Turkish Gambit

Chapter Seven IN WHICH VARYA FORFEITS THE NAME OF A RESPECTABLE WOMAN

Alas, Varya was mistaken, seriously mistaken. The journey to Bucharest proved to be boring in the extreme.

In addition to Paladin, several other correspondents had decided to seek diversion in the Roumanian capital. It was clear to everyone that during the days, and even weeks, that lay immediately ahead, nothing of any real interest would take place in the theatre of military operations, and once the journalistic fraternity realised that the Russians would need some time to recover from the bloodbath at Plevna, it made tracks for the fleshpots of the rear lines.

They had taken a long time over their preparations, only starting on their way two days later. As a lady, Varya was seated in the britzka beside McLaughlin, while everyone else set off on horseback, and she could only gaze from a distance at the Frenchman on his noble mount Yataghan, who found the slow pace irksome, and make conversation with the Irishman. He discussed every possible aspect of the climatic conditions of the Balkans, London and Central Asia, told her all about the arrangement of the springs on his carriage and analysed several extremely complicated chess problems in close detail. All this put Varya in a very bad mood, and during their halts she regarded the boisterous travellers, including even Paladin with his cheeks flushed from the moderate exertion, with a misanthropic eye.

On the second day of the journey - they had already passed Alexandria - she began to feel a little better, because the cavalcade was overtaken by Zurov. He had distinguished himself in action and for his bravery been made Sobolev's adjutant. The general had apparently even wanted to recommend him for the Order of St Anne, but the hussar had managed to wangle himself a week's leave in lieu - a chance to stretch his legs properly, as he put it.

At first the captain amused Varya with his fancy trick riding - plucking bluebells at full gallop, juggling gold imperials and standing erect in the saddle. Then he made an attempt to swap places with McLaughlin, and when he was phlegmatically but unambiguously rebuffed, he moved the meek coachman on to his own chestnut mare, and seated himself on the coach box, twisting his head round all the time to regale Varya with amusing stories of his own heroism and the dark machinations of the jealous 'Jerome' Perepyolkin, with whom the newly appointed adjutant was at daggers drawn. And in this manner the journey was completed.

As Erast Petrovich had predicted, Lukan did not prove hard to find. Following her instructions, Varya took a room in the most expensive hotel, the Royale, where she inquired after the colonel at the reception desk, and it transpired that 'Son Excellence' was well known there - he had been junketing in the restaurant the previous day and the day before that, and he was certain to be there today as well.

Since there was still a long time left until the evening, Varya set out for a stroll along the fashionable Kalya-Mogoshoae Avenue, which seemed to her like Nevsky Prospect after life under canvas: smart carriages, striped awnings above the shop windows, dazzling southern beauties, decorative dark-haired men in light blue, white and even pink frock coats, and uniforms, uniforms, uniforms on every side. The sound of Roumanian speech was swamped by Russian and French. Varya drank two cups of chocolate in a genuine cafe, ate four little cakes and was on the point of dissolving in utterly blissful contentment when she happened to glance into a mirror on a pillar beside a hat shop and gasped in horror. No wonder all the men were looking straight through her as if she were not even there!

The bedraggled creature in the faded blue dress and wizened straw hat was an insult to the name of Russian womanhood. And the pavements were full of sultry Messalinas sauntering along in very latest Paris fashions!

Varya was terribly late arriving at the restaurant. She had agreed with McLaughlin to meet at seven, and it was already nine when she appeared. As a perfect gentleman, the correspondent of the Daily Post had agreed to the rendezvous without a murmur (she could hardly go to the restaurant alone - she would have been taken for a cocotte), nor did he utter a single word of reproach for her lateness, although he did look absolutely miserable. Never mind, after tormenting her all the way here with his meteorological expertise he owed her a favour; now he could make himself useful.

Lukan was not in the hall yet, and out of natural human consideration Varya asked McLaughlin to explain to her once again how the Old Persian Defence went. The Irishman, completely failing to notice Varya's dramatic transformation (on which she had spent six whole hours and almost all of her travelling allowance six hundred and eighty-five francs), coolly remarked that he was not aware of the existence of any such defence. She was therefore obliged to inquire as to whether it was always this hot in late July in this part of the world. It turned that it was, but it was absolutely nothing in comparison with the humid heat of Bangalore.

When the gilt-wood doors finally swung open at half past ten and the Roman legate's descendant entered the hall in a somewhat tipsy condition, Varya felt as delighted as if he were her closest friend. She leapt to her feet and waved to him with genuine warmth of feeling.

