The Third Section (42 page)

‘Because the thrill of the chase is lost if you know that conquest is already assured.’

‘I can’t change that,’ he said.

‘It’s not your fault. It was impossible from the moment you found out about me. Who was it told you? Tamara?’

‘Goodness no!’ exclaimed Dmitry. ‘I hardly think she’d approve.’

‘Tamara?’ Raisa laughed delightfully. ‘You do know she works here too?’

Dmitry felt himself redden. His stomach knotted. ‘Tamara?’ His sister? And yet how like her mother. It was a strange consolation.

‘Oh, not like I do. Tamara’s the boss. What she says goes.’

‘I never guessed.’ Then an entirely different horror filled him. ‘You won’t tell her I came, will you?’

‘Why on earth should that matter?’

It was a question that Dmitry could not answer even to himself. He had taken this revelation of his sister’s profession in his stride, so why should he fear her opprobrium at his coming here? He said nothing. It was farcical. One day, perhaps, he could see them together laughing at it.

‘She’s away just now, but she’ll find out,’ continued Raisa. ‘Even if I don’t tell her, some of the other girls have seen you.’

‘They don’t know my name.’

‘They’ll describe you. You’re quite … distinctive.’ She leaned forward and kissed his lips lightly, but pulled back before he could respond. ‘So it was Vasiliy Innokyentievich who told you?’

Dmitry nodded.

‘He probably thinks you’ll charge in here and rescue me from all this.’

‘I could,’ said Dmitry.

‘I don’t want rescuing.’

‘Why not?’

She smiled salaciously. ‘Guess,’ she replied. Dmitry felt the desire for her beginning to fill his body. He leaned forward to kiss her, but she had already turned her back to him. ‘Would you like to untie me?’ she asked.

Her corset was neatly fastened at the back with laces of brightly coloured blue silk, contrasting with the creamy white linen. A double bow tied at the top kept it secure, pressed hard against her back. He had to pull it away from her body to get at the knot, tightening the lacing even more as he did so.

‘Ow!’ she giggled. ‘Aren’t I thin enough for you?’

‘Sorry,’ said Dmitry. He finally got the knot loose and began to unlace the garment all the way down. When it was entirely undone, Raisa pulled it off and threw it on to the floor. Viewed from behind, her figure seemed as perfect in its natural condition as it had been when shaped by the stiff bones of the corset. He slid his arms around her waist and pulled her close to him, pressing his face into her neck and smelling her – though detecting only the scent of her
eau de toilette
. He raised his hands and cupped them around her breasts, noting the slight shiver of her body as he touched them. There too, it seemed, her underclothing had needed to do little to improve upon nature.

They remained like that for a few moments before she pulled away from him and stood up, still with her back to him. She quickly stepped out of her pantalettes, revealing a delightful posterior perched atop her long, tapering legs. Finally she raised her hand to her head and, removing a number of clips and hairpins, allowed her hair to cascade in golden waves down her back, threatening, but never quite managing, to hide her charming bottom.

She turned and smiled at him. She looked angelic, almost to the degree that it would be a sin to even touch her. But sin was the entire purpose of Dmitry’s visit. He sat and gazed for an eternity.
He
felt sure his mouth had dropped open, but he had no strength to close it.

‘Don’t you feel overdressed?’ she asked.

Dmitry was stung into action, and quickly remedied the situation. Soon he was out of his overcoat and jacket and shirt and sitting topless on the bed, reaching forward towards his boot. She squatted down in front of him.

‘Let me,’ she said.

He sat up and extended his left leg. Raisa grasped the boot and pulled it off smoothly – his ankle was healed enough that he didn’t need laces now. She moved on to his right foot, and as she tugged at it she twisted slightly, sending a shot of pain through his injured ankle, from which Dmitry drew a perverse enjoyment. He suspected she had done it deliberately, and the look in her eye, fixed on his as she did it, gave him no reason to change his opinion.

Once Dmitry’s boots were off, Raisa climbed on to the bed, lying on her side with her head resting in her hand, displaying the full beauty of her body. Her eyes never left Dmitry as he removed the remainder of his clothing. When he was as naked as she was, he lay down on the bed beside her, mirroring her pose.

She moved her leg towards him and ran her instep down his calf, pressing a little harder as she came to his ankle. Dmitry winced, but again saw the fire in her eyes as she caused him pain.

‘That must hurt,’ she said, giggling at the same time.

‘Not when you do it.’

‘Oh?’ she said disappointedly. ‘What about that?’ As she spoke, she stamped her foot against his, just below where the bullet had hit. Pain shot up Dmitry’s calf and thigh and mingled with the more predictable sensations they found there, amplifying both. For a moment he was reminded of Tyeplov, and the pleasure they had shared taking potshots at the French infantry with a stolen rifle from the White Works. He dismissed the thought from his mind.

He grinned and pushed her back on to the bed, climbing on top of her. Her smile suddenly faded to a look of concern.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t make light of it like that. It must have been terrible in Sevastopol.’

Again, he rejected the obvious memory. ‘I made it out of there,’ he said. ‘That’s better than many.’

‘Do you want to tell me?’

It seemed like a bizarre question from a woman to a man who was poised above her, his mind intent on one thing only, almost as if it was meant to distract him. But he was surprised to realize just how much he did want to talk about it, and to talk to her about it. She understood him better than he did himself – but she must have been with many soldiers.

‘Later,’ he said.

She nodded and blinked, then reached out and put her arms around his back and pulled him down towards her.

It was spectacular.

‘For your birthday,’ said Konstantin. He crawled across the bed and kissed the back of her shoulder.

Tamara looked at the necklace. There were five large stones, pink with a hint of blue, each surrounded by clusters of what she could only guess were diamonds. The settings were silver, as was the chain.

