The Russian Concubine

by Kate Furnivall

  A shiver of shock rippled through Lydia. It was not only new thoughts she possessed, but new eyes. It seemed she really was becoming a Communist.

  ‘Lydia Ivanova, I’m delighted you could come.’ It was Countess Serova, regal as ever in her cream satin gown with high neck and full skirt, encrusted with pearls. ‘And tonight you are in a different frock, I see. I was beginning to think you only possessed one. How charming green looks on you.’

  Lydia found the mixture of insult and praise disconcerting. ‘Thank you for inviting me, Countess.’ This time she didn’t bob a curtsy. Why should she? ‘Is your son here tonight?’

  Countess Serova’s cool blue eyes took the measure of Lydia, and without replying she turned her gaze on Mrs Zarya. ‘Olga Petrovna Zarya, kak molodo vi viglyaditye, how young you look tonight.’

  Mrs Zarya preened herself delightedly and dropped a curtsy, but Lydia did not hear her response because a young woman in black who was standing behind the countess, clearly an attendant of some kind, leaned close to Lydia and murmured in Russian, ‘He is in the ballroom.’

  Lydia excused herself and followed the sound of music.

  The woman shimmered. In an off-the-shoulder sequinned gown she was seated at a grand piano at one end of the ballroom, her fingernails vivid red against the ivory keys. She was playing a modern piece Lydia recognised. Something by Shostakovich, something decadent. The pianist swung her silky blond waves in time to the rhythm. It annoyed Lydia instantly, that overdramatic way of performing. But why hadn’t the countess invited Valentina to play? She turned away because whenever she thought of Valentina, the photographs in the drawer leaped into her head and made her feel sick. Instead she looked around her.

  The room was beautiful. The high ceiling was painted with muscular heroes and nebulous goddesses who looked down on the pale polished-beech floor. Huge gilt-framed family portraits of people with long noses and arrogant eyes were designed to overpower guests of fragile nerve. Gleaming mirrors reflected thousands of pinpricks of light from chandeliers and threw them back into the room to highlight the dancers as they flowed with bright smiles from one end to the other. But Lydia’s eyes were soon elsewhere, on a cluster of men in deep discussion in front of one of the long velvet drapes. One tall angular back in immaculately styled evening wear and with a head of cropped brown hair set Lydia’s hackles rising.

  She made directly for it.

  ‘Alexei Serov,’ she said coldly. ‘I’d like a word.’ She touched the black ridge of his shoulder.

  Instantly he turned, and the broad smile that greeted her only infuriated her further. She felt an urge to slap it off his face.

  ‘Good evening, Miss Ivanova, how delightful that you are able to join us tonight.’ He snapped his fingers at a servant in maroon livery, standing to attention against the wall. ‘A drink for my guest.’

  ‘No drink, thank you. I won’t be staying.’

  A frown crossed his long face at the coolness of her tone. His gaze studied her face, his eyes so intent on hers that she could see tiny golden flecks buried in the green irises.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ He ran a hand over the thick bristles of his hair and down the back of his head. It was the first time she had ever seen him betray the slightest sign of unease.

  ‘I would like a word. In private, please.’

  His head drew back and he stared down his straight nose at her, half a smile curving his mouth. She did not care for the way he narrowed his eyes, his dark eyelashes used as a barrier between them. Another man with something to hide.

  ‘Certainly, Miss Ivanova.’

  He placed a firm hand under her elbow and steered her effortlessly through the dancers to what looked like a mirror with carved gilded vine leaves around it but which turned out to be a door. More sleight of hand. They entered a small windowless room that contained nothing but a pale green chaise longue and a forest of stuffed animal heads on the walls. A wild boar with twelve-inch tusks glared at Lydia. She looked away and shook her elbow free of the grip on it.

  ‘Alexei Serov, you are a lying bastard.’

  His composure was rattled, but he hid it well. His hand slowly stroked his jaw, revealing cuff links of gold scarab beetles. ‘You insult me, Miss Ivanova.’

  ‘No, it is you who insult me if you think I won’t realise who it was who sent Kuomintang troops to my house.’

  ‘Troops?’

