The Troika Dolls

by Miranda Darling

  Henning pulled the Jaguar into the lot and stopped in front of the entrance. Stevie was now sitting in the back seat, wearing the fur and a large pair of sunglasses.

  A thin man with gingery hair and a neat blue suit scuttled efficiently towards them and introduced himself as Gunnar Gobb, manager.

  The place at first glance had little to suggest a modern health clinic. The proportions were vast, a legacy of a more generous time, with heavy wood panels and perfectly polished herringbone floors. The lighting was dim, with wall sconces and floor lamps with soft fabric shades illuminating the vast rooms. A wildly floral carpet in raspberry, turquoise and gold ran the length of the hall.

  The reception opened into a vast circular room with triple-height windows that looked out over the woods to one side and the precipice to the other. On the other side of the river, right on the edge of the cliff, Stevie could now see the ruins of a small castle.

  Turquoise velvet curtains ran from the moulded plaster ceiling to the floor. Groups of three or four heavily upholstered armchairs squatted around hexagonal coffee tables, and a small glittering bar nestled under a raphis palm on one side. Somewhere, a pianist was playing Chopin and, above it all, a huge panelled skylight let in the day.

  Henning did all the talking. Stevie had assured him up-and-coming starlets never spoke directly to hotel staff and the arrangement suited her rather well as she was feeling particularly light-headed. This she blamed on nerves rather than toxic after-effects of Australian snake venom.

  Gunnar Gobb took Doctor Meinetzhagen’s reference and filed it.

  ‘A nurse will be sent to Miss Duveen’s room,’ he informed them crisply. ‘A cure programme will then be drawn up for her, including rigorous diet and therapeutic treatments. Medications will also be pre-approved for administration. A psychologist will see her in the morning.’

  ‘I don’t think a psychologist—’

  Grunnar Gob neatly hemmed Henning’s protest, ‘We at Hoffen-schaffen believe in, shall we say, the holistic approach. A psychologist, I think you will find, will be most enlightening.’

  Grunnar Gobb’s wide smile repelled all argument.

  The rooms in the sanatorium were palatial, furnished with armchairs in pale velvets, a thick navy carpet, heavy curtains and a large bed covered in a crisp white coverlet. On the door, a small brass plate with the name of the room: Piz Buin.

  There were several windows with a spectacular view of the trees in the mist, the ruined castle, but no balcony, which really was quite fortunate because straight below the window was a sheer drop to the bottom of the gorge. The indigo river ran invisible between the rocky walls, the sound echoing upwards so you could hear it even with the windows closed.

  If you fell, Stevie thought, you would fall forever.

  Stevie’s medical check took place in the west wing of the sanatorium: heated stone floors laid in seamless blocks and lights with ice-blue bulbs. On one side, the rock wall of the mountain was laid bare, the mica flecks in the granite glittering, fools gold.

  It was warm and very quiet. A uniformed nurse pushed Stevie, now safely ensconced in a wheelchair, past the sauna and steam rooms. Henning followed close behind. Huge steel buckets of ice water teetered on the end of a rope in a shower area. A mound of snow, also lit with blue light, gathered in a stone basin to one side. On the other side, a wall of water jets waited.

  They were shown the swimming pool. Here too the lights were dim and the effect was odd—so different to the bright fluorescence of ordinary indoor pools. Tiled in dark blue ceramic, and with the steam rising off it in tails, it looked more like the entrance to some ancient underworld than a centre for hydrotherapy.

  The nurse whisked them on. Stevie’s sunglasses made it difficult to see properly in the half-light and her fur coat overflowed from the wheelchair, dragging along behind like a royal train.

  The nurse had not turned a hair at Stevie’s get-up. They obviously got all kinds at Hoffenschaffen. Stevie had thought it best to be prepared for anything, even if she wasn’t quite sure what that anything would be.

  They moved on through the dim corridors, past Turkish baths, hydrotherapy pools, shower rooms, massage rooms, meditation caves, treatment suites, and exercise studios filled with pilates balls, wooden frames and mysterious machines. Stevie thought she spotted a gyroniser—Sandy Belle’s awful spinning machine—and was relieved that exercise was forbidden on her programme.

