by Jasper Kent
‘He threw himself out. He couldn’t stay on the train; it’ll be light soon.’ I tried to expel any trace of annoyance from my voice; what I was going to say next mattered. ‘He asked me to say goodbye.’
‘Isn’t he coming to Tobolsk?’
It wasn’t an argument I wanted to have – not yet. ‘I’ll explain when we get to Moscow.’
*
The sun was just peeking over the buildings as we stepped out on to Kalanchyovskaya Square from the Nikolaievsky Station. It had the same name as the station in Petrograd and if I’d cared to look behind me I’d have seen that it was a very similar building too. The terminus was a little narrower, but the central section of the façade with the distinctive clock tower was almost indistinguishable. And why not? They were built to mark the ends of Russia’s first major railway – it would be wasteful to create two designs where one would do. As to the economy of names, they had once been distinct, but with Tsar Nikolai I dying within five years of the line’s completion, it was inevitable that one or other station would be named after him. Neither city would relinquish that honour, and so they shared the name.
We’d already made arrangements for Dmitry’s package – for Dmitry – to be collected and delivered. The Cheka letterhead and the cash made it all very simple. If everything went according to plan, it should be an easy journey. He would come in, as we had, to the Nikolaievsky Station and then it would take just the short haul of a porter’s trolley to carry him across the square to the Yaroslavsky Station, the terminus for the Great Siberian Way. I could see it from here: a bizarre building designed, like the Church on Spilled Blood, to emulate the architecture of a bygone age. It fitted in better here than it would have done in Petrograd, but it still appeared preposterously contrived, certainly for something as modern and functional as a railway station. Just opposite us they were rebuilding Kazansky Station – people sometimes just called this ‘Three Station Square’ – and had chosen to do it along similar lines to the Yaroslavsky. It was as yet unclear how the final building would turn out; it could hardly be worse than its prototype.
I headed across the square to the tram stops, looking at the signs for the one I wanted – a number four, if things hadn’t changed too much since I was last here.
‘Why don’t we go straight to the station?’ asked Nadya, pointing at the monstrous building. ‘We can’t let her get too far ahead of us.’
‘I’m not going by train,’ I said. ‘And anyway, we’ve got to find somewhere for you to stay, first.’
‘What?’
We joined the queue for the tram. It wasn’t so very long, but I doubted we’d make it into the first car that came along.
‘It’s too dangerous,’ I whispered to her, not wanting those around us to hear.
‘I’m staying with you,’ she replied in a similar tone. I was lucky there were so many people near by. Nadya wanted to argue, but would be loath to cause a scene.
‘Either way, we’ll need a place to stay when we come back here. And someone has to look after Polkan.’ The dog looked up at the sound of his name, then returned to taking in his surroundings. He’d never been to Moscow before.
‘You seem to have this all very well planned.’
This part of it, I did.
We stood in silence as one tram came, filled up and left without us. Five minutes later another arrived and we managed to get on, though we couldn’t find a seat. I was older than most of them and Nadya was a woman, but still no one offered. The tram rumbled down Myasnitskaya Street and towards the centre of the city. Soon we were in Lubyanka Square, nowadays dominated by the grand, monolithic edifice of the All-Russia Insurance Company. I wondered how long it would be before it was seized by the Bolsheviks to turn into some state building with a preposterously long name. I couldn’t see them being happy with so capitalist an institution as an insurance company for very long. We circled round Red Square and the Kremlin to the north. It was only when we crossed Tverskaya Street that we got a decent view – the Resurrection Gate leading into the square and the tower at the northern corner of the Arsenal. Already within the ancient walls the Bolshevik government that had fled Petrograd would be establishing itself in the old – and now new – capital.
We turned south and passed the Manège. It would have brought back memories for Dmitry if he’d been here; it was where he had trained when he first came from his home in Petersburg to join the cavalry. Then we reached the Aleksandr Garden, built on top of the Neglinnaya River. Somewhere beyond that, in a secret dungeon beneath the State Armoury, was where Aleksei had finally met his end, cradled in my mother’s arms. Almost immediately the tram turned west down Vozdvizhenka Street. We got off at Arbat Square and headed into the maze of little streets and alleyways to the southeast.
