She launched herself at him and she was strong. Her arms flailed, her fingers scratching at his eyes. He felt a scalding pain on his cheek as he instinctively kicked her legs out from under her. He fell with her. He pinned her legs and arms.
She spat, her face twisted with fury. “You like this. You like to hurt.”
He got to his feet.
“You are just the same as the others,” she said, scrambling up and retreating across the room. “You think you’re different, but you’re just the same.”
“You lied to me,” he said quietly.
“I could not tell you.”
Field put his hand to his cheek. “I don’t understand . . .”
“She did it so I wouldn’t have to. That was what she did, Richard. Is that what you want to hear? She was a prostitute. A whore. So we could survive, so that her beloved little sister wouldn’t have to do the things that I now do. Do you think I would be there if I had a choice? Do you think I have not dreamed of escape?”
“How did your father die?”
“I’ll tell you,” she said, defeated. “I’ll tell you, Richard. One day Papa found out. We had said we were teaching French to rich English children, and to begin with, that was true. But then the family that we taught most left for New York, and there were more and more Russian girls looking to teach English or French or music, or anything at all. We started to get hungry, Richard. It would pick up soon, we told Papa. We sold everything that we had of value, trying to shield our poverty from him, but he knew.
“We went on telling him that we were teaching, and he knew that we were poor but believed that we were honest. But our hunger grew. And then Papa was ill and needed medicine and we had no money for that. At first, Natalya did not tell me. Then she said she could keep it from me no longer. She had done it so that I didn’t have to, she said. So that I would only have to dance. My poor, sweet, gentle Natalya. There were no tears in her eyes when she told me. I think she had no tears left to cry. So I cried for her, and I thought I would never stop.”
Natasha wiped her eyes. “There was a little more money then. The teaching was getting better, we told Papa, but a friend, a friend, told him it was not true.” She stared at him. “Papa was a very proud man, Richard.” She nodded. “Like your father, he was so proud. He did not believe his friend. How could he believe that his two beautiful daughters would do such a thing? It was impossible. Impossible. So he came to see for himself. He was ill, shuffling. He had lost everything, but came to be certain that that which was priceless could not have been sold. It was impossible. He knew Shanghai, of course, and he had never chosen to come here. By the time we left Russia, flight to the West was too risky, and we had no family there, so we went east, like Lena, hoping that, by some miracle, the White generals in Vladivostok would turn the tide. And once it was clear Vladivostok would fall, where could we go? We were poor then, living by selling the last of our possessions. Where could we go? Shanghai . . . like so many others. It was better than nothing. Papa knew nothing of commerce, but he was proud and believed we could begin again. He believed we could be poor and honest and he knew his friend’s vicious slander must be a mistake. Then he saw her. She was on a raised platform inside the door of this place, and in front were men queuing to fuck her—his precious, beloved elder daughter, whom he raised himself after Mama died and whom he loved more than life itself. She was in red, she told me. Her best outfit. Red garters, with a corset and fur lining on the collar. That was what Papa saw. And the men were watching her dance, then they—just so, with a flick of the finger, they ordered her. Upstairs to a tiny room with a mattress. And for a few dollars, they could do what they wished, Richard. Anything they wished. They could beat her. They could humiliate her. What could she do? A Russian girl. Once proud and beautiful, the daughter of a general of high breeding, with a farm on the Volga. But now—”
“Stop.”
“You want to know—you must know.” She wiped her eyes again as she sat. “You must know the end of the story, because it is the story of Natasha. She was Papa’s favorite daughter. She would never, never be dancing for money—with anyone who wanted her. General Medvedev would never believe this. It was absolutely impossible. Perhaps Natalya . . . he loved her, of course, she was his firstborn, but perhaps . . . the death of Mama . . . she had been the most affected. Perhaps she was weak, too easily influenced. But Natasha? She was a daughter to adore, to be proud of. One day, he dreamed, she would marry an officer of the regiment. Or perhaps another landowner in Kazan, so that she could be close to home. His heart is so soft that it melts for her. Always. And even here in Shanghai, she is supporting him, looking after him as he gets older.” She shook her head. “No. Not Natasha. Please, Lord, if you have any mercy, then not Natasha. It could not be. Not with any man who wants to grab her breasts for money. It is not possible. A whore and a tea dancer, his two darling girls, keeping him alive by selling themselves.” There were tears in her eyes now. “But it was true. It was all true. Everything his friend had said. He saw it with his own eyes. So Papa put on his uniform. A general again in the tsar’s army, with everything in its proper place. The crops were almost ready to be harvested. A few weeks in St. Petersburg for the winter. Perhaps he would take us along. We could stay at the Rivoski on Nevsky Prospekt and he would take us shopping. There would be balls and dinners and perhaps we would even find a husband, Natalya and I. We would be so excited.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“But we are not in Kazan anymore, Richard, we are in Shanghai.” She looked up at him. She was starting to cry. “He put the cold barrel of his army revolver in his mouth, and then he pulled the trigger. Gone. With Mama. To a better, better world. Shanghai killed him. And we did.”
The fight went out of her. Her shoulders sagged and she wept, her body racked with pain.
Field took a step toward her. “No,” she said firmly, raising a hand. “I haven’t deceived you, Richard.”
Field didn’t answer.
“If you love me, then you must leave.” Her face softened. “If you love me as you say, then please go now and don’t come back.”
“I cannot.”
She looked at him, tears flooding her eyes. “He killed himself three years ago. I have mourned him every single day since.”
He nodded. “When I saw that photograph of you all together, I envied you.” He knelt beside her chair. “All I wanted, all I ever wanted, was for my father to say just once, ‘I love you, Richard. I love you, my boy. Well done. You played really well, you tried really hard, you did your best.’ Just once. Just once. Your father loved you, Natasha. I saw it in his eyes. I hear it in your voice. However it ended, you did what you had to do. You had no choice, but my father . . . Just once, that was all I wanted, just once, and even if he couldn’t bring himself to say it, at least to have felt it, to have shown it. A hand on the shoulder, my hair ruffled. It’s so meaningless unless you
