The Starlings of Bucharest

by Sarah Armstrong

  Ursula raised her hand and called to him. He looked around, saw us, but examined his watch as we walked over as if we were wasting his valuable time.

  ‘Good morning. Off to see another film?’

  Ursula nudged me. I prepared to be fobbed off.

  ‘We are, but we are a bit worried about Alan. We haven’t seen him since Thursday night.’

  He looked horrified. ‘Thursday night? But it’s Saturday. Why on earth didn’t you let me know yesterday?’

  I looked at Ursula. ‘We thought he’d turn up,’ I said.

  ‘Christ!’

  Ursula pressed her lips together, removed her arm from mine and turned away. Why was he blaming us?

  I ploughed on. ‘We checked his hotel. We couldn’t get in, but we’re sure he’s not there. We thought you could check the hospitals.’

  Christopher checked his watch again. ‘Of course, yes. I can’t do that right now, but I’m sure you’re right.’ He put a hand on Ursula’s shoulder. ‘I can’t do this until later, Mrs Koskinen, but I will later today. I will meet you for breakfast tomorrow and let you know where he is, how about that?’

  Ursula nodded, sliding her arm back into mine.

  ‘Sorry, I overreacted. It’s a busy day, and I have a lot to get done.’

  I said, ‘I’m going to the Lenin mausoleum tomorrow morning, so we could meet before that. Or we were going to have lunch.’

  ‘Lunch?’ Christopher asked Ursula. She nodded. ‘At the Natsional or the Rossiya?’

  ‘Noon at the Natsional,’ she said.

  ‘Fine.’ He checked his watch again. ‘I must dash, but don’t worry, we’ll get to the bottom of this.’

  We watched him hurry away.

  Under her breath, Ursula said something I didn’t understand.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I said. ‘I’m sure he will sort it out.’

  She looked across the square. ‘When you flee from a wolf, you run into a bear.’

  I looked to see who she was looking at, but I didn’t recognise anyone. Did she mean Christopher?

  ‘Don’t you like him?’

  ‘There’s just something–’ She made shapes with her hands, and let her fingers fly apart. ‘Slippery.’

  I watched him turn a corner, and he was gone.

  CHAPTER 22

  Ursula cheered up as the day went on. At least, she gave that impression and I suspected it might be for my sake. We talked about the films, I stole some of her comments to write in my notebook, and we talked about the people around us. She pointed out a couple of American reviewers who were sitting together in the café, and we sniggered as she told me how they hated each other, why and for how long. We didn’t talk about Alan.

  In the evening, after our second film, we turned left and walked along the river. She pointed out the Illusion, where she was supposed to meet Alan, then turned left again. We were taking a different route to the Metropol, past parks and squares and Metro stations. She pointed at a large building and whispered.

  ‘The Lubyanka.’

  Across, past the traffic and the roundabout with a statue, it was an imposing block. Grey at the bottom, cream above that, full of windows for them to see out and no one to see in, and full of the KGB. I shuddered. I couldn’t stop thinking about Alan.

  ‘They keep the lights on all night,’ she said. ‘They like to keep people wondering.’

  ‘How easy is it—? You would know that you were doing something illegal, wouldn’t you? You wouldn’t accidentally do something bad?’

  ‘You’d know,’ said Ursula. ‘You really should have had a talk before you came.’

  ‘I did. Kind of. Don’t change money on the street, assume that anyone interested in you is faking it. That kind of thing?’

  She frowned at me. ‘Yes. They’re the common ones. The first year I came to Moscow I was in the Beriozka when a security guard tried to arrest me for shoplifting. It was Alan who came to my rescue. He’d seen a woman slip something into my pocket. He pointed her out and made such a fuss that they had to let me go. Otherwise I’d have ended up there.’ She pointed towards the Lubyanka.

  At the same moment we realised we were standing across from the KGB, pointing at them. We started walking again, Ursula pulling me in the right direction.

  ‘You’re thinking that Alan might be in there?’ she asked.

  ‘No, of course not.’

