Kate Furnivall - The Concubine's Secret

Chang bowed his head low and cursed his foolishness. ‘Forgive my distraction, Honoured Leader. I am overawed in the presence of such company.’

Mao snorted and Chang knew he must tread with infinite care.

‘But my mind is still chasing in and out of the Russian maze, seeking the twisting path of their reasoning.’

‘And what conclusion did you reach, young comrade?’

‘That either the Russians are trying to destroy China by prolonging the civil war, providing finance to both sides so that the Soviet army will be free to invade not only Manchuria but also other northern provinces of our country. While we busy ourselves with snapping at each other’s tails here in the south.’

‘Or?’

‘Or there is a traitor at the heart of the Politburo in Moscow.’

A hiss and an intake of breath trickled round the room. Han-tu thumped the palm of his hand on his knee with a loud slap. ‘Our last delegation to Moscow reported that it found Stalin eager to commit greater resources to our struggle against the Nationalist despot. I cannot believe that they would betray us to-’

Mao sat up abruptly. Han-tu fell silent.

‘The Russian bear has always been a dangerous and unreliable ally.’ Mao’s moon face was stern. ‘I remind you all that at one time it had such control over our Chinese Communist Party that it tried to force us to merge with Chiang Kai-shek’s treacherous Nationalists. Stalin believed we were too weak to seize control of China but…’ a cold smile tilted his lips and he smoothed the red sheet in front of him with his small hands, ‘the Vozhd of Soviet Russia was wrong.’

‘He underestimated you, our Great Leader.’

‘You are leading us to victory.’

‘Your army will die for you if you ask.’

Mao nodded, satisfied, then his eyes sought out the one man who so far had said nothing. ‘Is that true, General Zhu? Will my Red Army die for me?’

Everyone in the room studied the man who had been outmanoeuvred by Mao for control of the military. Zhu was an army man to his core and his men loved and respected him.

‘My Comrade Commander,’ Zhu growled, ‘the army is yours to command. They have already died for you.’

Silence hit the room. Was the General implying Mao had commanded them unwisely? Chang felt the air shudder and saw the eyes of the five other men drop to the silk carpet beneath their feet. The stench of their fear was sharp as cow dung in his nostrils. Mao let the silence lengthen, held the General’s gaze until Zhu also was forced to lower his eyes, then he lifted a small brass hand-bell at the side of his bed and rang it. Immediately a young servant girl entered the room, bowing almost to the floor.

‘ Chai ,’ Mao ordered with a dismissive flick of his wrist, ‘tea.’ He leaned back among the pillows as she left the room, his eyes tracing the swing of her slender hips. ‘Perhaps,’ he said with a sudden burst of energy, ‘our young comrade here is correct. Perhaps Josef Stalin himself is lying to us with a whore’s smile on his face while he still hands out arms and Soviet gold to our enemies. ’

Mao looked again at Chang, thoughtfully studying this young newcomer who seemed to know too much.

‘Chang An Lo,’ he said softly, ‘do you speak Russian?’

Alexei moved. Nothing much at first, just a slight shift of his body. Pain. Bright and bloody. It gathered in his lungs and reached out to portions of his flesh in sharp malicious handfuls. Dermo! Shit! Even his thoughts hurt. They felt as though they were being crushed like walnuts under a flat iron till their shells split and splintered. The pieces lodged in his brain.

‘Awake, are you?’

Alexei opened his eyes. His eyeballs felt dry and gritty, as if they hadn’t been used in a long time. The light that greeted them was yellow and smelled of kerosene. He was lying flat on his back, that much he registered, so with an effort he rolled his head to one side and slowly the world around him shivered into focus. A low planked ceiling, wooden walls, a table bolted to the floor, cupboards with delicate fretwork, the strong aroma of coffee.

‘Coffee?’

Alexei attempted to sit up. Not a good move. The pain in his lungs sank its teeth in and set off a vicious spasm of coughing, but a strong arm supported him and a deep laugh gusted warm air on his skin.

‘Take your time, comrade.’

Alexei took his time. How in hell’s name did I get here? He eased himself so that he was propped up on the narrow bunk, his head resting against the wall. Someone had lit hell’s fire inside his chest.

‘ Spasibo ,’ he murmured. Throat as dry as ash.

He focused on the fair-haired man sitting on the edge of the bed and saw a handsome face, neat features clean-shaven but with a hesitancy in his blue eyes. Eyelashes too long for a man but large masculine teeth, full lips more than ready to laugh. In his forties, perhaps a little younger.

‘ Spasibo ,’ Alexei said again, and this time he made it more robust.

‘You’re welcome, friend. Ready for coffee?’

Alexei nodded, regretted it, and waited for the room to reassemble. The man moved away to a stove in the corner and lifted a coffee pot that was stewing there. It was at this exact moment that it dawned on Alexei’s sluggish mind that this new world of his was rocking. The movement wasn’t just inside his head. A gentle sway, but definitely rocking.

‘We’re on a boat,’ he said.

‘Correct. The Red Maiden.’

‘Yours?’

‘She certainly is.’

The word she was spoken with affection. The man patted the wall with his palm, the way Alexei would a horse, and poured coffee into two metal cups. He was wearing a thick fisherman’s jersey which looked as if it hadn’t been washed in a while, and for the first time Alexei realised he was clothed in a similar one himself, as well as rough socks and trousers he’d never seen before. He watched warily as his host returned to sit on the side of the bed and wrapped Alexei’s hand around the cup.

‘Here, drink, tovarishch . It’ll put iron in your veins.’

To Alexei’s shock his arm felt like a dead weight when he tried to lift the cup. His hand shuddered and spilled some liquid on his sweater but eventually it reached his lips. The coffee was black and strong and seemed to kick a hole in the fog as it scalded his tongue, but it tasted good. Where the hell did a fisherman get his hands on coffee like this in Stalin’s Russia, where the shop shelves were covered in nothing but dust? He felt his senses returning one by one and breathed cautiously.

‘Your name, comrade?’ he asked.

‘Konstantin Duretin. Yours?’

‘Alexei Serov.’

‘Well, Comrade Serov, what were you doing swimming in the river with the fish in the middle of winter?’

‘Fish?’ Alexei frowned. Images battered his brain. A game of chess, a long-stemmed pipe. The curve of a road to a bridge.

Dear God, the bridge. Men coming at him from all directions. With a jolt of memory he slid a hand down to his side and felt the bulk of bandages there.

The blue eyes were still smiling at him, but more thoughtful now. ‘I did the best I could for you. As good as dead, you were. I found your carcass clinging to a scrap of wood in the middle of the river like a drowning kitten. Lost all but a cupful of blood, I’d guess, and near frozen to death.’

‘ Spasibo , Konstantin. I owe you-’

‘Hush, rest now. I’ll cook us some fish and we can get some food into you at last. You’ve not eaten for weeks.’

‘Weeks?’

‘ Da.’ He stood up.

‘Weeks?’

‘ Da . I managed to get some water into you and a little soup but nothing more.’