CHAPTER VI

IT HAS ALWAYS STRUCK ME AS INTERESTING THE WAY THAT MEANING transcends language. Recalling, for instance, the conversation we had exchanged with those French soldiers that night, I know that it took place in French, but if I were to recount it, I could do it just as well in French or Russian or even Italian. I had remembered the meaning of what was said rather than the details of the words.

Once, back in Petersburg, I had had a long conversation with an old soldier. He had received a head wound fighting the Turks during the reign of the Tsarina Yekaterina, under General Suvarov. A huge chunk of his brain was missing. It affected his ability to move and his ability to speak, but within that straitjacket of incapacity, his mind was as sharp as ever. Communication was difficult, though with practice it became easier. When he spoke, I had to listen carefully to the ill-formed sounds he produced. When he found he was at a loss to express himself, I had to guess his meaning and prompt him with suggestions until we found one with which he was happy.

And yet when I later was talking to Marfa about him, I could recall every detail of his fascinating life as if he had told me it in perfect, fluent Russian. Although I remembered the difficulties we had had in communicating, that memory was stored separately in my mind from what had actually been communicated.

Thus, as Pierre hailed us with his wish of 'good luck', one part of my mind reacted to its friendly meaning. Another part screamed at me the warning that the phrase was spoken in Russian – a tongue that I should not comprehend. It was a race between the two thoughts as to which I would act upon first. In the end, the victor did not matter. Vadim spoke before I could react in any way.

'Pardon?' he said, turning back to Pierre and sticking with French.

Pierre repeated the phrase, and then explained in French. 'It's Russian for "good luck".'

'Ah, I see,' smiled Vadim. 'I thought it sounded Russian.'

'You don't speak it?' asked Pierre.

'Not a word,' said Vadim, while I shook my head.

'Pierre here speaks it like a native,' said Stephan. 'He should be a spy.' He paused and considered for a moment. 'Unless, of course, he already is. He could be spying on us for them.' Louis and Guillaume both laughed.

'Go on, Pierre,' said Louis. 'Hit us with some more.'

Pierre rolled out a few sentences in a passable accent. They were clearly intended to catch out any honest Russian who understood them.

'Your wife is a whore, and last night she screwed my dog' was the first, followed by 'Tsar Aleksandr likes to suck General Kutuzov's cock.' Finally, he recounted an often told but utterly false story concerning the death of Tsarina Yekaterina. While I might have fallen for the trickery of his surprise 'good luck', it was easy enough for Vadim and me now to pretend not to understand a word he said. For many senior officers of the generation before ours, little pretence would have been necessary. For a century, French had been the language of the cultivated Russian. Russian was the language of the serf. For most nations, the spies are chosen from amongst men who are fluent in a foreign tongue – men like Pierre. In Russia, spies were men such as Vadim, Dmitry, Maks and myself who, unusually, could communicate with our own populace. Only now, thanks largely to the common enemy that all Russians saw in Bonaparte, were things changing.

'And what was all that about, Pierre?' asked Louis. Pierre translated and we all laughed, particularly about Yekaterina and the horse.

We said goodbye once more and made our way out of the camp, not convinced that they trusted us, but resisting the urge to break into a run. We were almost beyond sight of the group around the fire when we saw ahead of us three French officers about to enter the camp. I readied myself to nonchalantly salute as we passed, but as they came closer, their three faces became recognizable.

It was Iuda, Foma and Matfei.

'Aleksei Ivanovich! Vadim Fyodorovich! What might you be doing here?' asked Iuda. 'Surely you haven't gone over to the other side?' He had a degree of good-humoured sarcasm that I was surprised to hear from any of the Oprichniki.

'Just a little espionage,' explained Vadim. 'And you?'

Iuda smiled. 'We come not to spy, but to kill.' Matfei and Foma shuffled their feet, impatient that this needless conversation was delaying the action. 'It's a good job we didn't come sooner,' continued Iuda. 'You make such convincing Frenchmen.'

