Saskia had a sense of smell beyond that of her fellow guests. She knew that the women were wet and the men hard. She put a finger to her nose and frowned.
She turned to Kamo.
‘Get me a drink,’ she said.
Saskia stood there, incognito, in a dress of blackcurrant velvet and furlined pelisse and a half-mask that fringed her eyes in gold. Her hat was a sloping disc. Her shoulders carried silver epaulettes and threaded telephone cords that trailed down her arms to her wrists, which disappeared inside her hand warmer. Her choker was black and at its centre was a lobe of amber. She could feel it when she swallowed. The pitch of the merriment was reaching a height, as though the connections between the revellers—their hands, their lips—were tightening to the perfection of gut on a stringed instrument.
‘Here,’ said Kamo, putting a glass of white wine in her hand. ‘To courage.’
‘To courage.’
As she lifted the glass to her lips, Kamo stopped her. He linked his arm in hers. Eye to eye, they drank. It was the Bruderschaft, the rite of brotherhood that had become popular among the Outfit since the introduction of its German-born member, Saskia, who never liked the gesture and considered it a poor Caucasian joke at her expense.
They emptied the glasses.
‘Brotherhood,’ said Kamo. In his mask, his eyes were as unreadable as the marbles of a doll. ‘Does the word offend you, sister?’
‘Your manner offends me. As for sexist language, we all pick our battles.’
A blazing arch of fireworks left the roof of the Summer Palace. Saskia had never seen fireworks in twilight. The magnesium light took away colour for an instant. She turned to Kamo, who seemed puzzled by the sudden light.
‘The first house has been called to dinner,’ Saskia told him, walking backwards and away. ‘We should eat something.’ In Phrygian, a dialect that the Armenian speaker Kamo would understand, but which would be difficult for eavesdroppers, she added, ‘You’ll need your strength for the money. Think of it.’
Kamo stared at her. The lower half of his face provided no clue to his mood. ‘I am,’ he said in Russian, and that was an end to their conversation. The spaces within the crowd had compressed as the guests moved towards the many formal doors that permitted entrance to the Summer Palace. A dozen conversations repeated the same thought: that the evening proper was about to begin. That is, it was set to transform once more. Then the talk stopped. Saskia was pushed left and right. The crowd compressed still further until Saskia and Kamo drifted apart at the foot of the Summer Palace. The bass register of an orchestra groaned from its doors. Flames burned with a honeyed intensity from the tall windows. Above, the Tsar’s flag moved in a weak wind.
At once, they were inside the palace, as if on a tide into a sea cave. The main stairwell rose the full height and depth of the palace. Two flights led to a central landing. From this, four more flights sprouted to the first floor. The risers were marble and the banisters finessed with vases.
Behind the sound of a polonaise, played by musicians on the landing, she could hear the beating of the candles in the chandeliers. There was a principle, this evening, of natural light. Conversation recovered. Saskia stretched out for Kamo until his fingers—unmistakably the fingers of Simon Ter-Petrossian—locked with hers. The sounds reflected and thundered in her diaphragm. Even the giggles seemed basso. Kamo moved to her shoulder. He might see this as a battle, she thought, and their entry a charge. They exchanged inscrutable looks.
They passed the chamber orchestra. Each musician was dressed in evening wear, and lacked a mask. Not one musician returned the stares of the guests. The air was perfumed. The porphyry pillars sparkled wetly. Beyond them, at the top of the stairs, an emerald flash captured her attention. The intensity of its light was such that she tripped on the next riser. She allowed Kamo to steer her upwards. The emerald light was gone; but Saskia thought about Pavel Eduardovitch and his successful entry to the Lyceum as they passed through a room with mirrored walls, walked around the edge of the Great Hall and entered an anteroom whose fireplaces were covered with green glass. Apropos this light, she thought, Colourless green ideas sleep furiously, but could not source the phrase, despite its familiarity. Saskia tried to think of this as her farewell party. It was difficult. A persistent worry ebbed at her. She glanced at a passing clock. It was nearly nine.
Here, in the witching light, they approached an oval dining table. Saskia allowed Kamo to seat her in a velour chair. His mouth did not betray his frustration. Her place was laid with many sets of silver cutlery. The crystal glasses were frosted with the Imperial arms. Silver ice buckets held wines of all shades and sugared fruits were arranged in tiers. A pole rose from the centre of the table and upon it was a Venetian mask, trailing red ribbons from its eyes. It reminded Saskia of the bloody tears she had cried in a border town the previous autumn. Kamo took the seat on her right.
‘You and your partner make thirteen,’ said the woman on her left. She was dressed as an angel. Her wire wings were draped with goose feathers. Her carmined lips suggested an older woman of fifty or so. Playfully, she said, ‘The first to stand will be unlucky for a year. What have you come as, young woman?’
‘She is the Allegory of the Future,’ said Kamo, ‘where superstition will have no role.’ His tone suggested he wanted to end the conversation there, but Saskia did not intend to remain silent throughout the meal. No doubt Kamo feared that she would reveal herself. It was, however, more likely that the guests would find their silence conspicuous.
‘Do you see the wires on my arms?’ asked Saskia. Her Russian had never been more perfect, and she was aware of the beauty in her voice. Several of the nearby conversations ceased as guests turned towards her. ‘They carry electricity.’
The woman smiled as she poured. ‘I’m from heaven,’ she replied. ‘Tell me about your place and I’ll tell you about mine.’
‘In the future,’ said Saskia, speaking to the covered faces, ‘we have buildings so tall they reach the clouds. The sun shines on their spires and there is plenty to eat and drink for all the people.’
A servant’s arm entered her view and put a champagne flute next to her plate. Saskia was distracted by the thought that the narrow glass and the champagne, with its delightful tint, had come together in this moment with the elegance that only existed with transience. The two would separate soon and never meet again. On the surface of the glass, she saw the greenish reflection of the fires, and the curled fists of Kamo.
‘At least,’ she continued, ‘there is plenty for those who live in the tall buildings. Others live underground.’
‘My dear,’ said Kamo, in the belittling tone of a husband, ‘you will overplay your part.’
‘I want to hear about them,’ said the Angel, and several of the other guests motioned for Saskia to continue.
‘Their faces are dark and hidden,’ Saskia said. She had turned to Kamo. ‘They walk treadmills and operate huge dynamos. Every movement of each body is captured, transformed, and used for the betterment of their superiors in the sky, where the sun shines.’
‘Darling, you are drunk,’ said Kamo. He addressed the table: ‘She is drunk.’
‘Nonsense,’ replied a man in a black hat. ‘She is lucid and entertaining. Tell me, madam, how might one travel from St Petersburg to Moscow in your future?’
‘In ships that sail through the air.’
‘Winged ships?’ asked Angel.
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Flapping wings, then,’ said the man in the black hat. ‘Like birds!’ He followed this with a bellowing laugh that drew glances from the tables around them. Kamo added his own, quieter laugh, and put his hand on Saskia’s thigh.