by Murray Bail
‘Compared to Europe and New York, it is.’
‘There were more lights in Africa, I feel,’ Sheila persisted. ‘Remember?’
‘I don’t suppose here they’re allowed out on the streets.’
‘Louisa, you always exaggerate,’ said Sasha.
When Hofmann joined in, his windows glittered. ‘Not in this case, she doesn’t. You’re in Russia, don’t forget.’
The dentist suddenly coughed and quickly picked inside his back teeth: almost another fishbone incident.
Further comparisons were made here and there around the table.
‘Don’t we talk so much rubbish?’ Borelli turned to Phillip North. ‘We expect you to lift the standard and you haven’t said a word.’
North pointed with his index finger. ‘With this ring through my nose I’m a trifle inhibited.’
‘So we’ve noticed. It must be terrible—difficult to breathe?’
Sasha who had been listening to Violet swung around. ‘Thank-you-very-much!’ But the toss of the head and distant glance showed she was pleased. While Borelli and Louisa watched, she leaned against North and whispered, ‘You don’t feel inhibited, do you?’
Gerald was talking to Hofmann. ‘It should be interesting seeing the Kremlin; I’m looking forward to that.’
‘The fifteenth century,’ Kaddok volunteered.
Those fragments; comparisons: distant memories of the skirting travellers.
Gerald reversed, having doubts. ‘What can be seen in two days? Russia is too enormous. But even if it wasn’t—’
‘Anything is better than nothing, I always think.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ said Gerald.
‘But you’re never satisfied,’ Gwen turned. ‘You can be a very negative person. What is it you like?’
Reddening, Gerald looked down at his plate. Towards the end of their tour people were speaking freely.
This was the hotel, Anna mentioned, where the Provisional Government first met in 1917. ‘Red Square is directly behind us.’
Violet suddenly turned and smiled tightly. ‘You never ask us about our country. Aren’t you interested?’
‘Ah yes. You have told me. And I have your passports—’
She smiled.
‘They’re not interested,’ Hofmann shook his head. ‘Everyone’s got to understand that.’
Anna smoothed her skirt. ‘We don’t travel as much as you.’
‘Because you can’t.’ Hofmann again.
‘I couldn’t stand that, Anna.’ Violet lit a cigarette. ‘I’d go right out of my mind.’
‘Why can’t you travel?’ Hofmann asked. ‘Why don’t you tell us that?’
‘Don’t be harsh,’ Louisa turned to him. ‘Let her be.’
‘We have no need,’ said Anna. ‘Oh I would like one day to go to Egypt.’
‘Egypt?’ Garry yelled.
Anna remained smiling. ‘You can take trips all your life, but there’s always death. Don’t you think?’
The others were listening, leaning forward. Anna turned and said something in Russian to the waiter.
‘She always wears that lovely smile,’ Violet muttered.
‘Fair go, Anna’s all right.’
‘We’re supposed to be on holidays,’ Mrs Cathcart reminded. ‘We’re their guests, in a strange country.’
Only Borelli seemed to consider Anna’s statement. Tapping his lips with his fingers he glanced at Hofmann.
‘We come from a country,’ Louisa turned to Anna, ‘of nothing really, or at least nothing substantial yet. We can appear quite heartless at times. I don’t know why. We sometimes don’t know any better.’ All smiles; to help Anna. ‘Even before we travel we’re wandering in circles. There isn’t much we understand. I should say, there isn’t much we believe in. We have rather empty feelings. I think we even find love difficult. And when we travel we demand even the confusions to be simple. It is all confusing, isn’t it? I don’t know why we expect all answers to be simple, but we do. We expect it to be straightforward. In some ways, in your country, you are lucky.’ Louisa slowly flushed, noticing everyone looking at her. ‘At least that’s what I think.’
Sitting away from her, Hofmann snorted.
‘Speech! Speech!’ Garry banged; a form of reduction, of fragmentation. And the Cathcarts stared at their plates and solemnly up at the cornice.
‘We are an odd lot,’ admitted North, and suddenly began laughing.
Louisa was biting her lip; Borelli had touched her arm.
Of little or no concern to Gerald: gazing through the dark window at nothing in particular, trying not to be negative. And North at the far end bent towards Sasha to hear better.
