The Russian Concubine

by Kate Furnivall

  ‘You are real,’ he whispered.

  She smiled, that wide wonderful smile that stole his heart from his chest, and instantly he knew this was no dream. She bent closer and kissed his mouth, her lips soft and inviting.

  ‘That’s to prove I’m real,’ she murmured.

  He held her close for a moment, felt her cool cheek against his hot face, breathed in the fresh outdoor smell of her hair and her skin, heard her blood pounding in his ears. So alive. So full of flames. To lose her would be like drowning in mud.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Better.’

  ‘You look feverish.’

  ‘Inside I am better.’ He reached out and touched the fires in her hair. ‘The sight of you drives away the fever.’

  She laughed and laid her head lightly on his chest. She kept it there. His fingers stroked the silky, unruly hair that any Chinese girl would have oiled and fixed flat with clasps or bound into tight knots. He loved the freedom of her hair.

  ‘Lydia,’ he said softly.

  She lifted her head. ‘We don’t have long,’ she murmured and glanced over her shoulder at the door.

  It was open and the tall elegant figure of the schoolmaster in his black academic gown was leaning against it, but he was standing with his back to them, one of his foul-smelling cigarettes in his hand, a student’s exercise book in the other. He made a point of reading it intently to indicate his ears were closed. Nonetheless they spoke in low voices.

  ‘Your parents?’

  ‘They have forbidden me to see you more than twice while you are here. But I didn’t mention what might happen when you leave.’ Her amber eyes were full of light. ‘I have a suggestion.’ Suddenly she was shy. But excited.

  A little of her bright light lifted the edge of the darkness inside him. He knew there could be no suggestions. He touched her eyebrow and her ear.

  ‘What is it that puts a strong heartbeat into your words?’

  She leaned closer, eyes fixed on his. ‘We could leave together.’

  ‘You are taunting me.’ But hope leaped unbidden into his throat and breathed life into his limbs.

  ‘No, no, I mean it.’ She spoke in a whisper. ‘I’ve worked it all out. You said you must leave Junchow. I will leave with you. I have some money still and maybe I can get hold of more. It would be enough to hire a boat to row us across the river in the dark and then we could . . .’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes, we’d be safe if we travelled by night and slept by day. It would take time, I know, but we could go far away from here to a remote village somewhere and I would wear a Chinese tunic and wide hat like at the funeral, so no one would notice and I’d learn Mandarin and . . .’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Listen to me, my sweet love, it is our only answer. I’ve thought it through. You can’t stay here, so there’s no other way.’

  ‘Lydia. Don’t, Lydia.’

  ‘I’m not foolish. It wouldn’t be forever. I know that when you’re better and strong again, you’ll want to return to one of the Communist camps and continue to fight against Chiang Kai-shek. Of course I know that. But,’ he watched a soft pink flutter to her cheek like the shimmer of a flamingo’s wing, ‘I will come too. I know women train and fight in Mao Tse-tung’s army, so there’s no reason why I can’t become a Communist freedom fighter. Is there?’

  After school there was a lot to do. First, the dress. Lydia hurried right across town to Madame Camellia’s salon.

  ‘Thank you, Madame Camellia, it looks like new again.’

  The dressmaker bowed, a graceful dip of her groomed head. ‘You are welcome. Try not to let it get wet again.’

  ‘Please put the cost on my stepfather’s account.’

  ‘Certainly, Miss Parker.’

  Miss Parker? Miss Parker? Lydia laughed and shook her head as she shot off toward the Masons’ house on Walnut Road. Polly hadn’t turned up for school today, so Lydia wanted to make sure her friend wasn’t sick. The awkwardness between them last time over Chang An Lo still rankled and made it even more important to check that she wasn’t just hiding at home because she couldn’t bear to face Lydia. That would be awful. It was a long way to Walnut Road but at least it was a crisp bright afternoon. The sky was a rich clear blue that made the world feel bigger and though the wind was cold, the sun gave Junchow a glow that turned Lydia’s usual disgust with the town to an amiable affection. Maybe it was the thought of leaving it.