I was keen to leave, but I felt we owed Iuda some of the benefit of our research. 'There's over a hundred men back there,' I told him. 'You don't stand a chance.' Even as I spoke, I remembered what we had witnessed Pyetr, Ioann and Varfolomei achieve earlier that night, and I doubted my own words.

Iuda patted my shoulder condescendingly. 'Thanks for your concern, Aleksei. See you soon.'

Then they were gone, vanishing into the darkness of the night to become shadows illuminated only by the campfires, mingling amicably amongst the men that they were soon to turn on. Vadim and I walked briskly away, each of us secretly hoping to be out of earshot before the Oprichniki began their work.

 

Back in Goryachkino, we changed into our regular clothes. Vadim's horse was still tied up where he had left it. He mounted and set off ahead of me towards our own encampments to the east of Borodino. I continued on foot. The rain poured down on me, driven even harder by the gusting wind, and the road became muddy under my feet. I envied Vadim his quick journey on horseback, but I pressed on.

Dawn broke with no sound of birdsong. The sound of those birds that even dared to speak was smothered by the sound of twelve hundred guns opening fire as the battle began to the south. It was a beautiful sound, at least to a soldier, which was what I still liked to regard myself as. There is a simplicity to a battle that appeals to every soldier, be he the most cerebral officer or the basest ryadovoy. It is a suspension of morality that allows a man to act without conscience, safe in the knowledge that it is his duty to destroy the enemy. The politics, for that short duration, are the business of others. Between battles, some men suppress their doubts with unconditional love for the tsar, some with complex political reasoning, some with plain, brute stupidity.

I belonged to the middle group, and I had been a long time between battles. But I knew that I could make little difference as a soldier on my own, and so I walked on, trying to pass the battle, to meet up with Vadim, rejoin the Oprichniki and direct them to do some real damage.

To the north of Borodino, the Moskva flowed east to Moscow, but here it turned a little to the south, forcing me closer to the battlefield than my head – though not my heart – would have liked. I skirted the village of Loginovo, close enough to see that it was swarming with Bavarian cavalry, but not close enough for them to see me. My next problem was to cross the Kolocha. It wasn't a huge river, just a tributary of the Moskva, but I knew I would have to head south, towards the battle, to find a suitable point to ford it. Eventually, I found a shallow. Thinking of Maks, and musing as to whether I would simply be able to walk across the water, I stepped out into the river.

Almost as my foot touched it, the surface began to shake and ripple. It was already broken by rainfall, but this disturbance had a different pattern – one with which I was familiar. The air was still filled with the sound of cannon fire, but as I listened more carefully, I heard what I had been expecting: the sound of hooves.

Before I could turn to look, I was surrounded by horsemen; Cossacks – from the Astrakhan voisko, by the look of them. But they were in full retreat, almost a stampede. They crossed the river without troubling to pause, ignoring me and galloping by on either side. Amongst them were several horses that had thrown or lost their riders. They had been initially caught up in the frenzy of their stablemates, but now they were beginning to slow. I grabbed the harness of one of them and hauled myself on to it, spurring it on to catch up with the rest of the group. I glanced behind me and caught a glimpse of what they were fleeing from – a squad of Bavarian cavalry pursuing them at full gallop. I didn't pause to wait for them. Once across the river, it was easy for me to get ahead of the disorganized rabble and then turn my horse to face them.

'Pull yourselves together,' I shouted, but I suspect it was more the need to avoid collision with me than any order I gave which ultimately caused them to halt. Once a dozen or so had pulled up and gathered around me, some degree of order was returned, and most of the remainder turned to join us. A few galloped off into the distance, but I had no time to concern myself with them. There were almost fifty who stayed with me. I drew my sabre, and charged back towards the Bavarians with an incoherent roar.

