The Jewel of St. Petersburg

  Damn you, Sergeyev. Damn you.

  The men in black coats showed their teeth. The one with the pistol slammed its butt against Sergeyev’s arm, and he buckled with no sound, but Arkin seized him before he fell and swung him back like a battering ram against the two men. Their eyes opened in surprise as Arkin threw his weight behind the push, and they skidded backward on their heels, arms flailing. The ice underfoot won. Both crashed to the ground. Arkin heard a skull hit concrete, but he didn’t stop to ask whose brains had been rearranged. He snatched the small gun from where it lay on the ground and seized Sergeyev’s good arm.

  “Run.”

  They ran. Skittering in and out of alleys, pounding down slippery banks, throwing themselves over railings and under archways, hearts straining in the freezing night air. Always they kept to unlit streets. Arkin was slowed by his wounded friend but refused to release his grip on him while behind them they could hear their pursuers’ shrill shouts and foul-mouthed curses. Only once did Arkin risk a glance over his shoulder, and he saw that the shorter one was in the lead, face sharp as a hound on the scent. The fatter one was struggling to keep up but failing. Four shots rang out, but it was too dark and each time the bullet whistled wide.

  They kept running and dodging, twisting and turning.

  With Sergeyev in tow he scrambled down to a spot beneath a canal bridge and they crouched under its arch, lungs dragging in freezing air. Underfoot the ice crackled if they moved so much as a knee.

  “Where are we?” Sergeyev whispered in his ear.

  “No idea, but stay quiet.”

  For thirty minutes they remained immobile, no more than shadows, disturbing only a cat on its nocturnal run across the thick ice of the canal. When eventually they climbed up the frozen bank, everywhere was silent. The snowfall was heavier, stinging their eyes and gathering in mounds on the toes of their boots. They hurried through the streets, heads ducked down, keeping to the darkest areas of the city, and when they finally reached the Liteiny district they stopped.

  Through the lace curtain of snow Arkin peered at his friend’s strained face. “How’s your arm?”

  “It’s still attached.”

  “Did those bastards do much damage?”

  Sergeyev shrugged. “Wherever the Okhrana go, they do damage.”

  “You shouldn’t have been carrying the gun. Why did you have it?”

  “I swapped a good spade for it in a bar. I thought I’d be safer.” He shrugged again. “I was wrong.”

  Arkin thrust the dainty pistol into Sergeyev’s pocket. “Sell it,” he suggested. “It will only get you killed. Buy some food for your wife instead.”

  “No.” Sergeyev returned it to him with an apologetic grimace. “You keep it.”

  Arkin didn’t argue. Sergeyev was less likely to get into trouble without it. “Take care, my friend.” He rested a hand on his shoulder. “Tell your wife from me, good luck with the baby.”

  “It’s what I’m fighting for. To build my son a better future. Thank you, comrade.” He said it awkwardly. “For helping me. My wife will starve if I’m thrown in prison.”

  Arkin nodded, an image of her swollen belly vivid in his mind as he drifted away into the night, the snow so thick now that the air was almost solid. In his pocket his hand curled around the pearl-handled gun. Sergeyev was right. It did make him feel safer.

  Twenty

  WELL, HOW DO I LOOK?”

  “Like a nun.” Katya inspected her sister with a critical eye. “It’s the headdress.”

  Valentina twirled on the spot to show off her nurse’s uniform from all angles. It was white and stiff and made her feel like someone else. In the mirror she stared at the tight wimple crossing her forehead in a straight line and at the neat linen folds hanging down to her shoulders, hiding every trace of her hair. It was her first day, and nerves scuttled like ants in her stomach. She patted the starched apron over the plain white frock and smiled at Katya.

  “Take a good look.”

  “Why?”

  “Because when I return from the hospital, I will be different.”

  Katya laughed. “Dirty and smelly and dead on your feet, you mean.”

  “Exactly!”

  But the look that passed between the sisters lasted a long moment because both knew that wasn’t what she meant at all.

  ST. ISABELLA’S HOSPITAL WAS A RABBIT WARREN OF CORRIDORS. Its drafty wards seemed to suck all sound into its granite walls, leaving the place muted and blank. The murmur of voices remained subdued, the groans and coughs halfhearted, as though life within these thick walls existed at a minimal level. The first day altered Valentina’s sense of perspective. It seemed that as Sanitarka Ivanova she was no longer an individual, but an insignificant part of an indifferent machine, and this realization took time to get used to. She had expected other things but not that. The day started with an inspection. A row of nurses lined up and Medsestra Gordanskaya’s small eyes narrowed with pleasure as she pointed out faults. She picked on shoes, apron straps, frayed cuffs, fingernails. Valentina displayed her hands and heard the irritated puff of displeasure when no fault could be found.

  Bedpan fodder. Gordanskaya was right. She stopped even noticing the stench of them. She was taught how to make envelope corners on blankets and sheets, folding them around the thin mattresses, told to make and remake them until she did it right. She practiced turning patients in bed and maneuvering soiled sheets from under them.

  She was put on a female ward with rows of sad fearful eyes and untidy hair. But Valentina learned not to walk quickly. She learned to look, swiveling her head from side to side, seeing the patients occupying themselves with small empty tasks. Playing cards, sewing, picking their feet, thinking about their next meal. Stiff bodies and closed eyes made her nervous. She witnessed one young frizzy-haired patient suddenly sit up, screaming that there was a worm slithering in her heart and tearing the dressing off her chest so that her breasts hung naked and bloody. Valentina ran to fetch help, calling out for assistance. For that lapse she was reprimanded and had to face Gordanskaya in full flow.

  “You don’t run.”

  “You don’t shout.”

  “You don’t panic.”

  “You don’t scare the patients.”

  “You don’t make yourself look like the fool you are.”

  “You don’t disgrace St. Isabella’s.”

  “You don’t.”

  Valentina stared straight ahead, unblinking in the face of Gordanskaya’s wrath, her hands behind her back, toes clenched in her shoes. “I’ll do better,” she vowed.

  “You’ll bloody well have to.”

  She would bloody well have to.

  By the end of the day her hands were raw and her feet felt as if dogs had chewed them up and spat them out. But she had gotten through it without killing any of the patients. That was an achievement. She threw her navy cloak over her uniform, pulled on her valenki boots, and stumbled out into a dark and snowy world.

  It seemed impossible that the city of St. Petersburg had continued its usual life, gone through the motions of a normal day when hers had been so completely abnormal. But the carriages rattled past, footmen shouting to each other as they held on at the back. Trams clanked. Boys trundled laden sleds and lights glimmered through the snowfall. Nothing had changed. Except her.

  She pulled up her hood and hurried down the steps.

  JENS WAS THERE. WAITING FOR HER AT THE CORNER UNDER the streetlamp, just the way he had promised. She walked into the circle of his arms and felt her fatigue and the dull shame of her mistake vanish. Her forehead rested on the damp wool of his coat and she could smell his sweat and exhaustion, a thousand times worse than her own.

  “A good day?” he asked.

  “Good, yes. The way having a painful tooth removed is good.”

  He laughed and pulled her tighter.

  “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.”

  WELL? 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.

  CAPTAIN 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 wan
t 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.”

  AT 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.”