The Concubine's Secret (25 page)

‘Not enough yet, it seems.’

He handed back her documents without further scrutiny. ‘Well, I look forward to tomorrow then,’ he chuckled.

She touched her throat with a slow soft stroke, a gesture she’d seen her mother use when in the company of men. His eyes followed the movement.

‘I’ll be here,’ she said.

‘So will I.’

They both laughed. She didn’t think he’d even bother to look at her papers next time.

The man at the desk was not so easily entertained.

‘You again,’ he said. He didn’t hide his irritation.

‘Yes, comrade. Me again.’

‘Comrade Ivanova, I told you yesterday – and all the other days – that I have no way of contacting this person.’

‘But this is the International Liaison Office. That’s what you do. Liaise. So you must liaise with Communist Parties across the world.’

‘That is true.’

‘So why not with-?’

‘I’ve told you already that it’s not possible. Stop wasting my time, comrade.’

He was one of those men who fiddle a lot, always twitching and straightening and tapping with his fingertips. It was the turn of his moustache today. He combed its luxurious growth with the long nail of his little finger and she wondered if he grew both the facial hair and the nail especially to satisfy this inner need. What was it he had to feel so nervous about? Maybe his own papers were no more convincing than hers. She tried a smile, sent it winging across the icy gap between them, but it fluttered and died. She’d tried it before and found this apparatchik totally smile-proof.

‘Is something amusing you?’ he demanded sharply.

‘No, comrade.’

‘Then I suggest you go home.’ He plucked up a pen and started tapping the end of it on his desk.

Lydia’s cheeks flushed. She should leave, she was getting nowhere. She looked round at the vast domed entrance hall with its acres of marble flooring, designed to intimidate. Fat marble pillars were draped with blood-red flags and slogans that read TOGETHER WE SHALL FIGHT. TOGETHER WE SHALL WIN THE VICTORY.

Fight. Win. Victory. Communism seemed immersed in a constant, exhausting battle. Even within itself. Footsteps clicked back and forth across the polished floor as clerks and neatly dressed secretaries scurried like worker ants to and from their offices, arms heaped with brown faceless files, and Lydia felt horribly out of place.

She gripped the front edge of the desk to keep her feet exactly where they were. She didn’t trust them not to turn and run.

‘
Pozhalusta
, please,’ she urged politely.

He sighed, twitched at his tie and raised bored eyes to hers.

‘His name is Chang An Lo,’ she said. ‘He is a member of the Chinese Communist Party, an important member of-’

‘So you said.’

‘I want you to contact the Chinese Communist Party’s Headquarters in Shanghai and leave a message for him.’

‘That’s not my job.’

‘Then whose job is it?’

‘Not mine.’

‘Please, it’s important. I must contact him and-’

A blast of cold air swirled in from the street, nipping at bare skin with icy pincers. The man behind the desk shed his air of indifference and jumped to his feet faster than a buck rabbit, startling Lydia. She turned and stared.

A man in his mid-thirties was just tossing his leather overcoat to the attendant at the door and they were both laughing at something he’d said. Then he strode across the marble floor, his heels echoing with life in the empty dead air, his beautifully tailored suit rippling elegantly as he moved. The thing about him that struck Lydia immediately was his hair. It was thick, springy and neatly trimmed, but it was an even more fiery shade than her own. As he approached the desk she looked away. One glance at the intense grey eyes with their coppery lashes told her this was a man who would not be easily fooled by her tales. Or by her papers.

Without obvious hurry, she started to back away.

‘Comrade Chairman Malofeyev,’ the man at the desk said with a respectful nod of his head and a tug at the sleeves of his own ill-fitting jacket. He was standing to stiff attention, chin in the air, clearly an ex-military man, and his face had lost every trace of its earlier bored disdain. In its place emerged an obsequiousness that took Lydia by surprise and made her rethink leaving. For this one brief moment, he was vulnerable.

‘
Dobroye utro
, Boris.’ The man in the immaculate suit spoke in an easy, affable tone. ‘Good morning.’ But his gaze wandered over Lydia as he asked, ‘Is the Commissioner free yet?’

‘No, sir. He asked me to apologise. He has been summoned to the Kremlin.’

