Chapter Twenty

The first time Polly had been in Korovinja it had almost killed her.

“The Kjarta Harmonja and the Dom Harmonja,” Toks declared triumphantly.

They were in her apartment. Her smile was wide and her hands were grabby. Toks was excited. Ever since her cousin’s jet had touched down in Severin, she’d been fizzing. Eager and proud.

Polly was feeling sick to her stomach, but she still found it endearing. Toks was adorable like this – this intoxicating blend of confidence, arrogance, desperation and childish impatience. It was all aimed at Polly – it was all for her – and she was loving every second of it.

She just wished they weren’t … here.

“I want to show you everything, Polly. It’s such a beautiful city. I’ll be able to show you where we lived when I was a kid. Where we used to play in the snow. Harmony Square is right at my front door— at our front door, Polly! And the famous cathedral of music?” —she threw open the french doors and tugged Polly onto the petite juliet balcony— “Look. I have the best view! Oh babe, you’re going to love it!”

Toks stepped behind her, her arms around her waist pulling her back against her body. Toks’ chin was on her shoulder – she could feel the woman’s mile-wide grin against her ear. She swayed them both side to side in a jittery, happy tango only she could hear, and Polly was so, so glad Toks couldn’t see her face.

“Come on!” She slapped Polly’s backside, playfully. God, she was cocky. “We can get a late lunch on the river. No rehearsal til tomorrow. I want to show you everything.”

This was going to be much harder than she’d thought.

Severin was beautiful.

It rose like a citadel on a wide, slow bend of the Danube, queenly in its majesty, its glory reflected on the water. Eight-hundred years of architectural styles gave it an elegance and stateliness with all the filigree of Budapest, Dresden and Prague, and the money and tree-lined boulevards of Paris. To an Aussie like Polly, even Toks’ own building was pure picture-book European fairytale – a five storey Art Nouveau thing complete with turrets. The render was a pale yellow, the cornerstones were white, and it was graced with a hundred delicate little balconies, arches and columns.

Polly remembered what it looked like splashed with blood.

Severin was a thriving city these days, set in the middle of a country that had picked itself up after the revolution, freed itself from the taint of the regime and taken its place within the European Union. Now it shone like a jewel.

Toks took her down to the south bank where tourists strolled the esplanade eating gelato and listening to buskers. Kids chased pigeons, people posed for the perfect picture before the famous halls of government, and brightly coloured market stalls lined the waterway.

They ate a cheap and cheerful meal of street food sitting on the lush green grass of the park that lined the waterway. Toks lay down with her head in Polly’s lap. When the smug, happy smile became unbearable, Polly popped more food into Toks’ mouth, brushed a smear of mayonnaise from the corner of her lips and held her eyes while she licked it from her own finger. River boats cruised loads of Canadian and Australian boomers through their comfortable retirements. Swans gathered where tourists threw bread for photos. A kid ran by with a kite. The pretty young things on rollerblades had never looked so carefree.

Toks’ body was a constant against Polly’s – their fingers linked together as they walked, the press of their shoulders. Toks’ breath was hot in her ear as she dropped another contented kiss on Polly’s cheek. Her hands gripped her hips as they paused beneath a willow that graced the riverbank like a fountain of life and kissed properly.

“I’m so glad you’re here, Polly,” Toks whispered.

Polly was just about to whisper back when Toks spied something behind her and her eyes flashed with that beautiful excitement again, her grin as wide as the river.

“Stay here. I’ll be right back!”

And she dashed away to a market stall, turning and striding backwards as she went to blow Polly a kiss.

Polly laughed.

Polly Paterson was in Korovinja – and she laughed.

That was something she’d never imagined might happen.

This was healing, Polly decided. Being in Severin again was good. Being here with Toks made everything different.

She could do this.

“This is medovnyk,” Toks said, popping up beside her and placing a paper plate of cake in her hands. “Eight layers of the lushest honey cake you’ll ever eat with lashings of buttermilk cream. You’re going to die.”