Uncertainties may have increased as they stood in the queue outside the tomb of Lenin. The mausoleum was invisible, uphill. The flagstones of Red Square rose before them, a solid wave, and darkened in the heat, produced a kind of undertow. The queue of several versts moved slowly forward, dragging: inevitable tourism.
They were sandwiched between a delegation of jabbering bookbinders from Kiev and a clan of ginger-faced Highland flingers in kilts and all, red knees, said to be ballet devotees. With Gerald at the point the group cast Japanese shadows, a source of idle interest. All but Anna had turned somewhat reflective, little being said. A sense of loss spread as they stood now in the open, within sight of the tomb; a sense of sliding time and place. Apart from the long queue Red Square was empty. And what: those tattered trumpets could be heard somewhere producing unexplained exhortatory tunes, reminding them. It didn’t make sense. It was hard to hold the moment; and yet time and the surrounding solid objects passed slowly. It all slipped through their bodies.
At intervals—as if pulled by wires—a buxom or a bow-legged fixture, usually elderly, would fall out of the line, a quadrant collapse to the eye, left or to the right, immediately clustered with crouching next of kin or friends, and carried into the shade. It caused Mrs Cathcart to wonder aloud if they, poor beggars, were given enough to eat.
Astride a rise, hemmed in by ancient dark walls, Red Square had a bulging orthodox church at each end. It was so vast it remained continually empty; how could it ever be filled? At its church end it leaked air and people, and there was that dramatic fall away from the approximate centre. The low mausoleum had been slotted in there on one long side, against the Kremlin wall. They were now less than fifty paces from its entrance. Violet who’d undone a few buttons stood with her eyes closed, catching the sun.
Remembering her job Anna turned from the nodding bookbinders and with a raised finger made these points:
The mausoleum is
a) of red granite
b) bulletproof and bombproof
c) the sole remaining example in the Soviet Union of pure Constructivism
d) upwards 7 million respectful visitors per—Something had caught their eye.
‘Yoo-hoo!’ Mrs Cathcart waved. ‘Excuse me, Anna,’ she said. She elbowed Garry like a son, ‘Here we are, tell them.’
The Kaddoks came towards them in the heat, Leon holding Gwen’s elbow and sloping forward as if trip-tripping into a wind. Gwen was hurrying, anxiously scanning the line. Festooned with his leather-hooded equipment, similar to the blackened trophies on primitive necklaces, he cut a powerful figure, ultra-modern and complacent, unable of course to see Gwen biting her lip. The party smiled when relief suddenly smoothed her features.
‘You almost missed the boat,’ Doug slapped by way of a welcome.
Kaddok immediately began telling them about the Party Machine he had gone to photograph, housed in the longest building in the Eastern bloc, ‘Kouznetski Street, a stone’s throw from here.’ Of immense proportions; it actually covered several blocks: yet apparently it could apply itself to the smallest, seemingly trivial detail.
Having spent several hours in the queue, the scenery of Red Square had become progressively mundane, like the shoulders and back of the neck of the person directly in front, and so the group turned to Kaddok’s sto
ry with an interest perhaps out of proportion. The Scotties leaned forward to listen too.
Yes, it is off the beaten track—Kaddok told them—more the obligatory mecca for travellers from the Eastern bloc; and well worth a visit, well worth a trip. The glass megastructure allowed the Machine to be viewed from the street. But it was much better inside. Parallel catwalks had been fitted for visitors to follow the workings in close-up. It consisted, in the main, of rigid maroon pipes and drums attached to shivering copper feedlines. The drums revolved, see, setting forth a chain-reaction further down the line. Ratchets and sprockets interconnected to pulleys and lazy S-shaped wheels, vigorous elbows as in a steam engine, then activated the machine in various parts and in all directions, and yet somehow prevented the whole from disintegration, heavy flywheels, governors, ironed out the contradictions, the slight discrepancies. The rocking chassis with its esoteric standards and cesspools of grease held her steady; sideways movements were at once activated and yet kept to a minimum by rubber connecting rods and torsion bars, all wired to warning gauges. It had been working for years. The maintenance supervisor, the zealot with the oil can, said many decades. This man’s name, Kaddok declared, was Axelrod.
