Dictators have always had time for illusions.

ANTON CHEKHOV

The first year Kostya spent in the white city can be said to have been a happy one. He applied himself assiduously, both at the Naval School and during manoeuvres in the Gulf of Finland; he spent many nights with Alania, immersed in discussions about life and the world; he walked over the Anichkov Bridge with his comrades, drunk and singing lewd songs, and wolf-whistled at Pioneer girls. He did everything in his power to try to impress his father, and ignored the rest of the world with the indifference and self-confidence of youth. At a time of shootings, at a time of arrests and forced resettlement, at a time of suicides, Kostya blossomed, and believed he had found his place in the world. He rejoiced in himself and in life, at the height of his youth.

He wasn’t yet interested in knowing how very alike the score of life and the score of death can be.

*

Sometimes, Brilka, stories repeat themselves, and overlap. Even life lacks imagination occasionally, and you can’t blame it for that, don’t you agree? And so I need to tell you about two more knots that were being tied simultaneously in our carpet.

On the same January night that Kostya attended the Academy’s annual Naval Ball, his fifteen-year-old sister, who had cut her hair into a pert bob, was waiting for someone in the park, in the little town once destined to become the Nice of the Caucasus. Kitty and Andro always spent the winter holidays with Kitty’s grandfather, the chocolate-maker. Christine still didn’t believe she was strong enough to go out in public; she relied on Stasia’s full and unqualified attention. And so, late that evening, Kitty was sitting in the park, chewing her fingernails, freezing, waiting.

It was a game. She was putting Andro’s love to the test. She hid, and he had to find her. Sometimes she would send him on a wild goose chase all over town, leaving him little clues on scraps of paper that she slipped into the pockets of his trousers.

She hid everywhere — in the old school building, behind the bakery, sometimes in the empty chocolate factory, sometimes in the garden of the cloistered Church of St George, even under her own bed. But she knew that he would find her because he had never let her down; he had always been able to follow her trail. And so it would be again today, although she was already a little annoyed; she should have sat somewhere warm, not out in this damned cold, because Andro was taking his time.

Since his mother’s disappearance, it was more difficult to persuade Andro to join in with all the games they used to play together, but he always did with this one. He refused to play tag with her, didn’t want to touch the cards any more, didn’t want to sing, either; but when she challenged him to seek her, he would seek, and find.

For some time now, the only woodcarvings he had made were of angels, which worried Kitty. This passion had developed into a downright obsession. Whereas before he would carve figures of animals and little houses, now it was only angels: old and young, with outspread or folded wings. The chocolate-maker’s house was populated by an army of angels, and in Christine’s house too they stood in rows, on the mantelpiece, on window ledges, on chests of drawers.

She saw him coming. He was running. He was out of breath. It was going to snow, her grandfather had said; the whole town was blanketed in thick fog. And this fog made people silent and careful, more fearful than they already were. He sat down beside her, smiled at her in affirmation, and she gave him two smacking kisses, one on each cheek, as a reward for finding her. Neither of them was in any hurry to return to the gloomy atmosphere in the chocolate-maker’s house: since his retirement, all he did was indulge in reminiscences, look at old photographs, or jot down secret recipes in an old notebook.

Lida’s demonstrative piety didn’t make their home more inviting, either, and nor did Lara’s strangeness. She couldn’t understand why her only daughter hadn’t been to visit her for two years. She spent most of her time making jam, and hid banknotes between books which she then couldn’t find again.

‘I want to leave. But I don’t want to go without you,’ said Andro suddenly. He started to scrape at the frosty earth with the toe of his boot. ‘Would you come with me?’

‘Where do you want to go, you lunatic? You don’t have any money; and anyway, you have to wait for your mother.’

‘My mother may not be coming back any time soon.’

‘How can you know that?’

‘I just know.’

‘And where do you want to go?’

‘I want to go to Europe. Remember when I showed you the map of the world the other day? I’ve marked it up. All the places I want to go. I want to go to Rome and Paris, Madrid, and Vienna — especially Vienna, they say it’s very beautiful there. You’d like it there, Kitty.’

‘But we can’t, not on our own …’

‘Would you come with me?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Are you scared of going away?’

‘What do you want to do in Vienna? There are only poor people and rich people there, and the rich people don’t give the poor people anything, and the poor people starve and freeze to death on the streets. And anyone there who isn’t blond gets kicked up the arse,’ she said, and giggled.

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Fine. All right, then, of course I’ll come with you. You know I will!’

And Andro bent over his Kitty, the girl with the most beautiful almond eyes in all the world, and kissed her on the lips. The fog-filled town, the green-painted park benches; tall, gangly, quiet Andro, and restless, frenetic Kitty, both numb with cold and excitement in equal measure.

And as Kostya’s sister pressed her fingers to her mouth, holding on to the first real kiss of her life and the taste of Andro’s lips, her brother, three years older, was losing his virginity. I don’t know whether these two events really did take place at precisely the same moment, but I like the idea that it might have been that way.

*

After the Naval Ball, Kostya’s friends dragged him up an old staircase on Vasilievsky Island and left him in a dark, narrow corridor in front of a wooden door. They hammered on the door for all they were worth before sprinting off, laughing, down the stairs. At first, Kostya, who had already drunk a good deal of vodka, didn’t really understand what was going on. He could only move slowly, and because he knew he wouldn’t succeed in running away so easily he decided to stay there, come what may, even though his heart was beating so loudly he felt the whole house must be able to hear it.

