Kate Furnivall - The Concubine's Secret

‘That’s more than enough. It’s one more fact than I know about you, so I’ll ask you a question.’

‘Sounds fair.’

‘What do you want with Liev Popkov?’

‘What does any woman want with a man?’

She swung her hips lasciviously and pushed the cigar into her mouth, sucking hard on it so that the tip glowed brightly. Lydia looked away. She folded her two skirts, one navy and the other a heavy green wool, and placed them in an orderly pile beside two pairs of rolled-up socks, a pair of scissors, three handkerchiefs, a book and a small cotton drawstring bag.

‘Was your son in the camp?’ she asked without looking up.

‘Yes.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be.’

Something about the way she said it drew Lydia’s glance to her face. It was totally expressionless.

‘He was one of the guards,’ Elena explained in a flat voice. ‘One of the prisoners killed him with a piece of glass. Cut his throat open.’

Lydia’s head filled with the image of blood bursting from the son’s severed flesh, the young man clawing at his throat, eyes glazing. Was Jens there? Did he see it happen? Did he wield the weapon? Because whoever did it would be dead by now. A pain started up in Lydia’s throat. She unfolded and refolded one of the skirts, pulled out a hairbrush from her bag. It wasn’t special to look at, just plain and wooden with a cracked handle, but it had belonged to her mother. She placed it in line with the scissors and drawstring bag.

‘Your son was a guard,’ she whispered, turning her head to one side. She spat on the floor with a sharp little hiss.

The woman nodded, all softness emptied from her eyes. ‘I know, he had it coming.’ She gave a little growl of despair in the back of her throat. ‘God only knows what the bastard did to those men.’

Outside a truck roared past, its headlamps carving through the darkness and flaring briefly into the room.

‘But it must be hard to lose a son,’ Lydia said. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I’m not.’

‘No parent would want to lose a child.’

‘Don’t be so sure.’

Lydia concentrated on her canvas bag and removed a pad of writing paper and a pencil. Papa, would you want to lose a child? She started a new row on the quilt and added an unopened bottle of rosewater that her widowed stepfather had presented to her for the journey. Dear Alfred. He was back in England, but if he could see her now he would die of embarrassment. For an Englishman to hold a conversation about the loss of a son with a complete stranger would be tantamount to torture. Unthinkable. But here in Russia things were different. There was a raw edge that Lydia was starting to appreciate because it made doors easier to push open.

‘Elena,’ she said with a sudden smile, ‘let’s drink to your son.’ From the bag she extracted a half bottle of vodka, a small pewter cup upturned over its neck.

Elena’s eyes lit up. She tossed the cigar butt on to the corridor floor and stamped on it. While Lydia unscrewed the cap, her visitor kicked the door shut and plonked herself down on the spare bed with a force that set the springs twanging.

‘Right, little comrade, hand it over.’

Lydia filled the metal cap to the brim, but instead of passing it across to the woman, she took a sip of it herself and proffered the bottle to Elena, who seized it with relish.

‘ Za zdorovye ,’ Lydia said. ‘Good health.’

Together they drank; Lydia from the cup, Elena from the bottle. The liquid scalded a path to Lydia’s stomach and made her feel instantly sick. She took another sip.

‘Don’t hurt him, Elena.’

‘Who? My son? Too late for that.’

‘No, I mean Liev.’

‘Hah! What are you? His mother?’

‘ Da . Yes. His mother, his sister and his nanny all rolled into one.’

Elena laughed and took another swig. ‘He’s a lucky man then.’

Lydia leaned forward. ‘Is he, Elena?’

‘Of course. He’s got you to fuss over him, he’s got your brother to fight with and he’s got me to… well, to spice up his life, shall we say?’ She flexed and rolled her shoulders, making her bosom dance. It was expertly done.

‘Comrade Gorshkova,’ Lydia said with a sweet smile, ‘are you by any chance a whore?’

Elena blinked, inhaled noisily, looked affronted for a moment, then threw back her head and laughed so hard her breasts seemed in danger of bursting.

‘Those eyes of yours are sharp as a snake’s, Comrade Ivanova.’ She wiped her eyes on the back of her wrist and tipped another mouthful of vodka down her throat. ‘How did you know? A young creature like you should not be aware of such things.’

‘It’s the way you look at men. As if they’re… useable. Tools instead of people. I’ve seen the same look in the eyes of the painted ladies in Junchow.’

‘So you think I’m using your Cossack?’

‘ Da. And I wonder what for.’

‘Well, this time you’re wrong, little comrade. My whoring days are just about over.’ She leaned back against the wooden bed-head, swinging her legs up on to the quilt. ‘Hardly surprising, is it? Look at me now.’

They both caught her reflection in the mirror, the thighs broad as pillows under her skirt, the stomach billowing in soft folds and the blue knots of varicose veins beneath her stockings. They studied her body as if it belonged to someone else. Lydia had never been invited to take part in such an intimate scrutiny before and found it appealing in an uncomfortable sort of way.

‘Some men,’ Lydia said, ‘like big women.’ She was far from certain whether this was true but offered it anyway.

‘ Chyort! You are far too young to know what men like.’

Lydia ducked away from the pale eyes and cursed the steady flow of colour rising up her neck to her face. She hoped the woman would think it was the drink.

‘Hah! I see.’ Beaming with anticipation, Elena linked her hands behind her head, which made her bosom rise alarmingly. ‘So who is he?’

‘Who is who?’

‘The one who sends flames into your cheeks and makes your eyes melt like butter in sunlight. Just the thought of him and your bones turn soft.’

‘There’s no one. You’re mistaken.’

‘Am I?’

‘ Da .’ For a moment their eyes were fixed in a mildly hostile stare, then Lydia turned once more to her belongings on the bed and lifted the hairbrush. ‘There’s no one,’ she said again.

She could hear the woman drinking more vodka, the swish of the liquid in the bottle, but it was followed by the sound of the cap being screwed firmly back in place. That surprised her. For a while neither spoke and Lydia began to hope she might leave.

‘I gave him away.’ Elena was speaking with her eyes shut, her lashes long and thick on her cheeks. They were much darker than her hair. ‘Then I let them take him. What kind of mother does that?’

‘You mean your son, the one in the camp. What was his name?’

‘Daniil.’

‘That’s a nice name.’

Elena smiled, her eyes still closed, and Lydia was certain she was picturing him.

‘Was he handsome?’

‘You young girls, you’re all the same, always wanting your perfect man to be tall, dark and handsome.’

An image of Chang An Lo sprang into Lydia’s mind and her mouth went dry.

‘I’m forty-two,’ Elena said. ‘I was sixteen when I had Daniil, already a year in the brothel. They let me keep him for four weeks but then…’ She opened her eyes abruptly. ‘He was better off with a proper family.’

‘Did he know?’

‘About me, you mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘No, of course not. But,’ Elena’s pale eyes brightened, ‘I found out where he was living and I watched him grow up. Hung around outside his school and later saw him parade through town, first as a Young Pioneer and later as one of Stalin’s Komsomol.’