Polly laughed again. “I’ve had this before. Draga makes this.”

“Pfft. Draga makes this.” Toks waggled her head on her neck, her eyes dancing. “She doesn’t! My mother is a rubbish cook. Always has been. She had servants when she was a kid, and a cook when we lived here. There was a reason you never came to dinner at 613, you know.”

“She’s learnt a bit since then,” Polly pointed out.

Toks was not in the mood to hear her. “Nope. This is the real thing. Traditional Korovinjan honey cake actually made in Korovinja, not from some Australian Woman’s Weekly recipe ripped from a magazine.” She scooped up a bit of cream on one finger and waved it in front of Polly. Her smile was enormous. “Open your mouth.”

“Draga does actually make—”

The cream landed on her nose.

“Bitch!”

“Mouth,” insisted Toks.

They smirked at each other, Polly absolutely living for the challenge in Toks’ eyes. She surrendered, as she knew she always would, and opened her mouth.

The look on Toks’ face when she did made everything worth it.

Polly licked the cream from the tip of her finger drawing it into her mouth to the first knuckle. She swirled her tongue over the pad, nipped with her teeth, then stared hard into Toks’ eyes and sucked. When Toks’ jaw fell open, she drew slowly back until she released her finger with a pop.

Toks was lost. “Oh, babe,” she murmured.

Polly felt a rush of heat between her legs at the sight of Toks with her poise shattered all because of her.

“Can you get this cream off my nose, please?”

Toks had to blink herself back to the present, though it took an incredible effort to raise her eyes from Polly’s lips. Her smile turned dangerous in a moment. Polly instantly regretted it.

“Don’t you dare lick it off— ugh.”

“You asked for that,” Toks said, grinning. “Come on. Let’s eat the cake.” They sat on the stone wall, warm in the sunshine, on the very edge of the river and dangled their legs over the edge.

Polly hadn’t imagined Severin could be so beautiful.

“Rehearsals tomorrow. Four hours, then some meetings. It will be rather dull for you, I’m afraid,” Toks said, eventually. Her voice was soft, almost as if she didn’t want to break into their reverie with real life. She watched the river, but her hand landed on Polly’s thigh and slipped between her legs. It was early evening and the sunset was turning the river pink and the buildings golden.

“It will give me a chance to wander your city. Or I might just stay in bed.” Polly nudged her with her shoulder. Teasing.

“Lazy.”

“I’m on holiday.”

There was another comfortable silence.

“Ravel, Vaughan Williams and Boulanger. You might like to come and listen to my rehearsal.”

There it was – pride mixed with an almost plaintive note in Toks’ voice as if she still wasn’t sure Polly wanted to be with her. Polly squeezed the hand between her thighs in reassurance. She wanted to be wherever Toks was – she just wasn’t sure she could handle the Dom Harmonja quite yet.

Toks heard her hesitation.

“I’ll have Sumi introduce you to Artis. He’s my cousin’s partner. A gentleman of leisure, so I’m sure he’ll be able to show you around Severin if you want company. You’ll like him.” There was a forced brightness in her tone. “I’ll take you shopping in the evening, though. There’s a soiree after our first performance. I’d like to buy you another dress.”

“You’ve bought me three already.”

“Tore one off you though.”

Polly nudged her and they giggled at the memory. “You don’t have to, you know.”

“I want to.”

“Show off,” she murmured. She dropped her head onto Toks’ shoulder. Felt the woman’s contented sigh with her whole body.

“I like showing you off.”

“Oh stop.”

“Never.”

Polly’s phone buzzed in her pocket. She was loath to move but Toks felt it too. It was a text from Tilda.

—How is Korovinja? Are you ok?—

She was, actually, and she breathed in the sunset, the beauty of the first lights glittering on the water and the perfect tranquillity of Severin.

“They checking up on you?” Toks asked, mildly.

