One Night in Winter by Simon Sebag Montefiore

for supper but he followed her inside. The books of Marx, Lenin, Stalin were displayed at the front alongside the romantic war poems of Simonov, the novels of Gorky and Fadayev, the screenplays of Constantin Romashkin (yes, Serafima’s father). Where was she?
    Immediately, Andrei was soothed and inspired by the smell of new books – by the acrid glue and the fresh leather as well as the mustiness of old ones that were almost rotting on the shelves. He scanned students and pensioners, spotted a titian-haired lady in a fuchsia trouser suit, a government
apparatchik
in a blue suit and peaked cap, but no sight of Serafima.
    Andrei had no plan, no particular idea, just the optimism of a summer’s day, and the boost of tea at the Satinovs, as he climbed the stairs to the second floor. Perhaps he had imagined her, he thought, as he surveyed the gorgeously bound special leather volumes on the shelves around him. He went deeper into the metal forest of the bookstacks. Then, as a hunter senses the quick breath of a deer in the woods, he knew she was there. He pulled out a book by Ernest Hemingway in English and, peering through the gap, he saw her. She was leafing through a book, intensely, as if searching for a line. And her head was on one side, that winning mannerism that he had noticed in class.
    ‘Serafima?’
    She started. Green eyes speckled with gold looked at him questioningly. ‘Teacher Satinova recommended Hemingway and I just found
For Whom the Bell Tolls
and you were just looking at . . . oh, Galsworthy.
The Forsyte Saga.
Isn’t that about a bourgeois-capitalist dynasty in London?’
    ‘What if it is?’ Serafima asked.
    Andrei saw the other book she was holding. ‘
The Age of Innocence
?
Edith Wharton on the corrupt haut-bourgeois customs of robber-capitalism in old New York?
’
    She looked at the book, as though surprised she was holding it, and then up at him again. Her intense gaze made him feel he was being very tedious.
    ‘If I was reading Fadayev would it tell you something different about my character than if I was reading Wharton or Akhmatova? Are you analysing me by what I read?’
    ‘No, of course not.’ Feeling embarrassed, Andrei tried a different tack. ‘What’s Edith Wharton like?’
    ‘Just like our own barons and princelings here. Our secret world is just like hers but with one crucial difference – it’s Edith Wharton with the death penalty.’ She smiled at him, and he felt the rays of the evening sun were shining right on to him. He noticed she had one very pointed tooth to the right of her front teeth.
    Then he glanced around, concerned; no one had overheard her. Things were different for people like Serafima, he told himself. She could say what she liked.
    ‘I’ve got to go.’ She replaced the books and headed for the stairs. ‘By the way, why are you following me?’
    ‘I wasn’t . . . I happened to be looking for the same books.’ Andrei knew that he needed to be a better liar to survive in this milieu. ‘I’d heard about the House of Books but I hadn’t had time to pop in until today . . .’
    Serafima looked back at him. They were now on the street outside, and he was about to be dismissed.
    ‘I’m on my way to the Bolshoi to see Prokofiev’s new ballet . . .’ she began, but her words were lost in the skid of tyres.
    An open-topped Packard had performed a U-turn on Gorky Street and swung towards them so recklessly that its wheels ground against the pavement.
    Andrei pulled Serafima out of peril’s way, conscious of the perfume on her neck.
    ‘God, he almost hit us. What an idiot!’ he exclaimed.
    ‘Hey, Serafima!’ called the driver. He had a cigarette between his teeth, and was wearing an air force colonel’s shoulderboards. ‘I’ve been meaning to come round ever since I saw you outside school. I was going to surprise you and pick you up at the gates. Wouldn’t that be good for your standing? My sister and I were at School 801, you know. How’s