There was, however, an unforeseen complication in the form of a plump brown-haired woman hanging on the colonel's arm. The complication glanced at Varya with undisguised venom and Varya felt embarrassed -it had somehow never entered her head that Lukan might be married.

The colonel settled this minor difficulty with true martial resolve: he gave his companion a gentle slap just below her generous bustle and, after hissing something vitriolic, the complication made an indignant exit. Apparently not his wife, thought Varya, feeling even more embarrassed.

'Our wild flower has unfurled its petals to become a delightful rose!' Lukan wailed as he dashed towards Varya across the entire width of the hall. 'What a dress! And that hat! My God, can I really be on the Champs Elysees?'

He was a coarse, vulgar show-off, of course, but it was nice to hear nonetheless. For the good of the cause Varya even compromised her principles and allowed him to press his lips to her hand. The colonel nodded to the Irishman with casual benevolence (he was not a rival) and sat down at the table without waiting to be invited. Varya thought that McLaughlin also seemed glad to see the Roumanian. Could he really be weary of discussing meteorological matters? No, surely not.

The waiters were already bearing away the coffee and cake ordered by the thrifty correspondent and bringing wines, sweets, fruit, cheeses.

'You will not forget Bucharest!' Lukan promised. 'In this town everything belongs to me!'

'In what sense?' the Irishman asked. 'Do you happen to own extensive property in the city?'

The Roumanian did not even dignify the question with an answer. 'Congratulate me, mademoiselle! My report has been appreciated at its true worth, and in the very near future I may expect an advancement.'

'What report is that?' McLaughlin inquired again. 'What kind of advancement?'

'The whole of Roumania is expecting an advancement,' the colonel declared with a solemn expression. 'It is now absolutely clear that the emperor of Russia has overestimated the strength of his army. I have learned from absolutely reliable sources,' he said, dropping his voice dramatically and leaning over so that the curl of his moustache tickled Varya's cheek, 'that General Kriedener will be relieved of the command of the Western Division, and the forces besieging Plevna will be placed under the leadership of our own Prince Karl.'

McLaughlin took a notepad out of his pocket and began taking notes.

'Mademoiselle Varvara, can I perhaps interest you in a nocturnal excursion through the streets of Bucharest?' Lukan whispered in her ear, taking astute advantage of the opportune pause. 'I can show you things you have never seen in that boring northern capital of yours. I swear it will be a night to remember.'

Ts that the decision of the Russian emperor or simply the wish of Prince Karl?' the inquisitive journalist asked.

'The wish of His Highness is more than enough,' snapped the colonel. 'Without Roumania and her army of fifty thousand valiant warriors the Russians are helpless. Let me tell you, Mister Correspondent, that my country has a great future ahead of it. Soon, very soon, Prince Karl will become king. And your humble servant,' he added, turning towards Varya, 'will become an extremely important person. Possibly even a senator. The perspicacity I have demonstrated has been adequately appreciated. Now what do you say to that romantic drive? I positively insist.'

‘I will think about it,' she promised evasively, desperately trying to think of a way to channel the conversation in the required direction.

At that moment Zurov and Paladin entered the restaurant - most inopportunely, from the point of view of the cause, but Varya was glad to see them anyway: in their company Lukan would be a bit less brazen.

Following the direction of her glance, the colonel muttered gloomily. 'They're letting absolutely anyone into the Royale nowadays. We should have gone into a separate room.'

'Good evening, gentlemen,' Varya greeted her acquaintances cheerfully. 'What a small town Bucharest is, to be sure! The colonel was just boasting to me of his perspicacity. He forecast in advance that the storming of Plevna would end in defeat.'

'Did he, indeed?' asked Paladin, looking closely at Lukan.

'You look absolutely magnificent, Varvara Andreevna,' said Zurov. 'What's that you have there, Martell? Waiter, some glasses over here!' The Roumanian took a drink of cognac and contemplated the two other men glumly.

'When did you make this prediction? Who did you tell?' asked McLaughlin, peering through half-closed eyes.

'It was in a report addressed to his sovereign,' Varya explained. 'And now the colonel's perspicacity has been adequately appreciated.'

'Eat and drink to your hearts' content, gentlemen,' said Lukan, inviting them with a broad sweep of his arm as he rose abruptly to his feet. 'It will all go on my bill. Miss Suvorova and I are going for a drive. She has promised me.'

