Kate Furnivall - The Concubine's Secret

The delegation moved on but Chang remained. Watching and waiting for the moment the man would look up. Because Chang knew he would, eventually he would be unable to resist. Then Chang would see what a Russian worker was made of. It was the same in China, the peasant mentality, hiding all behind submissive down-turned eyes. It angered Chang, their refusal to lift the head and stand out in a crowd. It was one of the things he’d loved from the start about Lydia, that willingness to look the world straight in the eye. He smiled at the image in his head and touched a finger to his throat, laying it on the exact spot where her lips had touched.

That was the moment the metal worker chose to raise his eyes. It looked to Chang a very Russian face with its broad cheekbones, long nose, jaw hidden in a fringe of beard. But the eyes told him everything he needed to know. Pale grey and exhausted, the steam-hammer pounding its reflection in them from dawn to dusk. These were not the eyes of the contented proletariat they had been led to believe worked in these factories.

For a second their gaze fixed on each other and gradually Chang felt the heat. Not from the furnace this time, but coming from the worker himself. It was the kind of heat that was pinpoint sharp. Like a blade that has rested in flames. Chang recognised it at once. It was hate.

‘Kuan.’

She stopped and waited for him. Chang moved closer as they crossed the factory yard. The snow had turned to rain but it was the kind of rain that was like ice picks in the face. They were due to be taken to a meeting now and he would have no other moment for his words to curl in private into her ear. She didn’t ask what he wanted but inspected him, eyes black and bright. He could see the fire in them despite the gloom.

‘The factory was impressive,’ he said.

‘Did you see the number of people employed there?’

‘Yes. Communism in action. It works. Here in Stalin’s Russia we see how Lenin’s ideas function as a practical reality. They are forging a successful future for this country. It is what China weeps for, that same strong hand.’

‘A father’s firm hand.’

‘But one that will caress as well as rebuke. One that will give as well as take.’

‘Chang An Lo,’ Kuan said in her usual quiet way, but Chang could hear the unease in her voice, ‘I am concerned.’

‘Concerned for China?’

‘No, concerned for you, my comrade.’

‘There is no need for concern.’

‘I think maybe there is.’

In her thick padded blue coat, with her short black hair framing a wide-boned face, she could have been a rice grower’s daughter from any stretch of rural China, one of millions like her condemned to a life of servitude on a tenant plot of land or in the family home. But her eyes told a different story. They were thoughtful and intelligent. She possessed a university degree in law and a mind that could recognise problems and decide how to deal with them effectively. Chang had no intention of being one of those problems.

‘Kuan,’ he said, ‘do not let yourself be distracted from what we have come here to achieve. Focus your attention. Our leader, Mao Tse Tung, needs us to be sharp. We have come to Moscow to learn.’

‘You are right, of course.’ She brushed the rain from her face. ‘It is what we are all concentrating on. Each of us in the delegation writes a report late into the night.’ She looked at him speculatively. ‘But I am not certain that you are as dedicated as usual to the affairs of Communism. As if your thoughts are elsewhere.’

The soles of Chang’s feet felt as though he’d just slipped on ice. ‘That is not the case, comrade. I have been focusing on how we can take greater advantage of the opportunities here and I think it is time we put in a request to inspect something different. Something more… challenging.’

He smiled at her, observing the suspicion slip away from her mouth as her eyes widened with anticipation.

‘What do you have in mind, Comrade Chang?’

He walked forward through the rain and she moved quickly to his side. People are like the fish in the Peiho River, he reminded himself. All you need to do is dangle the right bait.

‘Show me your tattoo.’

‘It’s of no interest, Lydia.’

‘It is to me.’

She was determined to see what they’d done to him, so that she’d know. Know what she owed him. He was seated on the edge of her bed, smarter now, cleaner in his new white shirt and smelling of an unfamiliar cologne. But more like the old Alexei she remembered, legs crossed at the ankles in a pose of indifference. It was a relief to see him back in his old skin, but at the same time he was different. Something had changed. She could sense it in his eyes and in the softer angle of his neck, and she didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry. She watched as he started to unbutton his shirt. Behind her Popkov and Elena stood stiff and silent. She could feel their disapproval as sharply as she could feel the hole in her shoe. Alexei’s fingers worked fast and she could detect no hint of the shame she was certain he must feel.

‘There,’ he said and flung back his shirt.

She felt sick. It was larger than she’d expected. A cathedral covering the whole expanse of his skin. It seemed to crush the bones of his chest, its one elegant onion dome tattooed just under where his collar bones met.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she said.

Lydia heard a grunt behind her but ignored it.

Alexei raised one eyebrow at her. ‘Its beauty or lack of it is not the point.’

‘So what is the point?’

‘I’m marked as one of their own. For life.’

‘Oh Alexei, I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be.’

She gave him a smile. ‘You won’t be able to go swimming so often, that’s all.’

‘I never did like getting wet and cold anyway.’ He smiled back at her and it made her want to cry.

‘So now you’re one of the vory , what will they do for you?’

‘I have yet to find out.’

He started to button up his shirt. He didn’t hurry. For the first time it occurred to her to wonder whether belonging to this brotherhood meant more to him than she realised.

‘I have a new father,’ he said in a quiet voice. ‘One who will help me.’

The shock of it caught her across her throat. She coughed and stared down at her hands because they seemed to be strangling each other, but she needed badly to talk about something else. Anything else.

‘Antonina wants to speak to you,’ she said.

Instantly his head came up, the green eyes alert and interested. ‘You’ve seen her?’

‘Yes. I’ll take you to her tomorrow.’

‘Thank you.’

That was all. They’d both said enough. Lydia walked over to the peg on the door and pulled on her coat.

‘Sleep well, brother,’ she murmured, opened the door and walked out on to the dim landing.

Before she reached the black courtyard outside, a burly shadow merged with her own, so that it turned into a two-headed monster on the prowl through the night. It was Liev Popkov. They didn’t speak. He loped beside her and she lengthened her stride to his as they disappeared into the dark streets of Moscow. Only when he’d seen her safely to her destination would he return to the warmth of Elena and his own bed.

The crucifix still hung on the wall and the room had filled with shadows, but it didn’t matter to Lydia. Nothing mattered. Not now. Chang had lit the gas lamp.

‘So that I can look at you,’ he’d said.

When she’d entered the room he’d taken her face gently between his hands, his fingers feeling the bones under her skin as if they could tell him something. His eyes studied hers intently for a long moment, then he had kissed her forehead and folded her into his arms.