Twelve

I was not entirely surprised to find that the brothel had not only survived the fires, but was already open for business – although business did not yet seem to be booming. That the building had survived the flames could only be put down to good luck, but Pyetr Pyetrovich was a man who knew how to be lucky.

Domnikiia was not in the salon. The other girls sat around languidly, tired already of waiting for clients who did not arrive. None of them came up to me; they knew my face well enough to know whom I had come to see. On the stairs, I met Margarita.

'Oh, it's you,' she said inhospitably.

'I've come to see Domnikiia.'

'I can't stop you,' she replied, and continued down the stairs.

'Sorry the nursing job didn't work out,' I muttered, just loud enough for her to hear.

I knocked on Domnikiia's door and entered on her reply.

'Oh, it's you,' she said, in a tone with far less passion – of any kind – than that with which Margarita had just uttered the same words.

'Yes,' I said. 'I wanted to see you.'

'Well, you know me, Aleksei. A job's a job and I won't refuse a man with money.'

'That wasn't what I came to do.'

'So what did you come to do?'

I thought about it for a moment, and found that I didn't know. I knew full well what I wanted to achieve, but I had no real plans for how to achieve it. I realized there was one thing that needed to be said whichever way I was to leave her – be it as her lover or as her former lover.

'I came to say I'm sorry,' I said.

'Sorry for what? For shouting at me when I said I wanted to be a vampire?' She spoke dismissively, as if such an apology could have little importance.

'No,' I replied, knowing that only complete honesty would suffice. 'I was right to do that. I'm sorry for not accepting your apology afterwards.'

'Why didn't you?' Her voice was suddenly full of humility. I could boast about my sensitive appreciation of the subtleties of the female heart, but in reality it had been only by luck that I had stumbled upon saying what she wanted to hear.

'I didn't think it needed saying. It was obvious.'

'Was it?' She spoke almost in a whisper now. 'Why?'

'Because…' But I didn't have an answer. It was obvious because I knew exactly how my mind worked and how I felt about her. She did not.

She took a step towards me. 'Is there anything else obvious that you haven't said to me?' she enquired tantalizingly, standing so close that she had to crane her neck upwards to look at me. I leaned forward to kiss her. She held her fingers to my lips to stop me. 'Uh-uh,' she said, shaking her head. 'You have to say it.'

'Isn't it obvious yet?'

'Say it, Lyosha!' she murmured, more mouthing than speaking.

I bent down to her ear and whispered it to her. Straightening up, I saw in her face a smile even more radiant than that I had seen on Natalia's when Dmitry had remembered her name day. I bent forward to kiss her and this time she offered no objections. I pushed her towards the bed, but now she did stop me.

'Not here,' she said. 'Not if we don't have to. Where are you staying?'

'At the inn, where I used to.'

'It will have to be late; maybe after midnight.'

'That's all right.'

'If I can come at all.'

'It would be easier for me to see you here,' I told her.

'No, I don't want that. I want it to be like it was in Yuryev-Polsky – like when I was a nurse.'

'OK,' I said and kissed her again. Then I left.

I waited again for Vadim that evening. It was Monday and so the venue was Red Square. I paced about for an hour or so. Autumn had given way to winter and I had to keep walking just to keep warm, my hands buried deep in my pockets. The square was far from bustling and those who were there walked across it briskly and purposefully, not wanting to spend any more time than necessary in the cold night air. Vadim was not among them.

I returned to the inn. I had told the innkeeper that a lady might be visiting me, and so a raised eyebrow to him as I entered was question enough for him. A brief shake of the head was his reply. But it was still early.

I had fallen asleep by the time she entered my bedroom. It wasn't until I felt her cool, naked body press against my back and wrap itself around mine that I knew she was there. I rolled over to face her.

'Do I need to say anything now, Domnikiia?' I asked her softly.

'No,' she whispered, with a smile I could not see. 'It's obvious.'

The following morning, I walked her back to Degtyarny Lane. It was almost midday. We had lain in bed for a long time – neither of us having occupations in which early rising was a requirement – talking about very little.

Then I was free until my appointment – and how I wished that I could really use a word that gave it such certainty – with Vadim. I found myself some lunch and then wandered around the streets, judging the degree to which Moscow was recuperating from its occupation.

It would, I believed, recover. Petersburg had become our capital only a hundred years ago. Nine years before that, it had been a swamp. It had taken the determination of a great man, the greatest in our history, Tsar Pyetr the First, to build the earliest structures on that swamp and then to make it his capital within so short a space of time. Today, there was no man alive that was his equal, not just in Russia but in the whole world. Bonaparte had aspired to inherit those laurels, but long ago he had proved himself unworthy of them. His retreat from Moscow was the final evidence of his failure to attain such status.

So today, we had no Pyetr to rebuild our city for us, but we had thousands – hundreds of thousands – of Petrushkas; little Pyetrs, who by themselves could no more raise Moscow from the ashes than I could raise the dead from their graves, but who together could restore it to its former greatness, so recently lost. And they did not even have to build it from nothing. They had their memories and, despite what had been lost to the fires, they still had the essential shape of the city. You can burn buildings, but it is harder to burn streets. Thus the plan of a city may survive.

And, of course, a third of the city had survived intact. I was walking down one of these undamaged streets when I noticed three cobbler's shops, huddled next to each other as one often sees with rivals in the same trade, sharing each other's warmth, but envying each other's custom. I peered through the window of each one. Not seeing what I was looking for, I went into the third and spoke to the shopkeeper.

'Have you ever come across a shoemaker by the name of Boris Mihailovich?'

'Boris?' replied the man. 'Yes, I know him.'

'Is his shop around here?'

'No. No, it's not.'

'Do you know where it is?' I asked.

'It's not anywhere. It was burnt down on the first night of the fires.'

'But he survived, I know that. Have you seen him recently, or his daughter?'

'Ah, so it's Natalia you're interested in, is it? Well, I saw them both about a week ago – after the French had gone – but not since.'

'Maybe they've disappeared,' suggested his assistant, who had been sweeping up around us, 'like the rest of them.' He emphasized the word 'disappeared' as though it were new to him, or had taken on a new, more specific meaning.

'"Disappeared"?' I asked.

'People have been coming into the city, but not staying,' explained the shopkeeper without much concern. 'I think they've just decided that there's no business to be had here and have gone off somewhere else. Oleg Stepanovich, the baker from up the street, is the only one I've known personally. Came back to Moscow, opened up his shop, closed it in the evening and didn't open it the next day. I reckon he's gone chasing after the army because they'll pay more for his bread, but he didn't tell his wife, so it may be more than just the army he's chasing.'