“They just brought you gifts?”
“Da.”
“Why?”
“She is my friend,” she whispered.
He almost laughed out loud. This woman and Valentina. But he recalled again how she’d stood in the rain. And then, still, she’d returned to this place. As if she cared.
“Who are you?” the woman croaked.
“I work for her father.”
“The minister?”
So she’d told them that much.
“She came once before,” the woman mumbled. “With her sister.”
Now he understood. This must be where Popkov tracked them to the day of the march on Morskaya, and Valentina had not forgotten the kindness.
“Where does your husband work?” he enquired.
“Raspov.”
The foundry on the edge of the city. Immediately he went back to the table, lit a cigarette for himself and one for the husband, then prodded him awake.
“Here.” He offered the smoke.
The man took it with ill grace and sat up bleary-eyed. “You still here?”
“You work at the Raspov foundry.”
“So what?”
“You have many apprentices there.”
“What of it?”
Abruptly the woman started to retch, and Arkin rose quickly to put a zinc bowl in front of her. He reached over to pull up the blanket but jumped back in shock. Three faces, tiny and gray as stone.
“Leave them.” Her voice was a faint whisper.
Sorrow for her lay like lead in his chest. “I know a priest,” he said softly. “May I bring him here?”
Her wretched eyes clung to his as she nodded. He headed quickly for the door, stopping only to shake the man by the shoulder. “Sleep it off, comrade. I will be back and I shall want to talk to you about your Raspov apprentices.”
The man looked bemused. “Why?”
“Because I have a job for them.”
Twenty-two
VALENTINA DIDN’T GO STRAIGHT HOME. SHE SAID SHE couldn’t, not yet. Jens bundled her into a drozhky and took her to his own apartment, but he was acutely conscious of the impropriety of doing so. A young woman after dark without a chaperone, but neither of them could bear to face a public place right now, with strangers’ eyes inspecting her disheveled and stained appearance.
“Valentina,” he said, “let me dry your hair.”
She was seated in a deep armchair, and its high sides swallowed her small frame. Her hands lay white as bone in her lap. He approached her with a towel, and she looked up at him for the first time, a quick flash of her dark eyes. He let her hold on to her silence while he unpinned her hair and stroked its damp strands with the towel, slow rhythmic sweeps that ran from the crown of her head where the hair was wettest. It fell in a dense mass of waves that clung to her scalp, outlining the elegant shape of her skull. He dried them right down to the tips where they danced and curled, teasing his fingers.
The intimacy of the task was immense, more intimate than a kiss. He perched on the arm of her chair and she sat with her head slightly bowed as he dried it, so that time and again the strands would fall forward, revealing the pale slender stem of her neck. At one point he cupped her chin in his hands to hold it steady while he rubbed gently at the top of her head, but still she said nothing. Just let her chin sit in his palm, as if it belonged there.
He continued to stroke the dark mane long after it was dry, first with the towel and then with his hand. It sparked within its shimmering depths as he lifted it and entranced him with the way the light rippled within it like moonlight in a restless night sky. He relished the silky sensation of it on his skin and the way it slid smooth as ink between his fingers.
He leaned his head down and kissed the nape of her neck.
HOW DO THEY LIVE LIKE THAT?”
She was talking now. He had fed her pirozhki and a glass of hot chocolate, tempting her out of the dark place she was hiding in. He was seated on the sofa opposite her, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, enjoying a glass of red wine. He was trying to distract her.
“Do you know,” he asked, “that over half of the wine produced in France is freighted to Russia. Can you believe that? We drink more wine than any other nation on earth.”
He often caught himself using we. We Russians. Our country. As though he were one of them, someone from Perm or from Tver.
“I couldn’t live like that,” she said staring into the fire. “Not like that.”
He knew she was not going to let it go.
“We all live,” he responded quietly, “the best way we can.”
“I would rather be dead.”
“I doubt that. And anyway,” he added, “I would come each day and light your fire for you. And dry your hair whenever it rained and brush out the tangles when the wind caught it.”