Paladin raised his eyebrows in astonishment and Zurov exclaimed suspiciously: 'What is this I hear, Varvara Andreevna? You, going for a drive with Luke?'

Varya was close to panic. If she left with Lukan, her reputation would be ruined for ever, and there was no telling where it might lead; but if she refused, her mission would end in failure.

'I shall be straight back, gentlemen,' she said dejectedly and walked across to the exit as quickly as she could. She needed to gather her thoughts.

In the foyer she halted beside the tall mirror with the bronze scrolls and flourishes and pressed a hand to her blazing brow. How should she proceed? Go up to her room, lock herself in and refuse to answer the door. I'm sorry, Petya; please don't be angry with me,

Mister Titular Counsellor - Varya Suvorova is simply not cut out to be a spy.

The door creaked ominously and the colonel's red, angry face appeared in the mirror right behind her.

'I'm sorry, mademoiselle, but nobody treats Mikhai Lukan like that. First you make advances to me after your own fashion, and then you take it into your head to disgrace me in public? You've picked the wrong man this time! You're not in your scurvy press club now, this is my home ground!'

Not a trace was left of the future senator's former gallantry. His yellowish-brown eyes rained bolts of lightning down on her. 'Let's go, mademoiselle, the carriage is waiting.' A swarthy, hirsute hand descended on to Varya's shoulder, clutching it with surprisingly powerful fingers that seemed to be forged of iron.

'You have lost your mind, Colonel! I am no courtesan!' Varya shrieked, glancing around.

There were quite a lot of people in the foyer, mostly gentlemen in light summer jackets and Roumanian officers. They were observing the titillating scene with interest, but apparently had no intention of intervening on behalf of the lady (if, indeed, she was a lady).

Lukan said something in Roumanian and the onlookers laughed knowingly.

'Had a bit too much to drink, Marusya?' one of them asked in Russian, and they all laughed even louder.

The colonel grabbed Varya masterfully round the waist and led her off towards the exit, performing the manoeuvre so adroitly that it was quite impossible to resist.

'You insolent lout!' Varya exclaimed and tried to hit Lukan on the cheek, but he grabbed hold of her wrist.

His face was close now, smelling of a mixture of stale alcohol and eau de cologne. I'm going to be sick, Varya thought in fright.

But a moment later the colonel's hands released their grip of their own accord. First there was a loud slap, then a resounding crunch, and Varya's assailant went flying back against the wall. One of his cheeks was bright red from a slap and the other was stark white from a heavy punch. She saw Paladin and Zurov standing shoulder to shoulder two paces away. The correspondent was shaking the fingers of his right hand; the hussar was massaging his right fist.

'The allies have just had a falling out,' Hippolyte declared. 'And that is only the beginning. You won't get away with just a broken face, Luke. People who treat ladies like that end up with holes in their hide.'

Paladin did not say a word. He simply pulled off one white glove and threw it in the colonel's face.

Lukan shook his head, straightened up and rubbed his temple. He looked from one of them to the other. What astounded Varya most of all was that all three of them seemed to have completely forgotten that she even existed.

'Am I being challenged to a duel?' the Roumanian forced the French words out hoarsely, as though with a great effort. 'Both of you at once? Or one at a time?'

'Choose whichever you like the look of,' Paladin replied coolly. 'And if you're lucky with the first, you'll have the second to deal with.'

'O-oh no,' the count objected. 'That won't do. I was the first to bring up the subject of his hide, and I'm the one he'll go shooting with.'

'Shooting?' Lukan exclaimed with an unpleasant laugh. 'Oh no, Mister Cardsharp, the choice of weapons is mine. I know perfectly well that you and Monsieur Scribbler here are crack shots. But this is Roumania, and we'll fight our way - the Wallachian way.'

He turned towards the watching crowd and shouted something, and several Roumanian officers promptly drew their sabres from their scabbards and held them out with the hilts forward.

'I choose Monsieur Journalist,' said the colonel, cracking his knuckles and laying a hand on the handle of his sabre. He was growing more sober and more elated even as they watched. 'Choose any of these swords you like and be so kind as to follow me out into the yard. First I'll skewer you, and then I'll slice off this brawler's ears.'

There was a murmur of approval in the crowd and someone even shouted, 'Bravo!'

Paladin shrugged and took hold of the sabre that was nearest.

McLaughlin pushed his way through the idle onlookers: 'Stop this! Charles, you must be insane! This is barbarous! He'll kill you! Fighting with sabres is the Balkan national sport; you don't have the skill.'

