Luke Randall sent his wife and children money and Christmas cards and tried to persuade himself that the boys would understand his absence. He drank a lot at the parties and, because of a kind of lonely strength which those who did not know him might have interpreted as cold-bloodedness, was as happy as a man can be when he is surrounded by families celebrating Christmas and can only be a spectator.
A few days before the twenty-fifth he was provided with a diversion. A visiting American expert on Russian affairs was photographed at a crucial juncture in the sort of affair which was not exclusively Russian.
The photographs were shown to him as he lingered over his breakfast coffee in his hotel. The pictures of him lying on a bed with a Russian youth were sharp and clear and would have fetched a good price in the sort of bookshops which flourish in some other capital cities of the world.
When the expert on Russian affairs showed him the photographs Randall said: ‘For Christ’s sake I thought you were supposed to be an expert on the way they operate. You must have read about this sort of thing being photographed. You surely didn’t think this guy fell in love with you overnight.’
‘I didn’t think,’ the expert said. ‘I was drunk.’ His face was grey and his body was shaking as if he were in the throes of a fever. ‘Do you think they’ll make anything of it? I mean, this would ruin me.’
Randall looked at the pictures. ‘At least you seem to have enjoyed yourself,’ he said. The expert was naked; his body was very thin, what few muscles he had were flabby from lack of exercise. The Russian youth was wearing only a short wool shirt. He was stockily built with a handsome, Georgian face. There was a suspicion of a smile on his face as if he knew the photograph was being taken.
‘Disgusting, isn’t it,’ said the expert. He looked inquiringly at Randall for any sign of reaction. ‘He seemed such a nice young man,’ he said. ‘I didn’t expect anything like this would happen. He started it all. I thought he was quite genuine.’
‘You both look pretty genuine,’ Randall said.
‘God, I’m so ashamed,’ said the expert. ‘If any of this gets back to the States I’ll kill myself.’
‘I don’t think there’s anything to be ashamed of. Everyone to their own tastes. Hell, there’s a million men all over the world doing this right this very minute. I don’t give a damn. It’s just that you’ve been crazy enough to do it here where, surely to God, you must have guessed what they were up to. It’s not the Cold War any more. It’s the Hot War—the Sex War. It would have been just as damaging if they’d snapped you with a woman. Your inclinations haven’t got a thing to do with it. It’s just that you’ve been a mug. I’ll see what I can do. Don’t worry too much. With a bit of luck your wife will never know.’
The expert looked up startled. ‘How did you know I was married?’ he asked.
‘I guessed,’ Randall said. ‘I just guessed.’
‘Can you imagine what the kids would think if they read about it in the papers. They wouldn’t realise that it wasn’t anything to be ashamed of.’ He looked appealingly at Randall. ‘You do believe that, don’t you? That it’s nothing to be ashamed of, I mean.’
‘Of course I do,’ Randall said. ‘You just try and relax and we’ll try and get you on tonight’s plane.’ Poor bastard, he thought—getting caught.
That evening the expert on Russian affairs was on the BEA flight to London after a slight delay when, his body palsied with fear, he vomited in the airport toilet. No one attempted to stop him boarding the aircraft and no one in the American Embassy knew for sure why the Russians had bothered to photograph him at all. Another warning, perhaps; another reminder of their unrelenting vigilance; a further glimpse for their own satisfaction of Western decadence; a mistake maybe.
Randall finished his report on the homosexual expert on Russian affairs and considered Christmas. That evening there was a poker school at his own flat, tomorrow a dance at the British Club, Christmas Eve at the Ambassador’s, Christmas lunch at Dick Hellier’s, Boxing Day again at his own place with a few friends including the French girl Michele.
He enjoyed the poker because with a full house in his hand he relieved the Ambassador of 100 dollars. He didn’t dislike the Ambassador who was shrewd and as honest as a diplomat can ever be: it was merely a pleasure to outwit someone high in the profession into which his father had misdirected him.
