Watching the dark humour in his eyes, Anna wasn’t sure how seriously to take him, but there was something romantic about the idea of a whole second civilisation beneath her feet. It made her think of the strip club and her Soho friends that only ever came out at night, as if drawn into town by the rhythm of promised music and laughter and the buzz of neon as the sun went down.
They were only a few feet away from her car, and the driver opened the rear door, the gloom within uninviting, and Anna sighed. Her little day-time adventure was over. In the distance she could see the peaked towers of the Ukraine reaching dauntingly into the hazy sky, waiting to suck her back into Robert’s world. Her world now. Whether she liked it or not. She bit the inside of her mouth. She would like it. She did like it. It was an easy life.
She tilted her chin upwards. ‘It seems that it’s time for us to say good-bye. Thank you so much for your very charming company, Gregori Ivanovich. If the art doesn’t work out, I will be more than happy to give you a reference as a tour guide. ’ For a fleeting moment she saw his eyes linger on her lips and felt once again the frisson of the unspoken attraction, the whirs and clicks of the game playing out.
‘Perhaps it doesn’t have to be good-bye.’ He pulled a small notebook and pencil from his pocket and scribbled on a sheet before ripping it out and handing it to her. Arbatskaya. And then the word written again in the strange shapes of the Cyrillic script. ‘I would very much like to use you as a model for one of my dolls. I think you would make one of my best works, and I don’t yet feel ready to say farewell to you.’ He smiled. ‘If you find that you are free this evening, then take the Metro from the Kievskaya station outside the hotel four stops to the Arbat. When you leave the station, the old Arbat is on your right, a long pedestrian road. You won’t miss it,’ He flashed his dangerous white teeth. ‘It is a place that comes alive at night. That’s why I like to work there. By day, the shops selling the memorabilia of the revolution rule, touting the posters and badges that we all must wear to prove ourselves. But by night?’
He leaned in, brushing his lips against her cheek with his whisper. ‘By night the Arbat belongs to the vodka-drinking Bohemians.’
‘I’m not sure that I’ll be able to....’
He shrugged, cutting her off. ‘If you come, you come, and I shall immortalize you in art. If not, then it has been a pleasure, if only a brief one, to know you my Anya.’ He winked. ‘As we say in Russia, dos vidanya.’ He kissed her hand before turning and walking away.
Anna watched until he had disappeared into the milieu of Red Square. He didn’t look back, and that made her smile. Maybe he was going to be as good at this game as she was.
The room was stifling when she returned, the old windows refusing to open, as if not even air was allowed freedom to move without the state’s permission, and drawing the heavy curtains Anna peeled away the clingy skin of her dress and lay on the bed. Beneath her the sheets were pulled tight into regimented hospital corners, their tension palpable even with the bedspread over them. She stared up at the ceiling and at nothing as her mind drifted contentedly through the memories of the morning. Her new admirer was interesting, that was for sure, and she wondered how he would react if she danced for him. Not like Robert had done certainly, all wide-eyes and open lust, and for a moment she imagined herself back in the club, but this time it was Gregori Ivanovich watching her dance, his dark eyes following her twists and turns, watching her as if she was a beautiful object rather than an object of lust. But still, she thought, closing her eyes and savouring her private darkness, how they viewed her was almost irrelevant. It was always with desire of some kind. I would like to use you as a model for one of my dolls.
Sleep crept in at the corner of her eyes and she let it take her into vague dreams of haggard strangers that she could almost see hiding in dark corners, their faces twisted, all of them staring at her as she danced.
It hadn’t taken much to convince Robert that she had a headache, given that she was fast asleep when he’d returned back. His disappointment at what she would be missing out on almost made her smile as she slid under the covers and allowed him to fetch her some aspirin and bottled water. The Bolshoi held no interest for her, ballet too technical and anodyne to truly enjoy, all about the story and classical music instead of the freedom of movement that she loved. And having sampled a Russian dinner for the past two nights, the idea of more vegetables in aspic and home-grown too-sweet champagne in the company of fat men and their dour wives held no appeal for her.