  She shrugged. ‘It happens, but he was very aware. He’s not new to Moscow.’ She paused. ‘But if they want you in there they’ll find a way. They might slip something into your pocket, or leave something in your hotel room. I can’t think why they’d think he was useful as a tool, though. And that’s the only reason that they’d do it. No.’ She held onto my arm a little tighter. ‘I’m sure the embassy will find him now.’

  We were back at the Metropol.

  ‘There’s a cinema here, if you want to watch a film,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘No? You don’t want to watch another film?’ She laughed. ‘Let’s get something to eat, then.’ She leaned back a little. ‘You know, you could have a haircut. They have a hairdresser.’ She tugged a little at my hair.

  I brushed it back with my hand. ‘It’s fashionable to have it a bit longer.’

  ‘Ah. My apologies.’ She made her face serious, but her eyes were still smiling.

  ‘Come on, I’m starving.’

  It felt almost natural now to have doormen and wide carpeted stairs, to order food and have people bring it to you. On this night there was a quartet playing at the back of the room. Ursula sat down with a sigh.

  ‘Lovely.’

  I was happy that she wasn’t discussing how worried she was about Alan. I was happy that we didn’t have to talk about him, that we could spend time together without him.

  She looked at the wine list. ‘You know there is a cocktail bar here that’s open past midnight. It’s hard currency, though. You didn’t bring much of that, did you?’

  ‘No. I got into trouble with my boss when I went to Bucharest. Somehow my guide managed to stick all of his food and drink on my bill. I’m being punished, or proving myself. One or the other.’

  ‘Bucharest sounds lovely. What did you see?’

  ‘I didn’t have time to see much at all, just a couple of museums. It is worth visiting. I’d like to have seen more of it.’

  ‘You could go back.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’d want that.’ I thought about telling her about Vasile, but the waiter came across, and Ursula ordered.

  ‘Different food, this time. I think you’ll like pelmeni.’ She stood and smoothed her dress. ‘Excuse me.’

  I lit a cigarette and sat back in my chair. The restaurant had every table occupied, but some tables had only one or two people. There was no doubling up tonight. I gazed around the room, trying to guess nationalities, then I remembered Ursula’s reaction and stopped. The quartet playing were in black tie, which surprised me, but most people were in simple Western clothes. One man on his own had brought a newspaper, and one woman was bending over a book, presumably as she waited between courses. And you could certainly wait here.

  She lifted her head, as if she could feel me looking, and I quickly looked away. It was the same woman, again, but no purple hat this time. It was unsettling how she kept turning up. I’d seen her more than anyone, apart from Ursula and Alan.

  Ursula returned and followed my gaze. ‘Do you know, I’ve never been to a country where people read more than here. On the bus, on benches, while they eat, pushing prams. It’s the best thing to come out of all this.’ She gestured to the whole country. ‘People are hungry to know things, for information.’

  ‘The woman with the book, do you recognise her?’ I asked.

  Ursula shook her head.

  ‘I’m sure she was here that first time we came, and I keep seeing her at the festival.’

  ‘She’s probably staying here.’

  ‘But when we were here before, she was with the tran
slators. I think she was with them at the festival too. She walks about with them, but then I saw her in the café alone.’

  ‘Translators aren’t allowed to mix with people attending the festival unless Inturist have arranged it. If they have to speak to foreigners, they have to fill out pages and pages on everything that was said. They don’t get to eat alone in the Metropol, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Maybe it just looked like she was with them. I must have been mistaken.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Ursula began to rearrange her cutlery. She clearly didn’t think there was anything to it. ‘So, how do you feel about your meeting with Lenin in the morning?’

  ‘I’m excited.’ I paused when our wine arrived, then poured it for both of us. ‘It’s something I’ve heard about for such a long time.’

  She leaned in. ‘I knew someone who lived next to the factory where they touch him up.’

  ‘Touch him up?’

  ‘He’s been dead for fifty-one years. Bits are going to fall off and need touching up.’