  The nurse stopped at a door marked Prüffenmitte—testing centre. ‘Please,’ she gestured. ‘This way.’

  The room was not overly large, the walls tiled in gleaming white. Various electronic monitoring machines mounted on wheels stood neatly along one wall. A huge treadmill stood in the centre of the room, hoses and suction cups hung off it like some horrid mechanical squid.

  The next hour passed—was it really only an hour?—in a jigsaw of tests for Stevie. The nurse’s cold, chalky hands took her pulse, listened to her heart, undressed Stevie completely. She stuck her with needles and drew blood through butterfly tubes, efficiently, without speaking.

  Out came a pair of callipers and Stevie’s skin was pinched all over, apparently an effort to measure subcutaneous fat percentages; Stevie was deemed undernourished by an uncompromising wall chart, her reflexes were tested, her pupils, ears and nostrils examined.

  The whole process felt surreal. Stevie felt rather helpless in the face of all the technology, the efficiency, the charts, the cream-coloured boxes that housed the gas chromatograph and a mass spectrometer for testing blood. She was glad of Henning’s solid presence just outside the door.

  Finally the nurse called him back in.

  ‘The preliminary results of the blood test can only determine which basic category of toxin is present. Miss Duveen’s blood contains a venom of some kind.’ Here the nurse paused and raised a querying glance at Henning. He made no comment.

  ‘The samples will now have to be tested for specific toxins within that category,’ she continued. ‘Certainly we can say at this stage that Miss Duveen has poisoned herself quite severely. With what, it remains to be seen.’

  The nurse’s tone was as hard and perfect as a ceramic bowl.

  ‘It’s been a rough month, shooting film after film,’ Henning lowered his voice and bent his head towards the nurse, taking her into his confidence. ‘Oscar week is always an emotional time for actors . . . She’s very sensitive. All actors are, you know, it’s part of the craft.’

  The nurse’s expression betrayed nothing.

  Stevie was impressed with Henning’s performance. He really was very convincing. She realised her hands and knees were quivering, possibly from her exquisite sensitivity, more likely from the effects of the poison which remained in her system.

  The recommendations for Stevie’s treatment programme involved multiple steam-room visits, ice baths, and a rigorous diet plan. The nurse finished by snapping a green plastic bracelet on her wrist, the kind they use in hospitals and at music festivals.

  This mission was not going to be all sugar flowers and sunshine . . .

  The psychologist came at dusk, knocked efficiently at the door. Ste-vie, still fragile from her battery of tests, fled instinctively into the bathroom.

  ‘Henning, I can’t possibly. Tell her to go away.’

  ‘The manager was really very firm on this point, Stevie,’ Henning said through the bathroom door.

  ‘Are you mad?’

  ‘Are you afraid of what she’ll uncover?’ Henning was obviously amused, which Stevie thought quite unseemly.

  ‘Of course I am. Any sane person would be. Now tell her to push off.’

  She locked the bathroom door. Through it, she could hear Hen-ning, charming, persuasive, smooth as Carrara marble; the psychologist’s voice at first sharp, then softening to his tones. It was a side of Henning she had not yet seen. It surprised her that he could be so . . . effortlessly seductive. She was shocked to find that she felt almost—and irrationally—jealous.

  A
soft tap on the bathroom door, then Henning’s voice. ‘She’s gone.’

  Stevie unlocked the door but kept it shut.

  ‘You might be interested to know,’ he said, the by-now familiar amusement dancing in his voice, ‘even without meeting you, she was able to suspect you were suffering from a schizophrenic withdrawal from people.’

  Stevie really had no comeback in the face of science. She was starting to feel like an experiment.

  ‘However,’ Henning continued, ‘considering that you are on the run from Russian assassins, withdrawal would seem to be the sanest state to be in, wouldn’t you say?’

  Stevie opened the door and poked her head out.

  ‘I like the way you think. Now, how about a sundowner?’

  ‘I’m not sure they have a minibar. This is a sanatorium, you know.’

  A crestfallen Stevie emerged from the bathroom. ‘I suppose you’re right. But Doctor Meinetzhagen did say it was okay . . .’

