Alyosha asked Margarita about her work.

  ‘It’s a Russian company,’ she explained.

  ‘Selling what?’ he asked.

  ‘We don’t sell anything. We just facilitate trading between the Soviet Union and German companies and corporations. Oil from Baku mainly. Agricultural machinery, too – tractors and so on.’

  ‘So you’re working for a Soviet company?’

  ‘Yes. It’s called Aznefttrust. What’s wrong with that?’

  Her expression was defiant. But he was taken aback and said, ‘You know quite well what’s wrong with that.’

  ‘I’m of the opinion that communism is the only way forward,’ she said without hesitation.

  Bruno looked up at the small chandelier, blowing through his cheeks.

  ‘Tell me you’re pulling my leg.’ Alyosha turned to Larissa for confirmation, but she remained silent. ‘It can’t be true.’

  ‘It is true,’ his cousin replied.

  He was astonished, and, wanting to get to the bottom of it, fired a barrage of questions at her.

  ‘Can’t we discuss something else?’ Margarita asked after a while.

  ‘No, not until I understand what’s happened to you. This is madness.’

  Margarita sighed and said quietly, ‘Communism makes perfect sense to me. It’s so simple. Under capitalism, you have a dozen cows belonging to one man. The man has five servants to milk them, feed them and care for them. In exchange for their labour, the five men are given a wage. The cattle, or capital, are in the hands of one individual, to do with as he pleases. His employees can buy what is produced by the cows – the milk, the cheese and the butter – only if they have the means to do that, and if the owner is willing to sell to them. With this system, that one individual makes all the profit.’ Bruno tutted, but Margarita ignored him and continued. ‘Under communism, on the other hand, the cows belong to all six men. They belong to the whole of society, which decides what to do with them according to the needs of all. As far as the produce is concerned, there is no profit. The produce is simply distributed fairly between the six men, in a way that’s acceptable to all of them. Why does that sound so unreasonable?’

  She was of the opinion that Europe had to change.

  ‘It would be disastrous if the continent slides back to how it was before the war, a world of monarchists, churchmen and aristocrats, with their secret diplomacy over brandy and cigars, willing to consign millions of men, women and children to a life of suffering.’

  ‘As though everything was as black and white as that,’ scoffed Bruno from the head of the table.

  Alyosha had never been so surprised by the change in someone.

  10.

  Every morning, Artyom would make his way to his usual café to eat his breakfast, read the newspapers, and make his telephone calls, after which he’d stroll over to the Bourse to do a little buying and selling, though he was only dabbling in the market for the sake of appearances. He also went out of his way to build up a reputation for generosity, often paying the bill when he was dining with acquaintances – especially if it was somebody’s birthday. In this way, he attracted lots of new friends, younger men mainly, who looked up to him, and often turned to him for advice. He quite liked the feeling this gave him of being very old and wise – in fact, he was in his element.

  Every few days, usually late in the afternoon, Artyom would call in at the office of the Orphans of the Levant Charitable and Provident Society, which he had set up and continued to fund. He had appointed Charles Theberge to manage the charity, whom Artyom had soon christened ‘the Saint’. Charles Theberge’s father and grandfather had run a little bistro by the Gare de Lyon for years, but he hadn’t wanted to take over the family business. He’d always been a devout boy (taking after his mother in that respect), and, after leaving school, he’d hoped to be a missionary in Cochinchina. But he fell ill, and, once he was better, worked for a time mopping the floors of the Maison des Religieuses Augustines de Meaux, before securing a position as a clerk in the Rue Halévy branch of Société Général, where he learned how to look after other people’s money. But he felt spiritually unfulfilled, and still wanted to serve his fellow man. As he was waiting for the tram one morning in a shower of fine rain, he was called by God. He resigned from the bank, and came to work at the charity.

