I was thirsty now. It had taken a while to get through customs, and I’d turned down the last offer of a drink on the aeroplane, being unsure about aeroplane toilets. I turned back to the girl and raised my voice.
‘I need to book in, please.’
She turned to me slowly, and glared. The man slunk off and I wished I could too.
She knocked the desk with her knuckles. ‘Papers.’
I slid my passport across, and she snatched it from my fingertips. She took it over to a box of papers, flicked through them and then returned, triumphant, and threw the passport back to me.
‘Wrong hotel.’
‘What do you mean?’
She stretched out each syllable. ‘Wr-ong ho-tel.’
‘But my driver brought me here.’
‘You were booked here.’
‘But not now?’
‘No.’
‘Where should I go?’
She crossed her arms and shrugged. ‘I don’t know. You could ask Inturist at the Service Bureau.’ A flash of a real smile, and she turned away to ignore the other man waiting.
I was starting to panic now. One thing I had learned from the guide book was that I couldn’t book where I wanted to stay. I was allocated somewhere and that was it. If I’d been unallocated I would have to leave. Maybe I’d made the girl cancel my booking by being rude and interrupting her.
I picked up my case and walked towards the Inturist office. There was one woman free in there, four others were busy. I waited until she called me over. I couldn’t anger too many people. I depended on them knowing what I didn’t and being nice enough to tell me.
She beckoned to me. ‘Yes?’
‘I was booked at this hotel, but now I’m not.’ I handed her my passport.
‘Mr Walker?’
‘Yes.’
‘You have been transferred to the hotel next door. The Natsional.’ She pointed to the smoke-filled entrance. ‘Please turn right, and you’ll find it.’
‘Thank you.’ I’d read about the Natsional. ‘What hotel is this one?’
‘The Inturist. Natsional next door.’ She pointed to the entrance again.
‘Thank you.’
I moved towards the doors, to find the man who had been waiting next to me at reception. He held his hand out. I tensed myself, waiting for something I wouldn’t understand.
‘Did they sort you out?’ he asked.
English. I shook his hand.
‘Yes, thanks. I’ve been moved next door.’
‘The Natsional? Lucky you, I like that one.’
‘Are you being moved?’
‘No, I just hung around in case you needed any help. Those Inturist people are great usually, but sometimes two people are better than one. I’m Alan Sullivan.’
‘Ted Walker.’
He tipped an invisible hat, ‘See you around,’ and headed towards the stairs.
Alan Sullivan. It was good to know there was an Englishman in the hotel next door, but I wished we were in the same hotel. As I walked to the entrance a uniformed woman came in, leading a group of twenty people, all talking English. Her blue uniform and red collar were familiar. A Thomson package tour, of all things. Everyone English was staying in the Inturist, it seemed. But not me.
I stepped back outside and paused under the awning. The rain was even heavier, but the sun illuminated the shining wet building opposite, light bouncing from the upper windows. No one seemed to have an umbrella as they walked quickly, heads down, their dark coats and hats. If anyone caught my eye they quickly looked away. The streets had traffic, but there wasn’t the urgency you’d see in London, and the cars were much cleaner than in Bucharest. I watched pedestrians negotiate a dripping downpipe and it all felt oddly familiar, maybe from films.
I turned to the right, my eyes on the large red building ahead, like The Natural History Museum in style except it was red brick instead of cream stone. There was no point waiting for the rain to stop. I launched myself into it, keeping my head down, and bumped into a man walking quickly in the other direction.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, but he didn’t turn around. I checked my pockets, but everything was still there. Just rude, but not a pickpocket.
I continued round to the small canopy which I assumed was the entrance of my new hotel, nodded to the doorman, and went in.
CHAPTER 13
I stood in the lobby of the Natsional, in front of four enormous near-naked statues, hesitating on the dark red rug. There was no reception desk. I turned back to the doorman and he pointed me forward and to the left.
The long reception was lit by huge yet dim chandeliers, the heavy velvet curtains and the wooden panelling seeming to have absorbed the light. Through the window and the rain, though, I could see a second red building with a tower next to what I now thought of as the Natural History Museum. This wasn’t the right hotel. I knew it from the doorman, the leather armchairs and the view. I was just going to find out where to go next, and hope the rain didn’t get worse. My passport, held underneath my jacket, seemed dry.
I didn’t want to drip all over the reception desk in this nice place. I stood next to a small table by the window, put the case down with a sigh and removed my sodden jacket with fingertips and placed it on the arm of the chair. The tweed had soaked up every raindrop. The check-in desk had five clocks on the wall, illuminated against the dark wood. I could see the two people behind the wooden desk looking at me, but I tried to seem purposeful and looked towards the door. I caught the eye of a man, settled in one of the armchairs. He quickly looked away. I wondered if all hotels had men sitting in chairs by the doors. This reminded me of my book on Moscow, and I pulled it from the jacket pocket. It was warped, and I knew it would fatly blossom in that way thoroughly wet books do. I put it on the table and sighed.
I was starting to shiver and wanted nothing more than a bath and hot drink. I hoped my hotel, wherever it turned out to be, wasn’t far. I needed to get to a room, any room. When I picked up my jacket I noticed with horror that there was a dark stain on the pale yellow upholstery.
