‘Yes, he’s the one for me. I’ve always thought, from when I was a tiny thing, that there was one special person for everybody in life.’

  ‘Mmmmm.’

  ‘At last, I’ve found my own special one…’

  ‘I’m delighted for you,’ said Artyom, tapping the ash from his cigar into a saucer.

  ‘I’m the happiest woman in the whole world. I feel like I deserve this bit of happiness, too. Over the years I’ve suffered a great deal, and put up with an awful lot, in order to keep the love of men who didn’t even come close to deserving me. And on top of everything—’

  When she whispered, Artyom smiled broadly, and then he laughed.

  ‘That good?’

  ‘Even better.’

  ‘What are you two whispering into each other’s ears?’ asked Zepherine.

  ‘Nothing,’ answered Artyom.

  Far out to sea three rows of little lights could be seen.

  ‘Do you see that boat over there?’ asked his sister.

  Artyom raised his monocle to his eye.

  ‘Where do you think she’s sailing tonight?’

  ‘Who knows? Tangier perhaps, or Cairo, or Alexandria. Or to Oslo, or Copenhagen, perhaps, or further up the Baltic even, to Russia. She could be going to any port in the world.’

  He blew cigar smoke into the night, and thought to himself that the path of every boat on the sea was the path of the stars at night. Inessa told him that the lights of the ship reminded her of being in Yalta once, long ago, when she was there on vacation one summer. It had been one of those baking Augusts, when the sun was as hard as stone and sucked the strength out of every living thing. It had made her fit for nothing apart from lying on the sand, with an occasional swim when her body had overheated in the sun.

  ‘The only thing I can remember about that summer – and I’m ashamed when I think of it all now – is a feeling of hatred, pure hatred towards poor Fyodor. There was one night when I actually wished he would simply fall down dead. Can you imagine? We were all sitting out on the terrace of the Hotel Billo. Have you ever been there?’

  For a brief moment Artyom felt as though somebody had winded him, and he couldn’t answer her. Inessa kept on talking in her beautiful, melodious voice, but he didn’t hear a word. Unlike most Russian exiles, Artyom never felt any longing for his homeland, but tonight, for some inexplicable reason, her question had stabbed him in the heart, and he was overcome with an agonising desire to see his mother country again. He hadn’t been there for years, and it was unlikely now that he would be able to go back, to visit his childhood home, to walk the streets of Petersburg and the squares of Moscow on a snowy winter’s day. His feelings of anguish engulfed him.

  His sister was still speaking. ‘There we were – Fyodor, me, Andrei Petrovich and his wife, that tall woman who was having an affair with some poet or other, and their daughter, what was her name now…? She was a plump, quiet little thing… Was it Galina? I can’t remember… And Margarita and Larissa were there too… All the other tables were full, and all I could think of was how everybody else in that room was having more fun than me, and I was simply willing Fyodor to drop dead in front of me. If it had happened that night, I wouldn’t have had a moment’s regret. I was even imagining myself at his graveside. Of course, I can see now there was something else at the root of that desire.’

  Her brother looked at her.

  ‘It was a prophecy, Artyom.’

  ‘Prophecy? What do you mean?’

  ‘How much life did Fyodor have remaining before he died in Berlin? Barely five years. That night, without my knowing it, I was given a sudden glimpse of my future…’

  Before long, families like her own would be on ships that were fleeing Russia for the night of foreign cities. As her voice faltered, Artyom put his arm around her.

  ‘I’ve lost sight of things,’ Inessa whispered in his ear. ‘I’ve done something unforgiveable… Something utterly unforgiveable… I can’t tell you… I can’t tell anybody… But, will you forgive me?’

  ‘Forgive what?’

  Inessa began to weep, and Philippe rose at once and came round to where she was sitting, knelt at her chair, took her hands and spoke quietly to her.

  The two of them said their goodnights shortly after that.

  As they made their way back to their hotel, Artyom noticed that the moon had made silvery rail tracks along the surface of the sea.

