Despite the Falling Snow Read online

  Later, over dinner, Lauren questions her about her parents. Melissa’s conversation is terse and to the point, but with an undercurrent of dry humour that Lauren finds particularly amusing when she talks about her father’s lack of awareness of anything outside his books. After a few moments, though, Melissa’s tone changes, becoming more subdued.

  “You know, the last two times I had dinner with them, my mother’s been talking non-stop about Russia. And my dad answers all her questions, but it never once occurs to him to ask why she’s interested. He has a kind of purity in his thought process which I admire, but I guess it can blind you when you’re in a close relationship.”

  From Melissa’s slight shifting, and the movement away of her eyes, Lauren senses that this is her hesitant way of explaining something of herself, but she decides not to pursue the point at this moment.

  “Why is Estelle so into Russia?”

  “Because of your uncle. And Katya. I think she’s developing quite a fascination.” She smiles. “Everyone seems taken with this woman, who none of us have ever met.”

  “I guess when I was younger, Katya seemed like a comic book heroine to me. Exotic and exciting, leading a double life. Spying, the cold war, all that stuff.”

  “But you still admire her, don’t you?”

  “Sure. I mean, she lost both her parents very young, in the most horrible way, and yet found a way to be so strong, so sure of herself and what she believed in. Even when believing it meant defying everyone and everything around her. She lived with passion and I aspire to that.”

  Melissa smiles. “She sounds a little like you. Losing your parents, living with passion. I mean, you don’t become an artist to get a regular income. You do it because you love it, right?”

  Lauren has not considered herself in the same light as her aunt since she was a teenager, and is even less inclined to do so now.

  “I think I have a long way to go before I’m anything like Katya,” Lauren replies. “She really knew what she wanted in life. She had a purpose.”

  “And you don’t?”

  Lauren hesitates. “I love painting. I’m just tired of portraits. I’ve been playing it safe for too long. Taking commissions that don’t stretch me intellectually or physically. I’m not learning anything new.”

  “That’s a problem,” says Melissa. “You don’t ever stay still in life. If you’re not stepping forward, you’re falling behind.”

  “Did you get that from a desk calendar?”

  Melissa sighs. “You love thinking of me as a corporate robot, don’t you? I might not be able to express myself poetically, or through art or whatever, but I know what I believe. Sorry if it sounds trite.”

  Not for the first time, Lauren finds herself cursing her own quick tongue. She has also continually overlooked the fact that here in front of her is a woman who is also passionate about what she does.

  “No, I’m sorry,” she says. “I really am. I’ve been giving you my artist’s superiority complex from day one, and you don’t deserve it.”

  Melissa smiles and re-fills their wine glasses. “You have been pretty feisty. But nothing I can’t handle.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  There is a pause, and Lauren looks at the dessert menu noting that Melissa has pushed hers to one side.

  “I don’t suppose you’ll split a chocolate cheesecake with me?”

  “Too many carbs. And the fat grams.…”

  “If you do, I’ll take you around the Museum of Fine Arts, and show you a few things. If you want to.”

  Melissa frowns. “So let me get this right. I have to eat a dessert I don’t want in order to win a trip around a museum that I haven’t asked for?”

  Lauren nods.

  “You’re a hell of a negotiator. For an artist.”

  “Do we have a deal?”

  Melissa smiles. “I love cheesecake. And I’m pretty sure I can learn to love art. I’m going home to New York for a few days. But maybe when I get back?”

  Lauren sits back in her seat and smiles. “I’ll hold you to it.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Moscow – October 1956

  ON HIS BED, SHE LIES NAKED, and trembling. He cannot see her shaking in the cool darkness, but his hand can feel the tiny tremors in her muscles as it passes gently over the skin of her stomach. He has pulled back from her kisses, the kisses that she sometimes uses to shield her face from his eyes, because she knows that when he is so close to her he cannot watch her. The desire that had overwhelmed him a few moments ago has cooled slightly, a conscious, monumental effort on his part, because he wants to see her now, and know what it is that is passing through her mind or heart, and that is leaving a shivering imprint on every fibre of her body.

  He sits alongside, and when she tries to pull him down towards her, he carefully takes possession of the hand that grasps his shoulder and brings it to his mouth. With his eyes closed, he kisses her fingers, every joint of every one, slowly, slowly. Then her palm, warm and salty. He holds it pressed against his face for a few moments, and with his other hand touches her chest, between her breasts. Her breath comes shallow and fast, and the trembling is there still.

  “Sasha,” she whispers, and he brings her palm down to his own chest, holding it against his heart, and looks at her, tenderly, quietly, willing her to tell him anything she wants to tell him.

  “What is it, Katyushka?” he asks, his voice low.

  She shakes her head very slightly and turns it away from him, towards the window, and in the thin moonlight or streetlight that penetrates the curtain, he sees tears gleaming on her cheeks and eyelashes. Without taking even a moment to undress, he lies down alongside her. Although he cannot see her turned-away face, he can hold her, and his arms encircle her whole body, his hands caress and stroke her wherever they rest – her waist, her hip, her thigh. Her shaking seems to become stronger. He can feel her ribs against him, the soft down of her back against his arm, her thin shoulders, all shivering.

