Chapter 37
He never forgot the first moment he saw her.
She was standing there in the market square, and she was wearing red. Amid all the grey, drab clothes of the merchants and the workers, she stood out, brilliant and unafraid. She walked with the confidence of a rich woman, and the peasants scuttling along under the shadow of the mediaeval buildings drew aside as she passed, for she was obviously important.
Vladek stared. He swallowed the last of the pastry he had expertly stolen from a baker’s shop two miles away, and saved for his lunch. It had been good, with cheese and real meat; he could feel the protein landing, solid and comforting, in his empty stomach. But the pleasures of eating faded instantly when she strutted by.
He catalogued everything that was great about her. The soft red wool of her clothes, like something from the West. The neat, high-heeled black shoes. A quick glance at her calves told him she wore real American nylons. Her hair, dyed black, he thought, was carefully swept up into a pillbox hat. She had a neat little handbag, black leather with a golden clasp. It was quilted. It must have been imported, he thought. No way that came from Russia.
But she was walking away from him, that fine, rounded bottom mincing towards the edge of the square.
Vladek thought she was the most elegant female he had ever seen. Nothing like the fat farmers’ daughters or the gaudily painted whores with their bruised skin that he encountered around Tallinn every day. Not even like a party member’s wife, well-fed and nicely dressed. No, she had style, true distinction; she was a monarch butterfly in a room full of moths.
She looked . . . rich.
He stirred. He wanted her. But not just physically;Vladek felt a sting of white-hot desire. He instantly needed to do more than screw her. He wanted to possess her. She was the kind of woman who was destined for him.
It bothered him that he was in the shabby clothes of a petty thief. But he had kept himself neat, as always. And he still had confidence, and pride.
He strode up to her, and caught her by the arm.
“Excuse me, Madame,” he said.
She wrenched her arm away, trying to stride on ahead. “Leave me alone,” she snapped. “I don’t give to beggars.”
She was icy cold. His admiration deepened. He said, firmly, “Look at me.”
His tone demanded assent; she turned around, reluctantly, and glanced down at him.Vladek held her eyes.
“You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen,” he said, matter-of-factly.
She did a double take; then arched those plucked brows.
“I’m a married woman.” She gave an artificial laugh. “And you’re just a boy.”
Vladek noted that she was not shoving him away, nor calling for help.
“Your husband does not please you,” he said. He could tell this in the way she walked. “And I am not a boy.” He reached out with one calloused fingertip and stroked her down the side of the cheek, a soft gesture of claiming, as though she were a thorough-bred mare that belonged to him.
She drew back, but not before they had both felt her move, just a tiny bit, under the unexpected caress.
“You’re young enough. And I’m not so very beautiful,” she said.
Vladek answered with scorn, “Your husband is a fool who does not know his woman. You are a jewel.”
She had stopped pretending to walk away; she smiled a bitter little smile.
“What kind of a jewel?” she asked.
“A diamond,” he said at once. “Very fair, and very cold. But with light around the heart.” He moved closer to her, invading her space, thrusting his face near hers; he could see the liner she used around her lipstick.
“Where is your husband now?” he asked.
“At work.” She was staring at him, as though trying to come to a decision. “He’s a banker.”
“That’s good,” Vladek said softly. “Take me to your house.”
It wasn’t a request, and she waited only for a second. Then she said, “This way,” and gestured down one of the crooked, beautiful mediaeval streets that led away from the square.
“What’s your name?” he asked her.
They were lying together, pooled and exhausted, in the warm linen sheets on her oak bed. He had a hand draped over her thigh; she had been soft and golden, as he knew she would, receptive and malleable.
Vladek felt he was home. It didn’t concern him that this was another man’s house; he had taken ownership of the female, and he would take ownership of the rest.
“Natasha,” she said. “Natasha Ilyeva Garin.”
He nodded. He did not like the name. She would have to change it for him.
“And you?”
He smiled. What did it matter? He would not give her the name Vladek. Maybe they were looking for Vladek, and anyway, he had no family. He would be whatever he chose to call himself. “Yuri,” he said, smoothly. He kissed her hand, then stood up, unashamed of his nakedness, his skinny body. He walked into her bathroom and shut the door.
