No. I cant touch that thing. She said the last word as if it were covered in slime.
Do you have another one?
The woman breathed out. Nodded and pointed to her bag. Lydia immediately went to it, removed a small paper package from its depths and opened it up to reveal another pristine square of white. Without actually touching the material anywhere, she held it out to the woman but kept a good arms length away from her. Any closer she knew would be too close. For both of them.
Thank you. Spasibo . She patted her dripping arms, meticulously dabbing at each spot, and Lydia noticed scarlet hairline cracks in the skin.
You need cream on them, she said matter-of-factly.
I have gloves.
The woman walked over to the leather bag and, using only forefinger and thumb, carefully extracted a pair of long white cotton gloves. She slid her hands into them and released a soft sigh of relief.
Better? Lydia asked.
Much.
Good. Ill say goodnight then. She moved towards the door.
Do svidania . Goodbye and thank you. Lydia had opened the door when the woman asked quietly, Whats your name?
Lydia. And yours?
Antonina.
Get some sleep, comrade.
Slowly the womans head started to move from side to side. Nyet , no, I have no time to sleep. You see For an awkward moment no words came, then she murmured, I am the wife of the camp Commandant, so The words stopped again. With an uncertain frown, she stared for a long moment at the pure white gloves.
In the silence Lydia whispered, The camp? You mean Trovitsk prison camp?
Da.
Lydia shuddered. She couldnt help it. Abruptly she left the washroom. But as the door closed behind her, she heard the taps start to run once more.
2
In the heart of the hotel the bar stank. Stank like a camel pen because there had been a delivery of dung today to burn on the fire. It was a big shambling place, packed with too many vodka-stained eyes and too much greed. Lydia drew a slow breath and watched carefully. She felt the greed throb in the air around her, crawling like a living thing from one man to another, creeping through their mouths and nostrils down into their empty bellies and their crusted lungs. She had to time it right. Just right. Or Liev Popkovs arm would break.
Money was thrust into hands. Men shouted across the room and spirals of cigarette smoke rose, turning the air as grey and thick as rabbit fur. In one corner a forgotten dog hurled itself forward to the limit of its stubby chain, choking off its bark. Its scrawny ribcage heaved with excitement.
All eyes were focused on the struggle taking place at the centre table. Chairs had been
kicked roughly aside. Bodies jostled to find a place close, close enough to see the sweat burst forth and veins rear up like serpents under the skin. Two men were seated opposite each other. Big men. Men who looked as if they chewed the heads off weasels for fun. Their heavy bearded features were contorted with effort and the greasy black eyepatch of one of them had slipped out of place, revealing a sunken, twisted socket the colour of overripe plums. Their massive forearms were locked in battle.
The arm wrestling had been Liev Popkovs idea. Lydia hated it at first. And yet in a strange insidious kind of way she loved it at the same time. Hate. Love. She shrugged. A hairs breadth between them.
Youre out of your crazy Cossack mind! she responded when he came out with the idea. Hed just downed half a tankard of gut-rot vodka.
Nyet. No.
What if you lose? We need every rouble of the money we have left.
Hah! Popkov shook his big shaggy bears head. Look, little Lydia. He jerked up the sleeve of his filthy shirt, seized her hand in his paw and placed her fingers on his massive biceps. It didnt feel like a piece of human anatomy. It felt more like a winter log that had been warming in front of the fire. She had seen him break a mans face with it.
Popkov, she whispered, you are a devil.
I know. His white teeth flashed at her above the black beard and together they had laughed.
Now she glanced quickly up at the gallery landing above them. It coiled round two sides of the room and led to the corridor of shoeboxes which the hotel chose to call bedrooms. A tall figure was up there, leaning forward, alert and staring down on the scrum beneath him, his arms resting on the banister rail, his thumbs linked as if he couldnt bear his flesh to touch its grimy surface.
Alexei Serov. Her half-brother.
They shared a father, if it could be called sharing. Which Lydia doubted.
His brown hair was swept back from his face, emphasising the arrogant forehead inherited from his aristocratic Russian mother, the Countess Serova. But his fierce green eyes came straight from the Viking father Lydia could only dimly remember. Jens Friis was their fathers name, a Danish surname neither of them bore. Jens had worked as an engineer until 1917 for the last Tsar of Russia, Nikolas II, and now, more than twelve years later, he was the reason that she and Alexei had spent months travelling with the unruly Popkov in tow, all the way through the mountains of China to this godforsaken dead-and-alive hole in Russia.