'I was taught to fence with a spadroon, and that's almost the same thing,' the Frenchman replied imperturbably, weighing the blade in his hand.

'Gentlemen, don't!' said Varya, at last recovering her voice. 'This is all because of me. The colonel had taken a little drink, but he did not mean to offend me, I am sure. Stop this immediately; it's absolutely absurd! Think of the position you are putting me in!' Her voice trembled piteously, but her entreaty fell on deaf ears.

Without even glancing at the lady whose honour was the reason for all the commotion, the knot of men trooped off down the corridor, talking excitedly, in the direction of the small internal courtyard. Varya was left alone with McLaughlin.

'This is stupid,' he said angrily. 'Spadroons, he says! I've seen the way the Roumanians handle a sabre. They don't assume the third position and say "en garde". They slice you up like blood pudding. Oh, what a writer will be lost, and all because of that idiotic French conceit. And it won't do that turkey-cock Lukan's prospects any good either. They'll stick him in jail and there he'll stay until the victory's won and an amnesty's signed. Back in Britain . . .'

'My God, my God, what can I do?' Varya muttered in dismay, not listening to him. 'I'm the one to blame for everything.'

'Flirting, madam, is certainly a great sin,' the Irishman unexpectedly agreed. 'Ever since the Trojan war . . .'

She heard a throng of male voices howl in the courtyard. 'What's happening? Surely it can't be over already?' Varya cried, clutching at her heart. 'So quickly! Go and take a look, Seamus. I beg you!'

The correspondent said nothing. He was listening, his genial features set in a mask of alarm. McLaughlin clearly did not wish to go out into the yard.

'Why are you wasting time?' said Varya, trying to stir him into action. 'Perhaps he needs medical assistance. Oh, you're useless!' She darted into the corridor and saw Zurov coming towards her with his spurs jangling.

'Oh, what a terrible shame, Varvara Andreevna,' he shouted out to her from a distance. 'What an irreparable loss!'

She slumped against the wall in black despair and her chin began to tremble.

'How on earth could we Russians have allowed ourselves to abandon the tradition of duelling with sabres,' Hippolyte continued with his lament. 'Such brilliance and pageantry, such elegance! Not just a bang and a puff of smoke and that's the end of it. Why it's a ballet, a poem, the Fountain of Bakhchisarai!'

'Stop babbling, Zurov!' Varya sobbed. 'Tell us what's going on!'

'Oh, you should have seen it!' said the captain, gazing excitedly at Varya and McLaughlin. 'It was all over in ten seconds. Just imagine the scene: a dark, shady courtyard. The broad flagstones lit by lanterns. We spectators are up on the gallery with only Paladin and Luke down below. The Roumanian vaults to and fro, brandishing his sabre and tracing out a figure eight in the air, tosses up an oak leaf and slices it in half. The audience applauds in delight. The Frenchman simply stands there, waiting for our peacock to stop his strutting. And then Luke bounded forward, embellishing the atmosphere with a treble clef, but without even moving from the spot Paladin leaned his trunk backwards to dodge the blow and then, with such lightning speed that I couldn't even see how he did it, he flicked the cutting edge of his sword right across the Roumanian's throat. Luke gurgled a little, fell flat on his face, jerked his legs a couple of times and that was it, retired without a pension. End of the duel.'

'Did they check? Is he dead?' the Irishman asked quickly.

'Dead as dead can be’ the hussar assured him. 'The blood would have filled Lake Ladoga. Why, Varvara Andreevna, you're upset! You look as pale as a ghost! Here, come lean against me' - and he promptly slipped his arm round Varya's waist, which in the circumstances was entirely appropriate.

'What about Paladin?' she murmured.

Zurov edged his hand a little higher as though inadvertently and said casually: 'What about him? He's gone to the commandant's office to hand himself in. That's the way it goes, you know; nobody's going to give him a pat on the back for this. That was no junior cadet he killed: he was a colonel. They'll pack him off back to France at the very least. Why don't I unfasten one of your buttons so that you can breathe more easily?'

Varya couldn't see or hear a thing. I'm disgraced, she thought. She had forfeited the name of a respectable woman for ever. She had bungled her spying, played with fire, and now look where it had got her. She was far too frivolous - and men were all beasts. Someone had been killed because of her. And she would never see Paladin again. But the worst thing of all was that the thread leading into the enemy's web had been snapped.

What would Erast Petrovich say?