The Third Section (9 page)

Essentially, as Larionov had tactfully explained, it was possible that rumours might spread that would mean Vitya was never welcomed again as a doctor in a private house, either in Petersburg or in Moscow. And then Larionov had added that there also existed the possibility that such rumours might not spread.

In retrospect, Tamara realized that Larionov was probably a little taken aback by the naivety of her response. She was genuinely touched by his concern and desperately hoped that together they could find some way to save Vitya’s career.

‘What can we do?’ she’d asked.

Larionov had smiled, and Tamara saw in him for the first time the hint of something vile. ‘How well you put it,’ he said. ‘Because your husband’s fate depends very much upon what you and I do – together.’

At the same moment Larionov had placed his hand upon her
leg
and his smile had widened, but only on one side, and Tamara had understood everything. When Larionov left her house, seconds later, he could have been in no doubt as to how she felt about his proposal, but he displayed no diminution in his self-confidence. She should have told Vitya, but she could not imagine the words on her tongue. She didn’t have the openness that Vitya had shown when he gave her his diary. All she could do was hope that Larionov would accept defeat.

It was three weeks before Vitya mentioned that a number of patients – four, to be precise – had told him they no longer required his services. It was no great financial loss – Vitya never charged more than he knew his patients could afford, and these families were on the outer fringes of the aristocracy – but it troubled him that people who had once put so much trust in him could suddenly turn him away.

Tamara understood immediately. This was just Larionov flexing his muscles. Those families were not significant of themselves, but as soon as Larionov whispered his lies into the ears of a more respected household there would be no stopping the gossip.

The following day, Tamara had gone to visit Prince Larionov. He had screwed her there and then, in his salon, having told the footman to step outside. Tamara had tried to think of Vitya, but that only made it worse. As the weeks and months went by, she learned to think of nothing. But Vitya lost no more clients, and even gained a few, thanks to Larionov’s enthusiastic recommendation, as he never failed to explain to her. It was intended to make her feel worse, to feel more controlled by him than she already was – and it succeeded.

After about a year Larionov grew tired of her and passed her on to a friend – passed her on, like a book he had enjoyed and was pleased to recommend to another. But already she had heard things from Larionov’s lips that he would hope never made it to the ear of the tsar, but never dreamed she would be in a position to tell. It was through her fourth lover that she became connected with the Third Section. By then Larionov had long forgotten her, but she had acquired a reputation among men in a certain stratum of society, and while no one was as barefaced as Larionov about it, Tamara could not doubt that Vitya’s new-found success
was
in some way down to her own. And when she thought that, she hated herself more. Vitya was a brilliant man – he didn’t need her help to succeed.

The fourth man for whom Tamara acted as a harlot was Actual State Councillor Popov, of the Third Section – assistant to Dubyelt himself on all matters related to censorship. Tamara told Popov and Popov told Dubyelt and Dubyelt told Orlov and Orlov told His Majesty. Prince Larionov’s fall from favour was rapid, but not widely publicized. He was allowed to retire to his smallest country estate – a mere fifty serfs. Somewhere near Kazan, Tamara recalled. If he returned to Petersburg or Moscow he would be arrested. She would have liked that.

Popov tired of her body too, but not of her mind. He introduced her to General Dubyelt and her status as a courtesan became officially sanctioned. There was no way out of it for her now – whatever power Larionov might have had to destroy her and Vitya’s lives was as nothing compared with what Dubyelt might achieve. And, she convinced herself, she was acting for her country – and risking less in that cause than the common soldier did every day.

And then 1848 had come.

She stopped. She was outside the Lavrovs’ home – her home – in the south of the Arbat. She threw what remained of her cigarette to the ground and it hissed as the snow melted and then extinguished the glowing tip. Five weathered stone steps separated her from the front door of the house in which she had grown up. She looked up to the window above – the window of what had once been her bedroom – and then turned and gazed out across the snow-blanketed street. She always remembered it as snowy, and always remembered watching and waiting. Sometimes it was to stare longingly at the figure of a man departing, sometimes eagerly, knowing that he would soon return. And then the memory came to her of the man just standing there in the street, almost at the spot where she stood now, his neck craned, like hers, to look up at the window. But that had been a different man and the more she tried to recall him the more the memory made her feel afraid, and also protective; protective of … her mother?