  ‘What were all those whisperings and tears about?’ Zepherine asked him.

  ‘She’d had too much to drink, that’s all.’

  The bay was so beautiful in the dance of the moonlight, and the sweet night breezes seemed to carry the aromas of far continents. Against the clouds, the tall masts of the boats in the harbour jostled with each other. But still lingering in Artyom’s head was his longing for his mother country. He walked on silently, his mind wandering through the byways of his memories. As they approached the white façade of the Hotel Metropole, he tried to hold Zepherine’s hand, but she pulled away from him.

  32.

  The next day was Zepherine’s birthday. When she saw the motor launch with Zepherine painted on the side in a bright-blue cursive script, she had to admit that Artyom’s surprise had been worth the wait. Once they’d left the harbour mouth for the open sea, the captain invited her to take the helm, which she did, pink with pleasure, as the birthday guests gave her a round of applause.

  Later, full of caviar and champagne, they all lazed in the heat of the long afternoon. When evening brought some cooling breezes, the captain turned the boat for home, ploughing a white furrow of foam as it made towards the mainland.

  Now it was Georgik’s turn at the helm, his ears and cheeks red from the sun. Artyom looked indulgently at Inessa and Philippe, who were intertwined in each other’s arms by the railing in the stern, where the French flag billowed in the wind. The engine purred, and he felt the deck throb tenderly under his feet. He went over to where Zepherine was sitting in the shade, and asked her, ‘Did you enjoy your surprise?’

  ‘It was just perfect.’

  ‘Do you love me?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  He kissed her tenderly.

  ‘I’m glad we didn’t bring Bibi and Karina with us. Today would have been too much for them. Better that we left them at the hotel.’

  Artyom was enjoying watching the waves at their tail. How quickly the sea reverted to its former serenity; a little distance beyond the boat, there was only a fleck of white here and there.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ asked Zepherine, almost as an afterthought.

  Artyom had been pondering his next steps in his attempt to float the bank he had set up in Beirut on the French stock exchange. That was the only way to attract honest capital, and the reason why he had spent so much money plying potential investors with his champagne and cigars amid the heat of the day. But there was a stumbling block: so far, the French Banking and Financial Regulatory Committee were withholding their approval of a flotation, and had even forbidden Artyom’s Intra-Banque from establishing a branch in Paris, or anywhere else in the republic. This had been a setback, but he was determined to find a way to change the status of his bank. It would mean he would be able to call a halt to the heroin smuggling. Not overnight, but, little by little, he would be able to disentangle himself from illegal activity completely. Heroin was a dirty business, and a dangerous one, too. There was no knowing what might happen from one day to the next – or even from hour to hour. Being free of it would ensure a secure future for himself and his family.

  It was Inessa’s turn at the helm. Georgik stood in the bow, the sea spray splashing his face making him smile. This was the first time ever that Artyom had seen him looking like a boy having fun. As the coastline came into view, everybody’s gaze turned to the soft early-evening lights of Monte Carlo. In the distance, the mountains were buried under a blue-grey haze, which had crept down to the lower slopes.

  ‘A heavenly day.’ Inessa squeezed her brother’s hand. ‘Thank you, Tomya.’

  ‘I’m glad you enjoyed it.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘Of course. But I think what gave me the greatest pleasure was seeing everybody else enjoying themselves.’

  They looked at the white buildings.

  ‘To think that I have a place here for Gosha and me.’

  Her brother smiled. ‘You deserve your place in the sun. After touring so many theatres, you’ll need somewhere you can call home.’

  ‘Wherever Philippe will be, that’s where my home is from now on. I’m so glad the two of you get on so well.’ She shaded her eyes with her hand. ‘Who’s that? Over there…’

  Artyom followed her gaze. ‘Where? Who have you seen?’

  Inessa pointed. ‘There.’

  Artyom couldn’t see anything: he corked his monocle into his eye and looked again. Even with the lens, he failed to see what had taken his sister’s attention.