The door was flung open and a tall, dark-haired woman in a long dressing gown, with rings on every finger, stared out at Kostya in his blue uniform, standing there like a kicked dog, red-faced, not knowing where to put himself.

‘What’s all this about?’ asked the stranger indignantly, stepping towards him.

‘Oh, excuse me — I don’t know, either — they …’ stammered Kostya, in accent-free Russian.

‘If you’re looking for that … hmm … lady, she doesn’t live here any more. I live in this apartment now.’

The woman was about forty. She had olive skin and her eyes were jet-black, like her hair, which was loosely held up with a clip.

They’d played a trick on him. Kostya needed to think fast — how could he extricate himself from this awkward situation and pay them back? You were only a real sailor when you were as good at sea as in a woman’s arms, that was what they’d said, and Kostya had allowed himself to be swept along, had walked here with them through the snow-covered streets, because this was the home of that lady who, for a few roubles and without any fuss, would initiate him in the art of love.

He was already on the point of turning round and walking briskly away, but she stopped him and asked, ‘What’s your name?’

‘Konstantin. Kostya.’

‘Hello, Konstantin. And how old are you?’

‘I’m seventeen.’

‘Aha. And where are you from, Konstantin?’

‘From … from … Georgia.’

‘From Georgia. Oh, that is nice. I spent a summer there once as a child, beside the sea. I ate a lot of pomegranates. I love pomegranates. Do you like them, too?’

‘They’re all right.’

‘Would you like a tea, Konstantin? You look frozen to death.’

There was something about this unknown woman that Kostya found attractive. He couldn’t have said himself what it was: her slightly sarcastic tone, her mischievous smile, or the sparkling rings on her hands.

The apartment must once have consisted of several rooms, now partitioned off by thin walls. The space he entered was only one room, with the kitchen in an alcove. The bathroom was in the corridor and was probably used by the neighbours as well. An entire corner had been taken over by indoor plants; on the dining table were piles of books, all of them open. The room was illuminated by a single lamp. It smelled good here. Kostya immediately felt at home.

He did indeed get a strong cup of tea, and his coat was hung over a coal-fired stove. He took a closer look at her in the light: she was almost as tall as he was, with a narrow frame, bony joints, and hips that were a little too wide. Her wrists were as slender and delicate as those of a young girl. Her face appeared to be hiding something, which Kostya found slightly arousing. A long, pointed nose, thin lips, slightly hollow cheeks. But it was her dark eyes, above all, that gleamed seductively in the dim light, as if coated with a film of oil. Hers was a sickly beauty, already starting to fade.

When the unknown woman asked him if he wanted to have a glass of wine with her, Kostya realised what it was about her that he found most attractive. It was her voice. She had a deep, rich voice that was also somehow very brittle, as if liable to crack on the very next word. She fetched a bottle of wine, handed him a corkscrew, and asked him to open it. Then she brought two glasses, snatched the bottle from his hand, held it up to the light for a moment, and poured. She sniffed at the red liquid before taking the first sip.

‘This is a Bordeaux. It’s very old. And very good. Very good. Wines are a special business — as I expect you know, Georgian. I’ve kept this bottle long enough. I was always saving it for that special occasion. But we’ll drink it now.’

Kostya, even more confused, and preoccupied with trying not to let his confusion show, obeyed without protest. Beside the bed he could see an old piano draped in white cloth. After they had raised their glasses to each other, and the unknown woman had emptied hers in one go, she stood up, went over to the gramophone on the floor beside the piano, and put on a record. A chanson by Vertinsky began to play. She approached Kostya, stopped in front of him, and extended her hand.

‘Would you dance with me, Konstantin?’ she asked him, with an ambiguous smile. Kostya leaped up, excited and clumsy, and seized her hand in one of his, encircling her waist with the other.

She felt good: somehow, in a strange way, very familiar. In the middle of the dance she stopped, removed his hand from her waist, disengaged herself, and threw herself onto the little metal bed, which was covered with an old plaid blanket. A few moments later she had buried her face in both hands and was sobbing desperately.

Kostya stood in the middle of the room, rooted to the spot, not daring to look at the weeping woman. At last, he went over to her and, moved by her despair, knelt before her and placed his hand cautiously on her leg. The woman immediately flung her arms around his neck and dragged him onto the bed. He fell, and she pressed herself against him, started unbuttoning his jacket. Not thinking about what was happening to him, Kostya allowed himself to be led by instinct: with a sweep of his hand he opened her dressing gown and started kissing her, and she gripped his hair with her beringed fingers, guiding his head to where she wanted it. He didn’t mind her leading him. Before he knew it, she had undressed him, and with hurried movements and trembling hands he helped her, undid her suspender belt, slipped off her petticoat. The open dressing gown exposed her small breasts, her smooth, soft skin, and the dark triangle between her legs.

Although she was brusque and possessive, very domineering, and expressed her lust with abandon, Kostya found her behaviour touching. There was something lost about her urge to possess him; her passion was fragile, as if at any second it might be extinguished as unexpectedly as it had been kindled.

For a moment, Kostya felt as if he were losing consciousness, while the unknown woman kept her eyes firmly closed, kissing every inch of his face and smiling through her tears.