The Empire of Time

I have washed and dressed, putting on a long shirt of the finest linen and a deerskin jacket, long leather boots and a hat of soft kid. Dressed so, I look more like a prince than a trader, and Razumovsky greets me with a respectful bow before turning and introducing me to his other guest.

Who smiles, and stands, and offers me his hand.

Kravchuk.

Razumovsky sees nothing, but Kravchuk notes the hesitation, and there’s a sudden question in his eyes.

‘You know me, trader?’

I smile, trying to disarm him, but my pulse is racing and I find it hard to breathe.

‘No,’ I say, it’s just – you reminded me briefly of someone. A friend.’

He accepts that, nods, then grabs my hands and shakes them. But I am still surprised to find him here. When did he call? Or has he known Razumovsky a long time now?

I look to my host, as if seeking an explanation, but he seems unaware that there’s a need. It seems, however, that he’s told Kravchuk about me.

‘I hear you are from Stuttgart, Otto. It’s a very pleasant town.’

It is, but I have never been there. Not in this century. And so I shift the subject, to my fictitious travels in the Asian heartland, and find Kravchuk staring at me thoughtfully, as if maybe I know him after all.

He says little, not wishing to betray whence he’s come, and so I change the subject once again.

‘They say the veche here are unhappy with their prince.’

Kravchuk’s eyes go to me, then he looks away. But Razumovsky laughs. ‘If it were possible, we would have no prince at all! But it will be a cold day in hell before Kiev imposes one on us!’

He leans toward me, about to say more, when there’s a movement in the doorway behind him. He turns and grins.

‘Ah, Masha, Katerina…’

The two women of the house enter, each carrying a large wooden tray stacked high with food. There’s ham and chicken, cheese and pickled fish and more besides.

I look on, amazed, falling in love with her again. Yet for a time she does not even notice me, but goes about her task, helping her mother set the table. And only when she’s done and turns, a half-smile on her lips, do our eyes finally meet.

I watch as her lips slowly part with the shock of recognition. There is a moment’s naked panic in her eyes, and then she looks away, colour forming at her neck and in her cheeks.

I am a stranger to her, yet now – and I can see it clearly from where I stand – her heart beats quickly beneath the bright blue blouse she wears.

‘Gentlemen,’ Razumovsky begins, stepping between the two women and turning, am arm about each, ‘let me introduce my wife, Masha, and my daughter, Katerina.’

And I make to step forward, to take her hand and kiss it, but Kravchuk is there in front of me, bowing low before her, his hat removed.

‘Katerina,’ he says. ‘What a delightful name…’

* * * * *

It is an evening hardly to be borne. It is not simply that the man is odious, it is the fact that Razumovsky can’t see through his boasts and flattery and glimpse the little slug he really is. In fact, by the evening’s end, I have come to think Katerina’s father a total fool. Even so, I try one last, vain time to speak to him alone about his daughter’s hand, only to have him raise it at the table.

‘Hark, Oleg! Otto here wants my daughter’s hand!’

Kravchuk stiffens, then looks at me challengingly. ‘He is no Russian, Mikhail,’ he says coldly. ‘And Russians should marry Russians. It is not good to mix the blood.’

I stare back at him, furious. I want to kill him, only I’ve no weapon on me, Besides, it’s Razumovsky’s decision, not his.

I look to my host and realise just how drunk he is. Bleary-eyes drunk. Can’t-hold-your-heard-up drunk, He just wants to fall over in the corner and sleep.

‘Wha-?’

‘I said,’ Kravchuk begins, but I cut him short.

‘Don’t interfere. Hear me? You say another word, I’ll kill you.’

‘You’ll what?’ And Kravchuk laughs, and reaches across to take another chicken leg. ‘Kill me, my arse! You’re all hot air, you Germans. As full of shit as a pig’s intestines!’

I stand, glaring at him. But he’s not even looking at me. It’s as if I’m of no consequence, and I feel the urge to tell him that I’ve killed him once already – burned a hole in his fucking head – only he’s think me mad. So I leave before I do something I regret. Only as I go into the street, someone catches my arm and I turn to find her there, wrapped in a cloak, a shadow in the darkness by the gate, and she says the words I sense she’s said a hundred times or more.

‘Who are you?’

And I answer her with a kiss, and then I take her hand and lead her out into the darkness of that thirteenth century night, away from Kravchuk and her fool of a father. And she asks me where we’re going, and I say I don’t know, just away, and I realise I have left all of my belongings behind, but it doesn’t matter. I have the only thing I need with me. The only thing I value. And when we stop, beyond the bridge, beneath a cresset lamp that burns fitfully in its metal cage, I take her face in my hands and kiss her once again and tell her that I love her, and her eyes, the image of which are burned into my soul, shine back at me in that wavering light as she smiles and softly laughs.