  ‘He’s waving his arms…’

  Artyom felt rather irritated with himself that he was so short-sighted.

  ‘What is he trying to do? Is he trying to attract our attention?’ she asked.

  ‘Are you sure he’s waving at us?’

  Inessa turned to her son. ‘Gosha, do you see that man over there?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Do you know who he is?’

  Georgik looked and shrugged, not much interested.

  ‘What is the matter with him? Why is he still making those gestures?’ asked Inessa.

  Zepherine had joined them.

  ‘Can you see who that is?’ Artyom asked her.

  ‘Yes, of course. It’s the boy from our hotel reception.’

  ‘But why is he waving his arms around like that?’ asked Inessa. ‘What’s the matter with him? Has something happened?’

  Zepherine felt suddenly weak. ‘The baby? Bibi? Do you think something has happened to her? Artyom? Or to Karina? Oh God…’

  The same thought had crossed Artyom’s mind, but he tried his best not to rush to conclusions.

  ‘Say something! Artyom, do you think something has happened?’

  As the cruiser drew nearer to the quayside, the boy was pacing to and fro. Zepherine could see he had something in his hand – an envelope, a telegram? She started to shake. Something awful had happened. Her world was about to be smashed to pieces. She thought, After today, my life will never be the same again.

  ‘If something has happened to my babies, I’ll never forgive myself.’

  The boat had reduced its speed in preparation for docking. Zepherine was shaking with fear. Why was everything taking so much time? Why was the boat moving so hellishly slowly? By now, many of the other guests had become aware of her anxiety, though without knowing the cause.

  The reflections of the pink and blue café lights bobbed on the surface of the water, throwing little waves of light against the white sides of the boats. The harbour noises were audible now. The sound of seagulls. Everyday life. The purring of a motorbike grew louder, and a young man with a girl riding pillion, her arms around his waist, drove along the quayside at a lick, before disappearing. As they finally docked, Zepherine and Artyom hurried off the boat. Through her tears, Zepherine gasped, ‘Are Bibi and Karina alright?’

  The tall young man, looking slightly puzzled, turned to Artyom and handed him a telegram.

  ‘You’d better read this, Monsieur,’ he said in an unexpectedly deep voice.

  Artyom’s guests were beginning to disgorge onto the quayside. He moved away from the gangplank, and turned his back on them to read the contents.

  Artyom stood there immobile for what seemed like an age, until Zepherine went over to him and asked him what was the matter. He muttered something under his breath, but she didn’t hear him properly. He turned to look at the mother of his children and repeated himself.

  ‘Who?’

  Zepherine was still shaking.

  ‘Who’s killed herself?’

  ‘Jeanette.’

  33.

  A lanky Pole threw himself onto the lower bunk.

  By his own admission, he’d been thieving since he was old enough to crawl, and his own father and grandfather had been his tutors – two sly dogs if ever there were. Even when he’d been forced into the army, he’d carried on pilfering all sorts of things as he hung around the barracks at Olsztyn, until he was caught with a gammon joint. The other soldiers had given him a hell of a beating for that, left him black and blue, and missing a tooth or two for good measure. On top of which, he was disciplined by the authorities: a whipping and three months in chains.

  He’d been thieving in most of Poland’s towns at one time or another, but his favourite region was Silesia, especially in the spring. Then, in summer, he’d return to Berlin for the tourist season. His stomach had been responsible for his latest calamity. He’d been starving, and hadn’t been able to resist lifting the two yards of fat sausage which had been hanging in the window of a delicatessen, that one at the bottom of the station stairs at Friedrichstrasse. But as he’d run away, he’d tripped and banged his head – and when he’d opened his eyes, he’d been sprawled on the floor of a prison cell.

  Alyosha found Eustachy a very companionable cellmate. When he wasn’t talking, he was reciting poetry, as he knew reams of Adam Mickiewicz’s work by heart. Alyosha knew next to nothing about Poland’s most important poet, but Eustachy was happy to tell him all about his sad life, and how Mickiewicz had spent the last months of his life in poverty in Istanbul.