  Charles Theberge was a dedicated, industrious and modest man, and, like every saint, he pushed himself to his limits with no thought of sparing himself. The Saint was the first through the door every morning and the last to leave every night, working through many a weekend and never taking his holidays, but dedicating himself entirely to The Orphans’ Friend, as the charity became known.

  One night, when Artyom and Zepherine happened to drive past on their way home from the theatre, they saw a light on in the office. Artyom parked his Duesenberg outside and knocked on the office door. When the Saint answered, Artyom scolded him for working so late at his desk, and offered him a lift home, but the Saint smilingly but firmly refused.

  Artyom’s life was sweet as a nut. He grew to appreciate fatherhood at last, and doted more and more on his two little girls, Bibi and Karina. Playing with them gave him a sense of contentment he had rarely felt before, and, consequently, he became closer to Zepherine. The two went out together more often, for suppers or to the opera and theatre, and they never missed a new exhibition, as Artyom was beginning to buy fine art again. Back in 1916, he’d bought a painting from Picasso in the Café de la Rotonde, and given it to his brother-in-law that Christmas; now, he bought a further three paintings from the same artist for himself, and hung them in his villa in Yvelines. He also bought himself the latest Kodak camera, so that he could take up photography again.

  He was doing so well that he had indulged himself with not one, but two new motor cars – a Rolls-Royce, the Phantom I silver model, and the Duesenberg model X. But then, with one car always sitting unused in the garage, it seemed high time he employed a chauffeur. It crossed his mind that he might offer the post to his nephew, but he hadn’t seen Alyosha for such a long time, and didn’t even have an address for him.

  ‘It’s lovely to see you so happy, Artyom.’

  ‘My life could not be better, Zephi darling.’

  He kissed Bibi and Karina’s little heads, then kissed Zepherine. Even his sister-in-law, Avril, seemed less unbearable these days. In fact, he felt well disposed enough towards her to offer her a job at the office of The Orphans’ Friend.

  Thanks to the Saint’s tireless work, the latest campaign to help the poor orphans of the Levant was beginning to attract the patronage of many prominent public figures. That suited Artyom very well. He was very happy not to put himself centre-stage; it was quite enough to know that the people who counted realised that he was the driving force behind the latest appeal. Artyom had a quiet word with one of his new acquaintances, who had a quiet word with his friend, the editor of Le Petit Parisien, and the Saint was cordially invited to write a monthly column about the work of the charity, and its long-term aims and hopes. This brought the charity into the public eye, and several other publications sent their journalists to interview the Saint for their own readership. Some of the articles written about him and his charity were syndicated, so news of the pitiful condition of the children appeared in some of the main newspapers in other French cities, and reached even further afield, to Spain, Portugal and the Netherlands. In the wake of such sterling publicity, contributions from churches, societies and individuals from every corner flooded in, all eager to do their bit to help the poor little creatures who had been abandoned to fend for themselves on the streets of Turkey, Syria and Lebanon.

  Quite apart from money, they received clothes, tinned goods, books and educational supplies, and all manner of other things of varying usefulness. Artyom had to rent a warehouse – an old coco-matting factory in Bobigny – to store it all. Even then, it was difficult to find room for the daily arrivals, and it became a matter of urgency to send the donations on to Marseille, from where they would be shipped to the Levant.

  The Saint was punctilious about recording every gift and every last franc. His inventories and accounts, written in his beautiful cursive script, were a sight to behold, and accessible to all.

  ‘Impeccable,’ praised Artyom.

  ‘It’s the least we can do for our donors,’ was the Saint’s modest reply.

  More and more politicians and public figures tried to enhance their reputations by associating themselves with the increasingly fashionable campaign. No sooner had Albert Sarraut, the Home Secretary’s photograph appeared in Le Monde Illustré, accompanied by a fulsome article about his generosity and public-spiritedness, than other members of the Republic’s Chamber of Deputies came knocking on the door to ‘render any assistance possible’. Artyom’s new Kodak proved a very sound investment, paying for itself several times over. He took photographs of politicians of every stripe – and his picture of Aristide Briand, the Minister for Foreign Affairs, shaking hands with the Saint outside the office after presenting him with a cheque for two thousand francs, was reproduced many times, appearing in all the national and many regional newspapers and journals.