  ‘Yes. And we both know why.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand what you . . .’

  ‘Don’t. Don’t waste your breath denying it. Your poisonous lies crawl out of the gutter and only insult me further. Because of you I could be in prison now. Do you realise that? And my . . . my friend . . . could be dead. So I have come here tonight to tell you . . .’ She could hear her voice sliding out of control, losing the iciness she’d planned. ‘ . . . to tell you that your plot failed and that I think you are the lowest of the low. A filthy whore-boy to Chiang Kai-shek and his grey devils. Pretending to be a friend to me, yet . . .’

  ‘Stop, Lydia.’

  ‘No, I will not stop, you bastard. You betrayed me.’

  He seized hold of her arms and shook her. ‘Stop this.’

  His face came close to hers. They glared at each other. She could hear the click of air at the back of his throat as he swallowed his anger.

  ‘Release me,’ she snapped.

  He removed his hands.

  ‘Good-bye,’ she said, putting all the ice she could summon into the single word. She walked stiffly to the door.

  ‘Lydia Ivanova, in heaven’s name, what demon is inside you now? How dare you march in here with accusations and then refuse to hear my response? Who do you think you are?’

  Lydia stopped, one hand on the heavy brass doorknob, but she didn’t turn around. She couldn’t bear even to look at the deceitful bastard. There was a moment’s silence while the dead creatures in the room watched through glass eyes. She could hear her own heart thumping.

  ‘Now listen to what I have to say.’ His voice was astonishingly calm. ‘I know nothing about troops at your house.’

  ‘To hell with your lies.’

  ‘I did not betray you. Or your wounded Chinese Communist. I told no one what I saw at your house, you have my word on that.’

  ‘The word of a liar is not worth spit.’

  His angry intake of breath satisfied her.

  ‘I am speaking the truth,’ he said sharply, and she knew that if she’d been a man he’d have struck her.

  ‘Why should I believe you?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t you?’

  She swung around. ‘Because there was nobody but you to send the troops for Chang An Lo. You. Only you knew.’

  ‘That’s plainly absurd. What about your cook?’

  ‘Wai?’

  ‘You think he didn’t know? Miss Ivanova, you have a lot to learn about servants if you think they don’t know everything that goes on in a house.’

  Lydia swallowed. ‘Wai?’

  Alexei Serov was back in control. The stiffness seeped out of his body and his gesture was languorous as he waved a hand in the direction of wherever his own household servants camped. ‘They have eyes that see behind closed doors and ears that hear the thoughts in your head.’

  ‘But why would Wai . . . ?’

  ‘For Chinese dollars, of course. He would be well paid for the information.’

  ‘Oh hell.’

  She felt her shoulders droop and her spine cave in. She sought refuge in staring at the feathery ears of a lynx’s head. They were pricked, alert, ready to listen to her excuses.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ she muttered.

  ‘I swear I didn’t betray him. Or you,’ Alexei Serov said quietly.

  She made herself look him in the eye. This was hard. Angry came easy. Apologetic was much tougher.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  She wanted to get out the door. Out into the cold air before she melted into an ugly pool of shame on the smart marble flooring. He
r tongue felt too big for her mouth. The words could barely squeeze past it.

  ‘I apologise, Alexei Serov.’

  He didn’t smile. Through his half-closed eyes she could not make out what he was thinking and anyway she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

  ‘I accept your apology, Miss Ivanova.’ He gave a small formal bow. The little click of his heels scared her. It was the sort of noise you might expect from an executioner before he slices your head off. He held out an arm to her. ‘May I accompany you back to the party? This conversation is over.’

  She hesitated.

  ‘And as a gesture of our renewed friendship, I hope you will do me the honour of the next dance.’ He smiled then, slow and teasing, as if he knew what it would cost her.

  ‘Last time you said I was too young to dance with,’ she objected. There was only one person now in whose arms she wanted to float.

  ‘That was six months ago. Then you were still a child. Now you look every inch a beautiful young woman.’ He raised one eyebrow. ‘Even if you don’t exactly act like one.’

  She laughed, she couldn’t help it.

  ‘Oh God, Alexei, I’m sorry my mouth ran away with me. I can be quite respectable when I try, but somehow you always catch me at my worst.’