‘I know where we’re going,’ said Nadya.
‘Happy to be home?’ I asked.
‘Papa told me never to come back here; that he never wanted to see me again.’
‘I think it was me he never wanted to see again, actually.’
‘I don’t think he’s got anything against Polkan. We’ll send him in first.’
I managed a laugh and felt her squeeze my hand. We soon arrived at the foot of the set of five stone steps that led up to the front door. It was familiar, though it had been years since I’d been here. It was still a grand home, even though the paint was peeling around the door and window frames. The steps had been swept clear of snow, unlike those of the houses on either side. I began to climb, but Nadya held back. I turned to her.
‘Do you think it’s a good idea?’ she asked. ‘To invite Iuda into our house?’
‘He won’t be here for long.’
‘He doesn’t need long.’
I had no argument for her. All I could do was hold out my hand. She took it and we approached the door together. Polkan clambered shakily up the steps and sat at her side, away from me. I banged the heavy iron knocker. There was silence for almost half a minute, and then finally I heard soft, slow footsteps from within. Bolts and chains behind the door were drawn back and the handle began to turn. I remembered Mama’s descriptions of this house – the house where she had grown up – and half expected to see the face of Dubois, the butler, revealed as the door was pulled open.
Instead we saw the aged but unmistakable figure of Vadim Rodionovich Lavrov, Nadya’s father. He was thirteen years older than me, which put him in his mid-seventies. He looked us up and down, first Nadya, then me.
‘I thought you might come here,’ he said.
I was about to speak, but Nadya got there first. ‘We’ve nowhere else to go.’
He turned away from us and walked back into the house. For one dreadful moment I thought he was going to close the door on us, but he spoke as he shuffled away. ‘You’d better come in.’
Nadya and Polkan went first and I closed the door behind us. Vadim led us to a familiar drawing room. ‘It always comes to this,’ he said, offering us a seat. ‘The Lavrovs taking in the Danilovs.’
It was a fair enough comment, and also the reason I had felt confident that he would do the same as his grandparents had done in adopting Tamara, then aged just five, when Aleksei and Domnikiia went into exile. Nadya and I both smiled weakly, but said nothing.
‘Are things in Petersburg as bad as they say?’
I doubted that it was senility that made him forget the new name of the city. There were many of his generation that didn’t accept the change.
‘It’s not that things are bad,’ said Nadya. ‘It’s that they might be. The Germans are close. No one wants to risk being there when they arrive.’
‘Your bags are coming along later, I presume.’
‘We have nothing.’
He shook his head. ‘It’s a terrible thing, this war.’
‘You heard about Ilya, I take it.’ Nadya shot me a glance as I spoke, but I knew what I was doing.
The old man nodded. ‘His CO sent a letter. He died bravely, so it said. Somewhere in Romania.�
�
‘The First Battle of Cobadin,’ I added.
‘That’s right.’
‘I was always surprised he didn’t join the navy, like you and your father.’
‘And become one of those bastard traitors on the Avrora? Better for him to die in battle. He always wanted to be in the army – took after his great-great-grandfather.’
‘Vadim Fyodorovich?’
‘The man who brought the Danilovs and the Lavrovs together – for better or worse.’ He looked at us, one and then the other, smiling. ‘I was just about to eat. Come on.’ He stood up and made his way out of the room. I didn’t know when Nadya had last eaten, but for me it had been over a day. We didn’t decline the offer.
‘What does the dog have?’ he asked.
‘Whatever we leave,’ said Nadya.
Vadim chuckled. ‘There won’t be much for him today then. Don’t worry – we’ll find something.’
We entered the dining room. It was a huge, formal place, an inheritance from a different age. I had eaten here many times before, in happier days. Now there was just one plate, one knife and one fork laid out at the far end of the table.
‘The food’s in the kitchen,’ he said.