  ‘I’m not sure about that. The body of Jeremy Bentham is still sitting in a London university, and he died in the 1830s.’

  Ursula watched the first course arrive with horror. ‘I’m not sure I want to eat now.’ Then she smiled. ‘I’m joking. It takes more than a body to put me off. They did up Stalin too, but then they decided against it and buried him.’

  ‘They were both there, side by side, in Lenin’s mausoleum?’

  ‘Yes. After everything he did.’

  I examined my soup. Vegetable and lumps of beef. I hadn’t done very well with the beef here to date, it was far too fatty.

  ‘Is this a beef soup?’

  ‘Rassolnik. Try it.’

  ‘Is it beef, though?’

  ‘It’s pickled cucumber soup, but it usually has beef or fish or something else. Don’t worry, the beef isn’t always bad. It might be better today.’

  It was.

  ‘Did Alan tell you why the meals take so long?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Every single ingredient has to be weighed. The waiters take the order, the cooks get chits for the ingredients, the ingredients get weighed and measured and swapped for the chits. It’s unbelievable. All to stop the kitchen staff sneaking out slivers of food, while entire cows get diverted.’

  She pointed to the entrance. A young man stood there in a brown shirt with the widest lapels I’d seen yet in Moscow, and a woman next to him in a pink poncho with pink trousers.

  ‘You remember what I said about those Russians who come to Helsinki?’ She put her spoon down. ‘Let’s watch how they deal with this. All the tables are occupied, but they wouldn’t want to share.’

  I held my breath as the waiter spoke to them, and then approached the woman reading. She gave him something, and stood up to leave, taking her purple hat from the chair beside her.

  Ursula tutted. ‘I was looking forward to an argument.’

  As the woman walked out, I saw the title, High-Rise. That was the new J.G. Ballard novel but I was sure it wasn’t out yet. It wasn’t in the library, anyway. I thought she gave me a little smile before she left.

  KGB Second Chief Directorate

  KGB 2nd Department: British Commonwealth

  ‘FISHERMAN’ ADDITIONAL REPORT:

  FOR ADDITION TO WALKER FILE

  There have been three attempts by friendly assets to gain the attention of the subject on behalf of our counterparts (after the first overt approach, more subtle ways were attempted: attractive agents were directed to drop items in the Beriozka and to be waiting in the corridor between the Metropol restaurant and bathroom). The overt approach was discarded under his seat. Neither covert approach seemed to register with the subject who was with URSULA KOSKINEN on the first occasion and returning to her on the second. Both assets have proved successful in the past and it can only be assumed that the subject’s intense interest in KOSKINEN renders them, in effect, invisible to him.

  The physical reactions of the subject to KOSKINEN’s company (maintaining eye contact, constant companionship and attentiveness) confirm to our observers that he has no similar interest in men, so there are no plans to repeat this kind of approach.

  It is known that he was made anxious about approaches to his hotel room in Bucharest (both by telephone and by knocking). While there are reasons why we do not want to escalate any underlying anxiety, these will not be conveyed to our counterparts.

  We were informed by ‘Nadenka’ that Walker would be amenable to an approach as he agreed to this in the past, and is expecting to take an unknown item back to London. However, after the first attempt at contact failed he has shown no interest in looking for any contact who is to supply this item, and it must be considered that he has forgotten the agreement or we have been misled regarding his enthusiasm and compliance.

  It is known that the subject will be attending a tour in Red Square on Saturday morning, a rare time to approach him alone. However, whoever does approach him will no longer be bound to our counterparts’ plans as these are regarded as having failed, and we are free to pursue our own longer term project.

  CHAPTER 23

  My breakfast was delivered early so I wouldn’t be late for Lenin, but I found I had already been used as breakfast myself. The open window had allowed in at least one mosquito which had fed on my ankle in three places. I scratched it until I couldn’t bear it any more, then dressed.