  From deep inside his herringbone overcoat Henning produced a flask. ‘For emergencies only. But I think a visit from the sanatorium psychologist counts.’

  Stevie laughed and impulsively kissed Henning on the cheek, her hand on his chest. ‘I just adore you.’

  He grabbed her delicate wrist and held her there.

  Stevie’s pulse thundered in her ears. ‘Henning . . .’

  They were standing too close—balancing on that finest line that separates friends from lovers. Stevie hesitated—moving even a millimetre forward was a commitment she wasn’t ready to make; but she couldn’t quite bring herself to step backwards either.

  Didi’s phrase filled her head over and over, pushing out all other thoughts like a torrential stream: ‘in the arms of another’.

  Stevie’s lips parted before the words were ready to be spoken.

  ‘We don’t do this, Henning.’ Her voice was barely a whisper. ‘This isn’t us . . .’

  Neither of them moved.

  Suddenly the memory of Joss flashed in Stevie’s mind, the gold python eyes, how close she had come to danger. She couldn’t kiss Henning just to forget Joss Carey.

  She turned her head a fraction and broke the spell. Henning was worth more than that.

  The floor began to swing slowly from side to side. Stevie realised her heart was pounding as if she had run up six flights of stairs; she could feel her pulse beating on her skin, her temples, her stomach and it made her feel queasy. Unsteadily, she reached out for the armchair.

  Henning gripped her upper arm and lowered her gently into the chair. His other hand was on her wrist. ‘Your pulse is racing. Should I call a doctor?’

  Stevie groaned. ‘No. I feel . . . like a feather in a gale—no, more like an egg in a blender. It’ll pass.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Henning said, seeing Stevie’s hand reach for his flask, ‘the whisky could wait . . .’

  The pale hand stopped. ‘Au contraire, Henning.’ Stevie gave a wan smile. ‘I think it will be just the thing.’ The hand completed its journey.

  ‘I’ll tell you a story about this place.’ Henning sat down on the chair next to her and took custody of the flask again. ‘It’s rather sad.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Stevie, feeling decidedly better as the fire water warmed her empty stomach. ‘I need a treat after my afternoon with Rosa Klebb and her pinching henchmen, to say nothing of being diagnosed as a social misfit. My dignity may never recover.’

  ‘See the castle there, on the other side of the gorge?’ Henning pointed through the window. The light was fading fast but the ruin could just be seen. ‘It was built in the Dark Ages, before Switzerland existed, when it was a cluster of cantons and principalities. In this castle there lived a prince. Everyone was always at war with everyone else and this particular castle was under siege by the army of a Teutonic king.

  ‘The prince and his men fought valiantly against the enemy but they were massively outnumbered and the inhabitants of the castle were slaughtered to the last chicken. Only the prince remained and fought on, mounted on his white war stallion.’ He took a swallow of whisky from the flask.

  ‘The Teutonic king very much wanted to catch him alive and present him as a prize to his people back home. He was a rather glorious prince. The invaders chased him to the tip of the cliff, right there.’

  Henning pointed to the northern-most tip of the castle, to a rocky ledge just below the walls.

  ‘They were convinced now they had him,’ he continued. ‘He was trapped on his horse with nowhere to go. But the prince showed no fear.

  He dismounted and tied a blindfold gently over his horse’s eyes. Then he got back into the saddle and, with a magnificent battle cry, spurred the horse forward.’ Henning pocketed the flask and finished the story in a single breath.

  ‘Stallion and rider sailed over the cliff and into the void, dying in a blaze of glory and evading a humiliating surrender.’

  Stevie was silent, picturing the scene. ‘Poor horse,’ she said.

  ‘He wouldn’t have jumped if he hadn’t been blindfolded,’ added Hen-ning, his eyes on the fateful ledge. ‘The prince had to take him with him.’

  ‘Like the Egyptian pharaohs who took their cats into the tombs—’

  Henning turned back to Stevie. ‘The early pharaohs took their servants, too.’

  ‘Rather awful really.’

  ‘People were possessions back then—I suppose sometimes they still are.’ Henning began searching the pockets of his overcoat, looking for a cigarette. ‘And the horse in this story was a symbol, as much as the prince.’