At 3 a.m. they threw in their cards and drank whisky in heavy chunky glasses. The Ambassador who was pleased with his non-proliferation talks with Kosygin, Dick Hellier who played poker to pick up information rather than dollars, Harry Green who wanted to know how the Kosygin talks had progressed but not in the presence of Hellier whose agency would break the story too soon for his paper, Ray King who shared Elaine Marchmont as a secretary with Randall.
When Hellier went to the toilet Green said casually: ‘How did it go today, Mr. Ambassador?’
The Ambassador smiled and said: ‘The talks were held in a cordial atmosphere. That’s what the hand-out said, wasn’t it?’
‘I’ve never known talks which weren’t held in a cordial atmosphere,’ Green said.
‘You know I can’t go farther than that,’ the Ambassador said. ‘And you also know we’re here to play poker and chew the fat a bit—but not about official business.’
Hellier returned slightly out of breath.
Green said: ‘You hardly had time to do up your flies let alone wash your hands. Don’t worry, you didn’t miss a thing.’
Hellier said: ‘Jesus, Harry, anyone would think this was a Press briefing or something.’ He looked lost without a notebook.
King, who liked to anticipate the Ambassador’s feelings—often with staggering inaccuracy—said: ‘Come now, gentlemen, there’s a time and place for everything. Let’s have a little decorum.’ He was an intense, crew-cut, big-eared young man, deeply suspicious of Randall’s role in embassy affairs. He had on one occasion confided his suspicions to the Ambassador who had suggested that he mind his own business. King had later told his wife that he was impressed with the Ambassador’s blunt honesty.
The Ambassador changed the subject. ‘Luke,’ he said, ‘you’re sure lucky with cards.’
‘Lucky with cards unlucky with love,’ Randall said.
The Ambassador raised one eyebrow but didn’t comment and Randall had to admit once more that he was a good diplomat. A tough, wily little man who managed to negotiate with the Kremlin despite Vietnam; the ‘criminal record’ with which every American diplomat entered the Soviet Union. And he had not been awarded the job like so many ambassadors around the world because he had helped certain candidates in the elections: he, like the British Ambassador, had worked for it. You had to admire them, Randall thought, even if you didn’t admire their calling. You admired them because they were professionals. He sometimes wished he could come completely clean with the Ambassador; but that wasn’t the way it worked.
Harry Green said: ‘I’d like to go home but I can’t until Hellier goes.’
Hellier’s sharp face disapproved. ‘You Goddam Fleet Street guys are worse than the agencies,’ he said.
When they had gone the Ambassador said: ‘Smart work, Luke, getting rid of our Russian expert so fast.’
‘It wasn’t so smart,’ Randall said. ‘It was just a question of whether the Soviets were prepared to let him go. If they hadn’t wanted him to go he’d still be here.’
They regarded each other with respect and, encouraged by the camaraderie of the occasion, disappointment that the machinations of great powers could divide two men working for the same country.
‘Did you see the pictures the Soviets took?’ King asked.
‘Sure I saw them,’ Randall said.
‘Hot stuff, I suppose.’
‘Pretty hot.’
King addressed his glass of whisky. ‘What sort of thing were they up to? I mean I know approximately what they were doing. I just wondered if it was, you know, really bad.’
The Ambassador said: ‘I d
on’t think we need go into details, Mr. King. I consider the affair is best forgotten.’
Randall said: ‘Don’t worry, Ray, I’ve sent you one as a Christmas card.’
They had hired a small Russian band for the dance at the British Club. The musicians wearing crumpled black suits and small bow ties tucked inside their shirt collars played Glenn Miller and Tommy Dorsey with enthusiasm and discord, returning frequently to Mack the Knife for whom they seemed to have a great affection.
Dress was optional with extremes of fashion displayed by the British. Winged collars, the colour of neglected teeth, preserved for twenty years, cummerbunds corseting banquet bellies and, on younger diplomats who sometimes wore purple smoking jackets in the privacy of their homes, the latest in black mohair and watered silk. There was a lot of dowager bosom around, dimpled elbows and hidden female armour which creaked to the music.