‘Do you know what?’ North asked over the smiles.
‘What?’ Kaddok hated being interrupted.
One of the Scots jumped in. ‘It must have set up a God-awful racket.’
‘It was relatively quiet, in fact. It was hard, in fact, to know if it was working. I was impressed.’
Gwen nodded.
It was a machine of words, largely.
‘The interesting thing,’ Kaddok tried to continue, ‘was at the finish, it reproduced replicas of itself. They were quite something, like transistors. They were only an inch or so long, of the whole machine.’
The ironical cheering and shouts from the wild Scots were cut short by the guards in grey. They also pointed to Violet: she had to button herself up. Cameras were allowed but—hang on—just a minute!—Doug had his binoculars confiscated. They had reached Lenin’s tomb.
Touching the granite walls Hofmann and the Cathcarts had already descended a few steps when a scuffle broke out behind. There was shouting, swearing in English. One of the Scots, big man, struggled with the guards. His hat and sunglasses dropped onto the floor.
‘That looks like Hammersly,’ Garry pointed. ‘It’s not, is it?’
‘I don’t know,’ Sheila squinted. ‘It could be.’
It was hard to tell.
‘I’m sure I saw him,’ said Violet, ‘his shape in the foyer.’
It was Hammersly.
‘Hey, he’s all right,’ Garry went forward.
‘He’s not with us,’ said the Scots.
And Sheila and Garry Atlas who tried to help were pushed back. The mausoleum’s metal door was slammed shut.
‘Hey, that’s the last we’ll see of him.’
Then they noticed: the bookbinders in front had gone. They were alone in the mausoleum.
‘What’s going on?’
‘Anna?’ Mrs Cathcart called. It echoed. ‘Where is she? Anna!’
It wasn’t entirely dark. Subtle wall-fixtures gave the granite a rosy religious glow.
Anna had all along been at Mrs Cathcart’s elbow. She shrugged. ‘There’s nothing to worry about. I wasn’t told,’ she added, perplexed.
‘Let’s go back,’ said Sasha.
‘We can’t,’ North murmured. ‘The door is bolted.’
‘Yoo-hoo!’ Mrs Cathcart called out. She could be a pillar of strength.
Following Anna they slowly completed the remaining steps and turned right into the sepulchre itself, a bare room of grave sumrak, with the precise angles of a bank vault. A thick-legged worker wearing a flannel bathing costume (as worn in Black Sea resorts) was hosing the floor and walls. There Lenin lay facing the ceiling like Oblomov, lit by a spotlight. His beard glistened like the wet walls. A rope fence prevented them from going closer.
A group of dolichocephalic party bosses in their loose suits and pierced cream-coloured shoes stepped out from the shadows. They motioned Anna over. Listening intently, she glanced back at her group. She nodded.
‘Hey, you sarmations,’ a member of this nomenclatura called.
‘We’re from Australia,’ Garry corrected. ‘And what’s the big idea?’
‘Yes, I’d like to know,’ said Mrs Cathcart.
‘But it is a great privilege,’ Anna beamed. ‘You are very lucky. You must listen to him.’
‘I wouldn’t trust them,’ Hofmann was heard. ‘As I said all along. We shouldn’t have come here.’ Shuffling, some scratching of themselves.
The Russians remained partly in shadow, impassive and patient, and the worker kept tugging at the hose to wash the end wall. After again conferring among themselves a spokesman moved forward and, pushing Anna aside, ducked under the velvet rope. He was a heavy man with bushy eyebrows and long ears. His hand rested on the transparent lid near Lenin’s head. Two others moved, skinny and coatless Russians. One had a movie camera resting on his shoulder; the other gripped an old Speed Graflex and managed to whisper to Sasha his name was ‘Ivan’.
The frontman was accustomed to audiences of several thousand. He gestured easily with one hand: a brief panegyric on the dead leader.
‘For Christ’s sake,’ Hofmann groaned. ‘Did we come to hear this garbage?’
Shuffling eagerly around the edges Kaddok photographed the photographers of the State.
‘Excuse me—’ Borelli raised his hand; but was cut short by the Russian.
‘Now we get down to—you say?—talking turkey.’
