The Concubine's Secret

by Kate Furnivall

  ‘Jens?’

  ‘The building he’s in is strong. Impregnable I would say. Three storeys high with an extensive basement. A walled courtyard at the front with massive reinforced iron gates.’

  ‘And Jens?’

  ‘He looks like you.’

  The tears ran silent and warm on to her skin. ‘You spoke to him?’

  ‘Yes. But not in private. I wasn’t able to talk of you.’

  She shut her eyes. Imagined her father.

  ‘He was lined up with the other chiefs working on the project. As you said,’ his thumb traced along her wet eyelashes, ‘he is one of the best in engineering.’

  She opened her eyes. ‘How did he seem?’

  ‘The way you described him. A tall man, strong features, and - this will please you - still a proud man. The years have not destroyed that. His Viking spirit has survived.’

  ‘Oh Chang, thank you.’

  He said no more for a while, letting his words settle in her mind. Slowly she stopped the tears. The tremors shuddered through her bones one last time, then subsided. Only the pain in her chest remained and that she could live with.

  ‘Papa,’ she whispered, the word so soft it barely stirred the air. She heard her father’s laugh. Remembered again feeling his whiskers tickle her ribs. She sat up and studied Chang’s careful expression.

  ‘What aren’t you telling me?’

  ‘Nothing of importance.’

  ‘The truth, my love. I want the truth.’

  ‘Ah Lydia, be patient. Give yourself time.’

  ‘I don’t have patience. I don’t have time. Tell me the rest.’

  Chang moved off the bed.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  He stood with his back to the window, facing her squarely. ‘The man I saw today is still your father, Lydia. He has the same fire in his eyes, the same lift of the chin and,’ she heard him hesitate and wondered what was coming, ‘the identical way of challenging you with just a look.’

  She put her hands in her naked lap and made them stay there.

  ‘But Lydia, a man with that kind of determination and pride is bound to suffer hardest in the labour camps. They would try to break him. He would represent a threat to the system.’

  She nodded.

  ‘His hair is white, though he’s only in his early forties. Pure white. Like the snows of Siberia.’

  She nodded again. Her teeth clenched on her tongue.

  ‘His nose is crooked. Where it has been broken more than once. Several of his teeth are missing.’

  The pain in her chest sharpened.

  ‘His hands are badly scarred. After more than ten years in the Siberian timber forests, he is lucky to have hands at all. But they must work well even so, or he would not have been selected for the project here in Moscow.’

  She said nothing, but tucked her knees tight under her chin and wrapped her arms around her shins, binding herself together. He allowed her to think. Let the images build in her mind.

  ‘Is there more?’ she asked finally.

  ‘Isn’t that enough?’

  She attempted a smile. ‘More than enough.’

  There must have been something in her voice, something she was unaware of, because Chang returned to the bed, sat down on the rumpled cover and put his arms around her. Gently he rocked her. He kissed the top of her head and rocked her.

  ‘He knows you’re here.’

  ‘It’s the next street, Alexei.’

  Maksim Voshchinsky gestured to the right and the car slowed to take the corner. A horse-drawn wagon lumbered past and somewhere a horn hooted with impatience. It was mid-afternoon and the roads were busy, the pavements crowded, the sky grey and lifeless. But in the long black saloon nerves were taut. Three of them were along the back seat, Alexei in the middle, Maksim on his right, Lydia on his left. In front Igor was skewed sideways, his eyes constantly darting towards Lydia, uneasy and disdainful. Females were not part of the vory pack, except to tend and support their men when needed, so both Maksim and Igor treated her as an unwelcome intruder. Nevertheless she had insisted on coming.

  ‘I’m the person who gave you the location of the prison,’ she pointed out flatly. ‘So I have a right to see it too.’

  ‘Nyet,’ Maksim had laughed with a dismissive wave of his hand. Like brushing aside a fly. ‘You wait here.’

  ‘No, I’m coming.’ She’d opened the car door and climbed inside.

  ‘Alexei, do something about your sister!’