The club, used by day as a classroom for diplomats’ children, was on the ground floor of one of the Kutuzovsky blocks. It was rectangular and cramped like all diplomatic premises—except the British Ambassador’s study—and sported a cramped bar at one end. Outside in the snow stood the inevitable militiaman. Sometimes the lights failed and the British charged the Kutuzovsky commandant with sabotage, the protest note being particularly strong if Bingo was interrupted.
Tonight there were paper decorations, balloons and plastic mistletoe under which you could kiss a secretary, an eager nanny or even your wife. There was also a touch of defiance about the gaiety; a breath of the Christmas spirit that pervaded pow camps.
Randall danced with Mortimer’s girl, Diana. He admired all he could see of her plump breasts—which was most of them—riding high and firm and contemptuous of her evening blouse. According to his knowledge of female anatomy which few disputed, he should have been able to see her nipples. But, unlike their parents, they were shy and somehow managed to stay hidden.
Diana performed a shake which severely taxed their modesty. ‘Gosh,’ she said breathlessly, ‘you do stare. You make me feel embarrassed.’
Randall, who knew that embarrassment had never been one of her weaknesses, continued to stare.
‘Stop it you sexy man,’ she said.
‘I’m asserting the customer’s rights,’ he said. ‘After all the goods are on display.’
‘But not to be handled,’ she said.
‘You disappoint me. Where’s Richard?’ Randall suspected that the show was being put on for Mortimer’s benefit.
‘Chatting up some other bird, I expect,’ said Diana with studied indifference. ‘He’s becoming a regular Casanova. He’s never been the same since he met that Russian dolly.’
Randall had trained himself never to show surprise. ‘You can’t blame him,’ he said, non-committally.
‘It’s not a question of blaming him. The poor old thing’s being chased. She’ll land him in trouble if he doesn’t watch out.’
‘I suppose her name’s Olga.’
Diana had been dancing close to him pushing her thigh between his legs. He felt her stiffen in his arms. ‘I shouldn’t have mentioned it,’ she said. ‘I didn’t realise you didn’t know about her.’ She pushed herself away from him. ‘Please forget what I said. I think I’ve drunk too much.’
‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘You haven’t said a thing.’
‘Promise?’
‘Promise.’
Randall returned to the bar and watched Mortimer sweating out an old fashioned waltz with the British Minister’s wife. He felt again the affection that had moved him when he watched Mortimer walking home after the fire. Paternal, brotherly—compassion for all those born to pain. At the same time he recalled the message urging him not to confine his contacts to Russians.
He began then to think of his children again. He resisted the thoughts and the images receded, hands waving at the airport, voices breaking into manhood.
On the floor a plump and jovial French correspondent took off his dinner jacket revealing broad yellow braces which he tried to slip over his partner’s shoulders in an elastic embrace, but the braces didn’t collaborate and zipped back on his chest. Older British statesmen smiled unhappily. The Frenchman’s partner was Michele. Randall grinned and saluted.
‘Please, relieve me from the attentions of this madman,’ Michele said.
The Frenchman, more French than Maurice Chevalier, kissed the inside of her arm from wrist to elbow. ‘Cheri,’ he said, ‘I am your slave.’ He produced his own sprig of artificial mistletoe from his pocket, held it aloft and kissed her on the lips.
The band tussled with ‘Twelfth Street Rag’. A diminutive butler with wrestler’s shoulders from the British Embassy jived, shook, frugged and twisted with joy at the brief release from more decorous duties. Two big nannies reliving the golden days of the American Club took the floor with American servicemen who pulled and propelled them around like spinning tops. A pompous young man from the British Embassy fell on his backside. And Richard Mortimer looked with disgust and delight at Diana’s bouncing breasts.
Giles Ansell whispered to Randall: ‘Smashing pair of tits.’
Randall said: ‘How’s the wife and baby?’
‘Fine, thanks. Although I can’t see what they’ve got to do with Diana’s tits.’
It was Hugh Farnworth who suggested swimming.
Mortimer said: ‘You can’t be serious. It’s about minus twenty out there.’
But Diana squealed with pleasure at the suggestion. Michele agreed less enthusiastically. Ansell, who blindly followed any suggestion Farnworth made and hoped to get his job one day, said: ‘It’s a bloody inspiration. A quick dip to sober us all up and then back to the booze.’ Mortimer went because it was a Moscow experience and, in any case, Diana insisted. Randall went because Michele was going and he didn’t give a damn anyway.