  Alyosha in turn told him about his time in a Warsaw prison.

  ‘When exactly where you there?’

  ‘A while back.’

  ‘Maybe we were there around the same time.’

  ‘I didn’t see much of anybody. I was kept in the dark most of the time.’

  ‘In solitary? You must have been a dangerous so-and-so. What did you do to deserve that?’

  Alyosha told him about the disastrous ending of his relationship with Ludwika.

  ‘I remember her father well,’ said the voice from the lower bunk. ‘He was a staff officer under Marshal Piłsudski when I was in the army. He was part of the force which gave Lenin’s Red Army a good hiding back in 1920.’

  He lifted his right hand up. ‘Look…’

  There were only two fingers left on it.

  ‘I only wanted to lose one, but the barrel jerked. Mind you, it did the trick. I was given a dishonourable discharge.’

  He even remembered reading about the magnificent wedding of Ludwika and Mateusz Kołodziejski in some magazine or other, and told Alyosha all about it, which made him wish he’d never mentioned her name.

  34.

  Another day dawned, and the morning crawled by slowly between the grey walls. Sometime around the middle of the afternoon, Alyosha was taken from the cell to a visiting room. When he entered the room, he saw his cousin, Margarita, sitting on the other side of the table, with some bald man with blue eyes that he had never seen before. His cousin gave him a wan smile, but she looked anxious.

  ‘How are things, Alyosha?’

  ‘As you can see.’

  Margarita lit a cigarette for her cousin, and introduced him to Kai-Olaf, who asked him to tell them exactly what had happened. He gave a short account of the events leading up to the stabbing, but said it was he and only he who had stabbed Camlo. Margarita promised they would do their best for him. Kai-Olaf suggested that the first step was to sack the useless lawyer he’d been appointed by the police, and hire a better one. Margarita thought the first step was to find Camlo, who was still alive, and see which way the wind was blowing. Alyosha felt that his cousin was not very hopeful of a good outcome, though she tried to hide that from him.

  35.

  A man with a little mouse called Rosa replaced Eustachy as Alyosha’s cellmate within a few days. Paul had come in that first night in a bad way, spitting blood through badly swollen lips, and so badly bruised from his beating that he grunted with pain every time he turned over. He’d been arrested during a fight with a gang of Nazis on Alexanderplatz, but that altercation was nothing compared to what happened to him after. In the back of their motor lorry, he’d been beaten to a pulp by the police.

  The unemployed printer was delighted when he discovered that Alyosha was from Petrograd, and insisted on telling him at length about his trip to the Soviet Union a couple of years previously. It was the best place he’d been to in his life, he said, and the highlight had been attending the celebrations of the tenth anniversary of the Revolution in Red Square. Paul still had to pinch himself sometimes to convince himself it hadn’t been a dream. There, before his eyes, in flesh and blood, had been Stalin himself.

  From the upper bunk, Alyosha listened as he ranted furiously about the SPD – ‘the social fascists’ as he called them. He told Alyosha that, under all that bombast, they were babes in arms, the lot of them, and he had nothing but contempt for them. There could be no middle ground between the communists and the socialists, as their leaders were traitors through and through, as they’d demonstrated only too clearly several times. Even if the KPD were to make a common front with the SPD temporarily to fight the Nazis, sooner or later, the SPD would end up breaking their word. The only way forward was to show the working class what kind of two-faced hypocrites their leaders were, and win them over to the ranks of the Communist Party – the only party it was worth fighting for.

  Although he thought they might have broken his jaw, there was no silencing him. Paul felt it was a privilege to be living through this period of history – even though the present was a period of rampant imperialism, the capitalist countries were too corrupt to endure. Their foundations were already rotting, and, very soon, they would be smashed to dust, and a new civilization would be established in Europe. Paul didn’t want to underplay the task that lay ahead, or the obstacles that would lie in their path, but he was determined to cross the bridge to the riverbank on the other side in order to reach the country of light.