16

The next afternoon Iain took Nadia swimming in Taipa. ‘‘Aren’t you on flier-duty today?’’ he asked.

‘‘No,’’ she grinned. ‘‘Today’s a rest day. Izabel’s got blisters on her feet from marching too long!’’

They changed out of their clothes in the Nissen huts that fringed the far end of the beach, hanging their things on hooks. Nadia took a couple of turns around the drab grey concrete floor, which was polished shiny with use, unsure whether her costume might be a tad risqué. She wore an open-necked outfit with ruffles, with her arms bared and her legs exposed to mid-thigh. A yellow scarf was knotted to her head, gypsy-style. She was more than a little embarrassed about showing off her legs in public.

Iain jumped off the high rocks into the deep water with a splash, while Nadia bathed in the torpid shallows, in the glorious silkiness of the currents, away from the froth and boil of the creaming cauldron of waves. There were little fish patrolling her knees, showing off their bright golds and speckled greens, while matchstick-thin eels searched the stones and grasses for food. With a moan of pleasure, she swam on her back, on her front, even under the surface for a time, holding her nose, but the water was too opaque to see much. When she and Iain tired, Iain picked up a string of seaweed and threw it at her. She leapt out of the water in hot pursuit of him but stopped abruptly. Iain dashed out of the surf and looked around, was waiting for her on the sandy shore.

‘‘What’s the matter?’’ he said.

‘‘I’m not coming out of the water until you get me something to put on.’’

‘‘Why?’’

She cupped her hands over her breasts.

He went over to the Nissen huts and returned with her sandals, dangling them on the ends of his fingers. She started laughing. ‘‘I meant a towel, byeazoomyets!’’

He stood, watching her, the surf receding from his ankles, feathering his toes.

‘‘No towels,’’ he said, shrugging. ‘‘Sorry.’’

She stood defiantly in the water for several minutes. Then unravelling her wet scarf and wrapping it round her thighs, she raced out of the water to sprint after Iain with a handful of seaweed. When she caught up with him, they embraced at which point Iain twirled her about on the sand as if they were dancing. He lolled her head back in a tango move and she laughed. They looked into each other’s eyes.

Afterwards, they spent time on the cliffs overlooking the fishing junks soaking up the sun, making little stick figures out of grass and small conifer saplings as thick as a man’s finger. Nadia slipped her blouse over her swimming costume, feeling her wet arms snag and pull on the sleeves. Later, they went gathering pebbles and shells, picking them out of tide-soaked hollows and tidal recesses, and carrying them in the apron of Iain’s loose white shirt. Searching for the stones, which were so smooth-grained, so variably coloured, pleased Nadia as much as the swimming. Some of the pebbles were mountain ash grey and had long, slanted pink lines running across them; others were rich chocolate brown with raspberry blushes bursting to the surface. Most of them, however, were a dark, deep blue and marked with blotches of silver or stripes of white.

When they wearied of collecting pebbles, they strolled to the little ferry pier and sat upon the wooden anchored floats, dangling their toes in the sea, splashing water at each other in little sprays of blue. Looking down from the floats, into the water below, they saw tiny pouches of seagrass softly waving with the tide and tiny translucent fish swimming between their ankles. When they got to their feet, they noticed a Chinese woman with a snub nose and piercing mascaraed eyes standing by the landing stage, evidently waiting for the next ferry boat. She had a shawl draped over her shoulders and a fat bouquet of wet, white lilies nestled in the crook of her elbow. Iain said hello and nodded in her direction. The woman nodded back.

Turning to Nadia, Iain smiled a tiny enigmatic smile. Self-conscious, he folded his arms across his chest. ‘‘Nadia,’’ he said with care, inclining his head briefly. ‘‘Your father … Papashka …’’

She looked up from the water, her little girl’s eyes, edged in gold, expressing a few moments of confusion. ‘‘What about him?’’

‘‘There’s something I want to know.’’

‘‘What?’’

‘‘Something about his character – what was he like?’’

