Simon Montefiore - One Night in Winter

‘Shall I buy you an ice cream?’ The voice was soft as a kitten’s but it still made him jump. It was Rosa Shako, daughter of the air force commander.

‘Isn’t it a beautiful day?’ she said. ‘Do you want to go for a walk in the Sparrow Hills, escape the traffic and everything else…?’

‘I don’t feel very well today, Rosa. I think I should get home.’

‘But I have Papa’s car,’ said Rosa, waving towards a limousine parked nearby.

‘Can’t we do it tomorrow?’

Her hand gripped his arm with a force that surprised him.

‘You don’t understand. Nikolasha’s waiting at the cemetery for us. He’s inviting you. It’s his place. And he’s never invited you before. You need to come.’

‘But, Rosa—’

Rosa let go of his arm and placed her slender hands together almost as if she was praying. ‘Andryusha’ – she lisped like a child – ‘please. If you don’t come, it’ll be my fault. Nikolasha’s so unforgiving. I can’t disappoint him.’

‘In what way?’ he asked, a little intrigued.

‘Nikolasha says it’s impossible to compromise in the way we live. If we compromise, it’s not worth living at all.’

‘And you believe that?’

Rosa appeared amazed that anyone could question anything that Nikolasha said.

‘He’s a true original, the ultimate romantic. He guides me. He’s not like anyone else I’ve ever met – surely you can see that? I think one day he’ll be famous, don’t you, Andrei? So are you coming? They’re all going to be there.’

‘All?’ Andrei asked. And when Rosa nodded, he knew he had to be there too.

It was already getting dark, and jagged splinters of scarlet zigzagged across the sky as Andrei opened the gate of the cemetery and then stepped aside to allow Rosa to lead the way.

Inside the cemetery, buzzing with midges, the gravestones were overgrown with green ivy; Andrei could see that rich families from the nineteenth century had built their tombs here: some were like little marble houses with pilasters and capitals and arches. It took him a moment to find his friends in the rosy graininess of a summer dusk, but then he saw the candles, their flames dancing in the still, sultry air.

Vlad Titorenko greeted him in a green frock coat and britches. ‘Nikolasha’s expecting you,’ he said to Andrei. ‘The Romantics are gathered.’

‘Come here!’ It was Nikolasha. He was standing beside an ornate tomb covered with candles and decorated with crosses, carved names, and embellished with moss and old beer bottles.

‘Quiet, please. Everyone ready?’ said Vlad. ‘Let us begin. First everyone take one shot glass of vodka. Andrei, you stand there – and you may take a glass.’

Andrei, holding the thimble of vodka, was on his own on one side of the tomb and on the other stood the Fatal Romantics. He could see Minka and George and Rosa, all of whom were dressed in nineteenth-century costumes; surely Serafima was also here somewhere?

The Velvet Book, an illuminated candelabrum and a dark green leather case lay on the tomb itself and, all around them, the dark cemetery flickered with scores of candles. Corny, certainly, but melo-dramatic, undoubtedly.

‘Fatal Romantics,’ said Nikolasha solemnly, his freckles buried deep in his white skin. ‘This is the temple of the Fatal Romantics’ Club. Let us welcome a neophyte: Andrei Kurbsky.’

‘Do I… do I need a costume?’ stammered Andrei, feeling self-conscious in his grey trousers and white shirt.

‘Wait please!’ mouthed Nikolasha testily. He cleared his throat. ‘Fatal Romantics, I hereby declare that we are in session. I open the Velvet Book. Its words are secret; few names are inscribed in its sacred pages.’

Andrei glanced at George, who gave him a wink. Andrei looked away and Nikolasha continued, his unnaturally deep voice wavering a little as he chanted like a pagan priest.

‘First, let us together declare our essential beliefs. Vlad, you may lead us.’

‘Fatal Romantics,’ started Vlad and then, all together, they chanted, ‘WE BELIEVE IN A WORLD OF LOVE.’

‘How will we live in this steely age?’

‘LOVE IS OUR LODESTAR.’

‘What is our choice?’

‘LOVE OR DEATH.’

‘Do we fear death?’

‘WE FEAR NOT DEATH. IF WE LIVE WITHOUT LOVE, LET US DIE YOUNG!’

‘And if we die?’

‘OUR LOVE WILL BE IMMORTAL.’

‘Let us drink to love,’ Nikolasha declared.

The Romantics downed their vodka, but, troubled by the anti-Party talk of death and love, Andrei hesitated.

‘You may drink, Andrei,’ Nikolasha commanded. Feeling a little like he had done the previous evening, Andrei swallowed. The vodka was like a red-hot bullet in his belly.

There was a loud sigh and then a burp, and George started to giggle; Minka too fought back a laugh that travelled up her nose and emerged as a strangled sneeze that made George shake with laughter.

‘George!’ snapped Vlad.

‘Don’t spoil it,’ added Rosa.

‘Sorry,’ said George.

‘While we’re here at a sitting of the Romantic Politburo, we can quite easily vote out a member,’ explained Nikolasha with the weariness of a severely tried teacher. ‘Now. Let us begin our meeting. Membership of our sacred brotherhood is select and secret. Andrei Kurbsky, what is your choice?’

‘Umm… love or death?’

‘Yes. Andrei, you have been called here to enter our Club of Fatal Romantics. Do you wish be considered for inscription in the Velvet Book of Love?’

Andrei nodded.

‘Andrei, I should explain that in our membership, there are two grades. The first is candidate membership and candidates are welcomed to our meetings. But to play the Game, to wear the costume and bear the pistol, one must be a full member of our Politburo.’

Andrei understood this system perfectly because that was how the Communist Party worked: you first became a candidate member and then a full member – and the whole country was run by the Politburo.

‘One day in the distant future you may be honoured by being considered for full membership but tonight you have been chosen as a candidate member of the Fatal Romantics’ Club. Step forward and place your hand on the leather case on the tomb. Now recite with all of us: LOVE OR DEATH!’

‘LOVE OR DEATH!’

‘Andrei, welcome to our society. I hereby write your name in the Velvet Book of Love.’ Nikolasha scribbled portentously in the book. ‘Toast our new candidate.’

Rosa refilled the glasses.

George swigged back two shots. ‘Can we talk now?’

‘Now for item two on the agenda,’ Nikolasha said, ignoring him. ‘We propose to play the Game in full costume after the Victory Parade on the twenty-fourth of June. On the far end of the Great Stone Bridge where the road will be closed.’

‘Is that wise?’ asked Minka. ‘On such an important day?’

‘Why not?’ answered Vlad. ‘We’ve played it in the street before. People love Pushkin.’

‘So shall we vote?’ asked Nikolasha.

They all raised their hands just like Politburo members at a Party Congress. Nikolasha counted them with his pen. ‘Passed.’

‘So what do you think of my costume, Andrei?’ asked Minka, coming around the tomb. She struck a pose.

‘You look lovely,’ said Andrei, smiling at her.

‘You may watch us play the Game although, as a candidate, Andrei, you may not participate,’ continued Nikolasha, ‘but you realize that the duel in Eugene Onegin , echoed later in Pushkin’s own fatal duel, is the essential expression of our belief in romanticism.’ He raised the leather case on the tomb and the members bowed their heads, all except Andrei who looked at it – and George who was pouring out another vodka shot. It was the case that George had showed him at his apartment. Within lay the two antique duelling pistols borrowed, presumably with the costumes, from the Little Theatre.