  ‘“Filthy whore-boy to Chiang Kai-shek.” That was impressive. ’

  She took his arm. ‘Let’s dance.’ The quicker she got it over and done with, the better.

  49

  Theo sat with the cat heavy on his feet. It was cold. Three o’clock in the morning. He could hear the wind shaking the windows and howling to come in, and it reminded him of the wind on the river at night and how it drove the scows as they nipped from junk to junk with their haul. He was reading in his study, trying to glean strength of purpose from the words of Buddha.

  If you want to know your future,

  then look at yourself in the present,

  for that is the cause of the future.

  He absorbed that one.

  His future would be decided on Wednesday.

  Because on that day Christopher Mason had an appointment to tittle-tattle to Sir Edward with the story of Theo’s involvement in opium trafficking. So he had twenty-four hours to decide.

  Empty your boat, seeker,

  and you will travel more swiftly.

  Lighten the load of craving and opinions

  and you will reach nirvana sooner.

  Theo thought that was what he longed for, to travel light, but he was coming to the conclusion that he didn’t know himself very well. The young Chinese man in the bed upstairs knew him. Knew his weakness. He could see it in his eyes. Chang An Lo was ready for what might come. Had already lightened his load. Prison was one path that might lie ahead for both of them, but could Theo really face the hell of a stinking cell, cooped up like a bird in a bamboo cage?

  If you want to get rid of your enemy, the true way is to realise that your enemy is delusion.

  But neither Feng Tu Hong nor Christopher Mason felt much like delusion to Theo. The truth was that Feng could stop Mason. But Feng would want the young man in exchange, despite his disputes with Po Chu. Or maybe because of them.

  And then? If Theo made the deal? What would Li Mei think of him?

  What would he think of himself ?

  He leaned down and stroked the cat’s head. It purred for a second before it remembered to sink its yellow teeth into him.

  50

  Lydia heard the click of her bedroom door. Quiet footsteps padded across the floor. She opened her eyes a slit but could see nothing in the darkness. She didn’t need to see.

  ‘What is it, Mama?’

  ‘I can’t sleep, darling.’

  ‘Go and disturb Alfred.’

  ‘He needs his sleep.’

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘Poof, you can sleep in class tomorrow.’

  ‘Mama!’

  ‘Hush, I shall tell you about the Flamingo nightclub. One lucky woman was wearing a Fabergé brooch but her frock was quite frightful. Move over.’

  Lydia shifted position in the bed and Valentina lay down on it, under the eiderdown but on top of the blankets, just the way Lydia had done at first with Chang An Lo.

  ‘Did you have a good time tonight?’

  ‘It was bearable. That’s about all.’

  ‘Did you dance?’

  ‘Of course I did. It was the best part. When you’re old enough I’ll take you to a dance and you’ll discover what fun it is. The band played the new jazz with . . .’

  But Lydia didn’t listen. She leaned her cheek against her mother’s shoulder, let her musky perfume filter into her head. She wondered if Chang An Lo was awake. What was he thinking? She was frightened he’d leave. Just up and go. Without her. But they both knew that in the state he was in, he’d be caught. That he needed her. As she needed him. It was going to be hard. Of course it was. She wasn’t blind to that fact or to the uncertainty of the future for them, but to be together even for a few months while he healed would give them time. Breathing space. While they worked out the next step.

  ‘So?’

  Dimly Lydia became aware that Valentina had stopped speaking.

  ‘So?’

  ‘So what, Mama?’

  ‘I said, so who is this Chinese Bolshevik of yours?’

  ‘His name is Chang An Lo and he’s a Communist. But,’ she added quickly, ‘he comes from a wealthy family under the last emperor and is well educated. A bit like yourself in a way . . .’

  ‘I am not a Communist and never will be.’ She spat out the words. ‘The Communists take a country that is great and noble and they smash it down with their hammers and sickles to the lowest level of a peasant. Look at my poor broken Russia, Rusmatushka. ’

  ‘Mama,’ Lydia spoke gently, ‘the Communists have only just started. Give them time. First they have to rid us of tyranny. Of the brutality that’s existed for hundreds of years. That’s what they’re doing right now in Russia. And that’s what China needs too. They are the only ones who will build a fair society where everyone has a voice. You wait, they will become the greatest countries in the world.’

