Strange Are the Ways

by Strange Are the Ways (retail) (epub)

  As the Germans advanced and as the Russian armies were forced back, step by step towards Riga and finally towards Petrograd, the city was flooded with refugees. Men, women and children, dispossessed, desperate, often starving or sickly, were herded together in filthy wooden barracks or filled to overflowing the already overcrowded slums of the city. As summer turned to autumn and the ever-present spectre of the Russian winter hovered threateningly upon the horizon there was talk of starvation and of epidemic. Spirits were low and tempers high; discontent was rife. Where was the Little Father, the Tsar? What of his sacred duty to protect his suffering people? Most knew, with a bleak nod and a cautious sideways glance, the answer to those questions; the Tsar was ruled by the hated Empress, who was ruled in her turn by the debauched and degenerate Rasputin – and whilst that state of affairs persisted the people, threatened with starvation and oppression, their sons dying by the million for a cause they did not understand, could expect no help, no protection.

  And in the teeming breeding-grounds of the Vyborg and other working-class districts of the capital, the agents of sedition did their whispered, perilous work, establishing committees, organizing forbidden meetings, fomenting strikes and unrest. Whilst the Generals fought each other with every bit as much energy and rather more efficiency than they fought the enemy, whilst the Tsar vacillated, caught in his weakness between his strong-willed wife, his ministers and his conscience, in the city slums the seeds of hatred, fear and anger were assiduously and skilfully cultivated in a soil all too receptive and fertile.

  * * *

  Sasha arrived in Petrograd on leave – his second in the course of the war so far – on a brisk, clear, early-autumn day that went some way to disguising the dourness and squalor of the once-lovely city. He was tired, hungry and depressed. Quite apart from the constant stress of fear that was his permanent companion and to which he had become almost accustomed, the journey – despite a pass personally signed by the General and a purse well-filled – had been a nightmare. He felt filthy. The train that had lumbered so painfully slowly across the vast and dusty plains to the city had been packed with wounded; every inch of space in compartment, in corridor, in goods van or baggage-rack had been taken up by armless, legless, eyeless men. Bandages and blood; suppurating wounds. Patient nurses, overworked doctors, and the stubble-darkened, pallid faces of the wounded, resigned and stoic; he had turned his face from them all, refusing to look, refusing to feel, refusing above all his own guilt, deeply but insecurely buried. But he could not ignore the smell; it was in his nostrils now, clung to his clothes and to his skin. He thought of the apartment behind the Liteini; small, quiet, calm. He thought of warm and fragrant water, of Margarita’s quick, light-hearted smile, her soft skin and perfumed hair, of one short week’s peace and release from fear, and quickened his steps.

  * * *

  Margarita had visitors; two of them. One was a young captain of the Semenov Regiment of the Tsar’s Own Guards, whom Sasha knew very slightly, the other, from his uniform, an ensign in one of the Cossack regiments whom he had never seen before.

  He stood by the open door, fighting exhaustion, disappointment and the too-quick, dangerous stirrings of anger. Margarita presided straight-backed, composed and bewitchingly pretty, over the samovar that bubbled upon the table. The two men sat upon overstuffed armchairs, shining boots crossed at the ankles, tea glasses small in large, well-manicured hands, the relaxed and comfortable atmosphere clearly bespeaking a familiarity with their surroundings that did nothing for Sasha’s already chancy temper. They were handsomely turned out, uniforms pristinely clean and smart, brass and leather gleaming. Their hats and gloves lay neatly side by side upon the small table beneath the window. The two fresh faces turned at Sasha’s entrance, and both men scrambled to their feet, a certain embarrassment in the hasty movement as it dawned upon them who this unexpected arrival must be. Margarita, on the other hand, smiled calmly and charmingly and made no move whatsoever, as if the unheralded homecoming of a husband whom she had not seen for the best part of six months was a matter that could not be allowed to ruffle the small ceremonies of her tea party. ‘Sasha,’ she said, a shade too brightly, ‘good heavens! How unexpected! How nice.’ She tilted her chin, fluffy fair hair gilded by the light of the sunlit window behind her. Her voice was light, and gave absolutely no hint of the turmoil that the sudden entrance of this lean, unsmiling man that was her husband had brought. She proffered a smooth cheek, waited for him to cross the room, bend and kiss her. ‘’Lexis, be a dear and fetch another glass, would you? Sasha – you’ll take tea? ’Lexis brings it every week, or we’d be drinking ground acorns by now! I do find this beastly war a trial!’ She cocked her head, smiling, apparently blandly unaware of his displeasure, or of the awkward atmosphere his sudden coming had produced. ‘Sasha, my darling, whatever have you been doing to yourself ? You look as if you’ve slept for a week in your clothes –’