Polly swiped the message away. She didn’t answer it. “Tilds wants to know if you’ve made any progress on scoring the Synthphonic Sessions. She’ll drive you crazy with it if you let her. I told her you’re busy.”

Toks hummed. Her hair was golden in the sunset, vivid like spun light. She looked happy. “I like her.”

Polly felt awful for lying. Her family were worried about her, with very good reason.

“Toks,” she murmured.

“Hmm?”

“Take me to bed?”

There was a hand under her chin in a second and a very pleased kiss pressed to her lips. It felt perfect, like every kiss she’d never had from Toks in sixteen years. She closed her eyes and melted into it, and there was another hand on her hip a moment later. It squeezed, deliciously.

“Your wish is my command, darling.”

Polly let that hang in the sunset for a moment and then snorted.

“Idiot,” she whispered, her heart in her mouth.

Toks pulled her to her feet and they strolled back to her apartment, Toks’ arm over her shoulders, Polly’s hand in the back pocket of her jeans.

Severin was full of normal, happy people. The trees had regrown and there were no burnt out tanks in Harmony Square. There was no gunfire, no pounding helicopters overhead. The shadows between the cobblestones were simply shadows. Not blood.

It seemed impossible, but Toks made her strong. Polly could do this.

Back in Toks’ apartment, they ordered take out and barely finished it before Toks fucked her into the mattress, and then again in a deep, luxurious bubble bath.

Later, they lay next to each other in bed and Toks flicked through the Ravel score, humming motifs as she ordered the music in her mind. Polly watched her, her lightly dancing fingers, her lips parted and moving gently as she read. She was beautiful.

—I’m fine— Polly texted home.

She knew they wouldn’t believe her.

After a while, Toks slipped the score to the floor and reached for Polly’s hips.

“I want to live like this with you forever,” Toks whispered.

Polly wriggled backwards, pressing as much of her body as she could against Toks.

“Me too.”

There was a long, soft sigh into the back of her neck. Polly linked her fingers between Toks’ and – despite everything – slept.

The Iron Curtain began to flutter in the mid-1980s.

Polly had been a toddler and a world away. Privilege and the simple luck of being Australian meant she had never known war. She knew things were different for Toks.

“Our house in Korovinja was a palace.”

It was a dumb thing to insist upon in front of a classroom of Aussie ten-year-olds. No one lived in a palace. Every kid knew that. Well, aside from the Queen, of course, but she lived in England and Ksenia Tokarycz, with her weird accent and her weird, stinky lunchbox, obviously wasn’t English.

But Toks always stuck to her truth.

“It really was a palace,” she explained, years later when just the two of them lay on their backs in the dry, brittle grass at the top of the escarpment and ate apples from the orchard at 613. “Way back in the 1800s, or whatever. When we lived there, it belonged to the people.” She wrinkled her nose. “I never really understood that though, because even though it had been divided up into apartments, there weren’t very many people who lived there. Just the important ones, I guess. Like us.”

She’d always been proud, even when the basics of European modern history were put before them in high school. Communism had a class system even as it protested that it did not, and Toks’ family had been at the top of the system.

By high school she didn’t boast about it anymore, but Polly suspected that wasn’t out of any sense of shame. More likely Toks no longer found the fact relevant, replaced as it was by her big dreams and a determination to become the very finest musician in the world.

In any case, there wasn’t anything a teenager in Australia could do about a regime on the other side of the planet.

Even one her own parents had been part of.

By the late 1980s, a new Soviet leader was up on his hind legs using words like glasnost and perestroika, and bathing in the glow of approval that came from the West. But in Korovinja, Ratimir Vass saw the tears neighbouring Eastern Bloc countries were ripping in the Iron Curtain and doubled down. He kicked a reasonably mild and well-liked Soviet puppet from the presidential suite and locked his country down with shutters of steel.

Two of his henchmen were brothers, two-star generals with young families in the palace of the people and lifestyles that could only be supported by the status quo. One revelled in the violence of the Vass regime, drenching his family name in blood. The other was appalled. He fled like thousands of others from Korovinja, fleeing the grinding austerity measures, religious intolerance, ethnic cleansing and brutal suppression of the resistance.