For a moment, I did not know if the Cossacks would follow, but I soon found myself riding with horsemen at my side, behind me, and even a few stretching out in front. Within seconds, we were upon the Bavarians. Our two squadrons clashed and then intermingled without resistance, like two droplets of water forming into one. But within that new, single droplet a battle raged. I fought with my sabre, as did many of the Cossacks, but others fired pistols at close range. The enemy was similarly armed, and whilst the two sides might have been on a level in their use of pistols, a pistol can only be fired once. After that, the Cossacks showed far greater skill – and savagery – with the use of the blade.

Even in the heat of battle, I made a comparison with the Oprichniki, or rather how I had imagined our working with the Oprichniki would be; that they would require leadership, but once given that they would fight beside their Russian leaders like heroes. But that was not how it had turned out. The Oprichniki shunned us, and when they did fight, they fought like cowards, both in their ambush at the farmhouse and later when they infiltrated the French camp. It was, in contrast, an honour to fight alongside these Cossacks, even though their customs were as strange to me as were those of the Wallachians.

I didn't hear the Bavarians' call to retreat, but in an instant the two droplets had separated again and the enemy was in flight. I charged after them, elated by the heat of the battle.

'Come back and fight, God damn you!' I heard a voice shout, and realized it was my own. At the same time, I knew that pursuit was foolish. We were heading back towards Loginovo, where I had seen so many more Bavarians; more than we could ever defeat. I turned my horse around and the Cossacks followed. Once we had crossed the Kolocha for the third time in but a few minutes, we slowed down to a canter, and I asked the sergeant to lead us back to their camp.

He pointed us to the south-east, and then spoke to me.

'That was very impressive, sir. After we lost our lieutenant, I thought we were done for.'

'Thank you.' I was too out of breath to say much more. There were a few moments' silence before he spoke again.

'Just one thing, sir.'

'Yes?'

'Why all the swearing, sir? Fighting's a sacred business. Swearing in battle, well, it's like swearing in church.'

I looked at him in amazement, and yet I already knew that Cossacks took their fighting extremely seriously.

'I'll try to keep that in mind,' I said.

'God will punish you, sir,' he continued, not in the blood-and-guts tone of a priest, but just as if he were reminding me that it was a good idea to keep the lock of my musket clean. His reasoning was equally straightforward. 'You'll get killed . . . and so will we.'

I laughed, throwing my head back, more out of the euphoria of the battle than anything else, but I admired the practicality of his piety.

Once back behind our own lines, we were passed from officer to officer until I finally faced the Cossacks' commander, General Platov. The sergeant explained what had happened. Platov stroked his thin moustache and eyed me up and down.

'And who the devil are you?' he asked.

'Captain Danilov, sir; Hussar Life Guard Regiment.'

'And where's your uniform?'

'I've been on special duties, sir.'

Platov knew that if this was true, then he would get little response to any further questions. On the other hand, it was an easy enough claim for anyone to make. I was about to show him my papers, but before I could he spoke briefly to an adjutant, who then rode off.

'We'll soon see about that,' he said.

He didn't speak to me any further, but rode a little way away and began viewing the terrain through his spyglass. A few minutes later, his adjutant returned, accompanied by a figure that even from a distance I could recognize by his mop of thick, dark curly hair. It was Lieutenant-General Fyedor Pyetrovich Uvarov, officially my commanding officer. On seeing his arrival, Platov rode back over to join the two of us. He arrived just as Uvarov greeted me.

'Come back to join us, Aleksei Ivanovich?' asked Uvarov, with half a smile. He had not been resentful when Vadim had asked him if I might be temporarily borrowed from his regiment, but he had been sorry to see me go.

'Just passing through, sir,' I replied.

'You can vouch for this man then?' asked Platov.

'As much as anyone can,' said Uvarov.

'You want him back?' Platov spoke in the same tone as he would have discussed a lost dog.

Uvarov raised a questioning eyebrow at me.

'I think I'm happy where I am, sir,' I said.