‘They think we’re Americans,’ Violet sniggered.
Making a sign to the photographers he paused, then lifted the lid of the bevelled sarcophagus. A murmur ran through the party, the tourists. Lenin was exposed. This was altogether different.
Slowly, ponderously the Russian chose his words. ‘We understand you have travelled. There is nothing like travel, eh? You must have seen wonderful sights, those cities and towns with their empty cafe tables, local customs and colour, the innumerable objects fascinating for their detail, the different sunsets. You’ve been to many countries. Africa too, I’m told. Very good. It makes you feel experienced, nyet? It gives one the added perspective, a means of comparison. Naturally by now you have sorted out the…wheat from the chaff, the real from the nylon. Your eye has sharpened. As in war, travel has heightened your senses. That is good; very good. Perhaps you are less naive?’ He looked at each one of them, taking his time. ‘But appearances, of events and things seen around, are deceptive. What can we believe any more? What is real? Appearances are not necessarily exact. The appearance of things is generally a lie. That has become a problem of life, wouldn’t you say? You were in Moscow yesterday and now today. But how can you prove it? Chuzhaya! Where is the truth, the real existence of things? Increasingly the edges are blurred.’
Borelli and Gerald Whitehead nodded.
The Russians now glanced at Lenin’s exposed face.
‘What do you accept, what do you choose to believe? That which is before you? You came to see Lenin. In your country you have your embalmed Holy Men and Royals. There is the Roman Pope—a man who can lift both arms. And movement, someone has written, is the basic characteristic of reality. OK. To you Lenin is a curiosity, a shape; to us he is both the living Idea and the Ideal, example and reminder. So in certain quarters abroad scurrilous rumours are regularly let out that Vladimir Ilyich here is a dummy, a fake. Such is his central importance and the persistence of attacks we are compelled every five years to show the world it really is…Lenin. Understand? That is our plan. A simple test…randomly selected independent observers.’
Slowly he looked at each one. Most of them still didn’t understand.
‘Step forward, please. Mind the rope. Of course, ladies first.’
The Cathcarts glanced at Sheila, at Phillip North. Holding North’s arm Sasha shrugged.
‘Well I�
��m game,’ said Doug as Hofmann ducked under. For some reason Hofmann was more than usually keen.
Lenin lay waist-high on a kind of podium. He wore the familiar three-piece suit, the baggy trousers steam-pressed, sporting the polka-dot tie and the gold tie-pin. His face seemed to be real, though it had a distinct cadaveric pallor and the beard glistened as if treated with preservatives. From behind the ropes Lenin had certainly looked more natural, as if he was dozing.
‘Madam…’
Smiling, the Russian gave Sheila a small hand mirror.
‘Go on,’ he urged, gently.
The movie camera with the surging hips whirred; and Ivan from Pravda squatted and waited.
‘But we’ve seen too much!’ Sheila cried. ‘It’s been hard to digest. There were so many things. We are the least qualified.’
‘Sheila’s right,’ Borelli said. ‘It’s been confusing. We’re still in the dark.’
‘Come on. We can form an opinion,’ Hofmann said. ‘This is simple enough.’
The Russian took Sheila’s trembling hand and guided the mirror to Lenin’s slightly opened yellow mouth.
‘He’s dead. Yes?’
Sheila turned. ‘I can’t look!’
But Hofmann leaned forward. ‘He’s dead.’
The Russian nodded to Violet. She got into the spirit of things.
Leaning over she tweaked the nose.
‘It feels real enough. It didn’t come away in my hand.’
‘Very good,’ the Russian nodded. ‘That’s the spirit.’
Doug Cathcart tapped the bald head with his knuckles and turning to the zooming movie camera reported, ‘Fair enough.’
Then Hofmann, impatient, offered his services: ‘I’m a dentist.’
The Russian nodded.
Hofmann bent close to the face.
Signs of ecchymosis, several shaving snicks. Professionally prising open the mouth he squinted in. He clicked his fingers for Garry’s Ronson. Lenin’s teeth reflected the food of exile, prisons, the Russian cigarettes and borscht.
‘Gold fillings,’ Anna observed. She grinned at everybody.
Hofmann frowned. ‘Some are missing.’