  ‘Let her come.’

  ‘Remember what I told you, Alexei. A vor has no family except the vory v zakone.’

  ‘I remember, pakhan. But let her come.’

  So now she was hunched beside him on the green leather seat, her face glued to the side window, watching as intently as a cat watches a butterfly. Her fingers tapped the glass in rapid disjointed movements.

  It took an hour. They drove past the prison four times but spread out at fifteen-minute intervals, so as not to arouse suspicion. After the shock of the first time Alexei found it easier, the thought of his father inside there. He knew what to expect. Massive grey walls. Barbed wire on top. Metal doors large enough to swallow a truck. Bars on the windows. On the street armed guards with dogs. All protecting the three-storey building behind.

  Not good.

  ‘Are you certain, Lydia? That this is where Jens is being held?’

  She nodded. Ever since the car had started to whisk them north and out towards the grander houses, with the horseshoe of factories and warehouses that had sprung up around them, his sister had barely spoken. Maksim leaned back in the seat and lit a cigar, satisfied that the girl was overawed. Alexei was not so sure.

  The driver was unknown to him, someone who drove in silence and acknowledged instructions with a subdued ‘Da, pakhan.’ The back of his neck was blue where the tip of a tattooed sword blade emerged from his collar and ran up into his hairline. After the fourth pass in front of the prison they took no more chances and turned the car south.

  ‘So?’ Alexei asked Maksim. ‘What about the truck which we’re told takes the prisoners out to their project centre?’

  ‘Don’t worry, my son. The place will be watched by our people now. We will trace it wherever it goes.’ He thumped a fist down on Alexei’s knee. ‘Trust me. The OGPU bastard secret police will be like a dog with a bone, unaware of the fleas jumping on their backs. You shall soon know.’

  ‘Spasibo, father.’

  Beside him Lydia stirred. Her eyes stared at her brother’s face. He gazed straight ahead through the windscreen, cutting her out. As they travelled back towards the city, skirting Izmailovski Park, the streets grew broader and a forest of concrete monster apartment blocks for communal living shot up around them.

  ‘We could do more.’

  ‘What do you mean, little girl?’ Maksim gave Lydia a patronising smile.

  Alexei could see how much it annoyed her but she kept herself in check.

  ‘I mean we should try to get someone inside the prison.’ The men all looked at her with disgust.

  ‘You’ve seen it,’ Alexei pointed out patiently. ‘It’s too well guarded.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Please, Lydia, don’t—’

  ‘Other people must go in and out,’ she continued reasonably. ‘Coalmen, butchers, bakers, secretaries, vets, window cleaners, cooks—’

  ‘All right, that’s enough.’

  ‘Couldn’t we pass a note to Jens through one of the civilian workers?’

  Maksim wound down the window as though to clear the air of her words, and tossed out the remains of his cigar along with them.

  ‘Shut her up, Alexei. What she says is impossible.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Lydia, please, just listen for a second,’ Alexei cut in. ‘What you suggest is far too dangerous. Impossible to do without raising suspicion - and maybe losing everything by alerting OGPU to what we’re doing. People talk. You know that. If you start ask
ing workers to pass notes, they would tell someone who would tell someone else who would inform the police to gain favour with them. Whispers flare quickly here. It would put not just us in danger, but also Jens himself.’

  ‘No, I don’t agree because—’

  ‘Forget it, Lydia.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No.’

  Alexei saw her dart a glance across at Maksim but she found no ally there. His fleshy face was looking puffy, veins running like crimson threads over his cheeks, but his expression was intractable. Alexei noticed a whiteness around his lips and felt a flash of concern.

  ‘Home,’ Maksim ordered the driver.

  Lydia leaned forward, reaching out across Alexei, and touched his fur-coated arm. ‘Please, pakhan.’

  ‘Nyet. Alexei is right. Only a fool would take that risk. Leave it to us.’

  Alexei felt her shiver as she retreated into her corner. But at the first road junction, when the car slowed to a halt to allow a tram to pass, she pushed down the chrome handle, swung the door open and slipped out of the car. She didn’t say goodbye. Or thank you, pakhan. That annoyed Alexei.

