I have more power over you than you know! You couldn’t leave me …’

Hélène heard the door slam in the empty street. ‘Be quiet,’ she said, shaking with anger. ‘I’m begging you. We’re not in our own house.’

Bella wrung her hands in distress. ‘And that’s all you have to say to me? You can see how terribly upset I am. You have no pity. Won’t you even come and give me a kiss? Didn’t you see how he treats me? His mother died of breast cancer. Is that my fault?’

‘It’s nothing to do with me,’ said Hélène.

‘You’re sixteen. You understand life. You understand very well.’

‘I don’t want to understand …’

‘You miserable little egotist; you’re heartless. You’re my daughter, after all! Not a word of affection … Not even a kiss!’

Fru Martens put her head round the door. ‘Dinner is served. Come and sit down, Helenchen.’

Hélène leaned towards her mother for a kiss, but she turned away; Hélène went and sat down with Fru Martens, who was already standing in front of the steaming soup tureen saying grace. Hélène’s heart was pounding with hatred and anger. ‘Oh,’ she mused, ‘it really would be too easy!’

PART IV

1

The winds of war, which scattered men all over the world, carried the Karols to France in July 1919.

A few months before, Boris Karol had crossed Finland, lost five million Swedish crowns on the exchange rate, got two million back and left again for Paris, where his wife, his daughter and Max were to join him.

The ship approached the English coast the day after the Treaty of Versailles had been signed. It was as cold and foggy as an autumn night; the bright stars peeked out or appeared briefly from behind the clouds, only to be hidden again. There were lights everywhere: strings of paper lanterns linked the little coastal towns to form a single chain of flickering yellow light surrounded by a halo that shimmered gently through the damp sea fog. Fireworks shot into the sky, some exploding, others leaving only a coppery trail of smoke behind them. The wind carried snatches of military music towards the ship, but those heroic fanfares were unable to dispel the solemn melancholy of the long night: the exhilaration of the Armistice was long gone, leaving behind only a heavy, awkward attempt at joy.

An English pilot came on board; he was so drunk he could hardly walk. He had a Cockney accent. ‘Every man on land is married tonight, Ladies …’ he sang in a thick voice full of emotion.

To get away from him, Hélène went and hid in her favourite place, at the front of the ship, where the captain’s tan bulldog chewed quietly at the rigging. For a long time, she looked at the coast of France that bobbed gently up and down before her in the night. She looked at it with tenderness. Her heart had never beaten as joyously when she’d gone back to Russia. The coast of France seemed to be welcoming her, celebrating her arrival, with lights and fireworks flying high above the sea. The closer she got, the more she felt she recognised the smell of the wind; she closed her eyes. It had been five years since she’d seen that sweet land, the most beautiful place in the world. That brief length of time seemed like an eternity to her: she had seen so many things; she had changed from a child into a young woman. A world had crumbled, dragging innumerable men to their death, but she didn’t think about that, or rather a kind of fierce egotism kept watch within her to prevent her from thinking about it. With the merciless harshness of youth she rejected any morbid memories; she retained only an awareness of her strength, her age, her intoxicating power.