Some fled to western Europe, some to the United States and Canada. Some even ran to Russia. Aleksiy Tokarycz made it to Australia and a cow farm on the escarpment two hours south of Sydney.

By the time his daughter was twenty-four and waiting in a crummy attic apartment in Kreuzberg for a shot at the Berlin Philharmonic and texting I love you home to her girlfriend every night, the Vass Regime finally surrendered to two decades of poor economic choices and a populace that had simply had enough.

Ratimir Vass himself was dragged from the palace of the people by the people and shot in the street, but his army – the Securitate – were reluctant to lay down without a fight. The conflict dragged on.

The world watched from all angles now. That January, Facebook only existed on desktops and smartphones were still a year away, but Nokia had put a grainy, low-pixel camera in the hands of even the most downtrodden Korovinjan comrades. By the time of the final showdown, as UN Peacekeepers raced to Severin to defuse a hostage situation, the whole world was focused on the Dom Harmonja – the magnificent cathedral of music in Harmony Square – and as they watched, week after week, the horror inexorably deepened.

Tilda texted her every day. Magpie called.

“It sounds like you’re waiting for me to have a breakdown. I really am fine,” Polly protested.

“We’re just worried, darls. You’ve been a basket case for sixteen years. I don’t care how great the sex is—”

“None of your business, Maggs.”

“—you don’t get over that kind of trauma overnight. I’m just saying you need to be careful.”

Polly sipped her coffee and stepped out onto the delicate balcony at Toks’ bedroom windows. It was another glorious spring day and Severin was shining from a light rain that had fallen during the night. Toks had made her coffee and ordered in croissants. The woman herself was in the shower singing the love duet from La Boheme at the top of her lungs. Both parts. Polly grinned and winced in equal measures. Toks might have perfect pitch, but she definitely wasn’t pitch perfect.

“Sounds like someone is strangling a cat,” drawled Magpie.

Polly ignored her. She turned the phone around to get a glimpse of the Dom Harmonja just across the square from Toks’ apartment. It was an absolute wedding cake of a building in the baroque style, with a beautiful dome that had been bombed by Napoleon, the Nazis, the British and the Vass Regime, and restored to glory each time.

“See? It’s right there,” Polly said. “And I’m totally fine.”

“Been inside it yet?” Magpie didn’t look convinced.

Polly ignored that. “I’m having a great time, Maggs. Really.”

“You’ll have to do it sooner or later.”

“Friday night,” Polly admitted. “But it’s only Wednesday. I’m working up to it.”

There was a grunt all the way from Jerinja and Magpie said goodbye. She sent a heart emoji the moment she ended the call. The heart with the bandage. Magpie used emojis utterly un-ironically.

Toks wasn’t thrilled that Polly had avoided all her rehearsals so far but she hadn’t said anything. In fact, she’d ordered Sumi to set up a whole raft of experiences for her in and around Severin, from touristy stuff to private guided visits to the national art gallery.

She surrendered to the excited happiness in Toks’ smile and met with her cousin’s boyfriend, Artis. He turned out to be good value – the kind of guy who would fit in perfectly around the table at Jerinja – and he had all kinds of hilarious gossip about Toks. He also had the details on the incredible music programmes Toks was running in Korovinja and across Europe with her cousin’s money. Nikoloz Konstantyn Tokarycz was a tech giant and billionaire philanthropist whose face graced the news and social media pretty much daily, so it wasn’t as if Polly didn’t know who he was, but hearing first hand the good he wanted to do and knowing that Toks had the drive and commitment to make it all happen was exciting.

They parted with the promise of seeing each other again at the first of Toks’ concerts on Friday night.

On Wednesday evening, late after an exquisite meal at one of the city’s Michelin-starred restaurants, Toks and Polly strolled the length of the tree-lined avenue opposite the palace.

