by Jasper Kent
For now I could only take pleasure in my memories. I turned away from the reflection in the glass and stared directly at Nadya. She closed her eyes and pretended to sleep, but that didn’t matter. My recollections were not for her benefit. They were not even for mine, though as the body I occupied took pleasure from them, inevitably I did too. But primarily I did it for Danilov. He had been separated from his lover for several months. How he must have missed her. I knew from his dreams that he did. I would help him to remember every inch of her.
I stood up abruptly and paced across the compartment, trying to dismiss Iuda’s thoughts from my mind. They were a little less sullied if they came from my memory rather than his, but it was still the case that he would be able to enjoy my recollections to just the same extent that I was revolted by his. Two heads turned towards me in reaction to my movement – Dmitry’s and Polkan’s. Perhaps Nadya genuinely had fallen asleep, or perhaps she was determined not to react to me – to Iuda – in any way. Dmitry raised an eyebrow to enquire as to what was the matter, but I shook my head briefly to say it was nothing. He returned his gaze to the window, his eyes seemingly able to penetrate the gloom which mine could not.
I sat back down again. I knew that I had to occupy my mind, and I had plenty to occupy it with. Despite Iuda’s claim to openness, he was still hiding things from me – things that he didn’t fully understand himself. But I could discern from him the overarching belief that if he could just make a slight change to Susanna’s plans, if he could just ensure that it was he who revealed Ascalon’s unknown power to Nikolai, then somehow he would be free of me – and I of him. As he’d acknowledged, my next desire would be his immediate death and he would guard against it, but it would be a chance – the only possible pathway I could discern to regaining all that I had lost. But despite that I could not ignore the fact that if he was to leave me he would require a body of his own. There was only one candidate that I could envisage: the former tsar, Nikolai himself. It was a gargantuan price to ask anyone to pay for my freedom, least of all a cousin, however unacquainted we might be. But how much more had I – my family – done over the decades to protect his? And I would be free of Iuda.
That was the best outcome I could envisage. It was an improbable one, and though I might strive to achieve it, I knew I must also prepare for more likely eventualities. I stood up again and leaned across Nadya, hoping not to wake her. Despite the revolution and the coup, this was still a first-class carriage and it was still maintained as such. In a pigeonhole fixed to the internal wall there was writing paper, envelopes, pens and ink. I took what I needed and sat back down, pulling the collapsible table out from the arm of the chair so that I could use it to write on. At times the train ran over rough sections of track, and I’d keep my pen away from the paper. At others we would glide smoothly, and I would write as quickly as possible in the time I had. Throughout I kept a fierce concentration, on the lookout for Iuda’s influence, remembering how he had previously managed to inveigle his way into my consciousness and slip those few treacherous words into one of my letters to Nadya – words that had been her undoing.
Once I’d written the letter, and signed it, I read it back through, trying to analyse every sentence, every word, to verify that it truly expressed what I had intended to say; that it had not been adulterated by some twisted lie that issued from Iuda’s imagination. As I read, I noticed I was dropping off. It was the small hours of the morning now. I hadn’t risen early, but since dusk – since Dmitry had walked into our prison cell and set us free – I hadn’t had a moment’s pause. I forced myself to focus, to read the words in front of me, but I began to doubt my own judgement. Could it be Iuda who was making me drowsy? If he’d managed to commandeer my thoughts for long enough to make me write something that went against my heart, might he not also be able to distract me at just the moment I read it? And yet I could see nothing untoward.
I tapped Dmitry’s ankle with my foot. He wasn’t asleep, and turned to see what I wanted. I handed him the letter. I leaned forward so that I could speak softly, all the time looking over at Nadya to see if she was awake – if she reacted.
‘Read this,’ I said. ‘Tell me I wrote it.’
His only response was a frown of incomprehension.
‘Read it. You know Iuda. Tell me if there’s anything you think he might have written rather than me.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘You being?’
I tutted. ‘Just tell me who you think wrote it, and if there’s anything in there that’s … amiss.’
It didn’t take him long, and he read it again to be sure. ‘There’s nothing here that sounds like Iuda. But it doesn’t sound all that much like you either.’
‘You don’t know me.’
‘You mean what you say in this?’
‘If it comes to it.’
‘And how are you going to do it?’
I paused. ‘I was thinking of asking you to.’
He leaned forward further so that our faces were scarcely an inch apart. He glanced over at Nadya. ‘That’s a lot to ask,’ he hissed.
‘You’ve done it a thousand times, and not given a shit about it.’
‘I’ve only once killed a friend – killed someone who put his trust in me. His name was Milan Romanovich. My second ever meal. It seemed like such fun at the time, but his face haunts me, even now.’
‘I need to put my trust in you. And I don’t want you to drink my blood – I just want you to kill me.’ I thought of telling him he could drink my blood too, if it would sweeten the deal, but I knew the suggestion would insult him.
‘You want me to?’
‘I may want you to. I don’t know how things will turn out. But I want you to be ready, to be prepared if I do ask.’