  ‘As a matter of fact I haven’t slept at all in the past forty-eight hours.’

  She patted the hand that rested upon her shoulder. ‘Poor Sasha,’ she said, lightly and with no discernible trace of sympathy. ‘Now – let me introduce you – you remember Alexis Konstantinovich, don’t you? And this handsome young man is the Count Devanovov – Mikhail to his friends.’ She smiled brilliantly up into the young man’s face.

  ‘I think,’ the young Count mumbled, eyes flicking to Sasha’s unimpressed face and away, ‘that with your permission, Margarita Victorovna, we should perhaps take our leave.’ With his silent companion he gathered gloves and cap. Then he lifted his head and looked directly into Sasha’s face. His eyes were troubled; he could not, Sasha estimated, have been more than eighteen years old. ‘You’ve come from the Front?’

  Sasha shook his head. ‘From Stavka.’ In a small, nervy gesture he rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth. His skin still smelled disgustingly of the hospital train. ‘Which is most certainly,’ he added dourly, ‘as dangerous and exhausting as any battlefield since General Alexeyev took over.’

  The boy smiled, a small, nervous twitch of a smile. ‘He’s an uncle of mine. I know what you mean. He used to terrify me. Still would, I suspect.’

  ‘A new broom,’ Sasha said, ‘sweeping clean.’ He did not want to think about it, let alone talk about it. Not now. In fact right now he discovered he wanted nothing so much as to take these two handsome, neatly-shaven, well-fed young men and to pitch them down the stairs, neck, crop and shining buttons.

  ‘I think – perhaps it was necessary? The reorganization?’ the boy said, hesitantly.

  ‘I think perhaps it was.’ Sasha walked firmly to the door, held it open invitingly. ‘I’m sorry. Another time perhaps? It’s been a very long journey.’

  Margarita watched, silent, her expression unreadable.

  ‘Of course, of course!’ Stumblingly they took their leave, bending over Margarita’s hand – the man Alexis for just a second too long in Sasha’s opinion – and left.

  ‘Well.’ Sasha turned, leaning against the door, his hand still on the knob. ‘I’m glad to see my pretty wife isn’t pining away in my absence –’

  ‘Well, darling, of course I’m not! What would you expect?’ With a graceful movement she stood and came to him, leaning lightly against him, her hair brushing his cheek, her lips as light as thistledown upon his. Before he could hold her she was gone. ‘Goodness, Sasha, how you smell! Petra? Petra!’

  The door to the kitchen opened and a small, frightened, nondescript face peered in.

  Margarita flicked her fingers. ‘Clear the glasses, please. And then draw a bath for the master. Supper will be for two.’

  The girl mumbled something, cast a fearful glance first at her mistress and then at the strange, travel-stained man who stood in the other doorway, before scurrying like a frightened mouse to the table.

  Sasha waited until the door closed behind her. His eyes were riveted to Margarita. The soft curves of youth were gone from her face; she held herself now with
the confidence of a lovely woman who knows the power she wields. Her bright, curly hair was piled in that carefully artless way that still suited her so. Long earrings dangled from her ears, swinging against her slender neck, about which she had tied a narrow length of velvet ribbon, from which a tiny golden heart depended; a trinket which he did not recognize. She was wearing a gown he had not seen before, of heavy rose satin trimmed with rich ivory lace, high at the neck, very close-fitting about her breasts and her slender waist. But not for him. The thought brought hurt and anger in about equal measure. Disturbed and unhappy, nerves strung almost to breaking point, he watched her as she moved about the room, and suddenly the truly unstudied, feminine grace of her movements, the flare of her hips beneath the rich, swagged material caused an unexpected surge of a primitive physical arousal that caught him unawares and set his heart pounding. This woman was his. It was her duty to give herself, his right to take her. It took a singular effort of will to remain standing where he was, to force from his mind the thought of stripping the armour of that shining dress from her body, of overpowering her, hurting her, compelling her to copulate with him there and then, with no ceremony, upon the floor of this room that suddenly seemed to belong to strangers. To overmaster her. Would that bring an easing of the pain? For one short space of time to bury himself, his terrors, his dishonour in that vulnerable, soft, female flesh? To vanquish her weakness with his strength?

