The Secret Wife(70)
‘Well, of course.’ Her expression was sympathetic. ‘But you mustn’t live in the past. Get on with your future. It’s a terrible tragedy, but you are still young and you will recover. I, on the other hand, will mourn them till the day I die.’
Dmitri left the hotel clutching his notebook, headed into the nearest bar and ordered a vodka. Despite what Princess Irene had said, he vowed that unless someone presented him with absolute proof that Tatiana was dead, he would never give up hope. Never.
Chapter Forty
Dmitri filed his article about Princess Irene’s meeting with Anna Tschaikovsky and it was published in Rul. A week later they received a letter from Tsar Nicholas’s sister Olga in Denmark saying that she disagreed with Irene and thought Anna genuinely was her niece Anastasia. The controversy made Dmitri even more determined to meet the girl, but no matter which avenues he tried, he could not find a way through the heavy oak doors of Baron von Kleist’s apartment.
Dmitri spent his days writing articles, and his evenings in the cafés of Charlottenburg, drinking with crowds of Russian émigrés. They moaned to each other about Berlin, calling it a materialistic city where everything was for sale, with gaudy advertising all around and prostitutes openly hustling passersby on every street corner. Usually one or other of his drinking companions would end up in tears of homesickness for Mother Russia once they were a few bottles down.
One evening, Dmitri was with a group who became rowdy and started smashing glasses on the floor, whereupon the doormen escorted them off the premises. Dmitri’s comrades headed straight into a neighbouring bar but he sat on the grass in the middle of Prager Platz to let the cold night air clear his head. A girl who had been working in the café came running across to him.
‘You left your notebook,’ she said in Russian. It had all his notes from an interview that day and he was relieved not to have lost it.
‘Thank you. You’ve saved my life,’ he said melodramatically.
‘I’ve seen you here before, haven’t I? My name is Rosa.’ She held out her hand.
As he shook hands with her, he noticed she had a very full bosom for someone so petite, and that she had pretty eyes and short dark hair. ‘You’ve got a boy’s haircut,’ he remarked. He hadn’t noticed her when she brought their drinks to the table, but close up she was definitely attractive.
She laughed. ‘I have it cut in a barber’s shop. It’s cheaper than a women’s hairdresser. Are you a writer?’ Her Russian was fluent but she had a German accent, which made it sound unfamiliar.
‘I write articles for Rul,’ he said, then added, ‘I’m also working on a novel.’ He had no idea why he said this except that every White Russian in Berlin seemed to be writing a novel and it sounded romantic.
‘What’s your novel about?’ she asked, sitting on the grass beside him.
‘It’s about love, of course. A great love affair that spans decades and continents but is ultimately doomed to unhappiness.’ He was in a maudlin state, thinking of Tatiana.
‘But why can it not have a happy ending?’
‘Because all love affairs end unhappily,’ he said, ‘like all wars.’ He wasn’t drunk enough because depression was creeping up on him. ‘Could you fetch another bottle of wine from your bar? I’ve got the money.’
‘No,’ she said firmly, ‘but my shift has finished so I will get my coat and take you home. Where do you live?’
Dmitri considered. Suddenly it seemed a compelling idea to take comfort in a woman’s arms, to nestle his head against that full bosom and breathe in a female scent. He had not made love to another woman since meeting Tatiana back in 1914, and he felt guilty even thinking about it … but all the same it was tempting.
He let Rosa help him to his feet and lead him the short distance to his apartment, with her arm linked through his. She helped when he fumbled with his keys, then steadied him on the way up the stairs.
Will I be capable of sex? Dmitri wondered, shortly before he passed out.
When Dmitri woke the next morning, he turned his head to see if Rosa was beside him. She wasn’t, but the bed had been neatly made, with the sheets tucked in, and he was lying beneath the covers in his underwear. Normally he did not make the bed from one day to the next, simply slipping into the hollow his body had formed the night before. And the other odd thing was that he could not remember getting undressed. Had Rosa taken his clothes off? He glanced round the room and saw them neatly folded over the back of a chair.
On the bedside table there was a glass of water and a bottle of Bayer aspirin powder. The sight irritated him but he took a sip of water all the same, his mouth dry as cardboard and his breath rancid.
He heaved himself out of bed, pulled on a dressing gown and went through to the tiny kitchen alcove. He had left the sink overflowing with dirty dishes but now they were washed and stacked away and the surfaces sparkled. His irritation grew. In the sitting room, everything was neat and tidy but there was no sign of the girl. How dare she come into his home and clean it without permission!
He put on a pot of coffee then went to the bathroom to wash and shave. She hadn’t cleaned there. The bath had a greasy grey tideline, while the sink was grimy with bristles. He was still annoyed, and as he performed his ablutions he considered charging round to the café to remonstrate with Rosa for cleaning up. It was only when he planned the words he would use that he realised how foolish it would sound and began to chuckle.