in Petersburg at this time of year. He was still a few blocks from home, and he returned his thoughts to the matter of his – and Marfa’s – reputation. If he admitted that he desired the high opinion of the dead then the list grew longer. Maks and Vadim were both men whose low esteem of him would have shattered Aleksei. Dmitry Fetyukovich? – No, not in the end. Perhaps it was those early deaths, of two people who had truly mattered to Aleksei, that explained why he was so selective now in whom he gave a damn about. Or perhaps he had simply been thick-skinned since he was a boy, and that was what made him someone who could survive as a liar, a cheat and a spy.

But the fact that he did not care for his own reputation did not mean he had no concern for that of his wife, or his son. The revelation of Marfa’s infidelity would do infinitely more harm to her standing in Petersburg than it would to Aleksei’s. Even Dmitry risked becoming a laughing stock if his comrades discovered such a story about his mother. But that was not a reason to chastise Marfa for her behaviour – simply one to help her keep it secret.

Ultimately, Aleksei felt relieved. He and Marfa were on an equal level once again. He could not object to her having a lover when he had one – even if she had been unaware of the symmetry. Now at last, they could again be the friends they had once been. The passion – mostly – was long past, but now Aleksei did not need to feel guilty about it. She had her own recourse for passion, as did he. There was no need for Marfa and him to discuss it, but nevertheless his attitude could change. She did not know his secret, and never needed to be aware that he knew hers. And yet he was afraid that the moment she saw him, she would read the whole thing on his face.

He had arrived at their home. He let himself in and went up to the salon. There was no one there. There was no light in any of the rooms. He climbed the stairs to the second floor. There he could see a light emerging under her dressing-room door. It was not yet seven o’clock, so she would not be preparing for bed. More likely she was getting ready to go out – or to receive a guest.

He knocked softly on the door, but there was no reply. He turned the handle and went in. The dressing room was empty. On the other side, the door to their bedroom was ajar. He walked over to it. Through the gap, he glimpsed the mirror, and in it, the image of pink, amorphous flesh, writhing in shared pleasure.

Aleksei took a rapid step back and pressed himself against the wall. He couldn’t help but grin. He’d come to terms with his wife’s infidelity, but it was a cruel God who immediately presented him with the fact of it in all its wanton glory.

He listened – he would only stay for a moment, or two. Even though Marfa articulated no specific words, her tone was unmistakable in her halting, voiced breaths and short, eager sighs. Her partner was quieter. Aleksei heard the low murmur of a male voice, to which the instant response came, ‘Da, Vasya! Da!’

So there was no doubt – as if there could have been in the mind of any husband with enough respect for his wife to assume she would limit herself to a single lover – that the man who currently occupied the Danilovs’ marital bed was Vasiliy. He heard Vasiliy’s laugh. He knew he should have been outraged, but he was not. There was even a certain excitement in listening to his wife being fucked by this stranger – one more reason he should leave soon. It was enthralling to know that Marfa could respond in such a way, could so enjoy it. Their marriage had started out something like that, or so Aleksei hoped, but the passion had quickly faded. He thought she had been uninterested, but now he realized that perhaps it had been him – or both of them together. It was thrilling to hear his wife so enjoying the act of sex, even if it was not and never would be the case that she enjoyed it so intently with Aleksei himself. It was simply a pleasant surprise to know she had within her depths of carnal desire not often revealed in a woman, desires which put her on a level with – well, to be honest – Domnikiia.

The voices of Vasiliy and Marfa began to merge into a succession of rhythmic, guttural grunts, and Aleksei realized it was time to leave. He would come back later tonight, or even tomorrow, having worked out some way to announce his presence well in advance so that no embarrassment need be felt by either of them. Even so – disguise it though he would try – in future he would look at Marfa in a slightly different way. He would look at her with a certain feeling of – God help him – pride.

As he departed, he glanced around the dressing room. The signs that there had been a man there were all too obvious now that he looked for them. Marfa’s own clothes were strewn about in a way that was quite out of character for her, but mixed in with them, Aleksei could easily spot the coat, the boots, the breeches of a man. There was even a leather bag on the chaise longue, which he knew was not his own. On top of it was what he took to be a cardboard box – a shirt box or something like that. He felt mildly peeved at the idea that Vasiliy might be taking advantage of the account Aleksei held at his tailor’s – a minor insult in the circumstances.