The Road from Midnight

by Wendyl Nissen

  “I want you to know that from the moment I came to see you at that ugly hotel in Venice I have wanted to be with you with a passion I have never known before. A passion I didn’t even know existed until I looked into your beautiful sad brown eyes over your cup of hot chocolate and saw the woman who could make my life complete,” he said.

  I sat in silence, stunned.

  “But I also realised that this Jane was so different from the one I knew in New Zealand that I wanted to make sure you were okay and in a place where being with me would not be too complicated or confusing for you while you dealt with the horror that was surrounding you. So I made up my mind that I would look after you and love you without putting any pressure on you to love me back and that is why I never came onto you all that time in Venice,” he said, looking at me with a deep longing in his wonderful blue eyes.

  “So when you went off with Agapeto I was beside myself with rage and jealousy but then I saw how happy you were with him and knew that if I loved you as much as I did I had to let you be happy, and if it was with him, then that would be as it was. I can’t quite believe I was able to do that, and every day you were with him was a torture for me, but happiness was all I wanted for you. And I guess I hoped, deep down, that your relationship would do just what it did, and peter out eventually.”

  I took a gulp of champagne and suddenly felt very cheap.

  “Well I’m not sure if it’s over, I haven’t told him, but I guess it is over. Marco, I had no idea how you felt and I should have. I’m so sorry. What was I thinking doing that to you,” I mumbled.

  “Stop it, Jane. You were doing the best you could at a terrible time in your life. I could never have blamed you for grasping at a piece of happiness. But I have to confess that taking us back to New Zealand was something I wanted to do, to see if, away from Venice and the dreamlike world we live in over there, the harsh reality of facing up to our fears at home would perhaps clear some of the grief for you so that I could ask you … ” he paused.

  “Marco?”

  “Wait, Jane. Please. I need to say this,” he interrupted. “Would you, could you consider taking me as your partner, your lover, your friend and allow me to cherish you forever?”

  I looked into his eyes which were welling with tears and threw my arms around his gorgeous mass of curls and sobbed uncontrollably into his warm neck.

  “Marco, you lovely man, you have waited and respected me and given me time. You are the greatest gift I could have ever received in my life.”

  I’m not sure where those words came from, but I was rather pleased with myself.

  “I want you to have this,” he said, still holding the air of solemnity as he reached into his pocket and withdrew the most exquisite antique gold locket.

  “It is so beautiful.”

  “I found it at the market six months ago and knew I had to get it for you. I’ve had a friend look at it and he thinks it’s 16th century. It has Charlotte’s picture in it on one side and I found a tiny miniature painting of the Madonna to go in the other side as she has bought you so much comfort,” he said solemnly.

  “I can’t believe you’ve been carrying it around all this time. I will wear it always, darling,” I said, fiddling with the clasp to put it on.

  “Not yet,” said Marco reaching over to take the locket off me, a twinkle in his blue eyes.

  “Why not, I want to see what it looks like on,” I wheedled.

  “I am not waiting one more second before I nuzzle those extraordinary breasts I vaguely remember and have only glimpsed once in the past 20 years,” he laughed finally releasing the stillness in the air created from his impromptu Hong Kong ceremony.

  “When?” I asked, astonished that he may have seen me naked.

  “Never you mind, but it may have been while you were sleeping that first night in the Sheraton,” he smiled cheekily.

  “Marco Wilson, did you undress me while I was asleep, you total perv!”

  “Oh no nothing like that. You just sort of rolled over and there they both were staring at me,” he laughed.

  “Well get prepared to be eyeballed again, you cheeky little shit.”

  Marco smiled that delicious smile of his and lowered himself on top of me and his bathrobe conveniently parted.

  He started kissing me on my forehead then slowly proceeded to tenderly kiss my eyes, my nose, my ears and my neck, down between my breasts, pausing briefly for a light kiss each on the nipple, then on down over my stomach. “You are so beautiful,” he murmured.

  And then it was all on. I gave into him willingly, enjoying every tender moment, each caress and moan. We took our time, making the most of the gift we were finally giving each other.

  “When did you get so good at sex?’ I asked once the stars disappeared and the colours faded.

  “Just now,” he said, giving me another thrust for good measure, a passionate kiss and rolling off me.

  We didn’t leave the hotel room for the next 48 hours, as we alternated between perfecting our astonishingly mind blowing sexual encounters, ordering room service, drinking more champagne, laughing our heads off and farting.

  And finally he placed the locket around my neck, which I still have as I write this, often reaching down to stroke the old gold which has held so much love for so long. At the time neither of us knew the role it would play in years ahead. How it would come to my rescue in that one defining moment when I found my child.

  Part Two

  21

  When I first saw her I could not quite believe how beautiful she was. An angel, a blonde, blue-eyed cherub who stared at me with tired, frightened eyes from her bed where she had been placed, half drugged and filthy having wet and soiled herself.

  She hid her face in her pillow as I came towards her:

  “No, no, no!” she cried, panic-stricken, as I came nearer.

