CHAPTER XXXIV

  AS I THINK I TOLD YOU, LYOSHA, I AM KNOWN BY MANY NAMES.’ Iuda had emerged from the bedroom. He was naked, as if deliberately to disgust Aleksei. ‘But here in Petersburg I am Vasiliy Denisovich Makarov.’

  ‘You really must hate me,’ said Aleksei.

  ‘No,’ said Iuda thoughtfully, ‘no, I don’t think I hate you. But don’t feel flattered – I don’t hate anyone, any more than I love anyone. You really do interest me, though.’

  ‘How kind.’

  ‘I’m being honest, Lyosha.’

  ‘And Marfa – does she interest you?’

  ‘She does her best to entertain me,’ Iuda replied. ‘And I do likewise – which is more than you do.’

  ‘So which came first?’ asked Aleksei. ‘Your plan to tempt me with Kyesha and your book, or your plan to make me a laughing stock by screwing my wife?’

  ‘A laughing stock? That’s not you at all, Lyosha.’ Iuda knew Aleksei as he knew himself. ‘It doesn’t hurt you that your friends will know your wife opened her legs for some passing stranger, or that her love for you is not so consuming she cannot even contemplate the idea of being with another man. What you object to is that it’s me; that I can wander into your own bedroom without you having the slightest knowledge, and that I’ve been doing it for years. What you’re asking yourself now is, whither else have I wandered?’

  ‘For years?’ said Aleksei.

  ‘Several,’ confirmed Iuda.

  Aleksei tried to think how long ‘several’ might be. Was there any moment in his marriage when there had been a noticeable change? When Tamara was born? When he returned from Paris? They were all times of change, but all had their explanations. But he was forgetting the golden rule: never believe Iuda. The earliest evidence of ‘Vasiliy’ being on the scene dated back only a few months. That was the limit he would give with any confidence to the time over which Iuda had been sleeping with his wife.

  And it occurred to Aleksei that there were other, much more basic areas in which he should verify the facts for himself rather than believing Iuda. The words Nullius in Verba were no longer visible on the notebook, but they rang just as true as they had ever done. He leaned and tried to peer in through the bedroom door, but Iuda took a side step to block his view.

  ‘How ungentlemanly, Lyosha,’ he said. But then he seemed to read Aleksei’s thoughts. ‘Don’t fret; it is Marfa Mihailovna in there, for sure. I’m playing no is she-ain’t she, Dominique-Margarita tricks here tonight. Though I will admit, I did at first toy with trying that one with the lovely Marfa.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I considered whether it might not be entertaining for you to see me at some window in the arms of your wife rather than your lover – or your lover’s colleague; we still don’t know, do we?’

  ‘In 1812?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Iuda.

  ‘But Marfa was in Petersburg in 1812. We were in . . .’ Aleksei tailed off. He already knew where Iuda had been for part of that autumn. He had paid a visit – in the guise of Richard Cain – to Tsar Aleksandr, as Aleksandr himself had told Aleksei. And the tsar had been in Petersburg. It could have been no great additional effort to locate Marfa and pay a visit to her in the guise of Vasiliy Denisovich Makarov.

  ‘What did you think I’d be doing while you were in Yuryev-Polsky hiding from the French?’

  Aleksei was about to point out that it had not been the French he had been hiding from but Iuda and the other Oprichniki, but he decided it would do him little benefit.

  ‘So it’s been going on all that time,’ he said instead.

  Before Iuda could reply, a call came from the bedroom. ‘Vasya!’ Aleksei could detect a timbre of repressed panic in his wife’s voice. Iuda went back inside, returning almost immediately.

  ‘Your wife would like to get dressed, Lyosha,’ he said. ‘Perhaps we should retire.’ He picked up a robe – Aleksei’s robe – and put it on, then opened the door and invited Aleksei to step through it first. Aleksei was being made a guest in his own house, but now that he was in front of Iuda, at least he could decide where they would go. He led the way downstairs and chose the salon. Dmitry’s harpsichord had been pushed to one corner of the room. Where it had stood there was now a pianoforte – the instrument Aleksei had ordered as a gift for his son before they had left. It had not yet been fully removed from the wooden crate it had come in. Even in the present circumstances, Aleksei found time to hope his son would be pleased with it. He sat down in an armchair. Iuda seated himself opposite.