  She turned, unruffled, unaware. ‘Why didn’t you let me know you were coming? I should not have been so –’ she lifted long fingers, let them subside gracefully ‘– unprepared.’

  ‘I couldn’t. The reorganization, you know? I’ve been posted. The opportunity for leave simply came up and I took it. I’d have been here long before any message.’ His words were stilted; the sudden surge of lust had left the warmth of shame in his cheeks. He had not moved from the open doorway, where he leaned against the doorjamb, watching her. ‘Letters are taking weeks. I only just got your last one. About your brother. I’m sorry. How’s Natalia taken it?’

  Margarita made a small, impatient gesture. ‘Oddly. She’s absolutely obsessed with the wretched –’ she stopped herself ‘– with the new baby. You know she had another little boy? Oh, no, of course not. He was born a few weeks ago. She called him Dmitri, of course. A little morbid, don’t you think?’

  He shrugged, tiredly, again rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘It would seem natural, under the circumstances.’

  ‘Would it? Oh – perhaps so.’ She dismissed the subject of her brother’s death and her sister-in-law’s agony with a brisk flick of her hand.

  Sasha leaned, hands in pockets, watching her, still. ‘And the rest of the family? Your mother? What’s happening to the business? I assume that someone’s running the shop?’

  She lifted her shoulders. ‘Everyone’s fine. Well, we don’t see a lot of Lenka –’ She hesitated, wondering whether to mention the fact that she had in fact seen rather more of her brother-in-law than of her sister, decided against it. ‘Mama is still – well – you know. Difficult. Actually –’ she smiled, brightly ‘– she’s getting rather fat.’

  ‘Fat?’ Sasha was surprised.

  ‘Mm.’ Margarita rearranged an ornament upon the mantelpiece, turned. ‘She’s eating rather a lot. Chocolates and things. When she can get them, that is.’

  Sasha pushed himself upright. ‘And the shop?’

  ‘Oh, Volodya’s running that.’ She shook her head a little. ‘Oh, of course, I forgot, I don’t think you ever knew him. Vladimir Pavelovich Yamakov. A violin maker, a protege of Uncle Andrei’s. He’s been invalided out of the army – a leg wound.’ She laughed a little. ‘Strange to have him back. He was rather sweet on Anna, actually. We all thought –’ She stopped. ‘Goodness, how long ago it all seems.’ Her voice was very light.

  ‘I don’t think I ever met him.’

  ‘No. Probably not.’ She was moving inconsequentially about the room, twitching this, touching that, not looking at him. ‘Will you take tea before you bathe?’ He might have returned from a day’s shooting. ‘Oh, wretched girl! I keep telling her –’ The magnificent toy theatre he had bought her after the miscarriage stood still in pride of place upon the sideboard. Margarita, face absorbed, bent her head to it, rearranging the figures.

  Watching her, the warmth of desire, of need, still heated his tired body. He came up behind her, his arms about her before she was aware of him. ‘In a moment,’ he whispered. ‘In a moment, my love – tea – baths – food – the world – all in a moment. But – now -’ His mouth was on her face, her ear, her smooth, cool neck, his hand rough on her breast. ‘Oh, God, you can’t know how I’ve –’

  ‘Sasha!’ She sounded truly shocked, and her struggles were not counterfeit. Outraged, she beat at him with her small fists. ‘Sasha, stop it! Petra – she’s in the kitchen!’