'Very good,' said Platov, still scarcely bothering to look at me. He looked at his pocket watch. 'Make yourself ready, we advance in ten minutes.'

And so, a quarter of an hour later, I had led my Cossacks across the Kolocha once more, accompanied by many others. All of Platov's Cossacks, Bashkirs and Tatars took part in the attack, along with Uvarov's more regular cavalry, amongst whom I might in a different life have found myself. This time, we outflanked the Bavarians, but almost as soon as we had crossed the river, we encountered both cavalry and light infantry, which Uvarov's forces engaged, allowing the rest of us to further outflank the enemy and get behind their lines.

I charged onwards, imagining myself as my hero, Davidov, whom I had met only once, at the Battle of Eylau, but whom Vadim had known in Finland. He was famed even now – and would become more famous soon – for his audacious raids at the head of Cossack troops. We attacked whoever we saw, spreading chaos and fear, as Cossacks always do, amongst the enemy – Italians and Bavarians, mostly – who could not organize themselves into any defence. Whether we actually had any significant impact on the battle, I do not know, but there was a sense of exhilaration in this kind of fighting that I have not known before or since. Again, my sabre proved to be by far the most effective weapon, assisted by perhaps a single volley of pistol fire preceding each attack.

Eventually, the French understood the danger we posed to them. The Third Cavalry turned from the French centre and counterattacked. Once surprise had been lost, we were far less effective. The Third Cavalry held us to a more orthodox form of battle, and this in turn took the pressure off the Italians and Bavarians, who had time to organize their own defence properly. Volleys of musket fire began to decimate our ranks. Still the Cossacks unhaltingly threw themselves on the enemy, but now each attack took a greater toll on us. Men fell either side of me long before we were close enough to use our sabres. Now I longed to be back with my comrades in the Hussars, where a few swift words from me could have organized us into lines and made us far more effective. But the Cossacks knew little of such things, and they paid the price.

The sergeant, who had rode beside me throughout, was shot in the neck. Blood cascaded from his mouth as he tried to speak, but then he fell to the ground, the hooves of his comrades' horses trampling him and quickly achieving what the bullet had slowly begun. I called for a withdrawal, but it was an order they were far less happy to obey than an attack. I rode back and forth, slapping men and horses with the flat of my blade until eventually what was left of them – perhaps thirty from the original fifty – obeyed.

It was not long after that a general retreat – for both Platov's and Uvarov's troops – was ordered. We headed back, crossing the river for a final time, to our original position on the Russian right flank. There, sitting calmly astride his horse, was a familiar figure: Vadim Fyodorovich. He said nothing, but his whole demeanour reminded me of my father, calling for me to stop playing with my friends because my tutor was waiting for me. Through the crowds of horsemen, I also saw General Uvarov. He rode over to me.

'We've been ordered to join Kutuzov in Gorki.' Gorki was a village about two versts east of Borodino, where General Kutuzov had made his headquarters. 'It looks like they need to reinforce the centre.'

I nodded towards Vadim. Uvarov turned and looked at him for a moment, then gave him a curt salute of acknowledgement. 'I see,' he said. He turned away from me and surveyed his troops. They were far fewer in number than what they had been in the morning, and many were in no state to fight. 'God in Heaven!' he muttered. 'We'll never keep them from Moscow now.'

I thought about raising my sergeant's objections to swearing on the battlefield, but decided I was already straining my relationship with the general. Besides, the sergeant's clean mouth had not brought him any luck that day. Vadim had already turned his horse and was leaving. I headed after him.

 

'Any sign of Maks?' I asked, after we had discussed what we had been doing since we last met. His day had been quieter than mine. He had reported what we had discovered in the French camp, and then gone to observe the battle. Several of the Life Guards had mentioned my activities, and so he'd had no trouble finding me.

'No one seems to have heard from him, but I wouldn't have expected them to. If Maks has stuck to the plan (unlike us) then he'll be east of here. Shalikovo would be the most likely place on the list. We should head there too.'