  ‘Since 1812,’ said Aleksei, picking up where he had left off.

  ‘Not as lovers, but as friends, at first.’

  ‘How did you find her?’

  ‘Oh that was no problem. The wife of Captain Danilov? They were all proud of their soldiers back then. I introduced myself as a friend of yours – at the time I still may have been, I can’t recall.’

  ‘You weren’t,’ growled Aleksei.

  ‘I’ll bow to your opinion on that. She was very friendly – not in any untoward way, I assure you – and by the time I left, I’d only dropped the fewest, lightest hints that you might have a lover in Moscow. But I presume it was enough to ensure she never mentioned me to you.’

  He paused, waiting for Aleksei to confirm his side of the story. It was true enough, Marfa had not mentioned meeting Vasiliy, or any friend of his from Moscow, but he wasn’t going to give Iuda the pleasure of hearing him say so.

  ‘Then, of course, events intervened,’ Iuda continued. ‘I almost died in the Berezina – I really did – but I was washed up on the far bank, and some kind French soldat dragged me to my feet and forced me to march on with them. I was in Warsaw before I could get away.’

  ‘But you came back,’ said Aleksei.

  Iuda nodded. ‘It was over a year before I managed to. By then you were marching across Europe in the opposite direction, and poor Marfa was all alone. She asked me directly whether you had a lover and – well, if you’d looked into that poor, confused woman’s eyes, you’d have had to tell the truth – I told her about this pretty young thing in Moscow called Dominique. I told the story backwards really. First how you’d set her up in a small home, then how you’d met her at a brothel and how she’d been working there since really just a child, then how you’d spent your free hours wandering in and out of such establishments and how I thought it was probably a good thing you’d settled down with just one whore rather than flitting to a different one every night. She teased it out of me, Lyosha.’

  ‘And you were there to help her find . . . restitution?’

  ‘Not then, Lyosha, no. That wasn’t until 1818, I think. She knew I was your friend – still your friend, even knowing what you were – and so it would be inappropriate for me, however much she begged.’

  ‘What changed?’

  ‘I don’t suppose you even noticed. It was 4 June. Mean anything to you?’

  ‘Marfa’s name day,’ said Aleksei.

  ‘And do you know where you were?’ Aleksei could guess, but he said nothing. ‘You had an “urgent appointment in Moscow” apparently. All three of us know what that meant. It was pure chance I was in Petersburg, and I finally took pity on her.’

  ‘Seven years of screwing my wife – just for this moment?’

  ‘This moment?’ asked Iuda.

  ‘The moment I would find out.’

  ‘Oh, you do have a high opinion of yourself, Lyosha – and of my foresightedness. I had no idea how I was going to use our relationship when we first formed it. I will admit that the thought of you discovering us was – throughout – an added excitement, though not, I think, so much for Marfa. Not at first. Early on, I imagined the possibility of you rushing in on us and smothering her in some jealous rage, like that Moor, and then you would go to prison for it, but I quickly realized you don’t have that kind of mettle.’

  ‘I might have killed you,’ said Aleksei, with the intended implication that he still might.

  ‘Then you would still have been convicted as a murderer. But that is why I’ve obtained a little protection.’ He tapped his chest lightly with the flat of his hand, but Aleksei did not understand what he meant by the gesture. ‘It seemed that was unlikely too though, so I’ve been forced to live merely in the hope of the sense of betrayal you would feel on your discovery.’

  Aleksei smiled. He didn’t feel so betrayed. ‘You must be disappointed,’ he said.

  ‘Time will tell.’

  Aleksei might have dismissed the comment as bravura, but he knew Iuda well enough to fear there might be more behind it.

  ‘So what do you plan to do with Marfa now?’ he asked. ‘Kill her?’

  Iuda laughed. ‘Why should I?’ He leaned forward and spoke confidentially. ‘You and I are both fortunate, Lyosha. Men of our age seldom get the chance to enjoy the body of a beautiful, sensual woman. I would be a fool to put an end to it.’