‘I probably won’t be home ‘til after one, sweetheart.’ He said, gently kissing her on the forehead. ‘I’ll try not to make too much noise.’
Her heart thumping, she waited in bed for twenty minutes after he left, just in case he popped back, and then, when she was sure he had definitely gone for the night, she leapt up and into the shower. It was seven o’clock, which gave her a safe five hours until Robert got back, and, she reasoned as the water ran steaming through her hair, even if he came home before her she could always say that she’d just gone out for some fresh air. He wouldn’t question her. He never did.
Wanting a different look, something that she could feel good dancing in, she left her hair loose and pulled on some ripped jeans that sat suggestively on her hip bones, and a tight-fitting black vest top. Jane had liked her in this outfit best, in the days when they used to disappear into the London nights and taken them by storm. It made her look wild and sexy, and tonight that was exactly how she wanted to feel.
Checking her handbag to make sure she had her passport and money, she tugged on her boots and headed out into the night.
It was eight o’clock when she took the stairs down into the opulent marble of the Kievskaya Metro station and although there were still a few people milling about, mainly young people wishing there was somewhere to go, rush hour was over for the day and she was alone as she pushed her five kopeks into the turnstile slot and passed through to the long escalator leading down to the trains. The walls were mosaic, with glorious images of Stalin and Lenin and the people of the Revolution, and Anna was surprised at how superior the décor was to that of the grimy London equivalent.
The platform was clean, with a huge open space between it and its counterpart for trains going the other way, that was filled with a huge bronze statue of Lenin, one arm raised with a flag lifted high, and around it were circular seating areas. Looking at the map against the wall, Anna checked that she was on the right side and then waited, peering into the dark gaping tunnel. Behind her legs she felt a blast of warm air and, looking down, saw a large square vent.
No one else being on the platform with her, she crouched and peered into it thoughtfully, her conversation of earlier with Gregori still fresh in her mind. Surely there weren’t whole communities of people living down there in the dark and gloom? That couldn’t be. She waited, peering through the grate until a train rumbled by somewhere else in the system and another stream of air rushed past her face. She wasn’t certain if it was her imagination, but she was sure it carried the warm, sweet, but sickly scent of birth and death and everything in between.
A little disgusted, she stood up and was pleased to hear a train approaching on her platform. She turned in time to see a small, huddled figure in a black, hooded coat, pressed against the far wall by the mouth of the tunnel. Anna’s brow furrowed. Where had she come from? The stairs from the turnstiles and escalators above led into the mid-point of both platforms. She was standing only a few feet away from them, so surely she’d have heard or seen someone else arriving. How odd. Something about the way the figure seemed to be staring unsettled her, and she was glad that the train was slowing to a halt.
From speakers above her head a female voice blasted out foreign words, but Anna was sure she heard Arbatskaya amongst them. She took one more look at the strange figure in black as the doors of the train opened and thought about the smell of the air coming from the vent. The only place the woman could have come from was the tunnel. It was the
only logical answer. Shivering slightly, she was pleased when the doors closed behind her and the train moved away, letting her mind look forward to the pleasures of the evening ahead and Gregori Ivanovich.
Her excitement was strangled somewhat when she stepped out of the train and on to the escalator and realized that the strange black figure was following her, a few steps behind, her reflection clear in the brushed steel of the parallel stairs. There was something repellent about the cowled woman, and, although Anna wasn’t afraid, she did feel unsettled. Still, eager to leave the ugliness behind, she started to walk up the moving stairs rather than letting them carry her. The woman behind did the same, even though she seemed slightly crippled, her back hunched over a little too far, and it must have taken some effort to keep up a matching pace.
Irritation washed over Anna. What did the woman want? Money? If she was a beggar then why didn’t she come straight out with it and ask for something? She peered cautiously over one shoulder. The woman’s face was down, but from beneath the hood Anna could see that her skin was covered in lumps or boils or symptoms of some kind of disease. One thing she was certain of was that she didn’t want the hag any closer to her. The idea of being touched by such a creature made her feel slightly nauseous.