She lifted her head.
“Then when the summer came,” he continued, “instead of attending glittering balls at Anichkov Palace or lavish meals at Donon’s or nights at the ballet in diamond-studded evening gowns, I’d walk you in your rags down to a quiet spot on the banks of the Neva and we’d eat boiled eggs and dangle our feet in the river.”
Her head turned. Her eyes met his. “And music?” she asked in a solemn voice. “In this new world of yours, would there be music? Or no piano for me, no opera, no ballet?”
“Of course there’d be music,” he smiled at her. “You would sing for me to the music of water lapping around our ankles, and I would accompany you on my violin.”
Her mouth dropped open. “You play the violin?”
“Not play exactly. More like scraping out a few squawky notes that make a tomcat sound musically accomplished by comparison. But,” he hurried on, “I would improve, I promise.”
She laughed. “You warned me before to beware of the Neva River,” she pointed out. “You told me it was polluted.”
“Well, that’s the advantage of having a sewage tunnel engineer to steer you to the right spots. I know all the secret nooks where the fouled currents don’t reach.”
“Is it really so polluted?”
He didn’t want to have this conversation. He shrugged. “It could be cleaner.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I’d rather play my violin for you.”
Her eyes grew round as coins, and he was embarrassed. Only a visiting mouse had ever listened to his playing. She scooped up her knees to her chest and balanced her small chin on them with a stubborn tilt. He was tempted to pick her up and pop her in his pocket.
“Play,” she commanded.
He stood, gave her a deep bow with an elaborate flourish as though doffing his cap to one of the Romanov grand duchesses, and said, “I am totally at your service, mademoiselle.”
He meant it. But he wasn’t sure she knew that yet.
DON’T!” JENS INSISTED. “I can’t help it.”
“It is unkind.”
“I know.” Valentina collapsed into great whoops of laughter again. “Unkind to human ears!”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Jens frowned at her sternly, bounced his violin bow against the neck, and tapped his foot with mock impatience on the polished floorboards. He was standing in the middle of the room, violin tucked under his chin as comfortable as an old friend. He’d been performing a section of Bizet’s Toreador Song for her, but paying it scant attention. It was lively and made her laugh; that was all he cared about. She’d seen too much today. Now he wanted her to laugh. She did so with the total abandon of a child. Her nose turned pink, her lovely mouth burst wide open, and her eyes scrunched up, bright with tears. And the dark glossy wings of hair that he had dried and smoothed so lovingly broke loose and took flight around her as she rocked with noisy laughter.
She was still young; he had to remind himself of that. Young and vulnerable.
He placed the violin and bow down on the table with a clatter, glared ferociously at his audience of one, and stalked over to
the sofa where he sat down, stiff and offended, arms folded across his chest. But she wasn’t fooled for a moment. She flung herself out of the chair and pounced like a hungry cat on the patch of sofa beside him. She laid a hand on his wrist and tugged his arms apart.
“We must teach these fingers,” she laughed, holding up his left hand, “these culprits!” She threw back her head with delight and rolled her eyes at him, then tenderly pressed the tip of each culprit to her lips as though forgiving them. “Teach them to know what they’re doing.”
Did she know, he wondered, what she was doing?
“I shall find you a teacher,” she declared.
“Can’t you teach me?”
“No, no.” She grinned at him. “Anyway we’d only end up shouting at each other.”
He tweaked her pink nose. “That might be fun.”
“I don’t shout at Anna, Dr. Fedorin’s daughter, when I teach her the piano but that’s because she’s well behaved. I have a feeling you wouldn’t be well behaved.”
Their eyes held, and he knew the moment lasted too long when he heard a tiny gasp seep out from between her lips. He looked away because she’d seen too much of what was in him.
“Valentina, it’s time I took you home.”
