She laughed as she threaded his arm through hers. It gave him hope.
HE ROLLED INTO BED WITH ONE THOUGHT FLICKERING THROUGH his head. He hadn’t told her about the vory. But before he could open his mouth to let her know, the flickering died out and he had no idea what the thought had been. His eyelids sank as if dragged down by lead weights. It was black inside his head and he liked it that way.
He slept. His dreams were so busy it seemed that he was dead to the world for a whole month, but each time his eyelids lifted a crack, Lydia was sitting by his bed wearing the same brown cardigan. It had to be all the same day. At one point he heard raised voices, but he had no interest in them and drifted back into the blackness, unsure whether the sounds were in his head. Then a door slammed. That was real.
He dreamed that a tattooist’s vibrating needle plunged right through his chest wall, penetrating his lungs, and he began to drown in his own blood. He choked violently. A hand stroked his forehead and he slept again. But there was something he needed to say. It was sticking spikes in his brain.
LYDIA SAT AND WATCHED HER BROTHER. HE’D SLEPT FOR HOURS, though she could scarcely call it sleep. More like running a race with eyes tightly shut. His body was never still, eyelids twitching, legs scrabbling, arms flailing. His teeth clenching and unclenching, releasing sounds that belonged to a dog. She learned to place a hand on his cheeks and whisper words to drive out whatever demon had dug a hole for itself inside his head. When the door opened and Liev Popkov stumbled into the room, she knew he would not be best pleased.
“Hello, Liev,” she smiled up at him. “Look who’s here.”
“Dermo! Shit!”
“He was on the steps of the cathedral. I told you he’d be there one day soon.”
“Shit!” he said again and walked over to her bed, scowling down at Alexei with his one black eye.
“Let him sleep,” she said.
“Skin and fucking bone, that’s all there is to him. And he stinks like a horse’s arse.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I was sure the bastard was dead in Felanka somewhere.”
Lydia looked up at him, shocked. “You never said.”
He grunted.
“I’ve said he can stay here.”
Popkov snorted. “No, he can’t.”
“Damn you, I say he can.”
“Nyet.”
“What do you expect me to do? Throw my brother out on the street?”
“Yes. He can’t stay.”
“Why not?”
“He doesn’t have a resident’s permit, so he’ll bring the police down on our necks.”
She forced down the hard lump in her throat. “We can get him one on the black market.”
Slowly Popkov turned his shaggy head, beard first, and glowered at Lydia in the chair. “You would use the few good roubles we have left? The ones we need to spend on finding Jens Friis? You’d use them on this worthless piece of shit?”
“Yes.”
“Ha! Then you are not your father’s daughter.”
Lydia leapt to her feet. “Take that back, you dumb Cossack.”
He stood immobile in front of her, and she knew he would take back nothing. She slapped his stubborn chest hard with the flat of her hand and he caught her wrist, held her until she was quiet. His big scarred face leaned down to hers and she could see the creases in it deepen.
“Lydia, my little friend, you must decide what it is you want. Use that clever mind of yours. Who is it you have come here to find?”
He released her wrist, lumbered out of the room without a glance at Alexei and slammed the door behind him.
LYDIA SAT QUIETLY AGAIN IN THE CHAIR. BUT THIS TIME SHE didn’t sip her tea, even though her throat was burning. Instead she forced herself to handle the words Liev had thrown in her lap, to turn them endlessly around and around the way a potter turns his wheel. Who is it you’ve come to find?
Who is it? Who?
My father. It’s my father I’ve come to find, Jens Friis. The words sounded faint inside her head, so she repeated them out loud.
“I’ve come to find my father, Jens Friis.”
But voices dragged at her mind. Sharp as fingernails on a windowpane. She sank her head into her hands, burying her fingers in her hair as if she could tease out the lies from the truth among the tangle of its strands. She heard a low whimper. She looked around, surprised, expecting Misty to crawl out from under one of the beds, and she was horrified when it dawned on her that it had come from herself.
A hand touched her knee. For a moment it startled her. With an effort she came back into herself, into the room, into the present, and realized it was her brother’s hand she was staring at. Strong fingers, blue veins snaking deep under the skin, a scar on one knuckle, a long crimson scab down the thumb. But dirty nails, grimy skin. Not the hand she remembered.
“Alexei,” she smiled at him. “I’m sorry if I woke you.”
“Are you all right?”
She widened her smile. “More importantly, are you all right?”
He nodded. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“I just need something to eat.”
“You’ve certainly slept a long time.” She patted his hand and rose to her feet. “I’ll go and heat some soup.”
She was aware of his eyes on her as she left the room, but when she returned with a tray of soup, a chunk of black bread, and a slice of Malofeyev’s smoked ham, he said little, just a polite “Spasibo.” He sat on the edge of the bed and she let him eat in peace, but when he’d finished she rose from her chair and sat beside him.
“Take care,” he said with a crooked sort of smile, “I probably have fleas.”
“Looking at the state of you, I think they’re more in danger from you than you are from them.”
He smiled, and she caught a glimpse of the old Alexei in it.
