by Kent, Jasper
‘Tyeplov, you mean?’
Yudin nodded. ‘It seemed like he had the perfect opportunity to have his revenge on you,’ he said.
The answer was all too easy. ‘You think he hasn’t?’ Dmitry wailed. ‘You think that for me to die there quickly wouldn’t have been a blessing compared with the state I’m in now? To go on living, knowing that the woman I love has been transformed into a creature like him?’
‘Love?’ asked Yudin simply.
‘Loved. She’s beyond any human affection now.’ It was the most categorical lie he had ever spoken.
‘Of course she is,’ said Yudin. ‘We found where Tyeplov was living, by the way.’ He seemed happier now to change the subject, if only slightly. ‘Gribov remembered the address where the letters from Raisa had been sent. It’s not far from the theatre. There was a cellar, and a coffin. I burned it – he won’t be able to return there. But … I found the letters.’ He reached into his drawer and placed a bundle of papers on the desk. ‘I suspect he destroyed the earlier ones.’
Dmitry ignored them. ‘Have you read them?’
‘I couldn’t bear to.’ Yudin paused, then spoke with an air of confidentiality. ‘I take it you were unaware of her condition.’
‘Condition?’ The word drove through Dmitry’s mind like a hot poker. ‘She wasn’t …’ He couldn’t bear even to imagine it. ‘My child?’
Yudin looked horrified to have put the thought into his mind. ‘No, no,’ he said quickly. ‘Not that. Almost the reverse. I’ve known for some months, I’m afraid – she was consumptive.’
‘What?’ It seemed so irrelevant now, after what had taken place, but somehow the idea began to penetrate Dmitry’s mind – to infiltrate it.
‘I don’t know why she chose me to confide in – perhaps because it’s I who knows you best. She didn’t even tell Tamara.’
‘She was dying?’ gasped Dmitry.
‘A few months at most, so they told her.’
For the first time in days, Dmitry heard music once again playing in his mind. It was the sound of hope. Dmitry felt as though he had been falling from a cliff and with flailing hands had grasped some thread of cotton dangling from above, something so fragile, so insubstantial, that only a fool would place hope in it, and yet which might save him. There was a chance that Raisa’s actions in some bizarre way made sense.
He snatched up the letters and began to read them. They were not the billets-doux he had been expecting – far from it. They were precise and rational – almost clinical. Of course, it was only half of a correspondence; Dmitry could not see what Tyeplov had written back, but each subsequent letter from Raisa implied that she had received the responses she had been hoping for. There were fragments that spoke to him as if she had been in the room, standing beside him.
And what of any disease that a man or woman might have been suffering before the transformation? Would such an ailment go on to afflict them once they had become like you?
In the next letter, she pressed the point.
And so even if the person were to be on the very verge of death, they would, on reawakening, emerge into a life of immortality? You can assure me of that?
It all made perfect sense. He could not condone her for seeking to escape death by abandoning everything that was good, but it was at least understandable. It was not whim, caprice or mere vanity. But there was more.
You tell me of the changes that would take place; the new strengths and the new weaknesses. But what of those things that remain the same? Could I still laugh? Could I still enjoy the sensation of a man’s arms around me? Could I still love?
And then:
You lead me to doubt you. I ask if I could laugh or love, or even cry, and you tell me that not only could I, but that those emotions would be a thousand times stronger than what I experience now. Why should I trust what you say? Why should you choose to help me? And yet, how will it benefit me to doubt you? You offer me my only hope.
Then there was the first mention, obliquely, of Dmitry himself.
Your candour can only do you credit. You are right; it is vain of me to think that you would do this for my benefit. I do not know what went on between you and Aleksei Ivanovich, but you clearly owe him a great debt and, I suspect, a little love. I can only thank God that you allow some of that obligation to be transferred to his son, and, through him, to me. I pray that he will choose to benefit from it as I do.
Dmitry glanced up at Yudin. His face carried that familiar, fatherly look of benevolence. He didn’t probe or question or attempt to force Dmitry into revealing what the letters contained, he simply waited, knowing that he would be told everything that he deserved to know.
Dmitry read on.
You tell me of the acts which you and I must perform together for my salvation to take place. I will not hide from you the fact that they terrify and revolt me, but I am not so timid as to shy away from them merely because of that. But the question on which everything must hinge is: will I, once transformed, be possessed of that same ability to make others (one other in particular) into a being such as myself?
It could only be that she received an answer in the affirmative. Her next letter expanded on it.
You make it sound so beautiful. The Bible talks of a man and a woman becoming ‘one flesh’ but what you speak of might better be described as ‘one soul’. And yet if that can be the state that exists between Dmitry and me, will not the same apply between me and you? If that one hurdle can be overcome, then I can foresee only bliss for us.
Then came the final letter. It was dated 14 August – just two days before the letter from Tyeplov arranging to meet her. That one had to be a response to this.
You have convinced me. There is so much that I must take on trust, but so much that I have to gain by trusting. It is only the faithless who have no hope of heaven. I am willing, more than willing, just as you tell me I must be. I can only hope that, when the time comes, Dmitry will feel the same. But I will not tell him beforehand. My act of faith must be my own. If he chooses not to join me, I will not blame him, he will be acting out of goodness.