  There was already a queue stretching from Red Square, but I knew I didn’t have to stand at the end. I found my Inturist guide at the side of the large red building, the Historical Museum, with a group of half-a-dozen people in the cool morning sun. Italian and Spanish, from the sound of it. Alan wasn’t around, and the boring Terence, whom I hadn’t met yet, didn’t turn up, so I was the only British person. As Westerners, we were allowed to join the line at the police barrier where women had to hand over their handbags, and shoppers their goods. It was also where the single line became double, as those waiting were put into pairs.

  I stood next to a Spanish woman, a guard moving us so that I was on the right, and looked forward at the queue. It was quiet considering there were so many people. Soldiers paraded the line, making sure that people did not smoke and took their hands from their pockets. As they got closer, men were told to remove their hats. I started to get nervous. I had an overwhelming urge to scratch the bites on my ankle. I lifted one foot to rub my shoe against the itch, but it made it worse.

  I looked up at the dark surround of the mausoleum, strange letters picked out in purple. Nearly there. I searched for where the sound of boots on stone was coming from, and saw soldiers marching towards the mausoleum. The clock struck the hour and the sentries who had stood so still left and were replaced by two more.

  We passed the sentries with bayonets on their rifles, and stepped into the coolness of the tomb and its black marble walls. We turned left, passed a guard, then right, passed another guard, and then I stumbled into the person in front of me who had stopped suddenly. The nearest guard grabbed my arm. I put my hands up in surrender and apology, and carefully followed the person in front of me down a short flight of stairs. I was feeling disorientated, turned about until I’d forgotten which way I’d come, as if I was in a dark labyrinth. The pressure of remaining quiet, the bayonets, the subdued lighting were all making me feel quite claustrophobic.

  After two flights of stairs down there was another right turn, and in front of me was the glass case. Lenin. He lay with four more guards at each corner, each with his bayonet gleaming, almost obscuring him. I wondered how long they had to stand here. Did they ever think they saw him move, just out of the corner of an eye?

  We arrived at more stairs, this time going up where we could walk along a short balcony, past Lenin’s feet. No lingering, the pace was constant, and all of a sudden we were back down the stairs, then up the stairs and out. We were released into a walkway that ran along the wall of the Kremlin, shaded by short fir trees.

  That was it. Tha
t was Lenin.

  I thought of his waxy hands and shuddered. Then I thoroughly scratched my ankle.

  The Inturist guide was still with us, shepherding us to the Kremlin walls to see pictures of people I failed to recognise, but were important to look at it seemed. I caught a glimpse of Stalin, whom I did recognise, but he wasn’t one of the ones she named. Speaking in English, Spanish and Italian meant that she tried not to say much at all, but there was one final recommendation.

  ‘If you walk back to where we met and turn left, you will find the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier with the Eternal Flame in the Alexandrovsky Gardens. Please pay your respects there for the Soviet sacrifice in the war. The Historical Museum is also open until five o’clock.’

  She repeated this in Italian, and then in Spanish which led to the Spaniards complaining. She returned to English.

  ‘Of course, there is a Spanish film showing this afternoon which you might want to see.’

  I smiled at the Spaniards to convey that I would be seeing their film, and then headed down to the garden entrance. I was intrigued about the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, the place where the note had said I should meet someone.

  The tomb wasn’t far from the gate to the gardens, a large slab of granite with a helmet on top, but also flowers. A couple, just married, were standing in front of the metal star on the ground where a flame flickered from the centre. She wore a white dress and he wore a soldier’s uniform, and they posed with sad half-smiles for another soldier taking a photo. I watched them leave and another couple approached.

  I walked on, slowly doubling back on myself, and never left the gardens. This was the open space I could see from the hotel restaurant which ran along the wall of the Kremlin. It was criss-crossed by paths, a strange white Greek portico on one side, an obelisk on the other. I wandered over to a raised, circular bed of grass, and sat on one of the benches. One man opposite was reading a book. Another, a couple of benches over, held up a thin newspaper. A young woman walked slowly around the grass, her eyes fixed so firmly on her shiny red boots that she nearly fell over a low, granite wall. She smiled to herself, and carried on.