She clasped her other hand around her waist.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“We’re walking.”
“Anywhere in particular?”
“I thought perhaps a coffee at the French Club, then I want you to meet a friend.”
“You’re a member?”
She looked at him, without emotion. “They tolerate me.”
“Tell me about your house,” he said after a moment. “In Russia.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m interested.”
“So long ago.”
“Not so long ago.” Field tried to take her hand again. “Natasha, tell me about your home.”
She held his hand briefly, then let it slip away. She sighed. “It was not a grand house. Not like Lena’s.”
“In Kazan itself?”
“It was a farm. Quite far from Kazan. Closer to Chistopol, on the other side of the river.” Natasha smiled. “It was a beautiful place.”
“Your father was a farmer?”
“For many years, we . . .” She hesitated. “Papa was an officer in the army, like Lena’s father. He was away so much, and when Mama died, we had to run the farm.”
“You and your sister?”
“Yes.”
“She was older or younger?”
“Older. Four years. I told you. She looked after me after Mama died.”
“What was her name?”
Natasha hesitated. “It is not important.”
“You had help on the farm?”
“Of course.” She smiled again, gently. “But the workers were happy. Papa was always generous. It was a simple life.”
They had reached the French Club, the Cercle Sportif, and Natasha led him through the wrought-iron gates and across the neatly clipped lawn, past the cedar trees and crafted bushes. Light spray from the fountains settled onto their faces. Field thought this the most elegant building in Shanghai—long and low, with a curved awning in the middle, beneath which a liveried doorman was stamping his feet, as though trying to keep out the cold. He nodded at Natasha as she led Field through the hall to the terrace. They took a table close to the garden and looked down toward the pavilion, now fringed by the dawn light. They were the only customers.
“They open early,” Field said.
“They never close.”
“I thought you said you were not a member.”
“I’m not, but they tolerate me.”
A waiter stood before them, smiling, his white linen coat so starched it looked as if it could walk on its own.
They both shook their heads.
“You speak French?” she asked after the waiter had gone.
“A little.” He leaned forward. “Your father must have fought in the Great War.”
“Do not hold my hand here, Richard.”
“I—”
“It is early, so it is safe, and, whatever you think, I don’t want to live in fear. You have encouraged me. But if we were seen, it would be dangerous.”
Field nodded. He swallowed, his throat dry.
“What I have to do, I do, but he does not control me. He does not own me.”
Field nodded again, not trusting his voice.