‘That’s not till Wednesday,’ she replied.

‘I won’t be able to see you on Wednesday.’

She was surprised how sad the thought of not being with him made her. ‘Where will you be?’

He chuckled, and she took it to be a reprimand, but a gentle one. ‘Put it on,’ he said.

‘I’m hardly dressed for it.’ She wasn’t dressed at all; neither was Konstantin, but the palace was not cold.

‘It doesn’t matter. If it can compete with your beauty now, it will be fit to be seen with whatever you choose to wear.’

She giggled, but enjoyed the flattery. She felt his hands at the nape of her neck, unfastening the one item that she had not removed from her body before making love to him.

‘No,’ she said, putting her hand on his. It was sentimental of her – and so rude. She sensed his fingers draw back, and felt suddenly lonely. It would do no harm to take it off. The gold watch, a reminder of her husband, lay in her bag, somewhere in the adjoining dressing room. She’d had no qualms about being
separated
from that as she had climbed into Konstantin’s bed. Why then should she be so precious about an icon of Christ that, somehow, reminded her of her father? ‘I’ll do it,’ she said, and reached up to unfasten it.

She put the icon on the table beside the bed, glancing at the delicate little knot in its silver chain – a hasty repair from some occasion when it had been broken. It had been like that as long as she could remember. Perhaps it had been she who had broken it – her father who had repaired it. If so, the recollection was lost in her childhood.

She picked up Konstantin’s gift and raised it to her chest. It was heavy. She felt his hands take it and bring its ends together. She clasped her hands behind her neck to lift her hair out of the way. It was loose now, out of its ponytail, and wild. Konstantin liked it like that. Most men did.

‘Stand up,’ he said when he had finished. ‘Show me.’

She stood and turned to face him, feeling the weight of the necklace on her neck and chest. The lowest stone nestled comfortably at the top of the cleft between her breasts. It would require a low décolletage to show it off to full advantage – that was the idea. His eyes didn’t rest for long on the ornament, but began to wander down her body, lingering nowhere for too long, but marvelling at all that he saw. His gaze caressed her, down to the tips of her toes, and then moved back up her body, pausing a little more now in the expected places, until his eyes met hers.

He giggled. ‘You look like an African princess,’ he said.

‘African!’ She threw herself on the bed beside him, her face close to his for a moment, the gemstones banging against her chest as she landed. Then she rolled on to her back, and he knelt up to lean over her.

‘You know,’ he said. ‘You’ve seen pictures; too primitive to display any modesty, but adorned with jewels to show off her husband’s wealth.’

‘So I’m primitive, am I?’

‘You can hardly claim to be modest.’

She stuck out her bottom lip, unable to deny it. ‘But African?’ she complained.

‘True. A bad comparison. When it comes to your complexion you are’ – he kissed her on the shoulder – ‘snow white.’

She giggled. ‘And are you my handsome prince – or one of the dwarfs?’ For a moment she regretted saying it – Konstantin was not the tallest of men – but he laughed with her.

‘And around the world, how many wicked queens look into their mirrors, only to be told that you are more beautiful than they?’

‘Not many, I’d think.’

‘Mirrors are liars,’ said Konstantin. ‘You can never trust them.’

Tamara fell silent, scenes from the story of Snow White beginning to play through her mind. She saw the wicked queen, disguised as an old woman, approaching the innocent princess, offering her laces for her corset, and then a poisoned comb, and then the apple. Tamara’s mind went back to another old woman in disguise, who had called herself Natalia Borisovna, but could not be her. Who was that old woman? It was her words that had set Tamara on her whole journey of investigation. And even though she wasn’t who she claimed, there was still some connection between the true Natalia and Aleksei, going back to 1812; her son had revealed as much. Above all, Tamara still did not know whether the old woman meant good or ill in what she claimed.

‘Still with us?’ Konstantin’s voice broke her reverie.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I was just thinking.’

‘What?’

‘How much I love the necklace. The amethysts are beautiful.’

His face contracted around his nose and eyebrows, then broke into a smile. ‘I’m afraid they’re not amethysts,’ he said gently. ‘They’re pink sapphires. Your birthstone.’

Tamara’s skin was suddenly no longer white as snow. She felt herself flushing a deep red which covered more than just her face. She had insulted his generosity. A necklace of amethysts of that size would have been valuable, but with sapphires, it must be worth more than Tamara had ever dreamed of possessing.

She raised herself up off the bed and kissed him fiercely. He swung his leg across her so that he was now crouched over her
on
all fours. She dropped her head back on the pillow and gazed up at him.

‘But when shall I ever wear it?’ she asked him softly.

‘Wear it for me.’

She ran her eyes up and down the lengths of their naked bodies, huddled so close to each other.

‘That’s hardly practical,’ she said, raising an eyebrow.

‘Just this once,’ he replied.

‘
Spieglein, Spieglein
,’ Yudin muttered to himself, then smiled, adding, ‘
in meiner Hand
.’ He could feel the mirror’s handle, ornate and gilded, pressing into his tightly clutched fingers. He examined it – its reverse at least. It was beautiful – more so than it could ever have been if Yudin had constructed it himself. But he had not dared to. How could he risk what a single glimpse into the glass he had created might reveal to him? Instead he had sent the block of Iceland Spar, along with precise instructions, to an expert – a Venetian émigré in the east of the city. The carving and the gilt went beyond those instructions, but there had been no extra charge. Yudin could remember more than one occasion when he had gone beyond what had been requested – what had been paid for – simply because of the pride he took in his work.

It would be so easy to turn the mirror round and stare into its glass. Surely he, if anyone, would be able to cope with whatever was reflected. It might even, as with any other mirror gazed upon by a
voordalak
, be nothing. It was a disappointment he would be able to cope with, though it would defy every investigation he had so far conducted.