“My bedroom window when I was five.” Toks pointed it out. She was being cocky again. Ridiculously sexy in dark tailored pants, shirt unbuttoned to her chest, jacket slung over her shoulder on one finger.

“Bullshit.”

“Hand on my heart.” She squeezed Polly’s backside. They both snickered. “It’s all offices for a museum now, so I can’t get in there to check, but I’m pretty sure. Nikoloz backs me up. Their apartment was the floor below ours.”

Polly stared at the palace and let it sink in. Toks really had spent her childhood in impossible luxury. No wonder she’d worked to the exclusion of all else to get back what she’d lost. Even to the point of being blind to everything around her. Even to Polly’s trauma.

She brushed that thought away. Toks was making up for that with every smile and every touch. Why dredge up the past when it was so obviously repaired and golden all around her?

“It doesn’t bother you that your family was part of the regime?” Polly asked, as they walked on along the crowded boulevard. “What would all these people think if they knew you’d lived there? With Ratimir Vass himself.”

Toks shrugged. “Ancient history, babe. And we only crossed over by a few years. My dad skipped town in the early days of the Vass regime. Besides, Korovinja is a democracy now. Has been for sixteen years. The criminals stood trial and paid for their sins. Plus, I was only a kid and I grew up on a cow farm in New South Wales.” She pulled her in with her spare arm. Kissed her soundly. “Met you. What else matters?”

She was so blithe, Polly thought. Did anything weigh on Toks?

It was only as they rounded the corner into Kjarta Harmonja that Polly realised they had to walk right past the Dom.

The stone was pocked with bullet holes.

Hundreds.

On the western wall, wherever human hands could reach, each hole had been painted gold.

Polly stopped.

Her breathing was shallow. In the half light of the street lamps and the flood lighting that graced the concert hall, she couldn’t make her brain trust what her eyes were seeing.

Was it gold, or was it red?

It had been blood.

So much blood.

She was dimly aware of Toks chattering beside her, something about wounds healing and the volunteers who lovingly repainted them every year in remembrance. Her arm was still slung around her waist. But Polly knew now that she wasn’t going to make it. If this was what the Dom Harmonja did to her when she stood on its doorstep, how was she going to be inside? She snapped a photo, even stood and smiled as Toks suggested a joint selfie. But the old, familiar terrors were mounting, stronger than they’d been in years.

Perhaps she couldn’t do this after all.

She’d had her flight to Berlin booked for months. She was getting on that plane as soon as possible after her final exam at the Con. The moment the exam timetable had been published, she booked her ticket, emailed the date and the time to Toks and started counting the moments.

When Eddie Choi utterly cracked under pressure in Orchestral Studies Unit 8 and ran howling into the neighbouring Botanic Gardens just before exams, it meant his performance slot fell to Polly, and that meant she was done with exams a whole week earlier than she expected.

A whole week sooner she could get to be with Toks.

It would be the best surprise.

But on the new, earlier flight she sat in a row with a bunch of people on their way to Korovinja. They were Aussies, her age – probably refugees who arrived in the same wave that Toks had – but with family still in the old country. Now that Ratimir Vass had finally met justice, they were going home – for the first time since they were kids. There were long lost cousins to meet and houses to rebuild. There were industries to kickstart and awful rumours of orphanages requiring the most urgent assistance.

That was the bit that sang to Polly. The young woman she was sitting next to was called Violet, and she had a guitar and an address in Severin of a music school that had been bombed almost to the ground. She was meeting a friend in London – another Korovinjan immigrant – who had been collecting second hand musical instruments to take to the children there.

Did Polly want to come?

It was a wrenching decision but she had the full twenty-six hours of the long haul flight from Sydney to London to make it.