The newcomer raised one eyebrow. ‘Has he indeed?’

‘
Da.
He asked me to reschedule a meeting tomorrow for you, Comrade Chairman.’

A flicker of something that might have been annoyance passed across Chairman Malofeyev’s face. It was a distinctive face, too long to be handsome, but it possessed an energy that made it noticeable and there was unmistakable humour in the tilt of the mouth. Lydia felt uneasy under the scrutiny of the cool grey eyes, so that when he waved a hand indifferently and said, ‘What’s the point? He may not even still be here tomorrow,’ she had no idea for a moment who he was talking about. Then it dawned. The Commissioner, the faceless apparatchik summoned so abruptly to the Kremlin.

‘I wish to put in a request also,’ she said rapidly, ‘for a meeting with the Commissioner tomorrow.’

Both men stared at her in surprise. She felt as though she’d grown two heads.

Boris narrowed his eyes and tapped his pen ferociously. ‘What is your business with the Commissioner?’ he demanded.

‘I told you, I want to-’

‘The Commissioner does not deal with requests such as yours.’ He glanced at Malofeyev, a furtive sideways dance of the eyes that showed Lydia he was nervous.

‘But if you’re not willing to make the enquiries I’ve asked for,’ she said, ‘I have to apply elsewhere.’

Instantly a form appeared on the desk. ‘Name?’ he demanded.

This was for show. She was convinced that as soon as the smart suit was gone the form would be in the rubbish bin before she could say
spasibo.

‘What is it you want?’ Comrade Malofeyev asked with interest. ‘What makes a pretty young girl like you so earnest?’

She looked round at him and it wasn’t hard to find a smile for this man with his easy charm, who was obviously in some position of authority and who was the first one to show even a glimmer of interest in her problem.

‘It’s not important,’ the deskman said quickly.

‘It’s important to me,’ she said.

‘What is?’

‘Comrade Malofeyev,’ Boris intervened, ‘this girl has been pestering this office for weeks, wasting my time, over some petty concern she has about-’

‘It’s not a petty concern,’ Lydia said quietly, her eyes on Malofeyev’s face. ‘It’s important.’

‘Ignore her, Comrade Chairman, she’s not worth-’

Malofeyev silenced the deskman with an abrupt gesture of his hand.

‘Comrade Malofeyev,’ Lydia said, twirling her hat between her cold fingers, ‘I am a good Soviet citizen and I have an important message to pass on to a member of the Chinese Communist Party. I am trying to reach him through this International Liaison Office but-’

‘Him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Now why am I not surprised by that?’

She felt her cheeks burn as he gave her a slow, speculative smile. Abruptly he turned back to the deskman.

‘Telephone,’ he said and held out a hand.

The man reached behind to where a heavy black telephone hung on the wall. He detached the mouthpiece, reluctance making his movements slow, and Malofeyev walked round to it, requested a number from the operator, spoke briskly for a moment, then hung up.

‘It seems my contact is out to lunch.’ He flipped open the gold watchcase that nestled in the pocket of his trim waistcoat and raised one eyebrow. ‘A little early perhaps, not yet noon, but,’ he looked at Lydia, ‘I have left a message for him to ring my office this afternoon. So don’t worry,
good Soviet citizen
, we shall find your Chinese Communist Party member for you if he’s findable.’

For the first time in all her achingly slow dealings with the impenetrable wall of Russian bureaucracy, here was a man who saw the possible, not the impossible. He made things happen. She wanted to throw her arms around his neck and squeeze the breath out of him with gratitude.

‘Thank you.’

But something of what she was feeling must have shown on her face, because he took her elbow in the palm of his hand and steered her effortlessly back across the marble expanse towards the main door.

‘Luncheon now, I think. Then back to my office this afternoon to continue the hunt.’

‘I’m not hungry.’

He laughed, a rich warm sound like one of China’s bronze bells. It struck her ears with the same clear ring because it held no fear. In Soviet Russia that was a rare and precious thing.

‘My good Soviet citizen,’ he said with a mocking smile, ‘a lovely scarecrow like you must be always hungry. Of course you need lunch.’