Write to me and tell me when you will come. I am ready. I will be waiting. Come soon.
Raisa Styepanovna Tokoryeva
Dmitry lowered the final letter. He had not put any of them back on the desk, but let them rest in his lap. His face glowed with a mixture of passion and shame. He felt tears pricking at his eyes. He remembered what Tyeplov had said to him in Klin. ‘She’s ready for you, Mitka,’ and ‘She’s beyond death now.’ It all made sense.
‘No man likes to read of his own betrayal at the hands of the woman he loves,’ said Yudin.
Dmitry shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No. It’s not that at all.’ He tried to think what he should do, but in his mind there was only Raisa. He felt her pain, her indecision and her hope pouring out to him in every line he read. She had suffered so terribly, made so awful and profound a choice, and yet that did not mean that she had chosen correctly. He looked around the room. It was dark and dank and stuffy – no place to be thinking of her, of how he might regain her.
Yudin reached out his hand across the desk. ‘Might I see?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Dmitry, snatching up the letters and putting them in his pocket. He knew that it was perhaps the most stupid thing he had ever done, that if anyone had the wisdom to tell him how to act then it was Yudin, but for that very reason he feared Yudin’s opinion of what he should do might not tally with his own – even though, as yet, he had no opinion.
He stood up. ‘I’m sorry, Vasya, but I have to sort this one out for myself.’
‘You always have done, Mitka. And you’ve always come to the right decision.’
‘And forget what I said earlier. I do ask you to do nothing with regard to Raisa. I’ll deal with the problem, one way or another. Whatever happens, she’ll be out of your way.’
He turned and headed for the stairs that would lead him up to the fresh air.
‘Mitka!’ Yudin called from behind him. Dmitry turned. ‘Always act in accordance with your conscience. No man can ask you to do any more.’
Dmitry stared at him. It was as if he understood. Perhaps he had read the letters already – that would be like him. He would lie if it were necessary, but only to do good. Dmitry paced across the room and leaned across the desk to kiss Yudin on each cheek. Then he turned and left, knowing that he might never see his old friend again.
* * *
This was the fastest Tamara had ever travelled. The freight trains went at about sixteen versts every hour; the passenger trains at forty. The imperial train was unlimited by anything but the power of the locomotive pulling it, and the impetuosity of His Majesty. A conductor had told her that they would reach speeds in excess of fifty-five, but moments later a colleague had added that that was only because Aleksandr was more in favour of a smooth ride than a speedy one. Under Nikolai, he told her, they had sometimes got up to seventy. But even at today’s speed, the journey from Petersburg to Moscow would be completed in under fifteen hours. It was a quirk of tradition that even when Pyotr the Great moved his capital from Moscow to Petersburg, it had been decided that coronations would still take place within the Kremlin. Now that the railway had come, the decision seemed modern and far-sighted.
She had only had a few hours’ stop in Petersburg. The scheduled train had got her in at the usual time of nine in the morning, and the imperial train had departed that same afternoon. There were more dignitaries on board than had ever been gathered together on a Russian train, more even than when the line was opened. The imperial ultramarine coaches – there were only two in existence – had been hooked together, but that was only sufficient for His Majesty, the tsaritsa, the tsarevich and the other children, the dowager empress and perhaps a few others. Tamara did not even know if Konstantin was included in that august group. The rest of the train, apart from the two kitchen cars, was made up of compartmentalized first-class carriages, specially cleaned and repainted for the occasion, though some of them seemed to be running without occupants.
At the very end of the train there was one coach – open rather than divided into compartments, but still first class – where the likes of Tamara had their seats. There were agents of the Third Section and the Gendarmerie, officers of the regular police and middle-ranking employees of the railway. None of them was worthy of sitting among the nobility in the other coaches, but the imperial train would not pull any carriage that was not at the very least first class.
For now, Tamara chose not to sit. She stood outside, on the iron platform at the back of the train, watching the track vanish into the distance. She exhaled and watched as the smoke that she had drawn in from her cigarette was caught in the wind and dragged away from her. It was dark, almost midnight, but the train would carry on through the night and arrive in Moscow in the morning, leaving the imperial family a few days to prepare themselves for the great, once-in-a-generation spectacle that was the coronation of the Tsar of All the Russias.
The locomotive whistle blew and the conductor, who had been standing a little way away, moved to apply the brake. Even an imperial train needed to stop for fuel. The station they rolled into was Okulovka. Tamara threw her cigarette down on to the track and stepped on to the station platform before they had quite stopped. There were only railway staff on it – no passengers. It wasn’t a scheduled train, and even if members of the public turned up, they wouldn’t be allowed on to the station. They were free to stand beside the track and cheer, which during the day they had, but not to get too close when the train stopped.