  As a Communist supporter. Lydia Ivanova, freedom fighter. She tried it on her tongue out loud and liked it. She even let her mind hold for just a brief second the sound of Lydia Chang, or Chang Lydia, as they would say in China. She let it reverberate around her thought waves, but that was a step too far into the unknown. She wasn’t ready for that yet. Chang An Lo had said no. Of course he did. She knew he would. He was worried about her safety. But she’d seen the expression on his face. His mouth held tight in case it let out words that would betray him. The huge pupils dilated in astonishment. She saw something deep within him burst, and when she held his body tight in her arms she could feel the rapid beating of his heart.

  He said no. But he meant yes.

  She took a shortcut through one of the poorer districts of the International Settlement, down a snowy pathway behind St Saviour’s Church and across a small park. It was more a patch of scrubland than a park, with a few creaky swings for children and too many overgrown bushes. It was as she was following the footpath that she saw the car. Parked under a low bank of trees that ran along the far side, away from the grimy terrace of nearby houses. Lydia recognised it immediately. A big flashy Buick. It was Polly’s father’s car. A cream and black sedan with wide running boards, which in the late afternoon sun glinted above the dirty grey snow in the gutters.

  What it was doing here, she couldn’t imagine, but if Mason was going home he might as well give her a lift and at the same time he could tell her what was up with Polly. She walked toward it. It was parked facing away from her, so she was looking at the large spare wheel on the back and the high rear window. The car looked empty. But as she peered through the window she saw movement inside. She edged around the side. To a clear view. A view she didn’t want to see. Christopher Mason in his shirt-sleeves. He was stretched out on his stomach on the front seat, the back of his slick brown head bobbing and weaving, his hands moving over something under him.

  It was Valentina.

  Lydia turned and ran.

  ‘Hello, Lyd.’ Polly did not look ill. Nor did she look pleased to see Lydia on her doorstep.

  ‘You weren’t at school today.’

  ‘No. I was sick.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Something I ate.’

  ‘Right.’

  There was an uneasy pause. Lydia began to worry that Polly wasn’t going to invite her in.

  ‘I’ve brought you the new term’s timetable to copy out. And some sketch maps we did today in geography.’ Lydia opened her schoolbag and started to rummage in it.

  ‘Oh . . . thanks.’ Polly stepped back, her wide eyes flicking away from Lydia. ‘Come on in. Do you want some hot chocolate? Mummy’s out at her bridge club, but she’s made a ginger cake if you’d like some.’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  Polly led the way into the kitchen. Most kitchens were dreary, meant only for servants, but because Anthea Mason so enjoyed whipping up soufflés or baking cakes and fresh rolls, the Masons’ kitchen was modern and bright. Linoleum on the floor, tiles on the walls and a marbled enamel stove that was so much smarter than the usual black range. In the scullery behind it, Lydia could hear two servants working and talking in soft Chinese voices. Polly concentrated on heating the milk and scooping out cocoa into cups instead of talking.

  Lydia filled up the silence with chatter about the first day back at school and how James Malkin had arrived with his leg in plaster after falling off his garage roof while retrieving a kite. Polly obliged with a smile. When they were both sipping t
heir hot drinks Lydia felt the blood return to her chilled fingers, but her mind was still numb with shock.

  Valentina. In the Buick.

  Why?

  But Polly was still avoiding her. Staring at the froth on her cocoa and blowing lightly to cool it.

  ‘Polly, he’s gone,’ Lydia said.

  Her friend’s worried gaze at last met hers. ‘Who?’

  ‘You know who. Chang An Lo.’

  ‘Gone where?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Did soldiers take him?’

  ‘No. He escaped. So you don’t have to worry anymore about . . . well, you know . . . what you saw.’

  Polly released a huge sigh of relief. ‘I’m glad.’

  ‘So am I.’

  They smiled quietly at each other, and then Lydia put down her cup on the table, went over and hugged Polly. All the stiffness immediately left Polly’s slight frame and she squeezed Lydia tight. They laughed, the awkwardness sliding away, and took their hot drinks into the drawing room.

  ‘Wait here, Lyd, while I just run up to my room with the maps and copy them out. I won’t be long. Eat up the cake.’