She wanted to see Toks, kiss Toks, hug Toks and be crushed in her arms more than she wanted anything else in life. This year apart had been so hard. But she was ahead of schedule, and it was only a few days. She knew Toks was busy preparing for the biggest audition of her life – assistant associate conductor with Berlin Philharmonic. Polly was so proud of her. She was going to kill it – of course she was – but it wouldn’t do for Polly to distract her. They’d have the rest of their lives to be together. And besides, Korovinja had been a part of Polly’s life too simply because of Toks. She’d heard stories about Severin and the war nearly all her life from Mrs T. The city sounded like it had been beautiful. Before. If Polly could help out in some small way…

She pulled her phone from her pocket and frowned at the small green screen. It didn’t work on the plane anyway, but she wouldn’t tell Toks, she decided. Not until afterwards. Toks would talk her out of it. Toks was greedy. Toks would want her now.

Polly smiled. She’d buy Toks something lovely in Korovinja. Something she could only get in Severin. A present from her homeland delivered with a kiss from Australia. It would be wonderful. She couldn’t wait to see Toks’ face.

Violet’s friend had two other British-Korovinjan mates, all who had been studying music at the Royal College of Music just like Polly had been studying at the Con. They packed second hand, half- and quarter-size violins, flutes, clarinets and trumpets into suitcases and with Polly’s cello on her back, and Violet’s guitar on hers, they piled onto the Eurostar. Five trains and twenty-one hours later they arrived in Severin.

Straight up, Polly knew a pretty souvenir would be hard to find.

She asked Toks to play for her when they got back to her apartment.

It was late, and Polly knew Toks would want to take her to bed, but her hands had begun to shake and she didn’t want Toks to see.

“Something French,” she begged. Anywhere but here. Anything to distract her.

Toks didn’t need encouragement. She tossed her jacket over the back of a chair, rolled her sleeves and sat at the Steinway with a sly smirk. “Debussy?” Her fingers were already caressing a gentle lyricism from the keys while her eyes lingered on Polly. “Did we tire you out today, babe?”

Polly hugged a cushion on the sofa to disguise her shivering and poked out the very tip of her tongue. “You know my Jerinja days are much, much slower than this. Don’t be smart.”

Toks’ chuckle warmed her soul. Polly clung to it like she clutched the cushion. The sheer delight in Toks’ smile, the gladness and satisfaction that drew her tall and added all those ridiculous trills and embellishments to her music. The optimism in the tilt of her chin, the hope and trust she placed in Polly that gave her such power and poise. Polly cradled the same hope to her own heart.

Maybe Toks could save her from this.

As soon as this week was over, she’d tell her. Everything.

But she didn’t want to ruin this for Toks now.

She curled up on the sofa and listened to the music her woman played for her. It worked its magic and the shaking gradually subsided – but then, it wasn’t Debussy anymore. Toks was composing. She could see it in the openness of her face, the soft parting of her lips. Toks was playing for her.

Tilda’s nightly text buzzed on her phone.

Polly sent some pics from her touristy day then grinned as Tilda and Magpie sent a selfie of the two of them pulling faces. They were on the deck at Jerinja, the sunrise behind them. Magpie had a paintbrush in her hair. Tilda had been swimming. The sweeping view down Thirteen Mile Beach glittered like paradise and the ocean stretched to the heavens.

She held it up to Toks and they both grinned.

For a moment Polly was torn – the safety of home on her screen, the absolute haven of her heart that was Toks’ right in front of her

The picture of the golden bullet holes in the west wall of the Dom Harmonja taunted her from the end of her camera reel.

Magpie was right. Her life had been a trainwreck ever since Severin sixteen years ago. No matter how gorgeous the woman at the piano looked as she played, no matter how her smile warmed Polly from within, a few days of sightseeing and some cheap gold paint weren’t going to heal wounds cut so deep.

She gave Toks a tiny smile, and with a few flicks of her thumb, sent the pic to Magpie.

The response was instant.

— Fuck darls. That’s where Violet died —

And then

— Christ. Are you okay? —

Polly listened to the divine music Toks was stirring from the piano, from her very soul, and wanted so much for it to be enough.

— No —