She half-lowered her lids, looking up at him through her dense eyelashes, and he was certain that if he didn’t get to his feet now, he would never do so. He retrieved his hand as a first step, but the look on her face froze him to his seat. It was naked. Openly revealing her need for him, dark and desperate.
“Jens,” she whispered, her eyes fixed on his, “I am frightened of losing you.”
“You will never lose me, my love. You and I belong together. Don’t you realize that?”
He curled an arm around her, drawing her closer, and she leaned into him, snuggling her head on his chest as though trying to listen to his heartbeat. He held her there. Only their breathing sounded in the room, light and even, as they matched each other breath for breath. For a long time they sat like that, watching the light from the fire throw shadows that crept nearer, nudging their knees and hiding in their shoes. Jens kissed the top of her head, warm and musky.
“Jens.” Her voice was thick. “Tell me who you are.”
No one had ever asked him such a question before. He thought about it and started to talk. About his childhood spent on boats and beaches in Denmark, about building things, with pebbles, with rocks, with driftwood. About a bridge design that won him a prize, about a boat that sank and nearly managed to drown him and his dog in the gulf. He owned up to his passion for engines, for machines, for anything that possessed moving parts. He talked about the Wright brothers in America and Louis Blériot in France.
“Aeroplane flight,” he said. “That’s the future. You’ll see.”
He felt her smile. She didn’t believe him.
“Your parents?” she queried.
He kept that part short. His father’s printing business in Copenhagen, their arguments when Jens informed him that he wanted to study engineering instead. The disappointment in his mother’s kindly brown eyes. He still wrote to them once a month, but he hadn’t been back to Denmark for five years.
“I am Russian now,” he declared.
“As Russian as a giraffe.”
He told her more about his hopes for Russia and his longing that it would find stability through talking and compromise, not through violence. But he didn’t mention the war he was certain must come; he kept his fears locked away from her. Gradually he felt the weight of her head on his chest increase and sensed the melting of her body into the lines of his own. Her hip molded against his hip.
“Tell me about the countess’s son.”
So it was then that he told her about Alexei.
“Alexei is Countess Serova’s son, only six years old. You’d like him, Valentina. He has such courage.” His fingers stroked her slender shoulder. “Like you,” he said under his breath. “Just like you. You have to understand, my love, that I can’t desert Alexei. I can’t turn my back on the boy. His father, Count Serov, cares only for his own gaudy life at court and his mistress in her lavish apartment on the English Embankment. The countess is angry. She resents the boy because . . .”
He let his words trail away. Natalia Serova’s emotions were far too complex to untangle so simply. He put his lips to Valentina’s cheek, inhaling again the hospital smell rising from her uniform, and wrapped both arms around her, rocking her, holding her. “Be generous, Valentina,” he whispered. “Let me keep Alexei. I have grown to love the boy, and he is not to blame for my mistakes with his mother. She and I are finished. Don’t ever doubt that.”
To his surprise she let the subject lie untouched. Instead she lifted her mouth to his and kissed him fiercely, erasing all memory of other lips, imprinting her own. Laying claim. Her fingers undid the buttons of his shirt, stumbling over them, and her palms brushed his skin, tentative at first. But when he ran a hand down her spine, seeking out the delicate curves under her uniform, she grew bolder. Her hands caressed his naked chest and her lips tracked down the beat of his heart.
He kissed her neck, tasted her skin, felt her hair trail like threads of silk over his ribs and smelled the musky scent of her. Not of her uniform, of her, the slender hungry creature inside it. His desire for her raced through his veins and he forced himself to his feet.
“No, Valentina.” The words came out roughly. “No, my sweet love, you are too young. You must go home.” The words cost him dear.
Her gaze fixed on him so intently that he had to force himself to look away. Yet her voice was soft and teasing.
“How old were you when you first made love to a woman?”
“That’s not the point.”
“I think it is. You made the decision for yourself. Now I am doing the same.”