  Mirrored tiles. Silk robe. The fragrance of Parisian perfume. A peacock’s tail feather heavy with steam. Alexei sank into the bath and struggled not to close his eyes. Behind his eyelids lay worlds that frightened him and he was not used to being frightened.

  A soft white-gloved hand stroked his damp forehead and trailed through his hair.

  ‘I missed you,’ Antonina murmured and gently tipped the silver edge of a champagne glass to his lips.

  Her slender figure was perched on the side of the bath, naked except for the gloves that reached her elbows. The length of her dark hair hung down her back like a glossy curtain shimmering with moisture, and her face was washed free of make-up and lipstick, the way he liked her best. They were alone in the Malofeyev apartment. It was a risk, they both knew it, but neither cared right now. Alexei swallowed the chill liquid but it was not to his taste, and he wished for a shot of Maksim’s French brandy.

  ‘That was a strange little scene over coffee this morning,’ Antonina murmured and dipped her tongue in the champagne bubbles.

  ‘Whose bright idea was it to get us together in the first place?’

  ‘Dmitri’s, of course. When I mentioned that Lydia was coming here with you, he insisted on staging a cosy little four-some instead and chose a suitably grand setting. He likes to remind everyone who is the one with the power at his fingertips.’

  Alexei raised one dark eyebrow. ‘Maybe he was just planning on keeping me out of his apartment.’

  She sipped her champagne. ‘Well, he didn’t succeed, did he?’

  ‘Is that why I’m here? To annoy Dmitri?’

  The shadows under her eyes darkened as she leaned forward and trailed her tongue down the side of his cheek, forming a line through the beads of steam. ‘You’re here because I want you here.’

  He regarded her face intently. What was it about this woman that drew him? Not her handsome looks or her elegance or even her position among the elite of Communist society. All those things got in the way. It was something about her vulnerability under all that polish, something that crept under his skin and lodged there like a burr which he couldn’t shift. Didn’t want to shift. He sat up suddenly with a whoosh of water, twined an arm round her naked waist and tumbled her down into the bubbles on top of him.

  She squealed and scooped water into the champagne glass to pour over his head.

  ‘You’ll drown me,’ she laughed.

  Very deliberately he lifted one of the white gloves, dripping with scented bubbles, and kissed the delicate skin in the crook of her elbow.

  ‘I’m going to teach you to swim,’ he said, and started to peel down the sodden fabric. Inch by inch the damaged skin came into view.

  45

  They walked side by side. Together but not touching. Heads ducked against the wind. Chang was tense, Lydia could sense it in the way he placed each foot on the ground, like a cat taking care on ice, and in the hand hovering close to his thigh where she knew a knife was strapped. Yet when she glanced across at his face it looked calm, his eyes focused.

  The street they were in was grey. Grey walls, fat grey drainpipes tipped with slivers of grey ice, grey air gusting towards them. Grey balconies clinging by a hair to the cracked walls.

  ‘It isn’t wise, Lydia,’ Chang had warned her.

  ‘Please, my love.’

  ‘You would tweak the dragon’s tail yet again.’

  ‘The dragon is snoring like a New Year drunk in his lair. He won’t even know I’m there.’ But when she’d seen the shadows gather in his eyes, she said simply, ‘I need this, Chang An Lo. I need to look for myself.’

  He had nodded. ‘Then you shall.’

  The prison was two blocks ahead. They walked in silence, aware of the dogs alert on chains as they approached, of the guards in grey coats, of the rifles on their backs. Chang and Lydia kept to the far side of the road, tucked in close to the buildings. It was obvious this had once been an avenue of gracious villas and shady trees but nothing remained of them now. Blocks of government offices now lined the pavement, and only the moss-covered stumps at the kerb sheltered the ghosts of what once had been.