  “Shhhh … my sweet, it is okay,” I said in my stilted English. I knew little of her language but enough to show her that I would do her no harm and was here to love her and care for her.

  I sat on the bed and waited. I had seen children in this state many times before when I worked at the children’s prison camp. Young children will retreat inside themselves, curling up like a baby back in the womb, holding on and hoping that the nightmare will disappear soon.

  I waited for twenty minutes. Just sitting and singing to myself, a peasant song I had learned long ago which I knew worked wonders soothing children who were fearful.

  Then she rolled towards me in the bed, looked at me and vomited all over herself.

  He never told me where he found her, this little one. But I knew that this was not the sort of child usually found on the streets of Russia, neglected, malnutritioned and ingrained with the dirt of living rough. This child was well cared for, plump and privileged. She had been heavily sedated and was a little bruised and battered from her journey, which must have been long and arduous.

  As I coaxed her into a warm bath she looked at me with those big sad eyes, and said over and over: “Mummy, Daddy where are they?” sobbing until there were no tears left.

  There was nothing I could do except let her speak her fear and sadness and wait. I knew it would not last forever.

  As the warm water soothed her I sensed her shift from the frightened wolf cub I had found huddled in her bed, to one who was ready to sniff me and see if I would bite. That’s when I knew we would be okay, Katya and me.

  “There, there, Katya, it is okay. I will look after you, you are safe,” I reassured her as I dressed her in the brand new pyjamas Nikolai had bought in Paris along with two wardrobes full of the finest child’s clothes I had ever seen.

  I bundled her up back in bed for comfort and tried to feed her some hot soup.

  “I don’t like soup,” she grumbled, testing me.

  “That is okay. Some bread?” I offered. It was sweet, moist and freshly baked piroshki. No child can resist it.

  She grabbed it out of my hand and chewed noisily.

&nb
sp; “Why are you calling me Katya, I’m Charlotte,” she mumbled through the crumbs, finally deciding to engage me.

  “You are Katya now, my darling. This is your new name, isn’t that exciting? To have a brand new name for your new life here where I will look after you in this big house.”

  “Where are my Mummy and Daddy?” she whimpered.

  “I don’t know where they are. But they are gone now, and you will live here with me and your new Pappa Nikolai. You will have a wonderful new life, just you see,” I continued in a soothing monotone.

  “Who is Nik … Niklay?” she struggled with the Russian name.

  “You will meet him later, but you are a lucky girl. He found you and saved you. You will be safe here now.”

  After she had eaten some bread and sipped some warm milk, I gave her the blue pill. It is the one I always used for the children who have had extreme shock. It calms them, and I would use it on Katya for quite some time. Nikolai got it for me and also the yellow pills which helped her sleep during those first few months.

  “There, my child. Come with me into your nursery and look at all the toys and books that Nikolai has bought for you.”

  “They’re not like my toys at home,” she grumbled. “I want to go home,” she began to cry again. And then the blue pill kicked in. She sat on the cushions and distractedly picked up a doll to play with.

  “I will be back in a few moments,” I said, preparing to leave.

  “DON’T GO!” she screamed.

  And so I didn’t. I never left Katya alone for that first year, except when I knew she was sound asleep, and I had the yellow pills to make sure that happened.

  When Katya went to bed that night, I held her hand and stroked her golden hair until I heard her breathing shift to that of a sleeping child. She would be out for eight hours.

  As I made my way through the long halls of Polnoch, the palace where we lived with Nikolai, I felt a surge of intense anger well up inside of me. What had he done to get this child? Where had he found her? I knew something was not right.

  I knocked on the door of the library.

  “Yes.”

  “It is me, Nikolai,” I announced as I entered.

  He was sitting by the fire, his broad features accentuated by the lick of the flames. He was a handsome man, with those eyes which could shine on you with the love of a thousand saints and then suddenly flick to razors which would slit your throat in a second.

  “How is she?” he asked putting his newspaper down. “Come, sit.”

  “She is making good progress. Most children do at that age, as long as they can be sure there is love, warmth and food in constant supply they will respond. It is instinctive to their survival,” I told him.

  “Well that is good, I am very pleased. She is extremely beautiful is she not?” he said proudly.

  “Yes she is. And that is why I have to ask where you found her, Nikolai. She is not from here, she is not neglected, she seems … well … privileged, and she speaks English with an accent I have never heard.”

  “That is none of your business,” he snapped.

  “Nikolai, you tell me I will be looking after a child and so I wait for two months and nothing. Then suddenly this angel arrives, half drugged and scared to death. What did you do to her?”

  “Ola, do not ask me anymore. Just do as I ask, look after her, love her, make her a happy person and turn her into a perfect human being. Am I not paying you handsomely? Is this not better than working in that disgusting prison camp where you have spent so many years?” he demanded.

  “But I have devoted my life to caring for those who had nothing, who were outcast and needed love. This child has been well cared for. I will not be party to something evil, and I know you, Nikolai, I know what you are capable of.”

  “Oh you don’t know me at all, you silly woman. Just do the job I am paying you for and don’t ask me any more questions. I know you can do it, you have done it many times before.”