“Tell me what happened to you, Alexei. I waited for you in Felanka for weeks, but you didn’t come and I thought you’d left me behind. Gone off on your own.”
He frowned. “You are my sister, Lydia. How could you think I would do such a thing?”
Guilt, thick and sticky, rose in her chest. She picked up his hand and held it between her own, resting them on her knee. “Because I’m stupid.” She shrugged and was relieved when he smiled. “So where did you go?” she asked.
He took a breath. She waited, watching the tension in the tendons of his neck, and after a long silence he told her. About the attack on him by prison guards in Felanka, the drowning in the black choking waters of the river, and then finding himself on a boat.
“I lost our money, Lydia. Every bloody rouble of it.”
“Even what was hidden in your boots?”
“Even those.”
She forced herself not to react. Willed her hands not to tremble. “You should have let me look after half of it, Alexei. You should have trusted me.”
“I know. You’re right, I’m sorry.” He shook his head and his hair sent out a smell of something bad. “But what good is sorry to us now?”
“None.”
“Lydia, I can’t get that money back, but I’m doing everything in my power to make up for . . .” He exhaled sharply. It was an angry disappointed sound that joined Lydia’s own anger and own disappointment. “For my hubris,” he finished.
“Your hubris?”
“My pride. My arrogance, my blind belief in my invincibility. Look at me. Nothing to be proud of now, is there?”
“You’re wrong. I am still proud to have you as my brother.”
He threw back his head and barked a noise that unnerved her until she realized it was meant as a laugh. “God knows why!”
She studied the gaunt face. The eyes sunken in their sockets, mulberry patches like bruises on his skin. It had changed. Some crucial part of who he was had been stolen from it, something far more important than the money.
“Was it so hideous, Alexei? Your journey to Moscow.�
��
“Oh, Lydia, you wouldn’t believe what I saw. The suffering and the greed, the anger and the enmity. Brother against brother, father against son, all so convinced they have the right answer. In one village I saw the Komsomols burning a man’s possessions in the street because he couldn’t pay his taxes. His wife threw herself and her baby on the bonfire and had to be dragged off it.”
“Oh, Alexei.”
“I understand at last what Communism is about. I know they spout about justice and equality, but it’s much more than that. It’s about changing the whole way mankind is made. Turning them away from being people and making them into a new and improved mass creation that allows for none of the weaknesses inherent in mankind. To do that, the State must become a god and at the same time a monster.”
“That is a bleak future you see for Russia.”
“How else can we make this unwieldy and godforsaken country work?”
“You sound like Chang An Lo.”
For the first time he looked at her hard, a fierce stare that felt as though he were using a shovel to dig around inside her.
“He’s here?”
“Yes. He is part of a Chinese Communist delegation to Moscow.”
“I see.”
He said no more, just the two flat words. But he looked around the room, taking in its stained wallpaper and shabby curtains, and she could see him thinking what a disgusting little room it was.
“It’s all we can afford,” she explained. “Popkov and Elena are living here with me. We were lucky to get it at all. Rooms are like gold dust in Moscow. It’s not easy, Alexei. Nothing here is easy. It’s the way life is.”
He lowered his chin to his chest. “And Jens? What news of him?”
“Not good. We’ve been searching to find the prison he’s in, but people are too frightened. They won’t talk.”
“I see,” he said again.
She wondered if he did. She pressed his hand to make him look directly at her again, and when he did she wanted to tell him that she was just as frightened as everyone else and she didn’t blame any of them for keeping their mouths firmly shut. She wanted to say that having Chang An Lo here in Moscow made her come alive again, but at the same time she was seething with rage at the Soviet watchers for making it so hard for them to be together. She wanted to tell Alexei that having her brother here in her room made her feel safe, even though he was in a worse state than she was. But what about their father? What kind of world was he in? Was he surviving? How in this twisted and secretive city would they ever be able to find him? Tell me how. How? Yet when she looked into Alexei’s eyes, which used to be green but now were the color of mud, she said none of it.
Instead she smiled at him. “I’m so pleased you’re here, as safe and as handsome as ever under all that filth.”
“Thank you, Lydia. You know I wouldn’t abandon you to do this alone.”
She felt two hot tears trickle down her cheeks. Alexei brushed a thumb lightly along her cheekbones, wiping the tears away with an affection that she knew she didn’t deserve after all the times she’d sworn at him behind his back.
“I’m happy,” he said, “to see you happy.”
She was just working out whether he meant it or was just trying to please her when a heavy fist banged on the door. Twice. They froze, his thumb still on her skin, her fingers still clasping his other hand on her knee.
“No,” she whispered. “No.”
Quickly she bundled her brother back into bed, pulled the blanket up to his ears, and tucked it tightly around him.
“Don’t move,” she hissed.
Then she opened the door.
OUTSIDE ON THE LANDING STOOD THREE MEN. LYDIA TOOK one look at them and slammed the door in their face.
“Who is it?” Alexei was struggling up in the bed.
“It’s bad news.”
“Police?”
“No.”
“Who, Lydia? Tell me.”
She had her back pressed to the door, breathing hard. “They look like killers.”
Alexei tumbled out of bed and moved close to the door, listening. The fist slammed on the door again, three bangs this time.