He turned back to the window. I could only feel pity for him. How could he ever have guessed that his life would come to this, that he would be begged by his own nephew to end his life? I was luckier. Mama had raised me from the cradle to be ready to face my dark fate. I’d had a respite of forty years, but I’d never been truly convinced. That it should end like this came as no surprise.
‘How will I know it’s you who asks?’ he said, still gazing out into the black emptiness of the Russian night.
‘Would Iuda ask it?’
‘Who knows? In the right circumstances. He’d want to die if it meant he became a vampire.’
‘You’ll just have to make a decision.’
‘You’re happy for me to pass judgement on your life? And on his?’
‘I’ve done as much in the past.’
‘I could ask you one of those questions – about history.’
‘It might help, but Iuda’s had time to learn. And how could you know he hadn’t taken charge the moment after I’d answered? Whatever happens, dyadya, it’ll come down to you.’ The use of the word dyadya – uncle – fell somewhere between sentimental and manipulative, but it didn’t seem to bother him. He thought for a moment longer, then turned to face me.
‘I can’t promise what I’ll do,’ he said, ‘but I’ll try to do what’s right.’
He handed the letter back to me. I folded it and put it in the envelope. I wrote the name of the addressee and a few specific instructions. But I did not seal it, not yet. Dmitry might do his best, but I couldn’t rely on him. There were other ways. I leaned back in my seat and began to search my memories. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but I knew the effect I was after. Most of my recollections of Iuda I’d already revealed to him – his imprisonment in Geok Tepe, his battle with Zmyeevich, his death at my hands. I knew that they might bear fruit, but I’d used them all before, perhaps too often. I needed something new – something that had only occurred to me recently.
I’d first seen it a long time ago, but had looked at it with idle curiosity many times since. It was a single sheet of paper that I’d found hidden between the pages of one of Iuda’s notebooks. It was a charcoal drawing, initialled and dated:
S.M.F. 22.iv.1794
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Iuda would have been in his teens then, Susanna – and I was now sure that she was S.M.F. – much the same age she appeared to be now. The picture must have meant something to Iuda for him to have kept it so long. It had all made sense to me down beneath Saint Isaac’s, when Susanna had thought us to be Zmyeevich and had offered us her blood. When she began to undress and our eyes fell upon her breasts I’d felt from Iuda a rush of emotion such as I had never guessed could exist within him. It was more than simple lust, it was … nostalgia – the aching desire to change wrong decisions made long ago. That was when I had begun to understand the drawing – the image of one of those breasts, created by Susanna’s own hand. I examined it in my memory, admiring the way it blurred to nothing where it would have joined the body, the way the slightest strokes of charcoal gave it the appearance of illumination, the way that such imprecise draughtsmanship gave so precise an impression of reality. I enjoyed the image, sexually as well as aesthetically, imitating Iuda in his emotions when he looked at Nadya, partly to goad him, but more to remind him of how he had once surely felt.
And then I sensed his momentary absence. It was like the sudden, fleeting loss of gravity when the wheel of a car drops into a depression in the road. Iuda had withdrawn into himself, either to hide from the memory, or to relish it alone. It was the same way he had managed to insert that one sentence in my letter to Nadya, but now I had learned from him. I slipped my hand into my pocket and found what I wanted. It was small enough to fit next to the letter, but it made the envelope bulge. I was still able to seal it. I put the whole thing into my pocket. I couldn’t tell whether Iuda had yet returned, but it would not be long. My safest course of action would be to sleep. I didn’t find it difficult.
I was awakened by Dmitry shaking me. I opened my eyes. Nadya was asleep, as was Polkan, curled up beside her, his head resting in her lap. I looked up at Dmitry.
‘It’ll be dawn soon,’ he said.
Out of the window it was still black as pitch.
‘You sure?’
‘Less than an hour, but we won’t be in Moscow by then, and I have things to do.’
‘Things?’
‘To get ready for the rest of the journey. I can’t travel like this during the day. But who knows, we may even end up on the same train.’
‘I’m not going by train,’ I said.
‘A car won’t be any faster.’
‘I have a better way, if it works.’
He didn’t ask for further explanation. Instead he handed me an envelope. I tried to push the thought of the letter in my own pocket from my mind. ‘When you get to Moscow,’ he said, ‘I want you to make arrangements for a package to be transported – a large crate. It’s to be picked up from the address in there and delivered to the post office in Tobolsk.’
‘I don’t imagine they’ll treat you as a high priority.’
He reached into his pocket and took out another roll of banknotes. ‘Use as much of this as necessary. You’ll probably need the rest yourself.’
‘They’ll just keep the money.’
‘I think not. Read it if you like.’
The envelope wasn’t sealed. The letter, signed by Dmitry, said the same as he’d told me. The address was in the town of Khimki – it was on the railway line, twenty versts or so from Moscow. But it was the notepaper on which it was written that would persuade whoever I handed it to. Unlike my letter, the heading was not that of the railway company. It was of an organization with a typically longwinded title:
Всероссийская Чрезвычайная Комиссия по
Борьбе с Контрреволюцией и Саботажем
The All-Russian Emergency Commission for
Combating Counter-Revolution and Sabotage
The initial letters of those two words – Ч and К – formed the much simpler title of ‘Cheka’.
