Kate Furnivall - The Concubine's Secret

It was Alexei who spoke. He was sitting opposite her at the table.

‘Of course, spasibo . They’re so good.’

Her brother passed her the gilt-edged plate of tiny iced cakes, each topped with a cherry curled inside a sugary case. She nodded her thanks but it wasn’t for the cakes. He was alerting her. Dmitri had noticed her scrutiny of him and his response was sharp curiosity.

‘Eat up, my dear girl,’ Dmitri encouraged easily. ‘Put more flesh on those lovely bones of yours.’

‘Thank you.’

She took another cake in her fingers and smiled at him, but left the delicacy untouched. Right now it would choke her. This whole thing was Dmitri’s idea. To bring them all to this elite hotel for morning coffee, instead of to his apartment as Antonina had intended. His hand rested lightly on his wife’s on the table, pinning down the white glove, and his eyes darted continually from Lydia to Alexei and back again. It was the kind of place Lydia had spent her childhood gazing at from outside, yearning to be allowed in, all white linen napery, bone china and carpets so thick they felt like cats under her feet. But now she was here, she was not so sure. She didn’t like the way the waiters never met her eye or the sense that somehow there seemed to be the smell of dead bones under the tables.

Conversation was stilted. Lydia didn’t much care, but Dmitri appeared amused and she couldn’t imagine why. Antonina and Alexei said little, drinking their coffee and smoking their cigarettes. Antonina was dressed in black and using a neat ebony cigarette holder which Lydia loved. There was an air of anticipation. Everyone waiting for something to happen. No one quite sure what.

‘Have you made good use of the food I brought you?’ Dmitri asked, eyeing her over the rim of his feather-fine coffee cup.

‘The puppy has been enjoying the ham.’

Now why did she say that? Just to annoy him?

‘It was meant for you, Lydia.’

She leaned forward, elbows on the pristine white cloth as she met his gaze and gave it one more go. ‘Tell me, Dmitri, please, have you managed to find out yet where Jens Friis is being held?’

‘I’ll say this for you, my dear. You don’t give up.’

‘So?’

‘So no, I’m sorry. I’m afraid not.’

She frowned at him. ‘You’re a useless liar.’

He threw back his head and released a great rush of laughter. ‘Listen to the girl, Antonina. She thinks I’m a bad liar.’

His wife tipped her head to one side, considering the point for a moment, like a bright-eyed blackbird. ‘She doesn’t know you as well as I do, does she?’

He laughed again. ‘The trouble with women,’ he said to Alexei, ‘is that they think they know you better than you know yourself. Don’t you agree?’

‘In my experience,’ Alexei said a little stiffly, but with every appearance of courtesy, ‘they usually know more than we think they do.’

A silence, so brief it was barely noticeable, scuttled across the table. Lydia fiddled with her spoon, rattling its silver edge against the saucer to fill the gap, and flicked a glance at her brother. Ever since she’d returned to their room in the grey light of early morning he had been aloof and uncommunicative. He made no secret of the fact that he disapproved of Chang, regarded him as an unwelcome distraction. Well, she disapproved of his disapproval.

‘Your brother appears to be a connoisseur of women,’ Dmitri teased. ‘Don’t you agree, Antonina?’

His wife turned her head and studied the silent figure of Alexei sitting beside her. ‘I think he looks tired,’ she murmured gently and smiled, first at Alexei, then at Dmitri.

‘How long do you intend staying in Moscow, Comrade Serov?’ Malofeyev asked.

‘As long as it takes to get my business completed.’

Malofeyev inclined his head. ‘If I can be of assistance, don’t hesitate to ask. I have contacts in this city.’

‘So have I,’ Alexei responded curtly. Under the table Lydia stepped on his toe.

‘I don’t doubt that for a moment,’ Malofeyev said, his tone cooler. He regarded his guest in silence for the time it took his wife to fit a new cigarette into her holder. ‘I’m only offering help. If you should need it,’ he added.

‘Like you offered help to my sister. Is this a habit of yours? Helping strangers?’

Chyort! Lydia cursed under her breath. She glanced across at Antonina and found her smiling, a big broad smile, eyes bright with amusement. She looked ten years younger, and for once the white gloves were free from fretting fingernails.

‘ Lydia,’ she said, ‘don’t you think this place is charming?’ She gestured at the crystal chandeliers and the silk water lilies that floated in a fountain of fragrant water in the centre of the room. ‘It’s so civilised.’

‘So civilised,’ Lydia repeated softly. A needlepoint of anger pricked under her ribs. She snapped her head round to face Dmitri. ‘Unlike the place you were stationed in before, I believe.’

He didn’t move. She wondered if he was even breathing he was so still. It was Antonina who laughed delightedly and tapped her husband’s arm with the tip of her cigarette holder.

‘What do you think, my darling? Is Moscow more civilised than Trovitsk camp? Or less? I can think of arguments for both.’

Her husband ignored her. Just as he ignored Lydia.

‘It seems to me, Comrade Serov, for a brother and sister, you are not at all alike.’

‘That, Comrade, is where you are mistaken. Lydia and I are very similar.’

‘Is that so? In what way?’

‘In the way we view the world.’

‘What, from under a pile of rules and regulations like everyone else?’

‘Perhaps. But nevertheless we do believe we can influence what happens to us.’

‘Ah, I see. The cult of the individual. Surely Marx and Lenin and Stalin have firmly established that it is the forward progress of the collective whole that counts, not the cogs in the wheels. They are… dispensable.’

Lydia and Antonina exchanged a glance.

‘Dmitri,’ Antonina interrupted with an anxious flick of her hair, ‘let our guests enjoy their coffee in peace. You are so provocative.’

‘I believe your husband is right,’ Alexei pointed out. ‘Certain cogs are dispensable. It’s a matter of choosing the right ones.’ He leaned back in his chair, his face set hard.

‘Dmitri,’ Lydia said quickly and jumped to her feet. A nudge of coffee spoiled the whiteness of the cloth. ‘Come with me, please. I want a word.’

Dmitri Malofeyev and Lydia walked towards the large revolving front door of the hotel, but before they reached it she spotted a heavy oak door off to the left, marked CARD ROOM. She pushed it open, entered and held the door ajar to admit Dmitri after her.

‘You in the mood for a game of poker?’ he smiled.

‘I’m willing to gamble, if that’s what you mean.’

The room was unused at this hour of the morning. Small square green baize tables were dotted around, and an impressive aspidistra plant blocked most of the light from the window so that the air had a strange greenish shimmer to it. As if they were underwater. Lydia turned to face her companion. She placed her hands on her hips to keep them still and spoke seriously.

‘Dmitri, help me. We both know you can. Please.’

He didn’t smile or laugh or raise a mocking eyebrow this time. He regarded her with a solemn expression. ‘What is it you want?’

‘The same as before. Where Jens Friis is held.’

Slowly he shook his head, his red hair closer to purple in this strange light. She knew her own must look the same. ‘That’s not possible, Lydia. I’ve told you already. Now you must stop asking me.’

‘It is possible. All you have to do is tell me. No one need know.’