Gratefully exiting the station, Anna immediately saw the long cobbled street to her left, the strains of a Beatles track wafting out of it, old fashioned lantern-style streetlamps spread out evenly in the centre, shedding a pale yellow light. It was the Arbat, immediately recognizable from Gregori’s description. As she hurried down it, she was aware of the woman, the thing, that was following her, now trying to catch up rather than just keep up.
Moving quickly across the cobbles, well trained in managing the high-heels of her boots, Anna passed a small bar that was the source of the music. One neon light hung above it, the tiny dark space seemingly filled with young men and women talking earnestly and sucking hard on cheap Russian cigarettes. No-one was dancing.
From another establishment a little further up, a group of men had taken a table and some chairs out into the muggy air of the street and were drinking shots of Vodka and laughing loudly, their easels and paints leaning up against the wall behind. Anna was pleased to see them, and at least if the woman tried to grab her there would be someone to help. Always aware of the disfigured creature’s silent approach behind, Anna searched for Gregori’s shop, and as she passed the group of men they wolf-whistled and called out to her, the words unfamiliar, but the language universal. She smiled at them, enjoying the way the calls increased as she sashayed away from them. Gregori must have heard them too, because he appeared from a darkened doorway, stepping out into the street so suddenly that it made her jump.
‘So you came, Anya.’ Although dressed in the same outfit as earlier, the suit jacket was gone, his shirt now untucked and loose at the neck.
‘Yes, yes,’ she looked behind her, to see that the figure had stopped a few feet away and now hesitated. ‘But someone was following me from the train…that woman.’
Gregori looked up and his face hardened. ‘Wait here.’
He ran over to the woman who had turned to go, and Anna watched as he spoke angrily to her, visibly terrifying her. After a moment he calmed down, and after talking quietly, Anna saw him reach into his pocket and hand her some roubles. She scurried away, and he returned to Anna, his smooth smile back. ‘Just a beggar woman. She shouldn’t have frightened you.’
Anna watched as the figure ducked into a side street. ‘You were very angry with her. For a moment I thought you maybe knew her.’
He laughed. ‘Thank you, but I prefer my women beautiful. I just did not want her upsetting you. Or waiting for when you returned.’ He stroked her face. ‘Now come inside and drink some vodka, and let me immortalize you.’
The interior of the small shop was lit only from the cabinet lights, and she peered into them as he led her towards the door at the back. The mahogany cases were divided into individual show spaces and within each were one or two dolls, all female and engaged in some daily activity, their positions natural. Looking through the first few displays, the high prices marked on small hand-written cards, Anna could see that he was a talented craftsmen, but it was only when she reached the silver cases along the back wall that she gasped. There were no price tags on these dolls, and Anna knew why. They were priceless. As good as his great-great uncle’s or maybe even better.
She stared at the one closest to her, the figure of a blonde woman in an expensive dress, one hand on her hip, her head thrown back as she laughed, hair falling loosely over her face and shoulders. She was stunning. The doll was stunning, and for a second Anna was glad that she would never know the woman who modelled for this, a small hint of green envy digging at her.
Gregori came alongside carrying two small glasses with thick brown liquid in them. ‘Do you like my work?’
She nodded, still staring at the doll. ‘Those other ones are good, but these, these are…,’ she hunted for the right word, ‘these are magnificent.’ The laughing blonde doll seemed to be taunting her, challenging her, and she turned to her host. ‘Tell me. Are you going to make one of me like this one, or like those others?’
He smiled and handed her the shot glass. ‘One of these of course, beautiful Anya. I think you could be my best doll yet.’
The answer pleased her. ‘Will you make one of me dancing?’
He nodded. ‘A dancing doll. Like one of my great-great Uncle’s, but better.’
Anna grinned victoriously and knocked back her drink, the unexpected heat of it making her lose her breath and then giggle. ‘What is this? I’ve drunk some vodka shots in my time, but this is something else.’