‘I’ll get it,’ volunteered Nadya.
‘We’d better lay a couple more places,’ said Vadim, but as soon as Nadya had disappeared through the door, I took him by the arm and pulled him to one side.
‘I won’t be staying long,’ I said.
He looked puzzled. ‘Why did you come, then?’
‘To bring Nadya.’
‘You’re leaving her?’ For a man who had so objected to our relationship, his horror at the prospect of my ending it was a surprise.
‘Not like that. There’s something I have to do. It’s too dangerous for her.’
‘Something to do with the war?’
I shook my head.
‘And not to do with the revolution either, I suspect.’
‘No, something else.’
He nodded, and looked into my eyes. ‘I understand.’
I couldn’t doubt that he did – really did. Neither Mama nor I had ever told any of the Lavrovs about the curse that plagued our family, but who could imagine what they had worked out over the years, what stories had been passed from father to son? They would never have guessed the entire truth, but they must have known it was something beyond the everyday disputes of mortal men.
‘When I come back we’ll find somewhere of our own, but at the moment we have nowhere.’
‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’ll look after her.’
*
It was a remarkably good lunch, or breakfast, or whatever the appropriate name for the meal was. There was even wine – a red Burgundy. Vadim explained that food was not quite so scarce here in Moscow as in Petrograd, simply because of the city’s location at the centre of so much farmland. But I suspected there was more to it than that. He had clearly been assiduous in making sure he knew where food could be purchased, and how much to pay for it. He was a man who knew how to look after himself.
From the moment I first saw him I was surprised how much he looked like his namesake, Vadim Fyodorovich. He was thinner, and frailer, and had no beard, but there was something in his voice and especially his eyes – I would never forget Vadim Fyodorovich’s eyes – that was unmistakable. It brought back memories; memories that I found strangely pleasing; memories that I knew Danilov would be enjoying too. I suspected that even Nadya might draw comfort from tales of the exploits of her heroic forebear.
After lunch we returned to the drawing room. Vadim almost immediately began to doze off. I looked directly at Nadya. ‘Of course, you know I met your great-great-grandfather, don’t you?’
Vadim turned his head towards me and half opened his eyes, but even if he heard it he didn’t seem to balk at the apparent absurdity of my claim. As Danilov had suspected, he surely knew more than he was letting on.
‘I suppose you did,’ said Nadya. It was enough to make it clear that she was aware of who I now was.
‘If you’re not interested, I’ll quite understand.’
She thought about it for a moment. ‘No,’ she said cautiously, ‘go on.’
I knew where my story would end, but I had to choose where to begin. It was obvious enough. ‘I first met Vadim Fyodorovich on the same occasion that I met Lyosha, in a room above an inn not far from here, just off Tverskaya Street. This was in August of 1812. It’s long gone now – half burned down in the Moscow Fire, the rest demolished not long after the war. To be honest, I can’t say I really noticed Lyosha on that occasion. Vadim was obviously their leader. Lyosha and Maksim Sergeivich were whispering to each other, giggling like schoolboys. But Vadim seemed to understand from the start how much we might be able to achieve.’
‘Tell me what he looked like,’ said Nadya.
‘He was a big man – no taller than average, but solidly built. He must have been in his …’
I think I enjoyed listening almost as much as Nadya did. And I couldn’t help but believe that Vadim Rodionovich was listening too, although he pretended to be asleep. Quite what he made of it, I didn’t begin to guess. Inevitably Iuda spoke of his encounters with Aleksei, which I enjoyed, but we were treading old ground. In the months together at the Peter and Paul he had conveyed everything he had to tell on that matter. But it was pleasant to hear a little more of Vadim and the others. I had the added privilege of being able to experience Iuda’s memories directly, as well as hear the descriptions of them that he gave to Nadya and her father. Inevitably, he lied, but it was only the necessary deceit of the raconteur – to make a story run more smoothly, to make a character more convincing. He made his relationship with Aleksei seem more one of good-natured rivalry than bitter confrontation. In truth, in those early weeks of their acquaintance, perhaps it was. And, of course, he never made any mention of Zmyeevich or of a voordalak.