Outside it was minus 22 degrees Centigrade.
A cathedral or monastery once stood on the site of the Moskva swimming pool in between the embankment and Volkhonka Street. It had been demolished to make way for another Stalinist Gothic skyscraper like the Ukraine Hotel, the Ministry of Foreign Trade and the Moscow State University. But the plan was abandoned and it was decided instead to equip the city with the biggest swimming pool in Europe.
There was an island in the middle with a giant diving board and, for safety, the green water was divided by chains of floating cork. In winter steam rose from the heated water as thick as old-fashioned Jack the Ripper fog. And, according to rumour and legend, monks or priests haunted the mists seeking revenge for the destruction of the home they had shared with God. There had been stories of a spate of deaths, of the presence of a maniac who saw himself as the instrument of the holy men’s revenge. Predictably the Soviet authorities had refused to confirm or deny the stories.
Even tonight as the steam crystallised high above the arc lights and joined the falling snow there was a small queue.
‘They’d queue for sand in the desert,’ Farnworth said.
They stamped their feet on the polished snow, tucked their ears behind fur flaps and wished they’d never come. But no one admitted it, not even Randall who didn’t want to reveal middle-aged sanity to Michele.
‘It’ll be absolutely marvellous in the water,’ said Farnworth who, at the age of forty, clung firmly and boisterously to his Rugby club youth.
‘Super,’ said Diana with less than her usual enthusiasm.
Randall hoped for her sake that the cold hadn’t found a tunnel through her Persian lamb coat to her breasts. If it did there was a danger that the coy nipples might never again be seen by anyone.
Michele said: ‘I think you British are a little mad.’ She squeezed Randall’s arm and added: ‘And you Americans.’
Randall was pleased that he was included in the accusation.
Richard Mortimer said: ‘You know I just can’t get over it. Swimming at night in the snow next to the Kremlin.’
Randall gazed through the falling snow, across the mists, to the floating
baubles and spires where, as their subjects swam and splashed in this open-air Turkish bath set in crystal, the Soviet leaders tried to fashion the destiny of the world.
‘What about some carols?’ said Ansell who had been searching his mind for a suitable accompaniment to Farnworth’s enterprise.
But Farnworth knew the boundaries of diplomatic horseplay. And you did not indulge in it outside the flat, club or dacha. A swim in the snow was fine and drew attention to his youthful zest and leadership. But not Christian carols. ‘I don’t think that would be advisable, old man,’ he said.
‘Perhaps not,’ said Ansell.
At the entrance they were inspected cursorily by a woman in a white uniform to see if they had any obvious diseases. Farnworth had reminded them that they should bring soap and towel. Inside they were engulfed with sticky, antiseptic heat.
‘Afraid we’ll have to hire bathing caps,’ Farnworth said. ‘Compulsory here, you know. Girls and chaps.’
‘I’ve never worn a bathing cap in my life,’ Mortimer said.
‘Now’s your chance,’ said Ansell. ‘I’m afraid it’s a fact, old man. Luke will tell you. He’s been swimming here before.’
‘It’s quite true,’ Randall said. ‘And they’re all blue. You either look like a man with a very cold bald head or a naked astronaut with his helmet on.’
Farnworth said: ‘The best is yet to come.’
They left the girls and walked off self-consciously to the changing rooms where more women in white watched phlegmatically while, shirt-tails held firmly over the crotch, they struggled ungracefully into their trunks.
In the wash room they had a compulsory scrub-down under the showers. Each waited until the last possible moment before putting on his bathing cap. Still no one admitted the folly of the escapade.
At the entrance to the pool itself they put on their caps and refused to look at each other, aware that they looked even more ridiculous than men in shoes, socks and shirt-tails dressing after making love.
Down the steps they went into the water, ducked under the wall that separated the indoors from the outside and surfaced in the pool, blue bullet heads bobbing like marker buoys in a fog.
Angels in the Snow Page 17