‘Pepper vodka. Vodka Russian style, thick and passionate. The opium of the masses.’ He took her hand and she let him. ‘Now come. Let’s go to the workshop, drink some more, and find some music for dancing!’ He laughed, and, her face glowing from the heat of alcohol and freedom, she laughed with him, high on his promise to immortalize her beauty.
The vodka was strong, that much was for sure, and as she poured and drank her fourth, time became as thick as the liquid, moving slowly around her, viscous to her mind’s invisible touch. The small studio was lit only by one strong white spotlight above a slightly raised dais in the centre of the room, clean against the dusty floor. A few feet in front of the platform stood a workbench with a small pottery wheel. Next to it was a table with a bowl of dirty water, a cloth and a container that Anna presumed held the clay or whatever substance it was that Gregori’s great-great Uncle had invented to make his beautiful dolls.
Even with her head giddy, the equipment seemed too crude to fashion the detailed work that filled the cabinets in the shop, and she wondered how talented his hands must be to work such magic. She swayed to the disco music that was playing from the tape recorder on the floor, the vodka evaporating any few inhibitions she may have had. The tune wasn’t one she knew, the words foreign, but it had a good beat, and it pumped through the soles of her boots. For a moment she felt as if she’d been transported back to her old life, and in her hazy mind she was surprised at how happy that made her feel. The predator in her was alive again.
Hair falling seductively over her face, she grinned at Gregori who lay on the mattress in the corner, resting up on one elbow, watching her from the gloom. Maybe she would sleep with him after dancing for him, maybe not. But one thing she was sure of was that he would want to. And maybe that would be enough.
She stepped up onto the dais, enjoying the heat of the light on her. ‘Are you ready to immortalise me, then?’ She turned in a mock pirouette, and, laughing, Gregori pulled himself to his feet and peeled off his shirt. From under the work bench he pulled a different bottle, this time of flame-red liquid. He filled his own glass and then one for her. ‘Let’s make magic.’
His pale chest glowed in the light and for a second Anna wanted to lean forward and run her tongue along the muscles there, but it could wait. She lifted her g
lass to his and then drained the drink in one, in harmony with him. Expecting the harsh burn of vodka, she was surprised by the sweet warmth that slid down her throat, filling her chest and stomach and then exploding outwards through her nerves and capillaries, her entire body tingling.
Somewhere in the depths of her mind a small part of her thought she should be concerned. However, the heat was too good to ignore and, abandoning the voice inside that clamoured of drugs, she lost herself in the sensations. Seated at his workbench, she saw Gregori reach into the container and scoop out a lump of shiny, pink clay; the wheel starting to turn; and his hands shaping it while never taking his eyes from her. Watching the spinning wheel, she had the strangest feeling that something inside her was spinning too, but her mind was too numb to think about it, and she was sure it couldn’t be important. Nothing seemed particularly important apart from her urge to dance. Vaguely she realised that the music was louder, and rolling her head backwards she started to move, lost in the light and the rhythm, the pink liquid and the spinning wheel.
Time passed in a kaleidoscopic blur and despite the alcoholic haze, somewhere deep inside, Anna was sure that she was dancing better than she had in her whole life. Her limbs and joints were fluid as she bent and stretched, hips twisting expertly, her hair slick with sweat down her back.
At some point, she dimly became aware that her heels and toes were blistering, or maybe bleeding, inside her boots her feet felt wet, and her knees were starting to ache, but she couldn’t stop herself moving as if she and the wheel and the music were all tied in together. The foot pedal that was driving Gregori’s pottery wheel was also driving her body, the control over it no longer hers. Cramp shot up through her right calf and she tried to cry out, but her voice didn’t seem to work anymore. Panic and exhaustion fought for supremacy in her synapses and the bright light above filled her head, her movements so fast that it seemed like a strobe. Somewhere behind her eyes, tears formed, tears of confusion and fear, and her last thought before she passed out was of Robert and the realisation of how much he loved her.
Mister October - Volume Two Page 14