She looked suddenly unhappy. ‘‘No,’’ she said. It was a quiet ‘no’, not a sob, but a refusal that slid away with the sea. ‘‘It’s been so long, Iain. I don’t wish to discuss it.’’

‘‘Why not?’’

‘‘I just don’t.’’

He wondered why she was reluctant to talk about her father. Was she keeping something from him? Hard little thoughts bobbed about inside his head, tiny fragments of doubt. When he’d asked her before whether she missed him, she’d answered that she really didn’t know anymore. Yet Iain had to make sure. If he was going to go through with his plan, he had to be certain. He swallowed hard and let out a breath.

‘‘Nadia,’’ he said, delicately. ‘‘Was he a good father? Was he a loving husband? You told me that if he were to suddenly walk through the door, you wouldn’t know how to react.’’

Nadia looked back down into the water and rubbed her cheeks with the back of her hand. She started squeezing out the wet hem of her scarf.

‘‘Nadia, talk to me.’’

‘‘He’s gone, Iain, he’s a part of the past.’’

‘‘He’s not gone. You told me he still sends word to you. You write to him. Tell me. Please. Was he a good father, Nadia?’’

She exhaled deeply, looked almost helpless.

She took in a breath to collect herself. ‘‘Yes,’’ she said. That was when she turned to him and looked right into his eyes. ‘‘Yes, he was. He was kind, he was funny.’’ She stopped, then, softly, she said, ‘‘He was the centre of my world, Iain.’’

Soothed by the tidal throb as it lapped against his feet, Iain said, ‘‘I want to help him.’’

‘‘Help him?

‘‘Yes. Nadia, what would you say if I told you I could reach him.’’ His eyes were assessing her. ‘‘My job, the people in my field … they can do things, open doors.’’

Nadia looked at the horizon. She shook her head. Her voice was a distant, shaken whisper. ‘‘You can’t – no one can.’’

‘‘That’s not true.’’

Nadia opened her mouth to speak but no words would come out. For so long she had told herself that the past was no more, just a mass of darkness, that there was nothing to be done. It was what she had tried to believe. But she was wrong. It was always there. In her heart she was still the devoted seven-year-old girl, lingering at the foot of Mr. Bogdanov’s doorstep, waiting, looking at the kink in the dirt road, at the outline of trees, wishing, praying – praying that a troika would round the treeline, its great wooden wheels turning, kicking up dust, just as Mamuchka came running out of the house, screaming with laughter and joy. And then the tears would squeeze from Nadia’s eyes, taking the hurt away. Because Papashka had jumped out from the troika, arms outstretched, reaching forward to throw her high into the air, squashing her to him, with the words, I’m home, little chimp, I’m home, ringing in her ears.

Nadia looked at Iain now. This was her chance, she thought, her chance to have her life whole again, without the darkness, the pain, the broken-edged past. For a moment her spirits leapt and galloped. But then she saw the futility of it all, remembered all the bitter moments she’d spent with Mamuchka, sobbing with dumb frustration, when all their dreams of celebration came to nothing.

Her heart sank. She pictured the awful blackness of previous failures, the despair and rage that came with all the let-downs. She knew from experience that when people talked about helping Papashka – the embassy officials, lawyers, the diplomats – they had always fallen short. This was old, well-trodden ground; a path that always led to disappointment. And she resented Iain suddenly for talking about it. She fixed him with a stare.

‘‘I can find him, Nadia.’’

‘‘Don’t say that!’’ she said, starting to rise from the wooden decking. ‘‘Don’t say that if it’s not true.’’

He grabbed her arm. Like a fish, she wriggled past him, and got up from her knees.

Her voice was trembling. She shivered hard, as if it was winter outdoors and not the moist heat of summer. ‘‘Don’t you dare try to sweet-talk me by making rash promises, do you understand? Don’t you ever do that!’’

‘‘I’m not trying to sweet-talk you, Nadia. I mean what I say. I can help you, I know I can. I can get your father out of Russia.’’