The door opened, banishing her recollections.

‘Hello, Dubois,’ she said with half a smile to the butler who had evidently spied her presence before she had even needed to knock – the same French butler she had known since she was seventeen.

‘Madame Tamara.’ His speech was as understated as ever, but she could tell that he was surprised, and pleased.

He took her hat, coat and mittens and almost – but not quite – ran to announce her to her parents. They had changed little, in her eyes at least. Yelena Vadimovna was now sixty-two, but did not show it as she ran across the room to greet her daughter. Valentin Valentinovich moved more slowly, partly due to his age, partly due to his generally more restrained manner, but his embrace was as tight as Yelena’s had been.

They talked a lot about very little. At first they spoke of the war and of Rodion, Tamara’s brother. He was stationed at Helsingfors. Apparently, the British fleet in the Baltic was even larger than in the Black Sea, though the waters were unnavigable until spring. The whole family had been back for the New Year and they’d left the eldest boy, Vadim Rodionovich, to stay with his grandparents to be educated in Moscow – it was a shame he’d already gone to bed when Tamara arrived. Then, realizing perhaps that it revealed too much if they spoke only of her brother’s side of the family, they began to turn the conversation on to her.

They asked her where she was living and Tamara was vague. They asked if she was still working for the government, and she said she was. They asked which department, and she said His Imperial Majesty’s Own Chancellery. They asked which section and she said the fourth. They were pleased – working to help educate the poor was an ideal job for Tamara.

‘I must admit though,’ Yelena had eventually said, ‘to a little surprise that you’ve come back to live in Moscow after all these years. Not that we’re not both delighted.’ She glanced at her husband, as if to verify his agreement. Tamara seized the opportunity to turn the conversation in the direction that she both feared and yearned for.

‘I came to research my parents,’ she said. She almost felt herself flinch in anticipation of their response. She knew how they always reacted, yet still she kept on doing it.

‘“Research” us,’ said Valentin. ‘That’s a nice way of putting it.’ But his laughter was forced – a last-ditch attempt to avoid hearing what he knew she was about to say.

‘My natural parents, I mean.’ Tamara put every effort into making it sound unimportant. Only at the last moment did she manage to say ‘natural’ instead of ‘real’. The mood of the room changed instantly.

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Toma, haven’t we been over this enough?’ Yelena stood as she spoke, and began to pace across the room.

Valentin shook his head sadly, and rubbed his hands against his thighs. ‘Insulting. Most insulting,’ he mumbled to himself. ‘Ungrateful.’

Tamara felt like a little girl again. She’d always hated to upset them, but she’d grown to learn it was often a trick. Whenever she was naughty, the easiest way to punish her was to make her feel that she had let them down. She felt the tears rising in her, but held them back. On this occasion they were probably being genuine, to a degree. She
was
being insulting, and ungrateful – but that didn’t diminish the fact that what she was saying was true.

‘I don’t love either of you any less for it,’ she said, hearing the sudden emotion in her own voice. ‘I probably love you even more.’

‘It’s a madness in you,’ said Yelena. ‘An obsession.’

‘A serpent’s tooth,’ muttered Valentin.

‘All that you’ve done for me counts for even more if I’m not your flesh and blood.’ Now Tamara felt she was pleading.

‘Exactly,’ said Yelena, coming to a halt in front of Tamara. ‘How could we – why would we – if you’re not our daughter?’

‘Because you’re good people.’

‘Ha!’ said Valentin, louder than before. ‘It’s too late for flattery now.’

‘What about Volkonsky’s money?’

‘He is not your father.’ Valentin’s voice was firm.

‘I know that now – he was paying on behalf of someone else.’

‘I’ve explained,’ he replied with forced calm. ‘He knew your grandfather. They fought together in the war. He wanted to do something for you.’