Tamara was not the only person to alight quickly. From every carriage at least one figure got off and looked warily up and down the platform just as she had. She was not even the only woman. Moments later, as if responding to the command of some unseen choreographer, a number of the passengers disembarked as a single mass. Tamara focused on the imperial carriages, but there was no sign of His Majesty or any of his immediate family. Okulovka was only a second-category station, and so they would not be staying long. She looked too for Konstantin, but did not see him. That did not mean he was not there. While the tsar, a typical Romanov, would have stood above the crowd, his brother could more easily get lost among it.
Everything seemed quite relaxed. She had spoken to a few of the Third Section’s men who were based in Petersburg, and their opinion was that this was more for show than out of fear of any serious threat. The importance of a leader was reflected in how well he was guarded, and so a leader of Russia required the most guards of all. In her bag she carried the Colt pistol that Yudin had given her – for quite a different purpose – but she doubted she would have call to use it.
She walked up the platform, glancing at the faces she passed, and occasionally into the train. In the rear of the two imperial coaches she thought she caught sight of His Majesty, though she really only recognized his distinctive moustache. He looked pensive; for a man only three years older than herself, it was a great weight that had been thrust on his shoulders – but one he had been born to.
Then, on the platform, at the end of the very same carriage, she saw Konstantin. He was looking back up at the train, speaking to a woman Tamara could only guess was his wife, Aleksandra Iosifovna, who was looking down the platform, straight towards Tamara. Tamara was struck by how beautiful the grand duchess was. She had a reputation for it, but Konstantin had never described her. But then he wouldn’t, not to his mistress. Tamara could almost see something of herself in the woman. Their faces were quite different, but her hair had a hint of red to it, though darker than Tamara’s. Their builds were similar too – neither of them skinny, nor by any means fat; both with a full bosom and a body and limbs that curved gracefully. She was nine years Tamara’s junior.
Aleksandra turned to face her husband and, seeing her in profile for the first time, Tamara could only be surprised at the size of her nose. It wasn’t bulbous or even unattractive, just rather long. It was the only advantage that Tamara could see she had, at least in terms of appearance, but it was enough to cause her to smirk a little. At the same moment Konstantin turned and his eyes fell on Tamara. It was bad enough that he should see her at all, but that when he looked at her it was to see her sniggering at his wife’s nose was appalling. Tamara felt her face redden and hoped he had not guessed her thoughts.
Konstantin was a model of calm. He had seen Tamara, she was certain, but he did not bat an eyelid or waver for a moment in his conversation with Aleksandra. Tamara walked past, perhaps a little closer to him than she should have, but neither he nor his wife seemed to notice. She walked all the way down to the north-western end of the platform, where the imperial waiting rooms were situated, but none of the royal family had chosen to make use of them at this stop. She looked inside the Kartsov Restaurant, which was reasonably full – the kitchen cars on the train served only the imperial coaches, and so by now many chinovniki and other attendants were feeling hungry and thirsty. She paid her ten copecks for a cup of coffee.
After about a quarter of an hour, the restaurant began to clear as passengers reboarded and the train prepared to leave. Tamara remained until almost everyone had gone, then walked down the platform towards her coach at the back. She passed the imperial carriages, and then the compartmentalized first-class carriages where, on a scheduled service, families and individuals could enjoy privacy for an extra charge. She had just passed an open window when she heard a familiar voice.
‘Excuse me, mademoiselle.’
She took a step back and looked in through the train window.
‘Yes?’ she said.
‘Would you, by any chance, be interested in becoming a member of a very exclusive group of people?’
She raised an eyebrow and smiled, but said nothing. The door opened and she stepped inside.
The locomotive blew its whistle and the train rolled slowly out of the station and onward towards Moscow.
It was an honour, but Titular Councillor My
shkin could see it only as a curse. He was certain that of all the people on the imperial train, he was of the lowliest rank – and that probably included the driver and the stoker. He had only been invited on board because His High Excellency, Actual Privy Councillor Laptyev, still had preparations to make for the coronation and needed a secretary to write down his thoughts.
It was Laptyev who had called it an honour, but now he had fallen asleep further up the train with a bottle of vodka in his hand and left Myshkin to write up letters to three dozen dignitaries explaining precisely what the limits of their duties would be on the day. And a moving train was not an easy place to write a letter, particularly when accompanied by the loud snoring of an Actual Privy Councillor, and the raucous shouts of others who had not yet succumbed to the drowsy numbness to which so much celebration must eventually lead.
Fortunately, Myshkin had noticed a few empty compartments and so, while the train was halted, he walked down the platform and got into one, and now he sat there alone, trying to write. The problem was the shaking of the train. If Myshkin had not been so busy with his work, he would have been interested to make notes on how the amount of vibration did not simply increase with the speed of the train. When they had been going slowly, it had been quite violent, and then they had reached a velocity at which the train itself had seemed suddenly comfortable, calm even. If only the driver could have kept them at that rate of progress. Now they had speeded up further, and the movement was worse than ever.
Suddenly there was a loud bang, and the whole carriage shook. For a moment Myshkin feared that a bomb had been laid on the track, but he soon realized that the train was continuing its swift, rocky motion. It had just been some kink or perturbation in the rails. The only thing that had been disturbed was the door that led through to the next compartment in the carriage. The noise he had heard had been its banging against the wooden partition.