The Jewel of St Petersburg (33 page)

“And yours?” she whispered.

“It’s good now. This is where my day starts. The rest I forget.
Sanitarka
Ivanova, you look tired.”

“No, I’m excited.” She snuggled against him. “And happy.”

He curled an arm around her waist and together they started to walk across St. Petersburg, wrapped together, the snowflakes startlingly cold on their tongues when they laughed.

“Tell me more,” she said, “about your day.”

“Which do you want? Good news or bad?”

“Good.”

“I heard today that construction of the new treatment station is going ahead this year, to provide the north of the city with clean drinking water. The funding is finally all signed and delivered.”

“How do they make the water clean?”

“Long version or short?”

“Short.”

He laughed, a contented roll of sound that spiraled out ahead of him. “The raw water is treated with a coagulant—I’m sure you’re desperate to know which one, so I’ll put you out of your misery by telling you it’s aluminum sulfate—and then pumped to sedimentation tanks.”

“Is that it?”

“No, by no means. This is 1911 and we use the most advanced modern technology there is.”

“So what next?”

“This is the exciting part.”

“I can hardly wait.”

“It’s then supplied to rapid sand filters and . . .” He paused for dramatic effect.

“Don’t stop now.”

“And ozonized. So,” he said with a broad grin, “I hope you’ll think of all that each time you drink tea in your refined ladies’ drawing room.”

“I swear I shall never look at the water running out of a samovar tap in the same way again.” She brushed her cheek against his shoulder. It was damp. “Sand filters indeed!”

They walked the dimly lit streets together, her hip against his thigh. It pleased her, considering the difference in height, how easily and how naturally they fitted together.

“Now,” he said, turning his head to look directly at her, “tell me, how did your day go?” There were snowflakes caught on his eyebrows.

“First, tell me your bad news.”

He shook his head, and his mouth, always so expressive, turned down at the corners. A chill that had nothing to do with the cold air of the river ran down her tired legs and made her uneasy.

“Tell me, Jens,” she murmured.

He hesitated, and for a moment she thought he was going to lie, to cover over whatever it was that was concerning him, but he didn’t. Instead he stopped and pulled her into the uncertain circle of light from a lamppost. The hood of her cape was raised over her nurse’s headdress and he slid his hands inside it, tugging out the clips that held the white material in place so that he could touch her hair.

“One day,” he said, “I want to brush out your beautiful hair.” His fingers buried themselves among its waves. Strong capable hands. Hands that knew how to do things. “Valentina,” he said quietly. “I’m frightened for you.”

She placed her gloved hands on each side of his jaw as if she could manipulate the words in his mouth. “Why, Jens? Why should I be frightened?”

“Nurse Ivanova, haven’t you heard?”

“Heard what?”

“That cholera is back.”

W
ELL? HOW WAS IT?”

”It was good, Mama, thank you for asking. I learned a lot.”

She’d been surprised to find her mother waiting for her in the doorway of the small reading room the moment she arrived home. She was dressed in a burgundy evening gown and wore rubies in her hair.

“Come in here, please, Valentina.”

“I’m weary, Mama. Please let me wash and change first.”

“No. I need to talk to you first.”

“What is it that is so urgent, Mama? It’s not Katya, is it?”

“No, it’s not your sister.” Her mother looked at her sadly. “You have to keep your side of the bargain.” Her tone was gentle. “I know you’re tired, but . . .”

Valentina realized what was coming next.

“You have one hour, Valentina. To get yourself ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“To go out. Don’t forget, Captain Chernov is calling for you to take you to supper.”

“Mama,” she said carefully, “would you ask the Captain to be so kind as to postpone the supper. I will be no kind of company for him tonight. Honestly, I’m too tired to think, never mind to entertain anyone.”

“Valentina.” Her mother’s voice was flat. “You agreed to this. It’s all arranged.”

“Please, not today.” She couldn’t bear the thought of Chernov.

“You gave us your word. You must keep it. This is important. Do you understand me, Valentina?”

“Yes, Mama. I understand.”

Her mother smiled, but her eyes remained watchful. “Thank you,” she said, as she kissed her daughter’s cheek and walked out of the room. Valentina closed her eyes. Slowly she lifted the shoulder seam of her damp cape, put her face to it, and inhaled. Was that Jens? That smell of something new. Or was that the hospital?

Quickly she ran upstairs, feeling her muscles twitch with fatigue. But the first thing she did when she entered her room was to take out the list and strike a line through
Number 5.

Obey Mama.

Then with a smile she added another. A big fat line through
Number 3. Find employment.

C
APTAIN STEPAN CHERNOV ARRIVED IN A MAGNIFICENT shiny black rig that bore his family’s crest on its doors and was pulled by two pairs of perfectly matched horses. He took her to Donon’s, a fashionable French restaurant. When she learned he had booked a private room, she was alarmed, but she needn’t have worried. He was unfailingly polite and courteous, at times even hesitant, uncertain what to say to her now they were alone. She didn’t help him.