  ‘They fell to their freedom, I suppose.’ Stevie’s thoughts were far away, with the long-ago prince and the white stallion. ‘I’m not sure I would make the same choice. I think I would be less brave and more inclined to try to make the best of a bad situation.’

  ‘Ah, but you are not a prince,’ said Henning. ‘The sovereign is a symbol, as much as he is a man. “The king is dead, long live the king” and all that.’ He found a cigarette, slightly crumpled, and began smoothing the paper with his fingers. ‘It wasn’t the flesh and blood the marauders wanted, it was what he represented to the Teutonic king. And by jumping, the prince stole the sweetness of triumph from his enemy.’

  Stevie closed her eyes, sealing the memory of the prince in her mind. She knew she would want to think about him again. Then she glared at her friend. ‘Remind me not to let you plan our escape if things go awry here. I don’t plan to leap off any cliffs, no matter who comes after us, or what I might mean to a Russian assassin or whatnot.’

  Without any warning the lights went out and they were left in darkness. A voice came through the PA—there was a PA system? Stevie hadn’t noticed—‘Lights out and time for rest, liebe Gäste, schlafen Sie gut.’ The melody of ‘rock-a-bye baby’ drifted through, soft music.

  Stevie was incredulous. ‘We have a bed time?’

  ‘You have a bedtime,’ Henning retorted. ‘Obviously you haven’t read the recommendations for your treatment.’

  ‘No. That was your job as my assistant, Henning.’

  Stevie heard him chuckle softly. ‘I thought it would be fun to surprise you.’

  With the lights off, Henning’s voice had become rather desperately seductive, velvet in the dark. Was she going mad? Stevie wondered.

  She didn’t want him to go back to his room. She wanted him to keep talking.

  ‘Will Kozkov have a state funeral?’ she asked, keeping her voice low and neutral.

  ‘I imagine so,’ Henning replied. ‘If we can get the Russian channels here we can watch it—I’m sure they will televise it. Everyone self-importantly sorrowful, mourning a man they are glad to see gone.’

  Stevie shivered and leaned close to Henning’s voice. But hadn’t the moment already come and gone? Hadn’t she been the one to turn away? Only somehow it was easier in the dark to let go of—

  Stevie interrupted her wayward thoughts. ‘I often think about Irina and Vadim . . .’

  Henning flicked the steel whe
el of his lighter and put the flame to the tip of his cigarette. Stevie watched as the fire momentarily lit his face then was gone, leaving only the glowing tip of the cigarette to float in the dark.

  Why had she never noticed how attractive Henning was? Not classically handsome, but powerful and rugged, rather like the mountains themselves . . .

  Was this the venom in her blood talking? Was she hallucinating? Or was she seeing things more clearly than she ever had before?

  What did she really know about Henning anyway, if she thought about it? Stevie made a quick list of the things she did know about him:

  —Henning loves oysters and steak.

  —He prefers gin and tonics to champagne, whisky after dinner. He says it gives him sweet dreams.

  —He is very strong and tall but he has feet like a cat and is gentle.

  —He is a surprisingly good dancer.

  Stevie wondered what it would have been like to kiss him.

  Breakfast was usually Stevie’s favourite meal of the day; the promise that got her out of bed in the morning. Feeling stronger physically, she made her way to the vast breakfast room well before Henning. She was surprisingly ravenous.

  Breakfast was laid out in the Panoramahalle, a vast rectangular room that doubled as a viewing gallery for the mountains above and the gorge below. A buffet was spread out on several long tables in the centre of the room. One was covered in muesli of all kinds: bran, flax, linseed, lecithin granules; the table next to it held mountains of stewed fruits and several jugs of green, orange, red and purple juices. There were the obligatory meat and cheese platters and then the bread table filled with every kind of loaf.

  Stevie was delighted. Things were looking up.

  Gunnar Gobb was striding efficiently around the room, stopping at each table to greet the guests. He showed Stevie to a table by the window.

  ‘I hope you rested well last night, Fräulein Duveen?’

  ‘Very well. Thank you.’

  ‘Sleep is the bedrock of good sense. It is all too often dispensed with, and we see the consequences of it here in Hoffenschaffen.’