‘You’ll probably get there before I do,’ I said.
‘I doubt it. The journey will be reasonable to Tyumen. They should be able to load me on a truck from there, but if not I’ll have to wait until dark and make my own way to Tobolsk. Nikolai’s under house arrest at the Governor’s Mansion. I’ll try to meet you there.’
‘Why Khimki?’
‘I know some people,’ said Dmitry.
‘What do you mean, “people”?’
‘I think of them as people.’
‘How far is it?’
‘We’ve just crossed the Skhodnya. It won’t be long.’
‘We must be close to where she died,’ I said.
‘She?’
There were two women who had died here, minutes apart. Mama had witnessed both events. But only one of them would matter to Dmitry. ‘Raisa Styepanovna,’ I told him.
‘I never really knew,’ he said mournfully. He had reason to be sad – Raisa was the one who had transformed him into a vampire. He had loved her in life and in undeath he had been as close to her as any voordalak is to its ‘parent’. ‘Iuda drove her half mad with his magic mirror. That’s why I understood what an awful thing it was to do to Ilya. After that it was difficult to perceive her thoughts.’
‘She was pushed under a train – beheaded. It must have been very quick.’
‘I assume it was Tamara who did it.’ He followed up quickly, as if apologizing. ‘Don’t worry – I’m sure she had her reasons.’
‘Actually it wasn’t Mama, though she was there. It was my grandmother, Domnikiia.’
Dmitry snorted. ‘I never liked that woman.’ As he spoke I thought I saw half a smile on his lips. In the past I would have defended her, but not now I knew the truth, not now that I’d seen her with Iuda. And yet she’d sacrificed her own life that day in order to save her only daughter – my mother. She spent the best years of her life in exile with Aleksei. Could she really be condemned for one act, however cruel?
‘Can I ask you a favour?’ Dmitry’s words interrupted my thoughts.
‘What?’
‘That icon you wear, the one of Jesus. Can I have it?’
I felt myself pale at the very thought of giving it away. My hand instinctively went to my chest to touch it, and I noticed that it was hanging in front of my shirt, not hidden inside it as usual.
‘What would a vampire want with the image of Christ?’ I asked.
‘You know as well as I do that it’s just a myth about crosses and things. And I don’t want it to bring me closer to God, either.’
‘My mother gave it to me,’ I said. My voice sounded pathetic, like a child’s. I knew I would have to give it to him if he insisted – it was so little to ask for what he had done.
‘And her father – my father – gave it to her. And his wife, Marfa, my mother, gave it to him. I think it really belongs to my side of the family.’
I could hardly argue with him. I reached up and pulled the chain over my head. I looked at the image one last time. Mama had always said that she pictured Aleksei as looking like that during the years they were apart – she could hardly remember his real appearance. Now I’d seen Aleksei face to face, thanks to Iuda’s memories. There wasn’t much direct resemblance, but there was an air to Aleksei, a sense of reassurance that he exuded, that explained why Tamara’s earliest memories of him had become confused with the image in the icon.
I held it out and he took it from me. I curled my fingers a little as the silver chain slipped through them, as if trying to keep hold of it. I felt the little knot where it had once been hastily repaired. Neither Mama nor I had ever known what had broken it, but now Iuda had shown me. It had happened long ago in 1812, when the vampire Andrei ripped the icon from where it hung around my grandfather’s neck.
Dmitry put the chain over his own head and tucked the icon into his shirt. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘I don’t suppose your comrades in the Cheka will be happy to see you wearing that.’
‘I don’t suppose they will.’ He pulled down the window, causing light flakes of snow to billow into the carr
iage. ‘We’re not scheduled to stop at Khimki, so I’ll be disembarking the hard way.’ He looked over at Nadya, who was still asleep. ‘Best not to wake her. Just say goodbye for me.’
He raised his hands and held on to the baggage rack above the door, hanging from it for a moment as he pulled his legs up and swung them out through the window. He sat there, looking out. Now that the window was open I could just make out flickering hints of the countryside rushing past. He’d been right about dawn being close – it was starting to get lighter.
‘I’ll see you in Tobolsk,’ he said. He pushed off with his hands and was flung sideways as the air caught him. I thought I heard the thud of his landing, but it was difficult to tell over the sound of the train. There was little chance of his being hurt, as long as he hadn’t fallen back under the wheels. A few seconds later it got suddenly lighter as we raced through Khimki station. I didn’t really know the place, but it wasn’t a big town. He should easily make it to his ‘people’ before dawn.
I closed the window and sat back down again. Nadya was moving; the sound must have woken her. Her eyes were still closed, but she was stretching and yawning. When she finally did open them, she looked around blinking.
‘Where’s Dmitry?’ she asked. She narrowed her eyes and looked at me. ‘Did you do something to him?’
I laughed. There were two misapprehensions there: that I would and that I could. ‘You think I threw him out of the window? You think I’ve got the strength? Anyway, for the moment I’m me, not Iuda.’ I wondered why I’d not made that clear from the first. Perhaps I was just irked by her assumption as to who I was, or who I might be, however rational it happened to be.
‘So where is he?’ She still didn’t sound convinced.