The Secret Wife(72)
‘He didn’t ask,’ she said in a small voice, and Dmitri felt compassion for her.
‘I apologise on behalf of my countryman,’ he said. ‘He was a fool to lose you.’
She turned and kissed him on the mouth, an urgent kiss that moved him deep down inside.
The next day, while he worked on his novel, Rosa went to the market and bought a cheap cut of meat and some vegetables from which she produced a delicious pot of stew. They ate bowls of it for lunch, along with big chunks of bread, and before leaving to start her shift in the café she even cleaned his bathroom. She hummed as she worked so Dmitri didn’t feel the need to stop her; or at least when the thought passed through his mind he was able to overrule it.
‘Will I see you later?’ she asked as she pulled on her coat.
A little warning bell rang in Dmitri’s head. He didn’t want to feel an obligation towards her. But at the same time, she was a cheerful soul and it was pleasant having her around. Besides, he could hardly say no after all she had done for him.
‘I’ll pick you up after your shift,’ he said, kissing her goodbye. As soon as the door shut, he went back to his novel.
Before long Dmitri and Rosa slipped into a pattern of sleeping together three or four evenings a week. On her night off, she liked to drag him along to the Eldorado nightclub, which had opened in Charlottenburg earlier that year. Her cousin worked there so they could usually secure a good table from which to watch the transvestite dancers, the striptease artists and the comedy burlesque acts. Rosa often got up to dance on the tiny dance floor and Dmitri laughed to watch her in her oversized frocks, like a little girl playing at being grown-up. She mimicked movie stars with flirtatious flicks of her hemline, her mouth rounded in pretend shock at her own audacity.
Berlin couldn’t have been less like the high society of St Petersburg with its unbreakable rules and strict formality. Dmitri didn’t think he had ever seen a homosexual man in Russia – perhaps they did not exist; perhaps it was not in the national character – but here they were everywhere. He felt a little uncomfortable around them, not sure how to talk to them so that they would know he wasn’t available. He’d often slip his arm around Rosa’s waist to be doubly sure they got the message.
Sometimes, after making love with Rosa, Dmitri lay awake feeling guilty about his affair. He was a married man; he should not be in bed with another woman. How could he be happy when his wife was missing? But there was no question that if Tatiana appeared one day he would quietly explain the situation to Rosa and beg her forgiveness for leading her on. He would have no hesitation in choosing between them.
Dmitri often asked Burtsev, his editor, if there was any further news of Anna Tschaikovsky. It seemed she had left Baron von Kleist’s apartment some time in the autumn and returned to hospital with a range of ailments that required medical treatment. She was not staying at the Dalldorf Asylum this time but at the Westend Hospital in Charlottenburg, not far from his apartment.
One evening, he asked Rosa if she ever heard any customers in the café talking about her, and straight away she replied: ‘No, but my friend Klara is a nurse at Westend. She tells me Anna Tschaikovsky is very timid and barely talks to anyone. She has a badly infected arm.’
Dmitri stared at her, eyes wide with excitement. ‘Do you think your friend would be able to get me into the hospital to see her? Can you ask?’
Rosa seemed surprised at the intensity with which he spoke. ‘Yes, of course, I’ll call on her tomorrow if it means so much to you.’
‘Thank you.’ He squeezed her hand tighter than he had meant to and she flinched.
Chapter Forty-Two
Berlin, January 1923
It transpired that Rosa’s friend Klara was unwilling to help Dmitri sneak into the hospital to spy on their famous patient.
‘It could cost her her job,’ Rosa explained.
‘I’ll make sure it doesn’t. Please – you have to convince her.’ Dmitri was determined. ‘Won’t you try again?’
When Klara once more refused to help, Dmitri grew angry and threw his notebook to the floor. ‘She’s not much of a friend, is she? Why won’t she do as you ask?’
Rosa looked at him closely. ‘This isn’t just about writing a story for Rul, is it? Did you know Grand Duchess Anastasia in Russia?’
Dmitri couldn’t talk about that part of his life. ‘Slightly,’ he said, turning away. ‘Only slightly.’
After that Rosa somehow succeeded in persuading Klara. Dmitri didn’t ask how. It was arranged that they would meet her one lunchtime at a side door of the huge, sprawling hospital with its red-tiled roofs and towering spires. She would give him the overalls of an orderly, along with a broom and dustpan, and direct him to the ward. Once there he could go in and sweep round the bed in Anna Tschaikovsky’s private room, but if she panicked and started to scream, as she sometimes did at the sight of strangers, he must pretend he let himself in and must not mention Klara’s name.
As they walked to the hospital, Rosa chatted about everyday matters – her boss’s secret girlfriend, a new recipe for meatloaf – and for once her conversation annoyed him, interrupting the flow of his thoughts. It was almost five years since he had seen Anastasia but he was positive he would know her straight away, even if those chubby girlish cheeks had thinned out and the long curly locks had been trimmed. People have an essence, something in the eyes that makes them recognisable.