We rode to Shalikovo, with the sound of battle growing more distant, but still ever present behind us. It was late evening by the time we arrived at our chosen rendezvous – a small stable attached to an inn. The inn, like so many of the buildings along the Moscow road, had been abandoned by both owners and guests in anticipation of Bonaparte's advance. We decided to forsake the comforts of sleeping on straw for the rooms of the inn itself. Neither of us had had any real sleep for over twenty-four hours, so we took full advantage of the opportunity.

The following morning, we could hear no further sound of cannon fire. The great battle was over, though we had no idea of its outcome. We went to the stable to see if there was any sign of either Maks or Dmitry having been there before us. It didn't take long to find, chalked on to the wall, a brief but precise message from Maks:

8 – 26 – 9 – M

We had missed him by only twelve hours when we arrived the previous evening. I noted also the shaky hand in which he had written. He had been tired or afraid – or both. There was no sign of Dmitry.

We decided to wait, partly to see if Dmitry would show up, partly to see what news there was from Borodino. We found a few bits of food left in the inn, and made ourselves a reasonable breakfast. By mid-morning, the first of our retreating troops passed through the village.

The news was confused. There had been heavy casualties on both sides, although no one could give even the vaguest numbers; it was only much later that I learned the true scale of death there. Some time before dawn, after almost a full day's battle, Kutuzov had given the order for the Russian retreat. Yet still some of those who rode through claimed the battle as a victory for Russia – saying that although we had been forced to retreat, we had done enough damage to halt Bonaparte's advance and that he would never now be able to take Moscow. Others were less optimistic, but still saw some hope; Bonaparte would take Moscow, but would not be able to keep it. Still others thought that there was now nothing to keep the French from the gates of Petersburg.

Whatever the analysis of the future, it was clear that there was little point in our staying in Shalikovo. We saddled up and headed east along the road to Moscow, quickly overtaking the bedraggled, war-weary and yet not quite demoralized survivors of our glorious army. For us, as well as for them, Moscow was the obvious place to go. But whichever side it was that could truthfully claim the victory at Borodino, Bonaparte still had a hundred thousand able-bodied men at his command, and these prodigious forces were soon – like us – to descend upon the beloved city.

 

That night we slept rough. We arrived in Moscow towards noon of the following day. Back at the inn in Tverskaya, we made enquiries. Dmitry had arrived there earlier that day, but had already left again. Maks had not been seen since we left, a week and a half previously. Vadim went to look around some of Dmitry's more regular haunts and I said I'd do the same for Maks.

And that was enough justification for me. I knew perfectly well that Maks had been seeing Margarita at the brothel, even though I had told neither Vadim nor Dmitry. Thus visiting the brothel was an absolutely reasonable move when looking for Maks. The length of time I ended up spending there might not have been so reasonable.

I was immediately taken aback by the affection with which Domnikiia greeted me. Normal behaviour in the salon, in front of the other girls and customers, was restrained, but today Domnikiia embraced and kissed me like a wife greeting her long-lost husband, or perhaps even more like a mother greeting her long-lost son. She led me by the hand up to her room.

'Oh, Lyosha, thank God you're here. After Maks came back alone, I didn't know what was happening. I asked them to tell me the moment you came through the door.' She kissed me again on the lips, her hands holding my face.

I pulled away. 'You've seen Maks? When?'

She misunderstood my concern. 'I literally only saw him – well, and spoke to him – but nothing more. He didn't even stay with Margarita.'

I shook my head. 'I didn't mean that,' I said, kissing the palm of her hand. 'When was he here?'

'Two days ago. He looked exhausted – he'd been riding nonstop for days – but he left again almost straight away.'

'What did he say?'

'I can't remember exactly, but the important message for you was to meet him at Desna.'

Desna was one of our pre-planned meeting places.

'Did he say when?'

'He said he'd wait until you got there, but that only you should go. Margarita will remember more.'