I picked up my suitcase and book, draped my jacket over one arm and walked quickly towards the desk. I could hear a slight squelching in my shoe, my wet sock starting to bunch up.
The woman behind the desk looked at me and tried to smile, as if she’d been ordered to.
‘Passport.’
I placed it on the desk and tried to explain. ‘I was taken to Inturist, next door, and they said to come here. If you could tell me where to go now I would be grateful.’
She looked at me, my passport, and then at something on her desk. She spoke to the man next to her in Russian, and he fetched an envelope. She was busy writing something, and he went back to his post on the far side of the desk. She kept writing. I started to look around. Had she forgotten I was here? I waited. She kept on chatting to the man who flicked his eyes at me.
A Russian man came up to the desk, spoke to the man and left. An American couple came up, asked for their passports and were told, ‘One more day.’
‘We were told today,’ the woman said.
The receptionist held up one finger. ‘One more day.’
The man tutted, and they grumbled to each other as they walked away. I looked to see if the man would make eye contact with his colleague, maybe raise an eyebrow, but there was nothing.
I put my case down and wondered what was taking so long. The woman had dark hair with a red hint to it. Her white blouse was open at the neck, and a thin gold chain was visible just underneath.
I started as I noticed she was looking at me.
‘One moment.’
I nodded and turned back to the window. The clouds had broken, and a burst of sunlight made the wide road outside shine silver like a summer river. The more I looked at the red tower, and the white one behind it, I was sure that it was the Kremlin. My guidebook would tell me, but I didn’t want to look as if I needed help. I should know if it was the Kremlin.
‘Regis
tration form.’
I filled it in.
The woman put the envelope in front of me and her paper on top. It was a map.
‘Is this to my hotel?’
‘No. This is your hotel. This is a map to get you to the Festival opening tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.’
This was my hotel.
‘You will go to the Rossiya Hotel for the festival,’ she pointed with her pen, ‘past the Kremlin, past the cathedral and left, here.’ She patted the envelope, ‘Your list of films and cinemas.’ She picked up a slip of paper. ‘Room 302. Each floor has an attendant. You’ll see the desk. Please leave the key with the floor attendant when you go out. She will take your breakfast order the evening before. If you need anything, like laundry, she will arrange this. Keep your Customs Declaration safe.’
If this was my hotel, I didn’t care how tiny my room was. But I needed to be sure.
‘My trip was paid for in advance.’
She didn’t disagree.
‘And I have meal vouchers. Can I use them here?’
‘Of course. Give this paper to your floor attendant, and she will give you the key. You will need to show this paper,’ she waved it, ‘whenever you come in and out of the hotel. Do not lose it.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Nichevo.’ She rang a bell, and a boy arrived to escort me upstairs.
I followed him up quiet carpeted stairs, past huge pieces of dark furniture and dim lighting. On the third floor we turned, and he handed me over to the floor attendant. Silently, she took my paper, studied it, and then opened my door before handing me the key and the paper, closing the door behind her.
There had been a wonderful mistake. It was a large room filled with antiques. A door opened onto a bathroom: cast iron roll top bath with taps large enough for giants, a ceramic toilet with dark wood seat, an enormous basin. I turned the bath taps on, and went back to see if I’d imagined the four-poster bed, but it was still there. I stripped off my wet clothes and got in the bath.
When I’d had a wash and laid my clothes on the side of the bath to dry, I opened the envelope and looked at the list of films I had to see. Only a couple of directors meant something to me. I looked in drawers and cupboards, and had a fiddle with the small television in the corner, but I couldn’t get it to work. There was a radio on the sideboard, but all I could find was classical music.
I took my meal vouchers out and choose a ‘dinner’ one. Or should it be ‘tea’? It was five o’clock. What time did ‘lunch’ finish? Then I remembered about booking my breakfast, and searched for a menu. I found some brochures for Inturist and started to fantasise about coming back to travel the Trans-Siberian railway — Paris to Tokyo in twelve days. The other covered a lot of rules regarding what you could photograph, but I didn’t have a camera. Eventually I found a menu. It didn’t look like breakfast, but that’s what it said. I decided on tea, white bread, butter and jam, and wrote it on a bit of paper to give to the attendant.
I dressed and wondered what to do about my shoe. The cardboard I had carefully laid over the hole was soaked and mushy. I took the photograph information card, and tore a corner to lay inside.
By now I was starving, so I took my meal vouchers and locked the door to my room. I gave the key and the breakfast request paper to the woman attendant in the hall on my floor, and asked her where I could eat. She shook her head. I showed her my vouchers. She pointed to the stairs.
I went downstairs. There was a restaurant on the first floor, but I doubted my voucher would work in there. It looked very expensive, and I was conscious of Mr Benstrup’s disapproval. I went back to the lobby and back to the woman who had served me before.
‘Could you tell me where I can eat with my vouchers, please?’
She sneered at them. ‘Hard currency is better.’
‘But I have these.’
She sighed, and pointed out restaurant, café and bar in different directions.