  ‘And there she’ll stay if she has any sense.’ He tightened his grip, bending her body to his, his mouth on hers, warm and urgent.

  She stiffened in his arms, her mouth twisted under his. She tore her head loose from the grip of his hand. ‘Stop it! Stop it, I say! Sasha, please! Don’t be – don’t be so disgusting!’

  Painfully aroused, all anger gone, he was aching for her now – ready to beg her – for her softness, her loving, her heartfelt surrender, that might, somehow, ease the tensions and the fears. He released her and stepped back.

  Breathing heavily, face flushed unbecomingly, she smoothed her skirt, not looking at him. ‘I think – perhaps a bath first, wouldn’t you agree?’ she asked, her voice almost normal. ‘And then we’ll have supper, and you can tell me all that’s happened.’ She was busying herself about the room again, moving cushions back to where they had been before, flicking nonexisting dust from shining surfaces.

  ‘Margarita,’ he said.

  She turned. Looked at him. Saw, as she had seen before, a disturbing stranger. The dark, still-handsome face was no longer young. It had thinned and hardened, it was difficult to hold with any serenity the gaze of the haunted eyes. She shook her head a little, dumb with fright; and her fear showed in her wide eyes. There had been changes enough in the world about her in these past terrifying months without this. With all her self-centred little heart she wished him away from here, far away, back into the world of make-believe, where he was her handsome knight, bravely and steadfastly defying danger, her shield from afar, undemanding. This dishevelled, distressed, urgent, aggressively male flesh-and-blood man was more than she could take with no warning, no chance to prepare. ‘Later,’ she said, almost choking on the word. ‘Later, Sasha, I promise. But not now – please – not now.’

  * * *

  They made love in darkness and almost in silence, Margarita frantic that Petra, asleep on her pallet in the kitchen, should not hear them. Afterwards, Sasha lay for a long time, naked and still beside her, looking into the darkness, trying not to think of her mouth closed against his, of the rigid rejection implicit in every tense line of her smooth body as he had caressed and entered her, of her turned head, of the sense of total isolation that had overcome him at the moment of climax. Of her turned back afterwards, the relief in her long drawn breath. He’d had more loving, more warmth, from the camp-following whores who’d tested his coins with their teeth before grinning and lifting their skirts. The tears that brimmed and finally ran down his cheeks were cold.

  In the distance, faint and menacing, he fancied he heard gunfire.

  He turned on his side, shivering, the blankets pulled to his ears.

  And allowed into his thoughts, as he did at his most desperate moments, his salvation, his Valentina; courageous, down-to-earth, laughing and warm. Valentina and her poetry, her fiercely argumentative nature; the passion of her loving. Valentina; thin as a boy, far from beautiful, intransigently independent. His love.

  She lay not much more than a mile from him. Who lay with her tonight? Did she ever think of the young man who had saved her from the Cossack horsemen? Had
she forgotten him?

  No. Oh, no. Of that he was certain. As sure as the coming of death, as sure as his hope of heaven, Valentina would not have forgotten him.

  Margarita lay rigid, her back to him, feigning sleep.

  * * *

  The leave was not a success. They visited friends and family. They promenaded in the parks and beside the river. He took her for tea at the Europa, and to a performance of the Imperial Ballet at the Narodni Dom. He spent money that would have fed them for a month on a meal at the Villa Rhode, on the Islands, where they were entertained by Tzigane musicians and dancers, the leader of whom, to her great pleasure, took an especial shine to Margarita, serenading her soulfully as she sipped the house’s second best and strictly illegal champagne. But they did not – could not – talk; and their lovemaking was always the same; hurried, silent, unsatisfactory and always under cover of darkness, an activity that Margarita endured rather than enjoyed, and never, ever, instigated. Neither did she ask a single question about his life, his experiences, or his fears. And in return he volunteered nothing, not even the information that the new posting was back to active service, that this was the reason for his unexpected leave, the last favour his General had been able to afford him. Effort was being made at last to reform the aristocratic ‘officers’ club’ of the Stavka; there were no more easy billets. Sasha was being sent to Riga, where the Russian forces were still stubbornly holding out. He sweated at night, thinking of it. But he did not tell Margarita.