  The charity went from strength to strength. A cross-party group of French deputies arranged a splendid fundraising dinner. It was a sweeping success, and more money flooded into the coffers. The Saint, as always, made sure that every last franc was accounted for. The charity’s only expenses were the running costs of the office. The Saint paid himself a tiny stipend, although many of the charity’s donors actually argued that no man should be expected to live on such a pathetic amount of money, least of all the Saint, who spent all his hours endeavouring to alleviate the suffering of others. He was held in high respect by everybody.

  Nothing could have pleased Artyom better.

  One evening he had an idea, and, the next day, he went to discuss it with the Saint. He wanted to publish the accounts in the press.

  ‘So that nobody can ever doubt our bona fides,’ Artyom told the Saint.

  The Saint didn’t even consider this for half a minute before saying, ‘I don’t see any reason why not. We’ve always been happy for anybody to see them.’

  Artyom knew no more would need to be said, and that the Saint could be trusted to put the plan into action. ‘Thank you for all your hard work,’ he said, putting his hat on.

  ‘The thanks are due to you,’ smiled the Saint, ‘for giving me the chance to do a little for my fellow man.’

  ‘What you do here is remarkable,’ Artyom told him sincerely.

  ‘We are all Christ Jesu’s servants,’ was the Saint’s simple reply.

  11.

  Alyosha was having fun playing ball with Ella, bouncing it a little higher with every throw.

  ‘Reason with her? What’s the point?’ asked Larissa as she watched them. ‘She won’t listen to a word we say. To the point of tears, I’ve done my very best to knock some sort of sense into her head.’

  ‘Perhaps I should try?’

  ‘Really, Alyosha, I wouldn’t waste your time. Take it from me, there’s no point trying to make her change her mind, because she won’t.’

  Alyosha puzzled over this for a moment. ‘This is so… odd.’

  ‘I know. Margarita of all people.’

  Larissa reminded him of how loyal to the Tsar her sister had been back in Petrograd. She told him of the time the two of them had been made by their mother to volunteer to nurse injured soldiers, supervised by Baroness Wrangel. Larissa still remembered it all as though it were yesterday: how the trolleys would arrive from the train stations from hour to hour, and the men lying on their backs under the green tarpaulins with the red crosses on them, whimpering with the pain of their injuries. There were hundreds upon hundreds of soldiers on the streets of Petrograd back then – some on crutches, some without arms, some without noses, others blind, clutching the shoulder of the soldier next to them, walking in a chain of brown overalls and stocking-less black slippers.

  Then came 1917, when she lost her home and lost her father to the Cheka, and she, Margarita and her mother had escaped from Russia on a train belonging to the Red Cross, crossing the border into Latvia, and from Latvia to Poland. They had been advised to wear nurses’ uniforms, and not to carry more than two suitcases between them, so that it didn’t look as though they were running away. It had been such a long journey.

  But it was as though Margarita had forgotten all of that.

  ‘There must be something we can do.’ Alyosha was adamant.

  ‘No, there’s nothing you, nor I, nor anybody else can do. We’re better off leaving her alone, and perhaps someday, she’ll see sense again.’

  ‘I’m going to make her listen to me.’

  Larissa plaited her hands over her pregnant stomach.

  ‘Every time I think about Papa, about what he’d say if he knew what she’d become, it upsets me dreadfully.’

  ‘Uncle Kozma would be furious with her.’

  ‘He’d be beside himself. You’d think she’d have enough respect for his memory, and everything he stood for. The Tsar. The Church. The Imperial Army. Russia’s old values as she was in all her glory. But it’s just too upsetting, so I try not to think about it.’

