‘Grown up enough to dance?’
Mrs Zarya fluttered her own wide taffeta skirts in a strangely coquettish gesture. ‘Maybe, vozmozhno. You must wait to be asked.’
The Serov villa at the far end of Rue Lamarque in the French Quarter was even grander than Lydia had expected, with pillars and porticoes and a long sweeping driveway that was packed with cars and chauffeurs. The reception rooms were lit by ranks of crystal chandeliers and crowded with hundreds of guests in elegant evening dress. All around her swirled the lilting sound of Russian: Dobriy vecher, Good evening. Kak vi pozhivayete, How are you? Kak torgovlia, How is business?
She remembered to say ‘Ochyen priatno,’ Pleased to meet you, when introduced by Mrs Zarya, but she did not listen to their names. She was here to seek out only one person. And he was not to be seen. Not yet. At first she stayed at Mrs Zarya’s side, reassured in this sparkling new world by the familiar smells of mothballs that wafted from her overheated figure. Old gentlemen with side whiskers and Tsar Nicholas’s beard came to flirt with Mrs Zarya and kiss Lydia’s hand, while women in long white gloves toured the rooms, displaying their glittering jewellery and Russian temperaments. Lydia lost count of the number of diamond tiaras that glided past.
She wondered what Chang An Lo would make of all this. How many guns just one of those diamonds would buy. Or what number of empty bellies that fat woman’s huge gold earrings would fill. Such thoughts caught her by surprise. They were Chang An Lo’s thoughts. Inside her head. That pleased her. That she could look around at all this wealth and see it not as desirable, but as a means of putting right an unbalanced society, was something totally new for her. Balance. That’s what Chang said was needed. But she watched a man with the stomach of a well-fed pig and gold chunks on his pudgy fingers take a glass of champagne from a silver salver without even glancing at the Chinese servant holding it. The servant was gaunt-faced with submissive eyes. Where exactly was the balance in that?
A shiver of shock rippled through Lydia. It was not only new thoughts she possessed, but new eyes. It seemed she really was becoming a Communist.
‘Lydia Ivanova, I’m delighted you could come.’ It was Countess Serova, regal as ever in her cream satin gown with high neck and full skirt, encrusted with pearls. ‘And tonight you are in a different frock, I see. I was beginning to think you only possessed one. How charming green looks on you.’
Lydia found the mixture of insult and praise disconcerting. ‘Thank you for inviting me, Countess.’ This time she didn’t bob a curtsy. Why should she? ‘Is your son here tonight?’
Countess Serova’s cool blue eyes took the measure of Lydia, and without replying she turned her gaze on Mrs Zarya. ‘Olga Petrovna Zarya, kak molodo vi viglyaditye, how young you look tonight.’
Mrs Zarya preened herself delightedly and dropped a curtsy, but Lydia did not hear her response because a young woman in black who was standing behind the countess, clearly an attendant of some kind, leaned close to Lydia and murmured in Russian, ‘He is in the ballroom.’
Lydia excused herself and followed the sound of music.
The woman shimmered. In an off-the-shoulder sequinned gown she was seated at a grand piano at one end of the ballroom, her fingernails vivid red against the ivory keys. She was playing a modern piece Lydia recognised. Something by Shostakovich, something decadent. The pianist swung her silky blond waves in time to the rhythm. It annoyed Lydia instantly, that overdramatic way of performing. But why hadn’t the countess invited Valentina to play? She turned away because whenever she thought of Valentina, the photographs in the drawer leaped into her head and made her feel sick. Instead she looked around her.
The room was beautiful. The high ceiling was painted with muscular heroes and nebulous goddesses who looked down on the pale polished-beech floor. Huge gilt-framed family portraits of people with long noses and arrogant eyes were designed to overpower guests of fragile nerve. Gleaming mirrors reflected thousands of pinpricks of light from chandeliers and threw them back into the room to highlight the dancers as they flowed with bright smiles from one end to the other. But Lydia’s eyes were soon elsewhere, on a cluster of men in deep discussion in front of one of the long velvet drapes. One tall angular back in immaculately styled evening wear and with a head of cropped brown hair set Lydia’s hackles rising.
She made directly for it.
‘Alexei Serov,’ she said coldly. ‘I’d like a word.’ She touched the black ridge of his shoulder.
Instantly he turned, and the broad smile that greeted her only infuriated her further. She felt an urge to slap it off his face.
‘Good evening, Miss Ivanova, how delightful that you are able to join us tonight.’ He snapped his fingers at a servant in maroon livery, standing to attention against the wall. ‘A drink for my guest.’
‘No drink, thank you. I won’t be staying.’
A frown crossed his long face at the coolness of her tone. His gaze studied her face, his eyes so intent on hers that she could see tiny golden flecks buried in the green irises.
‘Is something wrong?’ He ran a hand over the thick bristles of his hair and down the back of his head. It was the first time she had ever seen him betray the slightest sign of unease.
‘I would like a word. In private, please.’
His head drew back and he stared down his straight nose at her, half a smile curving his mouth. She did not care for the way he narrowed his eyes, his dark eyelashes used as a barrier between them. Another man with something to hide.
‘Certainly, Miss Ivanova.’
He placed a firm hand under her elbow and steered her effortlessly through the dancers to what looked like a mirror with carved gilded vine leaves around it but which turned out to be a door. More sleight of hand. They entered a small windowless room that contained nothing but a pale green chaise longue and a forest of stuffed animal heads on the walls. A wild boar with twelve-inch tusks glared at Lydia. She looked away and shook her elbow free of the grip on it.
‘Alexei Serov, you are a lying bastard.’
His composure was rattled, but he hid it well. His hand slowly stroked his jaw, revealing cuff links of gold scarab beetles. ‘You insult me, Miss Ivanova.’
‘No, it is you who insult me if you think I won’t realise who it was who sent Kuomintang troops to my house.’
‘Troops?’
‘Yes. And we both know why.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand what you…’
‘Don’t. Don’t waste your breath denying it. Your poisonous lies crawl out of the gutter and only insult me further. Because of you I could be in prison now. Do you realise that? And my… my friend… could be dead. So I have come here tonight to tell you…’ She could hear her voice sliding out of control, losing the iciness she’d planned. ‘… to tell you that your plot failed and that I think you are the lowest of the low. A filthy whore-boy to Chiang Kai-shek and his grey devils. Pretending to be a friend to me, yet…’
‘Stop, Lydia.’
‘No, I will not stop, you bastard. You betrayed me.’
He seized hold of her arms and shook her. ‘Stop this.’
His face came close to hers. They glared at each other. She could hear the click of air at the back of his throat as he swallowed his anger.
‘Release me,’ she snapped.
He removed his hands.
‘Good-bye,’ she said, putting all the ice she could summon into the single word. She walked stiffly to the door.
‘Lydia Ivanova, in heaven’s name, what demon is inside you now? How dare you march in here with accusations and then refuse to hear my response? Who do you think you are?’