  “What is it, my love?”

  A shift of her head, towards him. She brings up a hand to try and wipe her face, but he is holding her so tightly that she cannot reach. He guides her towards him, and willingly now she turns over, so that her head is against his neck, and he can feel the wetness of her eyes and nose on his skin.

  “What’s wrong?”

  But she shakes her head, and a sound comes from her that is like a laugh, but it rises from so deep within, and is laden with such raw emotion, that he cannot be sure what it is, or what it means.

  “I’m so happy with you, Sasha.”

  It is the first time she has ever told him anything like that. Even during their most intimate, tender love-making, she has been unable to bring herself to respond to his quiet speaking of his own love.

  He feels dizzy with pleasure, with a deep, uncontrolled joy, and he closes his eyes and kisses her forehead and eyes and holds her as closely as he can. He never wants to move from here, or let her go, or get up from this bed, ever again. In a little while, it occurs to him to ask her again what he had asked her a few days ago. “Katyushka, will you marry me please?” She had not answered, had been withdrawn and confused beneath her insistence that she needed time to make a decision. He had felt sick with despair, for how could anyone need time to answer this question, unless the answer was really no? But here, now, he knows that she loves him. But he does not ask. The moment is too precious to break, and besides, she will answer when she is ready.

  The trembling of her limbs has ceased. She lies quiet and peaceful against him, her breathing even and deeper. He lies still, wondering if she has fallen asleep. But there is a slight tension in her legs, which she is deliberately holding fast against his own that tells him that she is awake.

  “Sasha,” she whispers. “I will marry you.” And then in a tiny, quiet voice: “I love you.”

  He kisses her head as a reply. Nothing will induce him to release his hold of her right now – and
she does not try and look up or kiss him. They lie there, complete, silent, and in a few moments he feels her arms relax and her hand fall away from his leg. She is sleeping.

  She can somehow tell in those moments of falling into sleep that she is about to have the dream again. The knowledge comes to her subconscious like a sixth sense, and she always struggles to pull back to wakefulness, but it is a useless attempt, like trying to sprint out of quicksand. It is terrible and inevitable, but she is fully trapped now in the swirling current of her slumber, and there is no way for her to rise to the surface, to pull away from the dream and burst up into the fresh air. He feels her limbs twitch against him, and he smiles that she has slept so quickly and easily. Another sound comes from her throat, a moan, and he kisses her and rubs her back.

  She sees her mother in a cell, windowless, airless. The smell of faeces and urine soaked into the walls. Her father is there somewhere, too, in another part of the jail, but she never sees him in this dream. Only her mother. And her face is so clear, so well-remembered, it gives her a pin-prick of pleasure in the midst of her anguish, for when she is awake, she can never fully recall her mother’s face. Her mother is sitting in a corner of the cell, which is garishly lit to prevent her from sleeping; and she seems strangely calm, but the calmness comes from resignation or despair, something that hurts Katya more than seeing her mother’s panic or anger would. She knows her mother has refused to sign a piece of paper, her fabricated confession to her crimes against the state, and from somewhere outside the cell, Katya can hear herself begging her mother to just sign it, don’t let them hurt you, just sign it.

  “But then they will shoot me anyway, Katyushka, if I confess,” her mother says. Just like that, coolly, without recognising her daughter’s fear and anguish. She knows it is an effect of the dream that makes her mother so distant and unaware, but it pains her anyway. Doesn’t she care that she will never see Katya again, or hold her or kiss her?

  Then she is beaten. This is a terrible part of the dream for Katya, but she knows that this is only the start, She feels a primal yell rising in her throat, as two of the guards go in on her mother, jabbing with rifle butts, swinging with black boots. They are heavy men; she sees one of them is short, with a thick neck and shoulders, and the sound of his gun thudding against the prone body on the ground is sickening. There is a wetness, a squelching to the sound, when they have been hitting for long enough. Then she can hear her mother gurgling, blood filling her mouth and throat and eyes. Then comes the worst part of the dream. Another man unbuttons his trousers, he is a guard, she thinks, and the heavy man is still there, laughing now, and her mother is being pulled out of her corner, being uncurled, her limbs pushed apart, and now she hears her mother sobbing. The guard drops down on top of her with quick brutality. There is a savage, relentless grunting from his slack, open mouth as he rapes her, an obscene groan of pleasure as he thrashes about on top of her, his hands groping her dress, grasping at her breasts.

  “Just sign it,” Katya begs. “Just sign it.”

  She signs it. In the end. And then she is taken out of the cell, and Katya watches her being walked outside, and her mother’s knees are buckling and her face is unrecognisable now, a bloody pulp, and her dress is badly stained and streaked, and she has a cigarette burn on her neck. And when they get her outside, they will put her against a wall, with a few others, and shoot her. But she never sees that part. Which is why the rape is always the worst.