  He stood up, seemingly impatient, and walked over to the piano. He sat down and began to play. Aleksei did not recognize the piece, nor did he like it, but there was no doubting Iuda’s talent. He noticed for the first time a scar on Iuda’s neck – almost healed. He felt his heart jolt as he wondered briefly if Iuda had at last become a voordalak. But the fact he could see the wound proved no such transformation had occurred. If Iuda were a vampire, his flesh would have healed. Besides, his reflection was clear in the mirror that hung on the wall behind the piano, as it had been in the bedroom mirror. Iuda was as human as he had ever been, but clearly he’d had some kind of falling-out with a vampire – perhaps even Zmyeevich. Aleksei began to formulate a question on the matter, trying to find the words that would most rile Iuda. At the very least it would interrupt him from playing that strange, discomforting music.

  But before he could say anything the door opened. It was Marfa. She had dressed, but not formally. Her cleavage was deliberately obvious, as were her ankles and calves. She walked over to Iuda and placed her hands on his shoulders. She looked more alluring than Aleksei had seen her since they were first married. She was just turned forty, and getting a little plump, but not excessively. That evening, her skin seemed to glow. That was thanks to Iuda. Aleksei pushed the thought from his mind.

  ‘That’s beautiful, Vasya,’ she said. Her voice still sounded nervous, but she hid it well – not as well as Iuda, but he was practised at extemporization. As much as they both might try to appear confident, Aleksei guessed his arrival had taken them by surprise, though Iuda at least had known it would happen one day.

  ‘Thank you, my dear,’ Iuda replied. He stopped playing and reached for her hand, placing it against his lips.

  ‘I’m not sorry, Aleksei,’ said Marfa, turning to her husband. ‘There’s no reason I should be. I’m not even angry any more.’

  ‘Angry?’

  She frowned in annoyance, and raised her voice just slightly. ‘With you, for being with . . . that woman. You should have told me if you weren’t happy.’

  ‘I was happy,’ said Aleksei, but he realized his explanations were not going to help. He was happy with Marfa, then he had met Domnikiia and he became even happier.

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘And we’re both happy now. You can’t object to me taking a lover, can you?’

  ‘I object to it being him.’ Iuda gave a look of mock indignation as Aleksei spoke.

  ‘Because he’s your friend?’ asked Marfa.

  Hardly, thought Aleksei, but what could he explain of Iuda to Marfa? What he had done in Moscow in 1812? What he had done in Chufut Kalye just weeks before? It would sound less like the pathetic excuses of a cuckold and more the ravings of a madman. Neither would achieve anything.

  ‘He’s not my friend,’ he said simply.

  Marfa frowned and looked down at Iuda. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve been the cause of that. Vasiliy Denisovich is a fine man.’

  Aleksei leapt to his feet. ‘I can’t stay here,’ he said. He headed for the door. Marfa caught up with him just as he was stepping out into the street. He turned and looked at her. She was shivering from the cold. It was ridiculous for her to stand at the open door in the winter weather dressed like that, but Aleksei relished the sense of vulnerability it gave her. He remembered how much he had once loved her. He still loved her, but he loved Domnikiia more. It was she that was forcing him to choose.

  ‘You can’t leave,’ she said.

  ‘I’m not leaving,’ he replied. ‘I’m just going.’

  ‘We have to think of Dmitry.’

  ‘I know. I know. But I can’t think now.’

  ‘Nothing really has to change,’ she pleaded.

  He paused. He really couldn’t think, but he had to. ‘That’s what I thought,’ he said, ‘until I found out it was him.’

  She looked bewildered – not the strong, confident woman of moments before. In Iuda’s absence she was lost. And that was why Aleksei knew he could not abandon her – because, one day, Iuda would.

  ‘We’ll find a way,’ he said, ‘but not right now. Give me a few days.’

  He kissed her and then put his arms around her, squeezing her briefly, but tightly. Even after, he liked to think he’d felt her hug him back.

  CHAPTER XXXV

  ALEKSEI HAD TURNED ON TO NEVSKY PROSPECT AND WAS heading he didn’t know where; to the west, towards the river, but that was merely a direction, not a destination. The city was busy, despite the snow and the early dark – these were things the people were used to. Aleksei walked briskly, his head down, ignoring those around him. He felt the road slope upwards and then down again as he crossed the bridge over the Moika, but he did not look into its frozen waters.