Domnikiia cropped up frequently in both his mind and his words. That was to be expected. It was she who had come to live in this house with the unborn Tamara still growing in her belly. Iuda spoke of her with utmost politeness, but whenever he mentioned her name he ensured that an image of her naked, glowing flesh, passionately entwined with his, flashed across his mind. I don’t know whether he did it specifically to hurt me or simply because he could not block out what was evidently such a precious memory to him. But his words did not venture into that aspect of their relationship.
He told of their first sally out to meet the advancing French, and of the retreat back to Moscow, and of the evacuation of Moscow. I couldn’t help but feel that his descriptions of that were a little tinted by our recent experiences in Petrograd. But despite how much I was enjoying his stories, I had to ask myself what he was gaining from it. Was he trying to ingratiate himself with Nadya? Was he trying to delay our departure? Was he simply – and this was the least persuasive of them all – being nice? It did not matter. With him in charge there was nothing I could do, even if I’d wanted to. And I didn’t. I couldn’t ever imagine wanting to stop listening to the stories he told. And although I knew Vadim had died in the Patriotic War, I’d never discovered quite how. Perhaps I’d learn something.
‘… each of them in turn, but they had nothing more to say. Ioann and I turned away. We crossed Red Square, and passed Saint Vasiliy’s, following the slope down to the river. Ioann went his own way and I continued over the river by the old wooden bridge. I realized I was being followed before I was halfway across, but it was a long time before I had the chance to take a good enough look behind me to see who it was. The obvious candidate was Lyosha.’
I looked over at the old man. I was sure he was awake now, listening. Nadya stared at me with an intense interest. I could sense Danilov lurking somewhere. I hoped I’d have the chance to finish my story.
‘I headed west along the embankment and then crossed back over by the Stone Bridge. As soon as I’d gone around the Kremlin wall and got out of his view I ran as fast as
I could. The Neglinnaya was still an open ditch back then, so there were plenty of places to hide. I saw my pursuer pass and was a little surprised to find that it was not Lyosha, but Vadim. I should have guessed. I’m sure you don’t want to hear unkind things about him, my dear, but he really wasn’t the stealthy hunter that Lyosha was. Lyosha managed to follow a number of us without being detected.’
Nadya gave a slight smile, as if it was nothing. She was right, it was only the slightest speck of dust on her ancestor’s reputation. But my story was not yet told.
‘He looked around, trying to find me, and then took a guess and set off into the Arbat. Perhaps he even came this way, though I don’t think your family lived in Moscow then, did they?’
‘They were in Petersburg,’ muttered Vadim Rodionovich, without opening his eyes. ‘My father had just been born.’
I nodded. ‘That sounds about right. Well, I hadn’t meant for Vadim to lose track of me completely, so I ran after him into the Arbat and eventually managed to work my way through the side streets to end up in front of him. It’s really just as hard to get someone to pick up your trail as it is to lose them, I can tell you, but in the end he saw me, and believed I hadn’t seen him.
‘So then I headed home, or rather to one of the abandoned houses we’d been making use of. It was near Kuznetskiy Bridge. That was the quarter where all the French used to live, so nice houses – as you’d imagine – and they’d made a run for it earlier than most. I got a good way ahead of Vadim, but made sure that even through the darkness he would be able to see me as I entered. I wanted a little time to prepare. I left the door unlocked, so that he’d have no trouble getting in.’
Still they showed no sign of suspecting what was to come. Perhaps Danilov did, but for now he was unable to do anything about it. Soon it would be too late.
‘I went straight upstairs – we weren’t using the ground floor at all. I looked into one of the rooms, but closed and locked the door – I didn’t want Vadim going in there.’ I didn’t tell them why – the bodies of four French soldiers lay on the carpeted floor, their throats ripped out and their blood drained. Later on in the occupation, the room would become full, and then, once the French had departed, we – they – would begin to feed on Moscow’s native population.