I’ve felt for the last forty years. But that’s not necessarily a bad thing.”
“As long as you’re okay with it. I can always take it away.”
“No, no. It was a shock, that’s all. I just need some time.”
He sounds more like himself and she is immeasurably relieved. The self-control, the rationality is back, and she is no longer fearful that she has made a terrible mistake. She leads him back to his chair and pokes at the fire, which has settled down into small, licking flames that curl around the last, luminous log of wood.
“I’ll get some tea,” she tells him. “Camomile?”
“If you’re having some?”
“Yes.”
He watches as she goes out to the kitchen, leaving him with a precious few moments alone. He glances at the fire for comfort, but the logs are too dry and are spitting and hissing, putting out a violent heat that causes him to move his chair back a little. Closing his eyes intensifies his awareness of the canvas looming behind him. With conscious, almost ostentatious calm, he turns in his chair, and looks at it, at her, once more. She is watching him with an expression that is half-smile, half-frown, an expression that perhaps she never even had during life, but which captures her character perfectly. He feels a stab of guilt and swallows, but his mouth is dry. He looks for water, but there is only the remains of their wine. Lauren will come soon with the tea, he reminds himself. In the meantime, Katya is regarding him with that slight smile, without accusation or blame. He has always known that she would never have blamed him for what happened – his own pain and guilt have been punishment enough. But that knowledge has only ever reinforced the sense of exactly how much he lost when she died.
Chapter Six
Moscow – May 1956
T HERE IS A LOW, DISBELIEVING WHISTLE from the man standing beside her. She smiles, and watches the sound escape from his lips, and form a question that hovers in the air before them.
“So it’s going exactly as we’d hoped?”
She nods and leans over the bridge and looks out onto the river. If she narrows her gaze, the surface of the water sparkles like a field of diamonds under the late afternoon sunshine.
“And he is in love with you?”
“Who knows?” she replies.
“Well, you should know. You must know. Or it’s no good.”
His eyes stay on her and a last outline of amusement leaves her features. In the face of his expectant silence, she gives a shrug; a conceding gesture, a reluctant acknowledgement.
Misha sighs. “Good work, Katyushka. It must be hard too, but you’ve done well.”
Her eyes are downcast, and she appears in no hurry to answer.
“Thank you,” she says at last.
He drops his voice, matching her tone. “It’s not easy, is it?”
She looks up. Of course, it must be difficult for him too. Much more so than for her. She hardly knows Alexander, while Misha has been friends with him for fifteen years or more.
“But, in the end, Katya,” he continues, “you have to make choices in life. Especially in this life of ours. To sacrifice your personal loyalties for a greater cause. Alexander represents everything I despise, and even though he’s my friend, I can’t live with myself if I’m not doing everything I can to fight the system I hate. It’s a hard choice, but I know where I stand.”
She is not as reassured by this argument as she feels she should be, not least because it sounds too carefully concise and rehearsed to her ears. It is not that she disagrees with Misha. They have all come out of years of terror and horror, years of becoming used to those crippling moments when your mouth turns dusty with fear, when you hear that someone else you know has been spirited away, when you are glanced at with a guilty look by someone you work with or live next to, or worse, when you are avoided altogether. Where personal loyalty between friends, colleagues, even family, is forgotten in the name of the greater good. Denounce
“As long as you’re okay with it. I can always take it away.”
“No, no. It was a shock, that’s all. I just need some time.”
He sounds more like himself and she is immeasurably relieved. The self-control, the rationality is back, and she is no longer fearful that she has made a terrible mistake. She leads him back to his chair and pokes at the fire, which has settled down into small, licking flames that curl around the last, luminous log of wood.
“I’ll get some tea,” she tells him. “Camomile?”
“If you’re having some?”
“Yes.”
He watches as she goes out to the kitchen, leaving him with a precious few moments alone. He glances at the fire for comfort, but the logs are too dry and are spitting and hissing, putting out a violent heat that causes him to move his chair back a little. Closing his eyes intensifies his awareness of the canvas looming behind him. With conscious, almost ostentatious calm, he turns in his chair, and looks at it, at her, once more. She is watching him with an expression that is half-smile, half-frown, an expression that perhaps she never even had during life, but which captures her character perfectly. He feels a stab of guilt and swallows, but his mouth is dry. He looks for water, but there is only the remains of their wine. Lauren will come soon with the tea, he reminds himself. In the meantime, Katya is regarding him with that slight smile, without accusation or blame. He has always known that she would never have blamed him for what happened – his own pain and guilt have been punishment enough. But that knowledge has only ever reinforced the sense of exactly how much he lost when she died.
Chapter Six
Moscow – May 1956
T HERE IS A LOW, DISBELIEVING WHISTLE from the man standing beside her. She smiles, and watches the sound escape from his lips, and form a question that hovers in the air before them.
“So it’s going exactly as we’d hoped?”
She nods and leans over the bridge and looks out onto the river. If she narrows her gaze, the surface of the water sparkles like a field of diamonds under the late afternoon sunshine.
“And he is in love with you?”
“Who knows?” she replies.
“Well, you should know. You must know. Or it’s no good.”
His eyes stay on her and a last outline of amusement leaves her features. In the face of his expectant silence, she gives a shrug; a conceding gesture, a reluctant acknowledgement.
Misha sighs. “Good work, Katyushka. It must be hard too, but you’ve done well.”
Her eyes are downcast, and she appears in no hurry to answer.
“Thank you,” she says at last.
He drops his voice, matching her tone. “It’s not easy, is it?”
She looks up. Of course, it must be difficult for him too. Much more so than for her. She hardly knows Alexander, while Misha has been friends with him for fifteen years or more.
“But, in the end, Katya,” he continues, “you have to make choices in life. Especially in this life of ours. To sacrifice your personal loyalties for a greater cause. Alexander represents everything I despise, and even though he’s my friend, I can’t live with myself if I’m not doing everything I can to fight the system I hate. It’s a hard choice, but I know where I stand.”
She is not as reassured by this argument as she feels she should be, not least because it sounds too carefully concise and rehearsed to her ears. It is not that she disagrees with Misha. They have all come out of years of terror and horror, years of becoming used to those crippling moments when your mouth turns dusty with fear, when you hear that someone else you know has been spirited away, when you are glanced at with a guilty look by someone you work with or live next to, or worse, when you are avoided altogether. Where personal loyalty between friends, colleagues, even family, is forgotten in the name of the greater good. Denounce
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