“Alexei Serov,” a rough voice called out. “Open this fucking door or I’ll kick it down.”
Lydia stared in horror at Alexei. “They know you. Who are they?”
Alexei leaned around her, took hold of the doorknob, and clicked the door open. “My dear sister,” he said with a smile so crooked it made him look like a stranger, “I’d like you to meet my new friends.”
Forty-one
“THEY TOOK HIM AWAY. IN A CAR.”
“They’re welcome to the bastard.”
“Liev,” Lydia snapped, “shut that foul mouth of yours.”
The big man laughed. Elena smacked him. “So who the hell were these people?” she asked. She was more agitated than Lydia expected.
“I don’t know,” she moaned. “They were rough. Shabby but wore good boots.”
“You noticed their boots?”
Lydia shrugged. Yes, she noticed boots. They told you more about what lay in a man’s wallet than any amount of furs on his back.
“They had hard cold eyes and hard cold smiles.”
“But were they his friends?” Elena asked. “He told you they were his new friends.”
“They were no more his friends than rats are friends to day-old chicks.”
“Did they give any idea where they were taking him?”
“No.”
“Did he look frightened?”
“Alexei would never let it show if he were.” Lydia thought back to it, pictured for the hundredth time Alexei’s expression as he walked out the door. His back was straight, his stride stiff-legged, and he reminded her of the dogs that circle each other, bristling, before hurling themselves at each other’s throats. She shivered.
“Elena, I can’t lose him again.”
Liev’s teeth flashed somewhere in the depths of his black beard. “Don’t fret, little Lydia. It’ll take more than a rat or two to kill off that bastard brother of yours.”
“There’s something else.”
“What?”
“I remember that one of them wasn’t wearing gloves. He was standing in the doorway with hands stuck in his coat pockets, watching the corridor.”
“So?”
“So I was scared he’d have a gun in there. But just as the other two were walking out with Alexei between them, this man took his hands out of his pockets and they were empty. But I saw that right across his middle fingers he had dark tattoos.”
Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. It was as if the room had splintered.
“What?” Lydia demanded. “What is it? What have I said?”
“Tattoos,” Popkov growled.
“Yes.” Lydia seized his massive arm and shook it hard. “What does it mean?”
Elena and Popkov exchanged a look. Lydia’s pulse was suddenly pounding, a noise like water rushing through her brain, flushing away her control.
“Who are they? Who are these rats?”
Elena’s face changed. Her concern was replaced by disgust, and her fleshy mouth twitched with distaste. “It’s the vory v zakone,” she muttered. “He’s in with the vory.”
“Those words—vory v zakone—Lydia had heard them before, from the girl on the train.”
The Cossack sank down on Lydia’s narrow bed, making its metal frame yowl like a tomcat. “The vory,” he muttered, sighing out a great rush of stale air. “He’s a dead man.”
Lydia thought she’d heard wrong. She could feel the spaces in her chest shaking, and it seemed to shake the whole house.
“Tell me, Liev, who these vory are.”
“Criminals.”
“A criminal brotherhood,” Elena explained.
Lydia sat herself down beside Popkov on the bed. “Tell me more.”
“They use tattoos all over their bodies to show allegiance. The vory v zakone, thieves-in-law, is what they call t
hemselves. I’ve come across them before. It started in the prisons and labor camps, but now they’re all over the cities of Russia like a fucking plague.”
“Why would they want Alexei? He’s not a thief.”
Popkov grunted and offered no answer. Lydia leaned against his arm as though it were a wall. “Why the tattoos?”
“Apparently each tattoo means something,” Elena said. “It’s like a secret language within the brotherhood. And just the sight of the tattoos warns people off.”
“Are they dangerous?”
They hesitated. It was slight, but she didn’t miss it. Then Popkov clapped her on the back with his great bear’s paw, which made her teeth sink into her tongue. She sucked the blood off it.
“Come on, little Lydia,” Popkov frowned at her, “you don’t need him. We manage well enough without this brother of yours.”
His eyebrows, black horny beetles, descended above the broad bridge of his nose, and he raised his arm only just in time to ward off her punch to his face. With a growl he wrapped both his arms around her slight frame so that she couldn’t move. She sat with the weight of her head on his chest and started at last to think clearly.
“If he’s with these criminals, these vory,” she said into his stinking coat, “the boy will know. Edik will have an idea where to find them.” She wriggled free and jumped to her feet. “Elena, I’m going to need some sausage for the dog.”
EDIK, WHERE ARE YOU?
Lydia was running down the stairs when the front door opened. The concierge had scuttled across the hallway with the movements of an arthritic mouse to do her duty at the door. She made a note of the visitor’s name and scuttled out of sight back to her mouse hole at the rear of the house with a speed that should have alerted Lydia. But she was preoccupied, working out where to start her search for the boy.
“Good evening, Lydia. Dobroi nochi.”
In the drab hallway with its brown walls and its half hearted lamp, Lydia had not even given the visitor a glance. She did so now and her feet came to a halt.
“Antonina. I didn’t expect to see you here.”
The Girl from Junchow Page 32