She went over and knocked on the door which connected her room to Margarita's. After a moment's waiting for a reply, she opened it and peeped inside. From what I could hear, Margarita was evidently busy with a client. I saw Domnikiia beckon to her and then close the door.

'She'll just be a second,' said Domnikiia, and it was only moments later that Margarita slipped through the door, a sheet wrapped around her body like an ill-fitting toga.

'You remember Aleksei,' said Domnikiia. Margarita gave me the brief, polite smile of someone whose livelihood is being disrupted by trivial introductions. 'What did Maksim say when we saw him the other day?'

Margarita reeled off what she knew with a determined accuracy that reflected both an impressive memory and a desire not to have to repeat herself. 'He said to tell Aleksei to meet him at Desna, that he'd wait there as long as he could, that only Aleksei should go, that that was why he told us – so that only Aleksei would find out – and that we shouldn't trust Dmitry's friends. Oh, and that we shouldn't trust Dmitry either. Who's Dmitry? Don't tell me, I'll find out later.'

She made her way back to the connecting door, finding it increasingly difficult to walk as she trod down the front of her sheet. As she stepped through the doorway, she abandoned it altogether. I caught a glimpse of her naked back and heard the words 'Well, hello again, Colonel . . .' uttered in a bawdy tone before she closed the door behind her.

'Who's Dmitry?' asked Domnikiia. I didn't answer. Instead I kissed her, pushing her back on to the bed.

A more comradely man than I might have galloped straight off to Desna there and then, but it had been twelve days since I'd seen Domnikiia. It wasn't that I was desperate to make love to her, just that I was desperate to be with her, and making love was what we tended to do when we were together – the only thing we did when we were together. And, to be honest, I think the sight of Margarita's naked back had inflamed my passion, if only slightly.

'Who's Dmitry?' asked Domnikiia afterwards.

'You've been wondering about that all the time?'

'No,' she giggled, 'but when I ask a question I expect an answer – however long it takes.'

'Dmitry Fetyukovich – he's a fellow officer. Maksim and I both work with him. They're not the closest of friends, but they work well together. I trust him.'

'Who? Dmitry?'

'Yes.'

'And Maks?'

'I trust him too.'

'And whom do you trust more, my dear, trusting Lyosha?' she asked, curling her leg around me. It was a tricky question, so I said nothing.

'What did Maks mean by "Dmitry's friends"?' she asked.

Dmitry's friends – the Oprichniki – were what made it a tricky question. Until recently, if push had come to shove, I'd have had to trust Dmitry over Maks, but Dmitry seemed so close to those mysterious, frightening men that I couldn't now say for sure.

'They're just a group of soldiers that Dmitry fought with against the Turks. They've come up here to help us out. They're not regular soldiers – cavalry or infantry – they're more like Cossacks, but even less controllable. We call them Oprichniki.'

Whether or not she knew the original meaning of the term, she didn't ask about it.

'Are they good at what they do?'

I remembered the voice of that lonely French infantryman, shouting to his commanding officer and to his friends in the dark oblivion of the night. I remembered Iuda, Matfei and Foma wandering into a camp of a hundred men without a doubt in their minds that they would be victorious. Although I had not seen them since, there was no doubt in mine that they had been. I spared Domnikiia the details.

'Very good,' I replied.

I ran my hand across her thigh and she smiled at me, but her smile suddenly became a frown as she grabbed my hand and held it up to look at.

'When did this happen?' she asked in alarm.

'What?' I almost laughed, seeing no reason for her sudden anxiety.

She spent a moment searching for what to say. 'Your fingers! When did it happen?'

I'd long ago become accustomed to the absence of the last two fingers of my left hand, lost under torture after I had been captured by the Turks. It was almost surprising how little I had needed them. I wrote with my right hand. I held my sword in my right hand. My aim with a musket was a little less good for having to support the stock with only two fingers, but it had never been my weapon of choice.

