It felt almost obscene at times, the way she toyed with the fate of nations in letters interspersed with proclamations of passion, where longings of lovers forced to be apart lashed out at the entire countries, a forbidden love that raged against the world and promised to destroy it. The seas that separated them were to be conquered by the navies and submarine fleets, the impossible expanse of land was to be crossed in airships of stolen designs, to be marched across by armies in red and gold of Britain and Ottomans. Dame Nightingale was denied, and it was the world that would have to pay for it.
“We’ll have to send these to Eugenia.” I gathered a sheaf of letters and a few other papers that made it clear that Nightingale and quite a few frequent visitors to the Northern Star had been using their positions to gather information and to use it for military planning. “I’ll hire a reliable courier in Moscow.”
Jack nodded.
“My God,” I said, blushing even more, and handed the letters back to Jack. “They love each other so much. And yet they are so proper when they are together.”
“Mr. Herbert is married,” Jack said.
“I guessed as much.” I looked out of the window. “And yet, she would turn the world inside out to please him.”
“This is what love does,” Jack said. He leafed through the letters, absent-minded. “I wish I could have had a chance to drop them off with your aunt last night,” he said. “But… ”
I remembered his mad run, something from a nightmare, not a waking memory. Something my mind tried to forget it even saw. “Does she know? Dame Nightingale, I mean.”
He nodded. “They chased me.”
“So they know where you went?”
Jack yawned and stretched, smiling. “I don’t think so; I jumped over the roofs and doubled back a few times, so I am fairly certain I’ve lost whatever pursuit was sent my way. “
“We still have to be careful.”
“Yes.”
We spent the rest of the morning in private ruminations. Jack’s thoughts were of course a mystery to me, but my own contemplation ran toward the possibility of pursuit. They would figure out he had left the city, and they would look for him in Moscow sooner rather than later. Our only hope was to continue moving, not attracting notice. Keep running, I thought, in rhythm with the wheels; keep changing trains and cities. It occurred to me there was a seductive danger about such life, the temptation to keep moving and never look back, and to never arrive at the final destination.
Chapter 9
Moscow greeted us with fresh snow and blazing golden cathedral domes. We had to cover our eyes to protect them from the brilliance from above and below.
A hired coach took us to Balchug Street in the Zamoskvorechye District by the river. Tsar’s Tavern dated back to the sixteenth century, but its old-fashioned name was now a misnomer. After recent renovations the establishment was a small hotel, with a portion of the first floor still occupied by a kitchen and a dining hall that served food and liquor.
We took rooms on the second floor. We did not plan to stay longer than was necessary, but we needed papers to travel abroad. Thankfully, my aunt’s letters were enough to hasten the process.
After lunching, we went to see the Minister of Oriental Affairs. The ministry was instituted in Moscow after Siberian exploration started — as the sad result of Prince Nicholas’ eagerness to exile his enemies as far north as possible. The landlocked and eastern location suited it and a few other agencies better than the imperial capital of St. Petersburg.
The ministry was not far from Balchug Street. We had only to cross the bridge over the Moscow River, already seized with black and green brittle casing of ice, pass the Kremlin, and enter a labyrinth of small twisting streets. Snow slushed underfoot, dirty and weeping, kneaded by a multitude of feet.
I kept looking at the street signs. Moscow’s warrens depressed and confused me, and it seemed that no two streets met at the right angle. I was used to the orderly grid of St. Petersburg, streets razor-straight, wide. We got turned around a few times, but finally found the three-storied building of white sandstone decorated with a carved dragon painted red. I assumed the dragon was intended to be symbolic of the Orient.
Inside we found a roomy foyer with a marble fountain that was not working, and a dusty waiting room adjacent to the main office. It appeared to have been converted from what might previously have been an apartment for a struggling merchant family. A guard in full uniform nodded to us.
“What can I do for you, poruchik…?”
“Menshov,” I said and presented the papers with a confident flourish. “Poruchik means lieutenant,” I explained to Jack’s puzzled look. “This is a friend of mine, Mr. Bartram from England. We are traveling to China, and need travel papers. This is a letter from my aunt.”
“Wait here,” the guard said. He took my papers and disappeared into the office. We sat on the narrow sofa in the waiting room.
“I do not understand Russian bureaucracy,” Jack whispered.
“No one does,” I whispered back. “Just go along with it.”
I was grateful to Eugenia for laying out the places for us to go to, and writing letters to present so we did not need to do or say much. It made me feel as if I wasn’t really on my own, alone in the strange city.
An hour or so passed. The dusty clock on the wall ticked loudly at first, but when three in the afternoon arrived, it rang out the hours while a counterweight traveled downwards until it touched the floor and the clock stopped. There was no longer any way for me to keep track of time. Jack had a pocket watch, but it seemed improper somehow to ask him to look at it — as if the empty waiting room would be offended by my rudeness.
Finally, the guard reappeared, carrying our papers. They had been properly stamped and signed, and the guard handed them to me. “The minister asks after your aunt’s health,” he said.
“She is well,” I assured him.
“He says he did not know the countess had a nephew.”
“A distant one, on her father’s side. Thrice removed.” I had that small story memorized and was ready to diagram a Menshov family tree if necessary, claiming to be one of the provincial Menshovs descended from my great-grandfather’s bastard brother.
The guard only nodded. “Good family. And the old countess takes care of her relatives.”
It was already dark when we left the building and walked back to the tavern — the sun set early here; it wasn’t even six and already the lampposts had grown hazy round halos of light, like ethereal giant dandelions. Shadows pooled by the walls of the townhouses and engulfed the river, an insatiable black mouth swallowing everything.
The tavern keeper, a man as stout as his bow-legged oak furniture, sent a kitchen boy to fetch us a courier, and Jack and I took our supper in our room while preparing the package for Eugenia. The room was furnished with two beds, a stand with a basin jug of cold water, and a couple of chamber pots. Modest but sufficient, and it allowed me an opportunity to practice washing my face while carefully avoiding my mustache.
Jack sat on his bed, his elbows on his knees, his hands dangling. The tray with his supper stood by his feet, and he didn’t pay it much attention. “Are you not uncomfortable sharing a room with me?” he said.