He smiled. ‘Yes.’
I’d thought that Alan was in charge of this strange couple but clearly, just because Ursula found it hard to get a word in, it didn’t mean he dominated things.
‘Didn’t you want to try a banya, Alan? Now you have someone you could go with.’
‘A banya?’ I said.
‘A bath house.’ Alan looked at me. ‘Would you fancy a bit of massage and bathing?’
I nearly agreed, but Ursula was giggling. I felt I was missing some crucial information.
‘I’m not sure.’
‘It’s not a summer thing to me,’ said Ursula. ‘We prefer our saunas in the winter. But if you ever wondered whether you’d enjoy getting beaten with birch branches in the nude, you should give it a go.’
‘Ursula! He’s not going to agree now, is he?’
‘So you weren’t going to warn him?’
I had no idea how much of this was true, but I suspected that I’d had a lucky escape.
Alan said, ‘I got a list of the other films being shown from Inturist, if anyone’s interested.’
‘At normal cinemas?’ I asked.
‘Some of them. We see the official press showings, that’s why there are so many languages translated. There’s plenty of others shown, in Udarnik or the Palace of Sports. It’s only 50 kopeks a ticket, so they always sell out, and the Palace is a massive venue. There was nearly a riot during My Fair Lady when the translator tried to translate the songs. I wish I’d been there for thirteen thousand Russians all shouting, “No translation! Don’t translate the songs!” Was that ’65?’
‘Maybe,’ said Ursula. ‘And, despite their extraordinary range of swear words, they ban them from being translated in cinemas.’
Alan lowered his voice. ‘I saw that the Illusion cinema is showing Tarkovsky’s The Mirror, but only because Michelangelo Antonioni refused to stay at the festival unless they showed it. The Soviets refused to let the Cannes and Berlin festivals show it, and only foreigners are allowed to go to this showing. I will never understand how they restrict their best work. Like Solaris, they barely showed it. Did you see that, Ursula?’
‘I didn’t like it,’ said Ursula. Alan made a face showing mock horror, and they were off on one of their good-natured arguments.
Ursula topped up all our glasses with the excellent red wine that she’d chosen, and we toasted each other, the festival, the Metropol and film makers everywhere. We’d ordered a second bottle before the first course arrived. As I became more relaxed, I found it harder not to look to my right, over Ursula’s shoulder, at the older woman in the bright purple hat who had caught my eye.
KGB Second Chief Directorate
KGB 2nd Department: British Commonwealth
‘FISHERMAN’ BACKGROUND REPORTS:
FOR ADDITION TO WALKER FILE
‘International Film Monthly’ office, Plumstead High Street
22.58 7th July
Entry was made to the property shortly before 11pm. There are a number of local public houses nearby, and it was suggested that ‘kicking out time’ might provide cover, if necessary. ‘Kingfisher’ made a general search while ‘Flycatcher’ opened the lock on the filing cabinet which allows both small upper and large lower drawer to open.
Nothing of interest was found outside of the filing cabinet during the time we were on the premises, but a scaled map is included as an appendix.
Contents of desk belonging to PROUT: stamps, ruler, stapler, pad for telephone messages, rubber, 2 pencils, hairbrush, address book containing business contacts
Desk belonging to the target does not have a drawer
Contents of filing cabinet:
Top drawer: 7 pens (4 blue, 2 black, 1 red), paperclips, box of staples
Bottom drawer:
Old copies of International Film Monthly
Copies of wage slips (subject earns £20 per week, employed since March 1975)
Copies of job application letters from PROUT and subject (see below)
Copies of insurance forms taken out by Mr Benstrup for the trips taken by the subject. This raises two points: subject’s ‘next of kin’ is listed as: Joan and Reginald Walker, 16 St Austin’s Lane, Harwich (to follow up); the amount for the insurance (£50,000) seems in excess of his worth to Mr Benstrup – I suggest that there should be further investigation into his motives here.
Concealed at the bottom, underneath newspaper, a birthday card in an opened envelope addressed to PROUT (92 Abbot Road, Charlton). Message reads: ‘When you have had enough, this will get you home. Mum.’ Card contains £25 (5 x £5 notes)
‘Flycatcher’ was alerted to someone being in the office belonging to BENSTRUP by severe and prolonged coughing. We left shortly afterwards.
BENSTRUP’s marital status may be about to change, which could impact on the direction of the magazine, and could explain the large insurance amount as a form of gambling as he needs an injection of cash, personally or professionally.
Joan Walker – 16 St Austin’s Lane, Harwich
11.35 10th July
Early 60s, brown housecoat worn over a brown skirt, pink slippers. Hair is grey with a permanent wave growing out.
I assumed the role of an employee of the market research company, Research Services Ltd, discussing life insurance options. Joan answered the door and was reluctant to let me in so I offered £5 as an incentive. There was no suspicion regarding the large amount. She told me that Reginald (‘Reggie’) was out fishing.
After my listed questions, I managed to move her on to a photo I had identified as the target. She said that he had left home and was working in London, but offered no details of this. Neither did she name him, referring to him as ‘my son’. It may be that she has not had any details of where he is living or working. When she went to the kitchen to make a pot of tea, I looked through the letter rack on the table and could identify no letters from the target. Most of the letters were Airmail from Australia.