She stood up slowly and without hesitation proceeded to undo the many buttons on her cuffs and bodice. She didn’t look at him but concentrated on what she was doing as if she were alone in her room. He stood there, his back to the fire, and watched her. Watched her when her arm emerged from a sleeve and he saw for the first time the pale secret skin of her shoulder, the way it gleamed in the firelight, fresh and smooth as buttermilk.
He watched while she untied the laces of her stays and he could see clearly the form of her ribs under her camisole. He watched as she removed her wool stockings, balancing on one leg with the ease of long habit, rolling down each stocking with care, revealing slender white thighs. He must have breathed, but he was not aware of it. His heart must have continued beating, but he was sure it had stopped. It was as though for this moment he lost all ability to do anything but watch her.
She dipped her head, allowing the sleek veil of her hair to fall forward so that he could not see her expression when she slid out of her last garments. She stood naked before him and, God forgive him, he wanted her more than he wanted his own life.
“You are beautiful,” he said softly.
She lifted her head and smiled at him. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes darker than he’d ever seen them. Her breath came in short swift gasps. If he put his lips to hers, he knew they would be hot.
“I love you,” she said.
The nakedness of her statement was more overwhelming than her beautiful body. Naked in its simplicity. In its trust. He stooped, picked up her cloak that was drying in front of the fire, and walked over to her. So close he could see a faint sheen of moisture between her young breasts.
“Valentina, if you don’t wrap up in this right now,” he said sternly, swinging the cloak around her shoulders and fastening it under her chin, “I shall ravish you in front of the fire.” He refused to look at the expression in her eyes. “Now dress your exquisite self once more while I fetch us a drink.”
He walked from the room. In the kitchen he leaned over the sink, ran cold water, and splashed it over his face and throat. He poured himself a shot of vodka and drank it down.
“Valentina,” he murmur
ed, “what is it you’ve done to me?”
He gave her time. After a few minutes had passed, when his pulse was steadier and he thought she’d be dressed, he refilled his own drink, poured out a lemonade for her, and, with a glass in each hand, walked back into the room. Immediately a long groan escaped him. The light was off and she was stretched out on the reindeer rug in front of the fire, the glow of its flames dancing over her skin, painting her naked body golden. A wide smile greeted him.
“Are all Vikings so slow to ravish their women?”
WAS HER SKIN DEAD BEFORE?
It must have been. Pale, lifeless, and limp. Because it came alive on the reindeer rug in a way Valentina didn’t know was possible. She no longer recognized this extraordinary covering on her body as hers. Each pore, each fine layer, each smooth unexplored part of it possessed a separate existence of its own that only needed the touch of Jens’s lips to bring it to life. The hollow of her throat, the inner curve of her elbow, the thin coating over each individual rib. Now they vibrated with life. When he kissed the underside of each breast, his tongue warm and moist as it circled up toward her nipple, it was as if her skin started to re-form. To become something other than skin.
Her fingers twisted his shirt from his shoulders, and she laid the flat of her hands on his chest, on his back, feeling the ridges of muscle. Exploring the structure of him, the sinews, the hard lines of his bones, her hands learning the intimate shape of him. She could feel the heat within him. Or was that radiating from herself, from the blood racing from her heart to the tips of her fingers?
When she tasted with her tongue the path of coppery curls that rose from his belt buckle to his throat, he uttered a sound she’d never heard before. It ricocheted up from somewhere deep in his lungs and somehow became a part of her, drumming in her head.
Quickly he slid out of his clothes and, with a noise like Thor’s hammer resounding in her ears, he carried her to his bed.
VALENTINA DIDN’T WANT TO LEAVE. BUT JENS MADE HER. She didn’t know how she persuaded her body to rise, to abandon the sheets that smelled of him, to lift her head out of the warm curve of his pillow. Her skin still felt his touch and her body was still shaking with pleasure as he lifted her into his carriage and drove her back to her father’s house. When the footman opened the door, she was certain he could see the change in her, smell the musk on her, and she hurried across the hall.
The Jewel of St. Petersburg Page 23