Over oysters and caviar there were long awkward silences, which she didn’t attempt to break. At one point her eyelids turned into lead weights and slowly descended, but she managed not to fall asleep into her plate of baked sturgeon or into its mustard and olive sauce. Over coffee Chernov leaned forward and stubbed out his black cigarette with its gold filter, a quick impatient gesture.

“Am I boring you?” he asked.

The question was so unnecessary that she started to laugh. She didn’t mean to, but she couldn’t help herself, and once she’d started she couldn’t stop. Laughter just bubbled out of her. It was tiredness. And the absurdity of what she was doing here with this man, the stupidity of her father if he thought she would be forced into marrying a blond mustache because it carried a high price tag.

Captain Chernov sat in his chair opposite her, watching her. She clamped both hands over her mouth to silence the sounds, but they still sneaked out between her fingers. Tears trickled down her cheeks.

“Valentina, please stop.”

She nodded. More tears.

He took his time lighting a cigarette, observing her through the smoke. “So I amuse you, then.”

His face drew nearer across the table, and she could see his blue eyes spark as he studied her. Was it bewilderment? Or just plain fury that she was behaving so badly? She had no idea.

“So,” he said. With a sudden dramatic sweep of his arm, he brushed all the glass and crockery onto the floor in a crash that sent splinters of crystal flying around the private dining room. “Now we have a bare table in front of us. We can start again, you and I. You can put on it whatever you choose.”

He watched her closely as he continued to smoke his strong-smelling black cigarette.

The laughter stopped, as did the stifling boredom. She lifted a corner of the white damask tablecloth, wiped her eyes, and hiccuped softly.

“Some rules,” she said.

“Name them.”

“If you have anything to say, you say it to me. Not to my parents.”

He looked surprised, the pale freckles on his nose darkening so that they looked like tiny bruises. “Agreed.”

“I know you have already spoken to my father, but I want nothing settled. Not for twelve months.”

“A whole year! That’s . . . inconsiderate of you.”

“It’s what I insist on.” She was buying herself time.

“Then I agree to it.”

“Thank you.”

“Now my turn, Valentina.”

She nodded.

“Only one rule.”

“Which is?”

“No other men. I’ll kill any other men.”

She stared down at the smashed fragments lying around their feet like the torn feathers of some wretched bird. “You’re not afraid of breaking things, are you, Stepan? To get what you want.”

A dull flush crept up his cheeks and along the side of his nose. “I’m a soldier, Valentina.”

As if that explained it.

“Stepan.” He watched her mouth as she talked. “If I speak with other men or walk with other men or even dance with other men, I don’t expect to find them dead at my feet.”

“Of course not.” He shrugged his shoulder, his epaulets shifting uncomfortably. “I didn’t mean . . .”

Her lips formed a smile. “I know what you meant.”

“So, what now? A nightclub? The Aquarium, I suggest. You’ll like it there. It has fish tanks on the walls of its dance floor.”

“No,” Valentina said. “Now I go home and get some sleep.”

A
T THE HOSPITAL, SHE LEARNED TO NOTICE THE SMALL things. Little telltale signs. A droop of a mouth, fingernails turning blue, a sudden rash on the skin, a mild shortness of breath. She learned to look for them. Even a change in the smell of the hated bedpans was a signal.

Her first death came at the end of the first week. It was a thin-haired woman who slipped away from life as unobtrusively as she had occupied it, and the sorrow that jumped into Valentina’s chest was out of all proportion. She hid in the sluice room, angry with herself. She’d barely known the poor woman, yet tears flowed down her cheeks and she had to hold a wet cloth over her mouth to silence the sobs. She would die of shame if
Medsestra
Gordanskaya found her like this.

That evening when she came down the steps, Jens knew at once. “Valentina,” he said, “it was never going to be easy.”

“I know.”

As they walked, his pace slowed. She didn’t know if it was for her or himself, or just to delay the moment of parting. For today at least, winter had eased its grip on St. Petersburg and a fine drizzle trickled out of the dark sky, refreshing with its light touch and its tang of the sea after the cold dismal corridors of the hospital. Her nostrils burned from the stink of disinfectant.

“So,” he asked, “how was the dreaded
medsestra
today?”

“A slave driver. Had me turning mattresses and swabbing floors.”

“Good for her. It’s what you young slackers need.”

Valentina prodded him in the ribs. “I’ll shut you up with an anesthetic injection if you say things like that.”

“Oh, I’m impressed. You mean you’ve started giving injections already?”

“No, not yet. But”—she tilted her face up at him—“I could practice on you.”

He chuckled and tucked her arm through his, holding on to her hand. “You can practice anything on me.”

She liked the way he said it. A horse cantered past and the rider called out,
“Dobriy vecher,
good evening,” as if they were any ordinary couple wending their way home to cook schnitzel and read aloud to each other in front of the fire. That thought did odd things to her heart. She wondered if he felt it too.