  ‘Ah, you’re crazy, darling. That Bolshevik boy has poisoned your mind and filled it with gutter slime, so that you don’t see straight anymore.’

  ‘No, you’re so wrong. I see clearer now.’

  ‘Poof! It is a two-minute infatuation.’

  ‘No, Mama, no. I love him.’

  Valentina drew in a quick breath. ‘Don’t be absurd. You are too young to know what love is.’

  ‘You were only seventeen when you ran off and married Papa. You loved him, you know you did. So don’t you dare tell me I don’t love Chang An Lo.’

  There was a silence. The darkness grew heavy around them, pressing down on Lydia’s eyes, but she refused to let it into her head. She reached out to Chang An Lo with her mind and found him so easily, it was hard to believe he wasn’t in the room with her. The connection was instant. And she was certain he was lying awake in Mr Theo’s house, seeking her out. She smiled and felt the inside of her head open up into a big bright airy room, full of sunlight, and the sound of Lizard Creek’s water trickled through it. A place where she could breathe.

  ‘Listen to me, Mama.’

  It was easy. At last to talk about him. She told her mother all about Chang An Lo. How he’d saved her in the alleyway and how she’d sewn up his foot at Lizard Creek. She told Valentina everything, the Chinese funeral and the search for him, even the quarrel in the burned-out house and the arguments over some of the savage methods the Communists used to achieve their aims. It all came spilling out. Everything. Well, almost everything. Two things she left out. The ruby necklace and the lovemaking. She managed to hang on to those. She wasn’t that stupid.

  When she’d finished, she felt as if she were floating.

  ‘Oh my sweet daughter.’ Valentina turned and kissed Lydia’s cheek. ‘You are such a fool.’

  ‘I love him, Mama. And he loves me.
’

  ‘It’s got to stop, dochenka.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No.’

  Valentina’s hand took hold of Lydia’s under the eiderdown and held it as if in a vice. ‘I’m sorry, darling, your heart will break but there are worse things. You will survive it, believe me, you will. We have come this far, you and I. I am not letting you throw it all away just when I have set it up so that there is money for your education, for university. You could be a doctor or a lawyer or a professor, something great, something important. Something well paid. You’ll be proud of yourself and hold your head high. Never will you have to be dependent on a man to put bread on your table or rings on your fingers. Don’t ruin everything. Not now.’

  ‘Mama, did you listen when your parents told you the same?’

  ‘No, but . . .’

  ‘So neither will I.’

  ‘Lydia.’ Valentina sat up abruptly. ‘You will do as I say. And I say this business with the Chinese Bolshevik is over, even if I have to chain you to the bed and feed you bread and water for the rest of your life. You hear me?’

  Lydia didn’t mean to say what she said next. But she was angry and hurt. So she struck back.

  ‘Maybe if I tell Alfred what I saw in the Buick today he would say the same to you.’

  She heard Valentina cough. The sound she’d heard a chicken make when its neck is wrung. She wanted to cram the words back into her mouth. Valentina swung her legs to the floor but remained there, seated on the edge of the bed. Her back to Lydia. She said nothing.

  ‘Why, Mama? Why? You have Alfred.’

  Her mother rustled in her dressing gown pocket and Lydia knew she was searching for a cigarette, but it was obviously empty because there was no snick of a lighter.

  ‘It’s none of your business,’ Valentina said at last in a tight voice.

  Lydia rolled nearer and put out a hand. Her mother’s stiff figure was blacker than the surrounding blackness. She touched her mother’s shoulder and for a second had a flashback to reaching out and touching a male shoulder earlier this evening. Alexei Serov’s. He had seen her home and she’d had to admit he’d been quite decent about her mistake. Sweet Christ, she’d made such a fool of herself. Filthy whore-boy. Lying bastard. He had every right to fling her out into the street. But he didn’t. Just became even more arrogant with that conceited smile of his while she danced with him. Only one dance. She couldn’t stand any more.