The café would do for now. She’d said the vouchers were fine before, so I couldn’t see why she was sneering about them now. People were changeable, I thought, and then I wondered whether it was the same woman. I was pleased I hadn’t tried to explain about my shoe.
I hesitated at the bottom of the stairs. Dozens of people were suddenly on the move around the hotel: four Asian women with long black hair in tunic tops and loose trousers, the American couple I’d seen earlier, three North African men, and me. On my own.
I was tired and I needed some food, but it was reassuring to know there were British people next door.
CHAPTER 14
I sat in the bar with my glass of red wine, working things out. One pound was one and a half roubles. This drink was 38 kopeks, 25p. It was what everyone else seemed to be drinking, but was not quite what I wanted. I was looking, as subtly as I could, at the snacks people were eating and wondering which to choose.
The people here were a mix of Westerners, British and American, and from everywhere else. There were snippets and sounds from so many languages I didn’t recognise, let alone understand. I didn’t think I could hear much Russian. I lit a cigarette and just listened out for English voices. Maybe some of these people were connected to the festival and they would mention it and I’d find out what I should do. Did I try to go to all of the films, or some?
I looked back at the menu again (in English, French, German and Russian) and noticed my feet were tapping. I was in Russia, in Moscow, and free to do what I wanted, unlike in Bucharest, and it was unnerving. I looked around towards the window, in case Vasile was staring in, and smiled to myself. Then I turned back again. I had recognised someone. That man from the other hotel, Alan Sullivan. He was sitting with a striking black woman who looked much younger than him, a bottle of red wine between them. She caught me looking. I quickly turned back to my drink and lit another cigarette.
‘Ted!’
I turned to see Alan waving.
‘Come over and join us.’
I hesitated and then thought, I did need someone to explain things to me. I carried my wine to their table.
Alan held his hand towards the woman. ‘Ted, this is Ursula Koskinen.’
Not a wife, then. Lover?
‘Ursula, this is Ted Walker.’
We shook hands. Her fingertips were cold but her grip was strong. I wanted to stare at the way her hair was pulled back in twists, the way the gold earrings lay against her neck, but there was something in her gaze that stopped me from looking too hard.
‘How’s your new hotel?’ asked Alan.
‘It’s very nice. Much nicer than I expected, a huge room with a massive bath. I can actually lie down in it.’
‘Do you have a view of the Kremlin?’
I thought. ‘I haven’t looked out of the window yet. I don’t know.’
‘The first thing I did was look out of the window.’ Alan clearly did most of the talking. ‘Next thing was to test the air conditioning and check where the pool is. You two don’t have either of those things, because you have history. Ursula is in this hotel as well.’
‘Did you come over together?’
‘No, we travelled separately. We always decide where we’ll meet the night before it starts because we never know which hotel we’ll be in. It was a good job we did chose to meet up in this one. At least we get to avoid the Thomson tour lot in the Inturist. You don’t come all the way to Moscow to listen to people from Maidstone.’ He topped up both of their glasses.
Ursula said, ‘You’re not from Maidstone, are you, Ted?’ Her voice was low and smooth, with a slight American accent.
‘No. Not that far away though. Where are you from? Are you American?’
‘No, I’m not American.’ She sounded bored, as if she’d said that too many times. I could feel my cheeks blushing.
‘You do sound American,’ Alan tutted. ‘I don’t know why you get so cross about it. You must learn to sound more like us if you don’t want people to think that.’
Ursula punched him gentl
y on the arm.
Alan continued to smooth things over. ‘Well, I thought you might be American too, and I’m good with accents. I knew Ted wasn’t from Maidstone. Suffolk, is it?’
‘Essex. North Essex, though, not far from Suffolk.’
‘Not that good with accents, then,’ said Ursula.
Alan put one hand to his ear, like a shell. ‘I’m getting old. My hearing is going.’
What was their relationship?
‘I live in London now,’ I said. ‘Is that where you live, Ursula?’
‘No.’ She sipped her wine.
‘Just tell the poor boy. She’s Finnish,’ said Alan. ‘She’s just being difficult because they gave her a hard time at the border. They always do, so we always spend our first night like this.’
He flicked the wine bottle and patted her hand. Ursula sat back and folded her arms. She was wearing a wedding ring.
‘I know you didn’t deserve it, but Ted here seems like he’s on his first trip to Moscow.’ He looked at me and I nodded. ‘Be nice.’
‘I’ll be nice after a good sleep,’ she said, and yawned. ‘Those trains give you bruises on the inside. All my organs feel like they’ve settled in the wrong place. And the guards.’ She made a disgusted face.
‘Well, an early night and you can forget all that nonsense,’ said Alan. ‘We have the opening speeches in the morning.’
‘Are you here for a conference?’ I asked.
‘The 9th Moscow International Film Festival,’ said Ursula, and yawned again.
My stomach leapt. ‘Me too.’ I wouldn’t have to be alone. This was a nice surprise.
Alan nodded. ‘That’s good. We can walk over together.’ He patted Ursula’s hand again. ‘Do you want to get up to bed? We can meet in the lobby at half past nine and wander over.’
The Starlings of Bucharest Page 9