  “Yes I have, my boy, I did it for you.”

  22

  Nikolai Trubetskoy had come to me at the same age as Katya. A malnourished, silent child, he had been thrown out on the streets by a mother who could no longer afford, or just forgot, to take care of him.

  In Russia, people get so drunk on vodka to forget their pain and poverty that sometimes parents forget that their child has been gone for days on end, or simply don’t care any longer. He was not alone, many children ended up this way during the Communist years and were swiftly picked up and deposited in institutions to keep them off the street as evidence that the State was not, after all, looking after its people.

  Nikolai had a mouth of rotten teeth, he had been severely beaten and was taken from a man who had found him wandering near his village and added him to a gang of young thieves he was operating. Of the many hundreds of children I have cared for over the years Nikolai was the most severely neglected I had ever seen. He must have been born to a terrible mother who barely cared for him.

  But he was also the most intelligent, the most likely to survive and to date, my finest achievement. He was thrown in the prison camp, a pathetic and emotionally scarred child but he had a look about him. I saw something in those grey eyes which showed promise and so I took an interest in him, gave him special treats, kept an eye out so he wasn’t beaten too badly and put in a good word for him with the officials when I could. And now here was a man in his early 30s, a new Russian billionaire who owned gold and platinum mines, a power plant and many other businesses off shore. I knew that many of his activities were highly illegal but he is clever my Nikolai and always manages to operate on the margins of legality.

  Was this what he was doing with Katya? And if so what did he have planned for her?

  Nikolai was not about to tell me.

  “Ola, I am indebted to you forever for what you did for me, I am as much of a son to you as any man can be. But do not poke your nose where it is not welcome. You should at least know that much about me,” he finished. “It is better you know nothing.”

  “As you wish Nikolai. Who would I tell if something was amiss anyway? The Party leaves you alone, they wouldn’t dare start asking questions about a man as wealthy as you and with the contacts you have. But know this, Nikolai. If any harm comes to that angel, I will be there to watch over her and I will protect her, just as I protected you in the camp.”

  “I know, Ola,” said Nikolai, softening for the first time that evening as he sipped his cognac. “You are a good woman, and you will be well looked after for this, you know that.”

  “I do,” I replied, realising that I still loved that little boy, even though he was now a big brute of a man.

  “I hope you don’t mind but I have shifted my belongings into the bedroom next to Katya, I think she is going to need me close for some time,” I said.

  “Whatever you wish. She must have whatever she needs and the best of everything,” he assured me.

  Katya slept well that first night but woke screaming for her parents. I got into bed with her, noticing the faint smell of urine — she had wet her bed — and held her close. As we lay there I talked to her of what we had planned to do that day, to get her mind moving on to other things. We would paint, sing some songs, learn a few Russian words, but first we would have some breakfast, get dressed and then go for a walk and see her pony.

  “A pony!” she said as she stopped crying and looked at me with the first flicker of enthusiasm I had seen in her. Her blue eyes sparkling and irresistible.

  “Yes a pony, my love. A white one just for you. We must think of a name for him when you meet him.”

  Nikolai arrived shortly after our visit to the stables, when we were setting up paints and paper to draw pictures of Katya’s pony, which she had decided to call Charlie. Not a very Russian name, but I let it go. She would be speaking fluent Russian in a matter of months, and then would no doubt decide to change it.

  “Hello, Katya,” he said getting down on his knees next to Kat
ya and gazing at her adoringly.

  Katya ignored him and started painting.

  “Did you meet your pony this morning?” he asked, persevering.

  She looked at him. Briefly. Then turned back to her paints and ignored him.

  “Ah, that is good,” he said, settling back on his haunches, prepared to wait. After a few moments he was rewarded.

  Katya looked at him again. “Are you my new Daddy?”

  Nikolai laughed. “I suppose you could say that. But how about you call me the Russian word for Daddy which is Pappa.”

  “Mmm,” said Katya, losing interest and returning to her painting.

  “Okay, Katya, I will see you later, have a good day,” said Nikolai, after I gave him a look which made it clear that was enough for a first meeting.

  We switched to Russian as he walked over to the door.

  “She seems quite calm don’t you think?” said Nikolai.

  “I have given her a pill, it will help for a while as she adjusts,” I said.

  “Why are you talking funny?” interrupted Katya in English.

  “We are just talking in Russian, my sweet, remember I talked to you this morning about learning our language?”

  “Mmm,” she said distracted by her painting.

  “Did she really like the pony?” asked Nikolai, switching us back to Russian.

  “Oh yes, although she is not used to country life, she is very much a city girl. She was frightened of him at first. She will take some time to get used to animals but they will be very important for her. She will need playmates.”

  “Good. Tomorrow I have another surprise for her, a little dog,” he smiled, enjoying his new role as benefactor.

  “Please, let it be a little one, Nikolai,” I laughed.

  “Oh yes, it is the dog for a princess, a bichon frise.”

  “She will love it,” I said, looking up at my former charge and realising that despite the air of evil which lurked around Nikolai he was a kind, good man, and perhaps Katya would have a good life after all. The life of a princess.

  23