'Three years ago,' I replied to Domnikiia's question. 'I'm surprised you hadn't noticed,' I added, pretending to sound hurt, but still genuinely surprised.

'I don't think I really noticed you at all until you left.'

She ran her finger up and down between my thumb and my index finger and middle finger and then over the stumps of the other two.

'Does it hurt?' she asked.

'Not any more.' I let her continue to feel the scarred remains of my fingers. Most people were oversensitive about my hand, either being constantly concerned about it or not mentioning it at all for fear they might upset me. Either way, it was better that they focused on the physical. Only one other person I knew shared Domnikiia's innocent fascination with the messy detail of what remained where my fingers had been, and that was my son, Dmitry. He liked to touch my hand in much the same way as Domnikiia was doing now and, closing my eyes, it was almost as if I was with him again. Marfa at first had told him not to, but it did me no harm, so it was allowed.

'I've never seen a picture of Empress Marie-Louise,' said Domnikiia, intertwining her four fingers with my two. I was glad she had changed the subject.

'Why do you say that?' I asked.

'Apparently you think I look like her.'

'Apparently?'

'Maksim told me.' She spoke as if it was a confession of a sin. But that she and Maks had spoken about me was not a concern to me any more.

'Well, you do look like her.'

'So am I just a cheap substitute because you can't afford yourself a French empress?' she asked lightly.

I laughed. 'She's not French, she's Austrian.'

'That's not an answer.'

'And you're not cheap.'

'Neither's that, though I know it must be a strain on your pocket to pay for a courtesan.' She paused before adding, 'And a wife.' She said the words with a look of petulant envy which I could only regard as a pretence. The idea that Domnikiia was in some way jealous of my marriage, whether the feeling was affected or not, was flattering to me, but I was also irritated that she should attempt to bring reality into our cosy, delusional world.

'Maks again, I suppose,' I said.

She nodded and then added, 'You don't wear a wedding ring.'

'Not a good idea for a spy,' I replied. I absent-mindedly rubbed the base of the ring finger of my right hand, where it should have been. My wedding ring sat, as ever, in a small mother-of-pearl box on Marfa's dressing table. I only ever wore it when I was at home in Petersburg. Marfa said that she understood my reasons.

'Oh, I see,' said Domnikiia. 'What's her name?'

'Whose?' I asked.

'Your wife's.'

'Didn't Maks tell you that?'

'He didn't mean to tell me any of it.'

'She's called Marfa Mihailovna. And we have a son – Dmitry Alekseevich.' I sounded more annoyed than I meant to. I just wanted to get the details over with as quickly as possible so that I at least could forget that I had a wife and child.

'Another Dmitry,' she observed.

'We named him after Dmitry Fetyukovich.'

'Why?'

'Because he saved my life.'

'I see,' she said, cuddling close to me. 'I think I'd like to meet Dmitry.'

'Which one?'

She made no reply, but simply smiled up at me. Unwanted, the memory of Maks interrupted my thoughts. He would have been waiting alone in the discomfort of a woodsman's hut in Desna for two days. I despised myself for lingering.

'I have to go,' I said, beginning to dress. 'I have to see Maks.'

'I understand,' she replied.

For the first time, it didn't occur to me to pay her. It didn't occur to her to ask.

 

Stepping out into the square, I saw Vadim marching briskly towards me.

'What the hell are you doing in there?' he growled with genuine anger. 'You're supposed to be looking for Maksim Sergeivich.'

'I was looking for him.'

'In there? That may be where you get your entertainment, Aleksei, but it's not the sort of place I'd expect to find Maks. Mind you, I'm learning an awful lot today that I wouldn't have expected from Maks. So was he in there?'

'No, but I found out where he is,' I replied, unable to fathom Vadim's unusually bellicose manner.

'Good, let's go there then.'

'Why the rush, all of a sudden?'

Vadim looked at me as if he thought he was about to break my heart. His tone softened, but only a little.

'Because Maksim Sergeivich is – and for all I know, always has been – a French spy.'