  He has been shaking her very gently for a few minutes now, since the screams began, tiny, strangled, primeval sounds, as though she is trying to shout and gasp for air at the same time. He is hesitant to wake her suddenly from such a deep sleep. But then her breathing slows and the noises stop. There is a tear escaping from one eye, and her mouth is contorted in pain or sadness. He rubs her back and strokes her head, whispering to her that she is fine, nothing can hurt her. And her face slowly relaxes, and within a few minutes she is awake.

  “You were having a bad dream,” he tells her.

  She wipes a hand over her eyes and face; she is panting for breath. She turns over, and looks away from him, up at the ceiling. Suddenly, she does not want to feel his hands on her. She shifts again, so that the warmth of his body is held slightly away from her. Now the coolness of the air can reach her hot limbs and she is grateful for it.

  “Katya? Do you remember what it was?”

  “What?” she asks, her voice hoarse.

  “Your dream. You were so unhappy. Do you remember it?”

  Her breathing is heavy, barely controlled. All that she can do is shake her head.

  “Are you sure?” he wants to know. “Are you okay?”

  She takes some deep breaths and then she can turn to look at him, clear-eyed. “No, I don’t remember any of it,” she says. “Nothing at all.”

  She closes her eyes and pretends to sleep. She is still holding herself a little away from him, and he can sense that, and she knows he is hurt by it, but he shifts away from her anyway to give her the space she is now craving. Then she hears him get up, quietly, and go into the bathroom. The sound of the water running in a thin stream into the bath. He will be a while. She opens her eyes and takes an audible gulp of air. The dream is fading from her mind, much more quickly than usual, because on waking she has remembered that she has just agreed to marry him. She blinks hard and wipes away a light sheen of sweat from her cheeks and nose. She has been in a state of suppressed panic for days, since he first asked her, considering whether she should marry him for his information, or whether she should refuse him because she would only be using him. She wonders what she was thinking just now, when she said yes; and then she realises she was not thinking at all, was not being rational, controlled, sensible. She agreed to marry him just now because she loves him, and at that moment that was all she could feel and think and know. She turns over onto her back and looks at the ceiling... What on earth is she going to tell Misha? How on earth will he ever understand?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Boston

  THE EVENING SHADOWS ARE stretching fingers of dusk into the kitchen. Lauren stands before the stove and notices the reflection of the weak, late winter sunshine slipping down the walls of the room. It is a warm colour that slides away, and it leaves a solemn darkness in its place. It is the kind of twilight that she loves, that has an atmosphere of early spring about it, and she glances quickly at Alexander. He is busy whisking together eggs and milk, and has not yet noticed the fading light. She is glad of it. In this house she can rarely indulge her appetite for the quiet dusk, or the velvet cover of nighttime. A surfeit of lights and lamps and candles chase these tones away whenever Alexander is near.

  “When do you plan to leave?” he asks her, grinding salt and pepper into his eggs.

  “I was hoping we would leave next week.”

  With a deliberately cavalier gesture, Alexander cuts a large knob of butter and puts it into a saucepan.

  “I wanted scrambled eggs, not a heart attack,” Lauren comments.

  “You wanted to learn to make my scrambled eggs,” he says. “And I’m not running a health farm. Wait till the butter is just foaming.”

  Obediently, she watches it melt.

  “I’m not going on this trip,” Alexander says suddenly. “I told you that from the start, and nothing has changed. If you really think you can find something, then fine. Come back and let me know what it is.”

  Lauren tips the eggs into the pan.

  “Keep stirring,” Alexander instructs.

  “So you do want to know more?”

  “No!”

  She is startled by the harsh decisiveness of the reply, but she will not look up from the stove. She moves her wooden spoon back and forth amongst the gently setting eggs. Watches them intently, giving herself time to harness her instinct to yell back at him, and giving him time to gather himself. She can feel that he has taken a step back and is standing awkwardly beside her. He takes out his handkerchief and wipes at his face
. A long minute or two passes this way, during which he dare not guide her about the eggs, even though he is longing to take over. Instinctively, she lets go of the spoon and turns the handle of the pan so that it is within his reach. Then she looks up.

  “Well, maybe you should start wanting to know, Uncle Alex. Or stop pretending that you don’t. No,” she cuts him off before he can utter even a sound in defence. “And don’t think of trying that terse tone again with me. It might work in business meetings, but I’m your family.”

  “Keep stirring, Lauren,” is all he says.

  She takes up the spoon again. “Looks like they’re nearly done.”

  He sets two places at the kitchen table, and puts slices of bread into the toaster. Within a few moments, she brings the saucepan over to him and he checks the eggs and nods approval. She divides the contents between their plates and waits for him to sit down.

  “Now, listen to me, Uncle Alex. The reason I’ve been pursuing this thing is because I think you’ve been wrong all these years. Wrong about blaming yourself for what happened to Katya, and wrong not to have checked it out before now. I think someone else was involved.”