‘For me and not for Rodion?’

‘A man can make his own way in life,’ Valentin persisted. ‘Volkonsky even wrote to you, telling you just the same.’

‘And how would you know that?’ asked Tamara. Valentin looked flustered. The fact that he was such a poor liar was another reason to suspect he was not her father. ‘Anyway – I’ve seen Volkonsky’s papers, and they tell a very different story.’

‘I think you’d better go,’ he said stiffly.

Tamara was taken aback. It was an unusual reaction from him, but perhaps it was all he could think of now she had pushed him into a corner. She looked across the room, but Yelena’s eyes were glued to the floor, daring to look neither at her husband nor Tamara.

‘Very well then,’ she said, standing. ‘Perhaps it’s for the best. Mama. Papa.’ Her looks to both of them were returned by averted gazes. It was a moment before she saw the irony of the words she had used to address them; they seemed so natural on her lips. She turned and left. She was almost at the front door when she heard Yelena’s footsteps catching up with her.

‘Why do you keep bringing it up?’ her mother asked. She was calm now – determinedly rational.

‘Because you keep denying it,’ said Tamara simply.

‘And why would that ever change?’ Her eyes flicked across Tamara’s face, studying it, but also trying to communicate something unspoken. ‘If Prince Volkonsky went to his grave without telling you what you seem so keen to hear, then why do you think we’ll do any different?’

It was the closest thing to an admission that Tamara had ever heard from either of them, but still she wanted more. ‘But how can you both pretend all the time?’

‘We’re not pretending. But if you think we’re capable of it, why can’t you be?’

Tamara nodded. Yelena pulled her close and kissed her on each cheek. Tamara turned and opened the door.

‘You will come again, soon, won’t you?’ said Yelena.

Tamara nodded.

‘And when you do, pretend, for all our sakes.’

‘I’ll try.’

She left, closing the door behind her. She stood there on the
stone
steps, thinking for a moment or two, and then set off, marching through the snow with a deliberate air of determination and pride that she hoped would fool anyone who saw her. She needed a safe place to run to, somewhere she would feel accepted. Every child should have such a place, even a child of thirty-three. Only an orphan could not run to her parents and ask them to take away all the troubles of the world and to make it stop – whatever ‘it’ might be. And at least an orphan could be consoled by the knowledge that she was a victim of circumstance. For Tamara, it was all down to her own stupidity.

Her cheeks tingled as her tears froze against them.

DMITRY THREW HIMSELF
to the ground as a shell exploded not far in front of him. The huge earthworks, so recently and hastily erected, protected him and those nearby from the blast, but he felt the ground shake. He waited only a moment and then pulled himself back to his feet. He peeped through a small hole in the earth towards the enemy beyond. They were French, all of them as far as he could tell, but it wasn’t surprising – the British lines were further to the south. The French had advanced a little way, but were now close enough to be in range of the Russian musket fire. They were making the best use of what little cover there was while their artillery once again attempted to soften up the Russian defences. But despite the twilight their dark blue uniforms stood out unmistakably against the snow, so that even the inaccurate Russian musketeers eventually got lucky. Dmitry watched as first one, then another and then another distant figure collapsed to the ground. It was some consolation to be fighting a mortal foe. He tried to push the thought from his mind, but he could not. It lurked there, waiting to taunt him, that simple, inescapable fact.

There were vampires in Sevastopol.

It was a preposterous idea, but his urge was more to scream than to laugh at it. The thought of it made him feel like a child, desperate to run to his father and be assured that everything was safe. It was more than a regression to a childhood need for security. Dmitry’s father was truly the only person on the planet who would not, quite rationally, laugh at his fears. Even Yudin, whom Dmitry loved almost as a father, would scoff at the very
idea
of the existence of the
voordalak
. But Aleksei would not have laughed. He had met vampires before: once in 1812 and again in 1825. That second occasion was when Dmitry too had encountered them, and when Aleksei had told him the horrible truth of it all. For thirty years, Dmitry had hoped such monsters could be forgotten.