The question about teachers having a positive or negative influence on the young produced the name ‘Miss Slater’. She ‘gave him ideas’, she said, but would not expand on this.
I tried to introduce politics into the discussion, but she is uninterested in voting or who runs the country. I discussed the electricity shortages, but she claims that they have not impacted on her as she ‘goes to bed early’. Questions on the Common Fisheries Policy produced the surprising answer that her husband was in favour of membership of the EEC, despite being a fisherman. ‘Reggie wasn’t in the war, but his brothers were and they were saved by the French, fetched right out of the water.’ As for fishing, she wants her husband to retire and has already forced him to sell his boat after a period of ill health.
Once it got to half past twelve she was eager that I should leave before her husband returned. I observed him go inside the house at 12.44.
Agnes – Corner shop, Eastgate Street, Harwich
12.52 10th July
Late 20s, curled hair with dark roots. A shop tabard covered her clothes. Nicotine stains to fingers of her right hand.
I assumed the role of a customer, discussing the front pages of a few newspapers with Agnes as she filled the sweet jars.
I asked her if she knew how Joan was getting on, that I hadn’t seen her for a while. She expressed dismay that ‘Teddy’ could do such a thing. I agreed. She went on to talk about how long Joan had been saving up, how much she’d had to push Reg to agree, and all while she was scared of setting foot on a plane. And weren’t planes amazing, and so cheap nowadays. She then finished by saying how she hoped Teddy would turn up with that money soon. She swiftly moved onto gossip about other neighbours, and then started asking me questions.
I bought cigarettes and left.
Keith Ball – The Alma Inn
14.10 10th July
Late 50s, stained work trousers, thick green jumper with two large holes in the body, peaked cap. Boots were of good quality, old but well maintained with newer laces.
I appr
oached as he finished his second pint and offered another. He accepted, and we sat together at the bar. He provided a lot of information, confirming Reggie’s age as 57, his wife’s desire to take a holiday to Australia, his illness last year and his wife’s desire for him to stop fishing entirely.
Bringing up WALKER led to a long conversation about BALL’s own children and their reluctance to go out on the boats. On WALKER himself, BALL hinted at problems at the Dovercourt Lido, with WALKER expecting a promotion which he didn’t receive. He used derogatory language in relation to WALKER and his desire to work in an office, and returned to the subject of his own children.
At 15.00, last orders were called and BALL went home.
Miss Slater – Upper flat, 188 Marine Parade, Harwich
16.31 10th July
Late 50s, pale blue twin set, black shoes (scuffed). Sitting room has multiple bookshelves, and there are piles of opened letters, and exercise books on the table in front of the window.
I telephoned and assumed the role of a university student, writing a thesis on changing approaches in teaching. She was very happy to contribute to this and arranged a day and time. When I arrived, a copy of Who Killed Enoch Powell? by Arthur Wise was face down on the arm of the chair by the window. She blushed when she moved it for me to sit down.
I tried to lead her to talk about the target (children of fishermen, only children, children who had to leave school early), but in the end I had to introduce his name directly into the discussion.
She described him as being a quiet and lonely child. He was good at English, and little else, spending his time avoiding the larger boys. She remembered giving him particular praise for a piece of writing, commenting on how observant he was and having the strong sense that no one had really praised him for anything before this. She told him that, if he worked hard, he could make a living by writing. He asked what kind of work, and she said a writer, a teacher, a journalist, but then he left at the age of fifteen to work on the boats. ‘Another one lost,’ she said. ‘But I wasn’t ready to give him up.’
‘We used to meet in the library for him to practise writing. Every Saturday. He thought that, if he could create a kind of portfolio, his lack of qualifications might not be such a sticking point. I think he sent some off to the bigger newspapers, but he had nothing new to add to the articles he’d read. Who wants to read about the fishing industry, or coastal holiday parks?’
She did allude to some kind of problem the target had at work, an accusation of theft which was unresolved, but led to a loss of a promised promotion. She believes that it was at this point when the target made the decision to leave. ‘There was never anything here for Ted. I’m glad he left. Now or never,’ she said.
CHAPTER 19
On Friday morning neither Alan nor Ursula was watching an early film, so I walked over to the Rossiya on my own. It was my first Hungarian film. Nestled in my seat, I was warm and the voice of my translator through the headset was calming. Hardly any accent at all, I remember thinking, just before I fell asleep, waking only when half the cinema audience began loudly applauding.
Ashamed, I started to scribble in my notebook the title and what I recalled of the opening minutes, only to see a piece of paper fall to the floor. I picked it up: ‘Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, 12pm’. I looked around. Who had left this? Had I picked it up by accident? Then I remembered Mrs Benstrup, Nadenka, asking if I would bring something back for her. I had agreed, but now I was here I didn’t want to do it. There was something about her that worried me. I decided that I would say I forgot, or didn’t get the note. I crumpled it and let it fall to the floor, under my seat.
I went to the usual café, with its view of the Kremlin, and ordered an early lunch with coffee. There were other cafés within the Rossiya, but this was Alan and Ursula’s preferred one, and now it was mine.