  The moment she was gone Lydia abandoned the drawing room, tiptoed across the hall’s parquet, and tried the door of Christopher Mason’s study. It opened. In a weird sort of way, that disappointed her. If you leave doors unlocked, you can’t have anything to hide, can you? She slipped in and shut the door behind her. The room was gloomy. The shutters were half closed and the tall bookcases along the wall looked . . . threatening. As if she were shut in. Trapped. A shudder rippled up her spine and she shook her head to clear it of foolish notions.

  The desk. That’s where she had to start. She nipped behind it and found Mason’s leather-bound diary for 1929 placed neatly in the middle of the desk. She skimmed through the opening days of January and it was there, in bold black writing. Monday. Three-thirty. VP. Not VI anymore. Valentina Parker. Lydia wanted to hurl the wretched diary through the window.

  Quickly she went through his desk drawers. Nothing of interest. Except a gun. In the top right-hand drawer under a fluffy butter-yellow dustcloth, it lay like a warning. Lydia picked it up. It was an army type, a revolver, heavier than she expected and smelling of oil. She squinted along the sights and aimed it at the door, switched the safety off and on again but didn’t risk pulling the trigger, and then she replaced it. She rummaged some more. Just household accounts, stationery, two gold fountain pens that three months ago she might have taken, a few letters from England. Not helpful, just chat about someone called Jennifer and someone else called Gaylord. A jade paperweight. A box of cigars. Nail clippers. And in the bottom one, a photograph of his cat, Achilles. Disappointing.

  A sudden noise. Lydia froze. Listened. A servant’s footsteps crossing the hall. She breathed again, pushed the drawer shut, and looked elsewhere. An oak tallboy stood in one corner. Big brass handles. The first three drawers contained bottles of what smelled like chemicals of some sort, a sheaf of photographic paper, a cardboard box packed with reels and reels of negatives on top of which lay a silver hip flask. It dawned on her that Mason must be a keen photographer who developed his own work. It fitted with when she caught him in the library that time. He’d been looking at a book on photography then.

  It was the bottom drawer that gave her a kick of hope. It was locked. Something to hide.

  This was it. She took a moment to look coolly round the room. No keys in the desk. If she owned this room she would hide a key . . . where? The bookcase. Had to be. She listened intently for Polly’s footsteps on the stairs. No sound. Quickly she ran her fingers over the books and the shelves. Any one of the volumes could be hollowed out to secrete a key. No hope of finding it if that’s what he’d done. None. Instead she dragged over Mason’s big leather desk chair, climbed on it and stretched up above her head to feel on the very top of the bookcase itself. Nothing. A smattering of dust. A dead spider. She shifted the chair further along, searched again. This time her fingers touched metal.

  ‘Lydia?’

  Polly’s voice. Still upstairs. Lydia rocketed off the chair and opened the door a crack.

  ‘Yes?’ she called.

  ‘Nearly finished.’

  ‘Don’t rush.’

  ‘I won’t be long.’

  Lydia shut the door again, leaped back onto the chair, and retrieved the piece of metal. A key. It lay on her palm. Her mouth was dry. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know what was in that drawer. Already her head was filling up with suspicions. She took a long breath, as Chang An Lo had shown her, exhaled slowly, and then strode over to the tallboy and crouched in front of the bottom drawer. The key turned easily and the drawer slid open as if well used.

  It was full of photographs. Tidy bundles of them in elastic bands. She rifled through them. Every one was of a naked woman. Lydia felt she should be embarrassed, but she didn’t have time for that. She snatched up each pile in turn and inspected it quickly. The sight of a Negro girl mounted by a black greyhound made her shudder but she didn’t stop, peering closely at the faces of the women. Most were hard and painted. Prostitutes, she assumed. She’d seen faces like that in the streets and hanging around the bars at the quayside. It was in the fifth bundle that she found it. A sultry picture of a slender white woman lying naked on a bearskin rug, one arm thrown in abandonment above her head, her hand twined in her thick long hair, showing off her breasts. The nipples were painted a dark color. Her legs were eased apart, one finger trailing in her dense pubic bush, a glimpse of something pale and glistening inside. The woman’s full lips were smiling but the dark eyes looked dead.

  Valentina.