Lydia allowed herself to be guided through the doors and on to the street, trying to work out whether she’d just been insulted. It didn’t matter. The one thing she was sure of was that she wasn’t going to let this man out of her sight. It meant missing her noon vigil at the Cathedral but in her heart she knew Alexei wouldn’t be there, any more than he was yesterday or the day before or all the days before that. At the kerb a chauffeur-driven car was waiting, long, black and purring, and as she climbed into its leather interior she glanced over her shoulder to where Elena was still standing stiffly on the pavement. Her eyes were angry.

A sad-eyed peasant stared down at Lydia from the wall of the restaurant with dark, accusing eyes. The strange, almost strangled face made her nervous. A waiter with a courteous smile and garlic breath pulled out her chair and shook a napkin out on to her lap, making her jump. Chairman Malofeyev noticed it and gave her a moment to settle while he busied himself with the wine menu.

Lydia had expected a hotel dining room, one of the big impressive but impersonal places like the Hotel Metropol, where she’d watched the elite Soviet officials strutting through its doors with chests puffed out like the pigeons that used to whirr overhead in Junchow. But no. She got that wrong.

Instead he took her somewhere that showed exquisite taste, somewhere small and intimate. Immaculate stark white table linen, not stiff or starchy, underlined the sense of elegance without formality. Lydia had never seen anywhere quite like it before and wasn’t sure what to make of it. It was modern. Strange and disturbing paintings lined the walls, vivid and demanding; swirls and spikes of colour that made no sense or bold stylised portrayals of peasants and factory workers. The chairs were oddly proportioned, long-backed, the wood painted an unforgiving black with seats bright scarlet, and the carpet was almost too dizzying to step on. Geometric shapes in red, black and white zigzagged across its surface, so that it seemed to Lydia as though she was seated in the middle of a bonfire.

She felt ignorant. Acutely aware that this was a different world she had entered, one where her footing was unsure. The opportunities for making a fool of herself were immense.

‘Do you like them?’ her host asked, indicating the artworks on the wall.

‘They’re different,’ she responded guardedly.

He looked at her with amusement, leaning forward, elbows on the table. ‘But do you like them?’

She stared around her thoughtfully. ‘I like that one.’ She pointed to one of the baffling explosions of colour that she was sure represented something but she couldn’t quite work out what. It possessed an energy that appealed to her.

He nodded approvingly. ‘It’s a copy of a Kandinsky. One of my favourites.’

‘But I don’t like that one over in the corner.’

‘The Malevich. Why not?’

‘It’s depressing. A plain black canvas, all life sucked out of it. What’s it about? It…’ The longer she gazed at the painting the more it made her want to cry. ‘It hurts. I could do better myself.’

‘Do you paint?’

‘No.’

‘Do you write?’

‘No.’

She could feel the ground growing slippery under her feet.

He leaned back in his chair and studied her. ‘You have an artistic look about you. I like that.’

Chyort! He was making assumptions. She knew absolutely nothing about art. She’d read a bit but that didn’t make her a writer. But her mother
had
been a pianist, so maybe…

‘I play the piano,’ she lied modestly.

He was smiling, pleased with himself rather than with her. ‘I knew I was right. You are a bohemian at heart.’

She watched his eyes skim over her thoughtfully.
What?
she wanted to shout. What are you seeing?

‘So,’ he said smoothly, ‘let’s start with names. I am Dmitri Malofeyev. I live in Moscow and sit on committees and commissions, hence the Chairman title. I like horse riding and occasional gambling. What about you?’

‘Lydia Ivanova.’

He inclined his head in a chivalrous little bow that revealed a bone-white line parting the dense waves of his red hair. The skin of his face and hands was winter-pale and lightly freckled. ‘My pleasure, Comrade Ivanova.’

‘I am from Vladivostok.’

‘Ah, an interesting place.’

She sat dry-mouthed. Vladivostok was thousands of miles from Moscow, as far as you could possibly go without falling into the China Sea. Please, please, let him know absolutely nothing about it.

‘That explains,’ he said lightly, ‘your interest in the Chinese Communist Party, just over the border from Russia. Except I’d heard they are active in the south of the country rather than the north.’