The Lieutenant’s Lover by Harry Bingham

the banks of the Neva. The large old rooms had been crudely divided with rough block walls to make a row of offices that faced onto the courtyard. Tonya made her way along the corridors until she tracked down the room where Rodyon worked. The door was open and Tonya peeped through it before announcing her presence.
    He sat at a desk with his back to the window. Three junior functionaries sat in front of him, taking notes, amending documents, presenting letters. Rodyon dealt with his business with a brisk but even rhythm, as though he were competing in some long-distance race of paperwork, where pace had to be balanced against the importance of conserving energy. Rodyon dealt with one functionary and dismissed him.
    Tonya let the official go by, than sidled past him into the room. Rodyon had his head down and didn’t look up.
    It was summer now, mid June. The courtyard outside was lined with maple trees, their leaves dense, healthy and green. A few moments went by. Then Rodyon glanced up and saw Tonya.
    ‘Ah. Antonina Kirylovna. How long have you been there?’
    ‘The door was open.’
    Rodyon nodded. He dismissed the two remaining officials with a nod, and invited Tonya to sit with a wave of his hand. Or perhaps invited was the wrong word. Authority was stamped in everything Rodyon did. It was half invitation, half command.
    ‘You’ll have tea.’
    ‘You don’t need to be formal with me, Rodya.’
    ‘No, no … but still, tea would be good. I usually have some around this time.’ He stuck his head around the open door and called down the corridor for refreshments. ‘The greatest empires have always been tea-drinking. The Chinese. The Mughals. The British, of course. Now it’s our turn. The rise of the Russian tea-drinking empire.’
    Tonya knew that Rodyon’s flippancy was carefully managed. It was very unrevolutionary to speak of the Russian empire. A good Bolshevik knew that the revolution in Russia was only a prelude to revolution elsewhere. The only empire that counted was the workers of the world acting in unity. Rodyon spoke as he did to take the ideological sting out of his position of power. He did it as an act of delicacy towards Tonya. She smiled her appreciation.
    ‘You’ve heard nothing, I suppose?’ he said.
    ‘No. I don’t suppose I will.’
    ‘Well, there’s always a chance. Let’s hope we hear something soon.’ In the weeks since Misha had been taken away, Rodyon had done all he could to find out his whereabouts. He had made full use of his official position, bending the rules as far as he was able. He hadn’t once mentioned the offer he’d made in her apartment that hot July evening last summer. He had been tactful and generous.
    The tea was brought in. It came in an ornate samovar with a polished ebony base and an elaborate silver-bound handle. Warming on the top of the samovar was a small teapot containing zavarka , strong black tea, to be diluted with hot water from the samovar. A saucer of lingonberry jam, something Tonya hadn’t seen for years, came with the tea.
    ‘The reddest of teas in the whitest of pots,’ commented Rodyon.
    ‘Thank you.’
    They drank, holding a spoonful of jam in their mouths before swallowing it with the tea. Tonya still hadn’t mentioned the reason why she’d come.
    ‘You didn’t come here to drink tea with me, Tonya.’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Well then?’
    ‘Last summer, that day you came to my apartment, you raised a subject … you asked a question.’
    ‘Yes, I seem to remember it.’
    ‘I was wondering… I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t … but if you still wanted to, I’d be able to give a different answer.’
    She had been sitting with her hands over her stomach. Now she moved them. A gentle swelling was already evident.
    Something changed in Rodyon’s face as he watched her. Or rather, not a muscle seemed to move. His intense dark eyes, his strong mouth, his focused bent-nosed handsomeness all stayed exactly as they were. But there was