  Iuda must die. That was the only solution – and the solution to many problems. He could see no prospect of Marfa abandoning her lover, and if she stayed with him . . . it was too insane to contemplate. At worst, Aleksei would have to leave her. It would cost her her reputation and eventually far, far more. Iuda would find some abominable way to treat her; there was no doubt about that. He was like the scorpion Aleksei had discussed on the hilltop of Chufut Kalye – it was his nature. Aleksei could not leave his wife to that. He would have known that anyway, but he had felt it as a certainty since he had looked into her eyes just now on the threshold of the home they had made together.

  And so he would have to kill Iuda – not in the way he had tried so often before; this would be simple murder. In 1812 there had been a war, and one more body would have made no difference. In the caves of Chufut Kalye, there would have been no remains – he would have been devoured by his erstwhile captives, if only Aleksei had had the guts to stay and ensure that it happened. Even on the beach in Taganrog, where a single thrust of his blade would have destroyed the monster, he would have got away with it – he was a member of the tsar’s personal bodyguard, defending His Majesty as was his duty.

  In all of those circumstances – had he succeeded – he would have got away with it not only in terms of there being no legal retribution, but in that Marfa would have had no idea it was her husband who had killed her lover. Even if she heard the story that Aleksei had stabbed Richard L. Cain in Taganrog, the name would mean nothing to her – at least, Aleksei presumed Iuda had not told her any of his various other noms de guerre. But after their encounter that evening, even if Aleksei were to commit the otherwise perfect murder, Marfa would instantly connect the disappearance of her lover with the actions of her husband. Even so, it would be better than letting him live. If Marfa never spoke to him again, he would at least have saved her. But ideally, Iuda would not simply disappear. He would have to die obviously, either in an accident or at the hands of some other – but who could Aleksei find to put in the frame for that? It would not be easy to kill any man that way – with Iuda, it might prove impossible.

  He looked up. Ahead of him were the yellow walls of the Admiralty and, beyond them, the frozen Neva. He felt a hand on his arm. For a moment, he thought Marfa had pursued him, but the grip was much firmer, pulling him round.

  It was Iuda.

  ‘Aleksei,’ he said in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘I appreciate we have our domestic disagreements, but we have other matters to discuss of more national significance.’

  ‘What?’ spat Aleksei, knocking Iuda’s hand from his arm.

  ‘Concerning the tsar.’

  Aleksei felt the sudden urge to smile victoriously and, beyond that, to tell all, to explain to Iuda how they had all fooled him, that the tsar – Aleksandr – was alive and well and free of his machinations, able to live in peace without ever hearing of Zmyeevich or Iuda again. It would be delicious to reveal it all, and might almost compensate for much of what Aleksei had felt that evening, but in the very telling, the victory would evaporate. Iuda would tell Zmyeevich and the pursuit of Aleksandr’s soul would begin again. It was a tragedy, but Aleksei knew he could not speak. That was where Iuda’s intrigues outdid his – Iuda could trick him, and had done so many times, even with all the facts out in the open.

  Of course, there was one variation that would fit in very well with Aleksei’s other problem. It would be safe to let Iuda know he had been duped – taken for a prostak – if he did not subsequently have the chance to tell Zmyeevich; if, for example, he learned the fact just moments before his death. That would make the revenge complete. It added one further layer of complexity to what Aleksei had to achieve when devising Iuda’s obliteration. But it would be a pleasure to rise to the challenge.

  Meanwhile, he couldn’t help but be intrigued by what Iuda had said.

  ‘The tsar?’ he replied.

  ‘Who do you think is the tsar, Lyosha?’

  Aleksei felt his stomach tighten. So it seemed Iuda already knew of the deception foisted upon him. It was like him to allow Aleksei to feel that sense of victory, before deflating it utterly. Even so, it was best that Aleksei maintained his bluff until all was lost for sure.

  ‘Konstantin Pavlovich, of course,’ he said.

  Iuda shook his head with a smirk. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s Nikolai Pavlovich.’