  But what Alyosha was curious to understand was Margarita’s inner journey to communism. How could anybody from her background embrace something as repugnant as Marxism? This was the credo which had led to so much unnecessary pain throughout Russia, Europe and Asia, without mentioning the suffering of the three million Russians who had been forced into exile from their country. 1917 had seen a whole generation turn their backs on their homes to live at the mercy of strangers in foreign countries.

  12.

  ‘Communists are such hypocrites, Margarita. The way they insist on everybody sacrificing their personal freedom in the name of a spurious equality which will never come to be. Their aim is to free people who don’t wish to be freed. And they’re so arrogant, thinking that they know what’s best for everybody. Who gave these revolutionaries the right to act in anybody’s name? Power for the people, they say. Power for themselves, more like. That’s what 1917 was about. Look at the type of people who rule Russia today. When you agitate the waters of a lake, what comes to the surface is the mud from the bottom, and it dirties all the clean water. During the Bolshevik revolution, it wasn’t the finest men who reached the top, but dogmatic intellectuals, pitiful failures almost to a man, narrow-minded fanatics like Lenin.’

  Margarita smiled pityingly at her cousin, and asked had he’d got everything off his chest now?

  ‘No, I most certainly haven’t! A new society? The Soviet Union? Seriously? More like a society which has managed to attract all the dregs, the thieves and the murderers…’ She snorted dismissively but allowed him to continue. ‘…while the Tsar and his family – not that they were perfect, or even close to perfect, I’m not claiming that, but then, who’s perfect? – were doing their best under extremely difficult circumstances.’ Margarita took a deep pull of her cigarette as Alyosha continued, ‘They were the legitimate governing class, they were the upholders of Russia’s best traditions, her scholarship, her religion and her dignity.’

  ‘Her religion and her dignity indeed!’ she couldn’t help interrupting.

  ‘Everything that was good about the old society before the revolution—’

  ‘You’re really throwing down the gauntlet here aren’t you? You’ve been thinking about what you want to say to me Alyosha. You never used to talk like this—’

  ‘These are the people, entire families, like ours, who were blown to the four corners of the world. But we’re people who won’t give in lightly. We’re stubborn. We’re determined. We will carry on bringing everybody together, to build a movement which will fight the communists, until we restore Russia to her former splendour.’

  Margarita laughed softly and said, ‘Seriously, Alyosha, where is this great resistance of yours? In that pitiful conference Duchess Lydia arranged in Munich a while ago? Or was that an example of yet more empty rhetoric from the Monarchists?’

  ‘These things ebb and flow, I admit…’

  ‘It’s more than that, be honest.’

  ‘We mustn’t lose heart.’

  He heard a distant echo from that evening at the Hôtel Negresco in Nice.

  ‘This is exactly how I used to think at one stage,’ Margarita replied, ‘but it was all immature prejudice.’

  Alyosha’s anger wilted all of a sudden, and he felt sad and hopeless.

  ‘How much do you know about what is really happening in the Soviet Union today, Alyosha? How much effort have you truly made to understand? With an open mind, in a spirit of sympathy?’

  She stubbed out her cigarette and looked at her cousin earnestly.

  ‘It’s difficult to have a spirit of sympathy as you call it, with the whole country lying in ruins under the communists’ rule,’ he said.

  ‘Lying in ruins? Who on earth is saying that?’

  ‘That’s what I’ve heard.’

  ‘But from whom, Alyosha? Paris and Berlin émigrés, no doubt. People who have lost all their property and are feeling bitter. They’re hardly going to be objective.’

  ‘People who are suffering ill health and poverty, overwhelmed by their longing for home, you mean?’

  ‘They are more than welcome to go home – nobody would prevent them.’

  ‘And face instant arrest? Before being shot?’

  ‘And your source for this conclusion?’

  ‘You only have to read the newspapers.’

  ‘That’s just malicious scaremongering. Negative propaganda based on ignorance and spite.’