Every now and again a strong-smelling cloud of dust flew up, made of bits of hay, for the storerooms were below the floor; the girls wore red smocks and, to emphasise they were Loyalists, scarlet ribbons in their blond hair and red petticoats beneath their dresses that showed when they danced.

Sometimes the door would open and an icy wind would rush through the room. From the doorstep they could see the pine trees lit up by the moon; they were tall, still, silvery, and every branch was frozen, as hard and sparkling as steel, glimmering through the darkness. The wood-burning stove hummed; they fed it with newly cut logs, still damp and coated with snow. Thick smoke filled the room, mingling with the mist formed by the dancers’ breath and the steam that rose from the greatcoats and fur hats. Hélène sat on a wooden table, swinging her feet; Fred Reuss stood opposite her and squeezed her leg hard. Hélène pulled away, but behind her a couple was kissing so passionately that they were almost lying on the table. She sat forward again, leaning towards the young man; silently she drank in this new joy, the peace and warmth in her heart that came from the feel of Fred’s body as he gently caressed her ankle. She basked in the new, confusing pleasure of holding her face in such a way that the light fell on to her cheek, for she knew that it was smooth and flawless, aflame with the burning, passionate blood of youth. She laughed in order to show off her white, shiny teeth; she let Fred press her swarthy, thin little hand between his body and the table. The gas lamps hanging from the roof were filled with yellow oil; they swung about when the dancing started up again; it was a kind of French folk dance that finished with some fast turns, which made the floorboards creak and groan. In Reuss’s arms, Hélène skipped and spun round; her face was pale, her lips pinched; she felt her soul fill with gentle dizziness. All around her the ribbons and long hair of the girls flew by, whipping their cheeks, lashing Hélène’s face when the dancing couples hurtled into one another.

When the men had danced enough and had their fill of contraband alcohol, they picked up their Mausers and shot bullets into the roof. Standing on the table, both hands holding on to Reuss’s shoulders, digging her nails into his back in excitement without even realising it, Hélène watched this game, breathing in the smell of gunpowder that she already knew so well. Reuss’s eldest son, his head as closely shaven as a lawn in spring, jumped joyously up and down on the spot in his coat and twill shirt. It was only when there were no more bullets left that the scuffles began.

‘Come on, we have to go now,’ Fred Reuss said with regret. ‘Whatever will my wife say? It’s nearly midnight, come quickly now …’

They left; outside, the horses were waiting, sniffing the frozen earth, every now and again shaking the snow from their heads; the little bells they wore round their necks would swing, and a sweet, mysterious ringing sound swept through the forest and over the river in its icy shell. Hélène and Reuss, half asleep, swayed gently to the rhythm of the horses’ gait as they climbed the hill. Hélène felt her cheeks burning as if they were on fire; the long day, her tiredness and the smoke made her eyelids feel heavy; she looked lazily up at the pink moon as it slowly rose in the winter sky.

3

Hélène whistled for the dogs, silently opened the gate and went out into the garden. The sky was pale and bright; not a single bird could be heard singing in the countryside; between the sparse pine trees, tracks in the shape of stars marked the thick snow where animals had passed by; the dogs sniffed the ground; then they ran off towards the woods where, every day for more than a week, Hélène and Reuss had been meeting.

At first he had come with his sons, then alone. At the edge of the woods stood an abandoned house; it was a former dacha, a holiday home made of wood, painted eau-de-nil, with entrance steps guarded by two stone griffons; it looked as if it had been set on fire, but then the fire had been put out: one entire section of wall was blackened by smoke. Stones thrown at the windows had shattered them: standing on tiptoe, you could see into a dark sitting room full of furniture. One day Reuss had reached in through one of the windows and pulled out a photograph in a frame that had been hanging on the wall. The picture was all crinkly and yellow beneath the glass, probably because of the dampness of the long autumn and winter with no fire lit. It was a photograph of a woman. They studied it for a long time, feeling uneasy; the features of the mysterious woman evoked a vague, sombre sense of the poetic. Then they buried the photograph in the snow, beneath a fir tree. The doors of the house had come loose and swayed on their half-broken hinges.

On that day, while waiting for Hélène, Reuss had gone into the barn and taken a few lightweight Finnish sledges from among the heap of things there. They were made of simple garden chairs set on to blades. The backs of the chairs still bore children’s names carved into the wood with a penknife in large, clumsy letters. Whenever anyone asked the farmers in the area what had happened to the people who’d lived in the house, they suddenly seemed not to understand Russian, or any other language.