When my dumplings arrived, I smoothed my list of films out on the table and crossed out the title from that morning. It wasn’t one that Alan had ticked as a ‘must see’ as we waited between courses the previous night. I still didn’t feel comfortable as a film reviewer. I probably never would be, but I needed to be better at faking it. Maybe the next festival I’d be sent to would be Cannes. I could get used to that. Three men took the other seats at my table, with a nod. I listened to them talk. Maybe Italian?
I had an Italian comedy marked on my list for this evening, but didn’t fancy anything in between which gave me time to have a look around. Alan had ticked it, of course, and had also ticked a Japanese police procedural for tomorrow. He’d given me a one sentence synopsis of every film on the list. I still felt unprepared but was lucky to have his help.
I had ticked an Argentinian werewolf film, Nazareno Cruz and the Wolf, leaving him laughing in disbelief. I tried to explain that I was here to expand my knowledge of film, as well as review the best ones. We agreed to disagree.
‘You just have to think,’ he said, ‘does this come from a Communist country? And if it does, it’s going to promote a Communist world view.’
‘All films are propaganda,’ I said. ‘We talked about this.’
‘Yes. But some are our propaganda.’
Ursula said, ‘Don’t listen to him. Watch whatever you like. Where else will you see films like this? The London Film Festival often seems an excuse to show foreign films with nudity. And The Texas Chainsaw Massacre? They showed that at Cannes, and then at Locarno, and it sounds like they will show it in London. Is that really the best film has to offer?’
She wasn’t faking her dismay, she was genuinely angry. We went back to the list and whether translators should translate the spirit of the film (Ursula) or the literal translation (Alan).
As well as films, there were trips planned for foreign reviewers, to Lenin’s mausoleum on the first Sunday, and a river cruise on the following Saturday. Alan and Ursula were reluctant to visit Lenin again, so I was going without them. Ursula wanted to organise a tour of the Kremlin through Inturist instead, but Alan was unmoved by her request as yet. What I was waiting for was the Romanian film, The Actor and the Savages, on Thursday. This had got a tick from Alan, despite its Communist roots, but I was most wanting to see who the in-cinema translators would be.
I looked out of the window and wondered what I could do for a couple of hours before my next film.
The passers-by that I was coming to recognise as the everyday kind of Russian were walking across the space between the Rossiya and Red Square, in dark, wide trousers for the men, and thin shapeless dresses for the women. They weren’t the kind of Russians that I’d seen in the hotels, their heads uncovered by headscarves or hats. The sun was warming me through the glass now, so I put my notes back in my pocket and prepared to leave. Mr Attridge had been right eventually. The weather was warm now.
A group of women passed in front of the window, and I raced to the lobby so I could stand facing them as they walked past. Their minder went first, the women walking behind him in pairs or threes, their faces mostly turned from mine. I reminded myself I was looking for red hair and a small mouth. I scanned their faces, but still didn’t see anyone who seemed familiar, except for one woman. It wasn’t Ingrid, it was the woman from the restaurant last night, still wearing that striking hat which drew my eye. As she removed it I could see she had dark brown hair in a bun. She was the only one who made eye contact with me.
I went outside thinking, if I caught the translators on their way in before the Romanian film, which would be late on Thursday afternoon, it would be my best chance of finding Ingrid. Or maybe I should follow these ones out, to see where the translators rested between films. I felt uncomfortable at the thought of that, having just been seen to watch them walk in. I had days to catch them in a more natural way than chasing them around a hotel.
I checked my watch. Half-past eleven. I had seen that the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier was near my hotel, so I didn’t want to walk in that direction and accidentally keep that appointment with whoever was waiting for me there. I l
ooked the other way. The river.
I crossed the road and went up onto the bridge. There was a square section sticking out which looked like an observation point, so I stood there, next to a low wall which ran around it, and looked across the river. What surprised me most was the number of people lying on the river bank in what looked like their underwear. There was an occasional boat, and some people walking along the riverside, including a group of those children in white shirts and red scarves. I sat on the wall, looking back at the Kremlin. There were so many towers and trees within the walls, like a tiny city. The original city of Moscow.
I felt a hand on my shoulder and jumped down. It was the man from the Metropol, Christopher Hughes.
‘Guilty conscience?’ He smiled. ‘Are you waiting for someone?’
‘Just admiring the view.’
‘Yes. I forget to do that now, but it’s well worth it. The embassy is just over there.’ He pointed to the left, across the river. ‘So it’s all become too familiar. Familiarity breeds contempt, as the saying goes.’ He coughed. ‘The Kremlin is very impressive though. The red and green always reminds me of Christmas. I was never keen on St Basil’s.’ He checked his watch. ‘I’d better go, I have a meeting, but it was nice to see you again.’
‘Can I just ask, what is that uniform I see children wearing, white shirt and red scarf?’ I gestured towards Red Square so I could watch his expression while he wasn’t looking at me. I was very unsure about him. The way Alan had responded to his instructions had felt odd. I wanted to concentrate on how he spoke to me, whether his face changed.
The Starlings of Bucharest Page 12