  A sob shook Lydia. A rush of anger that almost choked her and an avalanche of shame. Her teeth clenched together and she felt her cheeks on fire. She went through the rest. Four more of Valentina. Twenty of Anthea Mason. Two of Polly.

  Lydia wanted to scream.

  She pushed them into her schoolbag.

  ‘Finished.’ Polly’s voice. At the top of the stairs.

  In a final rush Lydia scooped out the books from her schoolbag and dumped all the reels of negative film in their place. She threw the key into the bottom drawer, kicked it shut, and with her books under one arm and the bag under the other, she left the room.

  ‘You don’t mind, do you, darling?’

  ‘No, of course not. I’ve got homework to do.’

  Lydia kept looking at her mother, her eyes following every flick of her finger - that finger - as she skimmed through the latest Paris World magazine and each toss of her hair as she lit another cigarette. Why? Over and over it squirmed in her head. Why did Valentina do it? Damn it, damn it, damn it. Why?

  Her mother turned to Alfred. ‘We won’t be back late, will we, angel?’

  He exchanged a quick glance with Lydia. He had driven her to school that morning on his way to work, and she had mentioned that Valentina seemed a bit tense since the business with Chang An Lo and the soldiers. Maybe it would be a good idea to take her out this evening? A meal at the club? Dancing at the Flamingo? Alfred had jumped at it.

  ‘Well, I’m not sure what time it’ll be,’ he said with a look of open admiration at his wife. She looked stunning. An elegant new black and white evening gown that was cut low to reveal the full swell of her breasts. Lydia couldn’t look at them. Not now. Not after what she’d seen.

  Alfred handed his wife her mink muff and helped her on with her coat.

  ‘Have a good time,’ Lydia said cheerfully.

  The moment she heard the car swing out of the drive, she raced upstairs and pulled out the green dress.

  ‘Little sparrow, moi vorobushek, I think you’d forget an old lady.’

  ‘No, nyet, I’m here. I even have an official invitation.’ Lydia waved the thick embossed card.

  ‘So grand.’ Mrs Zarya chuckled with delight, her broad bosom swaying dangerously close. She tucked her arm through Lydia’s. ‘And quite lovely you look. So grown up now in your pretty gr
een dress.’

  ‘Grown up enough to dance?’

  Mrs Zarya fluttered her own wide taffeta skirts in a strangely coquettish gesture. ‘Maybe, vozmozhno. You must wait to be asked.’

  The Serov villa at the far end of Rue Lamarque in the French Quarter was even grander than Lydia had expected, with pillars and porticoes and a long sweeping driveway that was packed with cars and chauffeurs. The reception rooms were lit by ranks of crystal chandeliers and crowded with hundreds of guests in elegant evening dress. All around her swirled the lilting sound of Russian: Dobriy vecher, Good evening. Kak vi pozhivayete, How are you? Kak torgovlia, How is business?

  She remembered to say ‘Ochyen priatno,’ Pleased to meet you, when introduced by Mrs Zarya, but she did not listen to their names. She was here to seek out only one person. And he was not to be seen. Not yet. At first she stayed at Mrs Zarya’s side, reassured in this sparkling new world by the familiar smells of mothballs that wafted from her overheated figure. Old gentlemen with side whiskers and Tsar Nicholas’s beard came to flirt with Mrs Zarya and kiss Lydia’s hand, while women in long white gloves toured the rooms, displaying their glittering jewellery and Russian temperaments. Lydia lost count of the number of diamond tiaras that glided past.

  She wondered what Chang An Lo would make of all this. How many guns just one of those diamonds would buy. Or what number of empty bellies that fat woman’s huge gold earrings would fill. Such thoughts caught her by surprise. They were Chang An Lo’s thoughts. Inside her head. That pleased her. That she could look around at all this wealth and see it not as desirable, but as a means of putting right an unbalanced society, was something totally new for her. Balance. That’s what Chang said was needed. But she watched a man with the stomach of a well-fed pig and gold chunks on his pudgy fingers take a glass of champagne from a silver salver without even glancing at the Chinese servant holding it. The servant was gaunt-faced with submissive eyes. Where exactly was the balance in that?