  Lydia forced herself not to stare. She walked quickly, though her feet begged to stop. Out here on the street it was different from when she was caged in the comfort of Maksim Voshchinsky’s car. Here it was raw. The pain sharper. The walls higher, the gates grimmer. But here she could listen for Jens Friis. For the ticking of his mind. His breath, his sigh, his voice.

  His voice. She hadn’t asked Chang to tell her about the sound of his voice. How could she have overlooked something so intimate?

  Papa, can you hear me? Can you feel me here?

  She allowed herself one look, a slight turn of the eyes, one rapid glance, that’s all. Then she ducked her head again and hurried on past. But a part of her remained there on the grey pavement among the ice and the tree stumps, watching and waiting.

  Chang was braiding strands of her hair, weaving them in and out of fine silk ribbons. He could sense the rhythmic movement soothing her, helping to still the vibrations his fingertips could feel through the fragile bones of her skull. He breathed out deeply and saw a lock of her hair rise, flutter and settle once more.

  ‘Lydia, what is it that you want from Jens Friis? Want so badly you take risks that could swamp us all?’

  ‘He’s my father,’ she said.

  He wove another ribbon into the flames. ‘But what are you doing here in Russia? Running towards Jens? Or away from China?’

  ‘What do you mean, away from China? Why should I want to run away from China?’

  ‘Because your mother died there.’

  She said nothing. Her hands lay unmoving at her sides and he wondered at what cost.

  ‘Your mother died there, violently, and I went off to fight the Kuomintang, leaving you there. You were treated cruelly by my Chinese enemies.’ He kissed the back of her neck. ‘You had every reason to run away. But your father disappeared from your life when you were just five years old, so you scarcely know him. What is it that makes you cling so hard?’

  ‘He’s my father,’ she said again. Her voice came out as a whisper.

  He stroked her naked shoulders, fine elegant shapes.

  ‘I let my mother die,’ she said. ‘I can’t let my father die too.’

  ‘Your mother’s death was no fault of yours. It was the work of the gods, a random moment when an act of revenge went wrong. You were not responsible in any way.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And your father is not dying.’

  ‘Nor is he living.’

  ‘You can’t know that.’

  ‘What? Is that place we passed today somewhere worth living? It’s more like a tomb.’

  ‘So what are you planning to do?’

  ‘To contact him. Somehow. At first, that’s all.’

  ‘An
d then?’

  But she had gone from him, deep within herself where he couldn’t reach her. His fingers continued to braid her hair and into his mind came an image of her standing on a small beach in China, staring out at sunlit water, every inch straining to rush forward with the current towards her future. What had happened to her? He lowered his head until it was almost touching the neat triangle of her shoulder blade and inhaled the scent of her skin. She smelled the same, that intoxicating mix of delicate jasmine and the musk of a wild animal. But where had his fox girl gone? Gently he wound his arms around her, drawing her back against his bare chest, the heat of her body surprising him.

  ‘Chang,’ she said, and her sadness came at him like a slap, ‘what are we going to do, you and I?’

  ‘My love, you cannot avoid the future by chasing after the past.’

  She swivelled round within the circle of his arms, so that her tawny eyes were fixed on his. ‘Is that what you think this is about?’

  ‘I think that you are frightened of what the future might hold for you, for us, so you are trying to build a future out of the past.’

  ‘So Jens Friis is my past?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Slowly she shook her head, the ends of the ribbons whispering against his cheek. ‘You don’t understand,’ she said. ‘You don’t understand at all.’

  Her words hurt, chipped a small hole in his chest. He lifted his hands and cradled her face between them.

  ‘I understand that we are together. That is enough.’ He smiled at her. ‘Look at what you are wearing in your hair. Look at the ribbons.’

  It took a moment. But the smile came. ‘Red ribbons,’ she said.

  ‘Red is for happiness.’

  It was raining and dark. Flurries of ice like needle points stabbed at the neck. Jens pulled his cap lower over his face and his collar higher to cover his ears. Exercise at six-thirty on a dark miserable morning brought out the worst in people. They grumbled at each other, at the guards, at the weather, but most of all at Colonel Tursenov.