It was wonderful: American-style, with a Western shower, hot water on demand, clean white tiles, and soft towels. He stood for a long time under the warm droplets, washing himself from top to toe with the French lavender soap she had in a little dish. Then he shaved, carefully, and washed his hair. It felt glorious, and he took the husband’s plush bathrobe and wrapped it around himself.
“What are you doing?” she cried, when he emerged. “He’ll know you were in there!”
He shrugged. “A man who is so blind as not to see you will not notice anything.”
She smiled.
“You will tell him the robe needed washing,” he said.
“Where do you live, Yuri?” Natasha asked. She rolled around on the bed, arranged her body to display herself to him. “When can I see you again?”
He chuckled. Her need was so transparent.
“I am a thief,” he said. “I live everywhere and nowhere. I have nothing. I steal what I need.” He moved onto the bed, ignoring her shocked face, touching her above the knee. “Does that scare you?” he asked, enjoying the reaction. “Do you want to call for help?”
She tossed her head. Really, she was magnificent.
“No,” she said, thick-voiced. “It wouldn’t do me any good, would it?”
“None whatsoever,” he said. He pulled her to him, hard, and kissed her deeply.
After that it was easy.
Natasha was his opportunity. He felt himself in love; yet there was always that element of separation. She was his desire, but also, he could use her; if there was a conflict, it did not concern him.
He knew that as much as he loved her, he loved himself far more.
She provided for his needs, and he for hers; he was insatiable, every day, often more than once, he would take her, and work her body until she ached. And added to the pleasure this gave him, there were practical considerations. Natasha took money and spent on him, rather than herself; he rented a small apartment, close to her house; he bought woollen, American suits; he ate well; he owned several pairs of shoes. And as he groomed himself, he became ever more attractive to her, until she forgot that she was paying for every rouble of it.
The husband, he saw once: a small mole of a man, spectacles perched on his greying head, scurrying to the bank in the centre of town; Estonian bankers could act as conduits to Swiss lenders, and he worked for members of the party; Communist wealth secreted away in the West. Hence all the money; it was from the estates of White Russians, he thought, of princes and counts. Well, so be it. Vladek—or Yuri, as he currently thought of himself—believed in the survival of the fittest.
He considered killing the banker. But it was too dangerous. The man was not a fat buffoon he could dump under the snow like Ivan. He would be missed; people would talk. A shame, since Yuri hated the thought of that slug pawing at his woman, his property. He wanted to live in the townhouse, openly. He wanted to spend that money without it coming from Natasha. Why should the banker have a right to it? He was a thief, too, except he did it via telegram and Swiss francs.
After a few months, he sensed danger. People in the square—not talking openly, but he sensed the glances, the whispers when he and Natasha walked by. That was enough; Yuri prided himself on his escape skills. He had no need to be warned twice. Besides, it was already time to move on. Not from Natasha; he felt generous towards her; she was still his woman and swore she loved him. No, he would take her, even though the supple curves of her body were starting to lose some of their charms. The tiniest lines around her eyes were minutely deepening; the tone of her skin fading, just a little, but he noticed it all. Yet she pleased him, and he determined to keep her. But it was time to leave Tallinn. It had served its purpose. He was no longer a street rat, an urchin with scuffed shoes and ragged hair. He was now well-dressed, -bathed, and -clad; he was on the way to the man he would become; he had taken the first steps to his great destiny.
Estonia—all the lands of the Soviets—had nothing for him now. It was time for London, for Washington, or for Rome. Great men did not live here. Perhaps Moscow ... but even Moscow was cold and dark, not enough of a theatre for him.
Yuri never doubted himself. And so insistent was he on escape, that Natasha did not doubt him either. After one conversation, she passionately committed herself. She would flee with him, north, over the wastes, into Finland. He warned her that she risked torture and death if caught. She answered that she did not care, that life without him would be the cruellest torture.
It was a good answer. He set their plans in motion.