Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [508]
It was a handsome room. The walls were blue; the window depicted a strange, dreamy landscape with mountains in the distance and trees in the foreground, whose fruits were red and gold. On the far wall was a painting by Gauguin, depicting two naked women with a Tahitian sunset behind them.
It was not the study, however. Though there was a desk on the left and a chaise longue in the centre, at the far side of the room stood a large bed.
And upon it lay his Uncle Vladimir and Karpenko.
They were both naked. Vladimir’s large, hairy form was turned away from him, but there could be no mistaking it. His powerful arm was resting across Karpenko’s back. Karpenko, however, had his head turned towards the door and now his handsome face looked straight into Dimitri’s.
Dimitri stared. Then Karpenko gave him a strange, rather guilty smile, as though to say: Well, now you know, don’t you?
And not knowing what to do, Dimitri very quietly retreated, closed the door, made his way down the stairs to the silent hall and walked out of the house.
For some time, as he walked towards his home, he could not make out his own feelings, the shock and horror were so great. And it was with surprise, perhaps, as he finally turned into the courtyard with its dusty mulberry tree that he realized that, for his friend, he felt a new kind of protectiveness. As for Uncle Vladimir, he felt a kind of betrayal together with one determined thought: Nadezhda must never know.
And on that dream-like day it also came to him how much there was about people he did not understand.
It was late that afternoon, having at last summoned up the courage, that Alexander Bobrov entered the Suvorin mansion and, rather to his surprise, was told that Nadezhda was free to see him.
Still more surprising was the fact that, before he could stammer out the apology he had carefully prepared, she reached up, touched him on the lips and said: ‘Never mind.’ Then she linked her arm in his and suggested they walk through the gallery.
Looking at her face, it seemed to Alexander that earlier she might have been crying; but whether for that reason or some other, there was a quietness, a tenderness in her manner he had never seen before.
But this was nothing to his surprise and joy when, as he was about to leave, she turned to him and said, ‘Well, Alexander, you’re going off to war. Don’t forget to come back to me, will you?’ And then, turning up her face and looking at him with a little smile: ‘Perhaps you would like to kiss me.’
And she reached up her arms.
1915
There had been a shower. The ground was wet and steaming in the sun as Alexander waited with his men. In front of them lay a huge Polish field; behind, a line of trees.
Soon the action would begin.
Alexander Bobrov surveyed his men. There were thirty-three of them, all, except one, raw recruits, conscripted that winter and given four weeks basic training. The single veteran, a reservist of twenty-seven, Alexander had deputed to act as sergeant.
The trench in which they were standing was not very deep. Once they had got to six feet down, the captain inspecting the line had told them impatiently, ‘That’ll do. We’ve come here to fight, not dig.’
He was a short, fat man, the captain: an officer of the old school with fierce grey whiskers and a red face who, it sometimes seemed to Bobrov, secretly regarded the war as an exasperating diversion from his proper military business of sitting in his club. This morning, though, he had been bustling and brisk.
‘Won’t be long now,’ he had told them an hour ago. ‘Be brave, lads.’ Then he had disappeared.
Alexander gazed at the huge, muddy field before him. About half a mile away, it dipped down, and past that one could see only a lightly wooded ridge some way beyond. Would German helmets suddenly appear? Or puffs of smoke? Alexander hardly knew.