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.She held her close for a long moment, released her.You should not sulk.It does not become you.''I will wash my face.' Irena left the room.Kirsten Moeller lay down on the day bed, kicked off her slippers, wriggled her toes.She gazed at Barnes, the tip of her tongue protruding through her lips.Barnes bent over her, took the tongue into his mouth, stared at her eyes.His left hand flopped forward, stroked the hard nipple pushing against the silk.Kirsten Moeller moved her head.Do you enjoy beating up women, boy?'Barnes smiled.‘I might want you to beat up Miss Smith.She enjoys being beaten, on her terms.She might not like it so much were you to satisfy yourself.But you will not touch her until I say so, boy.'Barnes nodded.'So now I wish you to drive her home.And then you will go to Dickson, and tell him I wish him to put a very good man on to watching Miss Smith's apartment, day and night, until further notice.'Barnes nodded.'And when you have done that, boy, I wish you to come straight back here.'Barnes stood above Kirsten Moeller, heels together, fingers loose at his sides.He looked down at her, at the pale white of the legs sliding through the silk dressing gown.'And when you get back,' Kirsten Moeller said, smiling at him, 'you can assist Maisie in cleaning this place up.'To paint you must first draw.Surely.Galitsin stood in front of the canvas, looked from it, through the bedroom window at the sea.But not direct on to the canvas.On to a sketching block.So Nancy had said.Make a sketch.Of what? He wished to paint the sea, and you cannot draw the sea.The sea is a mood.You throw out your mind, and see what part of the sea you can scoop up into the grey cells, and you translate that very quickly to the canvas, while the mood is on you.Besides, Galitsin knew nothing of drawing, of perspective.He held up his pencil, close to the window, measured the height of a distant wave.Half a millimetre.He wondered how much that was, out there in Lyme Bay.There were whitecaps, today, because there was a wind.More than half a millimetre.But if you cannot draw, there is no need to despair.Because surely the secret of painting is colour.And you cannot be taught colour sense.You either possess it, or not.He squeezed a tube of blue, dipped his brush, drew it across the canvas, a long wavy smudge from left to right.The surface of the sea? No.It remained a long, wavy blue smudge.From left to right.But he liked the colour.Blue was the most evocative of colours.No.Red was the most evocative of colours.Deep red.Blood red.But blue was certainly evocative.Blue was the colour of depression.So Alexander Galitsin had chosen it instinctively.Now he must add red, quickly.But red was even more of a mistake.Red was the colour of blood, dripping down the canvas, away from a torn navel, seeping into a tangled forest.Red was a disaster.That had not happened for years.It was eleven o'clock.Time for a drink.Nancy's phrase.He was Nancy's man, now.Her shadow.Her creation.Her thing.He went downstairs, poured himself a whisky and soda, added ice.Not correct.The ice should have gone in first.He wondered if he would ever drink like an Englishman.Correction.Nancy drank like an American.Englishmen did not take ice in their whisky at all.That was a very bad thing to do, if you were an Englishman.But Englishmen only drank Scotch whisky, and this was bourbon.Did Englishmen take ice with their bourbon? He wondered if he would ever get it straight.He sat down, stretched his legs in front of him, sipped his drink.For four days he had been alone in this cottage.And up to this moment he had enjoyed every second of it.To be free, to think as he chose, and come and go as he chose.To pour himself a drink, as he chose.But this morning the magic had passed.Because man was a social animal? Or because the sheer power of Nancy Connaught was wearing-off, and he was able to think again, as a man, to understand what had happened, what he had done.To remember Mother, and, through Mother, Russia.And Helena.He leaned back, gazed at the ceiling.It was a pale blue.But blue was not a colour one associated with Nancy Connaught.Blue was more the colour of Irena Szen.Now that was the most serious error of all.For nearly two weeks he had not allowed himself to think about Irena.To think about Irena was to create tensions, awarenesses, and in this cottage there was no room for any awareness of the world outside.And Helena? Tigran Dus would by now have claimed his forfeit.Whatever that might ultimately be.But to begin with it would involve Tigran Dus, naked.And Helena, naked.That was what she wanted.Actually desired, for some reason of her own.No man ever really understood woman.Perhaps Ewfim was too kind, too gentle.Perhaps women wanted more than that.Perhaps Helena Isbinska, more than other women.Helena Isbinska had also watched the blood-filled navel.He had never before considered the implications of that.Alexander Galitsin, because of that incident in his youth, was a man of confused and sometimes terrible desires
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