‘Then clear off and leave us alone,’ Mason said.
But when they climbed into a taxi later two girls climbed in the other side. Mason said: ‘Get out, Richard, we’ll walk.’
But the taxi moved off at speed.
One of the girls, who smelt of hair lacquer and onions, put her hand on Mortimer’s knee and said: ‘We are naughty girls. We like to make love.’
Mason shook the driver’s shoulder. ‘Stop this taxi or you’ll find yourself in trouble,’ he said. The driver grinned and accelerated.
The girl tried to put her hand inside Mortimer’s trousers. Mortimer took her hand away and held her wrist. ‘I’m going to jump out at the next corner,’ he said.
‘You’ll break your neck,’ Mason said.
The cab had left the main road and was racing through side streets. Mason spoke loudly and urgently to the driver in Russian. The words were too quick and fluent for Mortimer to understand. But they made the driver brake suddenly and turn on the girls shouting at them.
The girls swore back. The girl beside Mortimer made a last attempt to charm him. She lifted her coat and skirt. ‘For you,’ she said. Mortimer couldn’t see properly but he realised that she was not wearing anything under the skirt. He was disgusted to find that his body was responding to the invitation.
The driver climbed out and opened one of the back doors of the cab. The girls jumped out gabbling with rage.
‘I’m afraid they are suggesting that we have a relationship with our mothers,’ Mason said.
The taxi moved off and the driver explained at length that he had not realised that the girls were immoral, that he would see they were punished and that he was eternally sorry that his Western friends for whom he had the greatest respect had been inconvenienced.
‘What on earth did you tell him?’ Mortimer asked.
‘I said that you were here for a conference with the secret police and that if he didn’t stop and throw the girls out he would soon be on his way to Siberia instead of a brothel.’
‘Not the Yemen this time,’ Mortimer said.
‘It’s beyond me how anyone can ever copulate with a couple of dirty bitches like that,’ Mason said.
Mortimer saw again fat white thighs and imagined the thick dark triangle between them. ‘It’s beyond me too,’ he said. He felt a little sick.
‘You’d better not tell Diana about this escapade,’ Mason said.
‘I don’t intend to tell anyone about it.’
Back at the hotel Mason said: ‘I think we need a nightcap.’
The dollar bar was crowded with Finns singing maudlin songs accompanied on the guitar by a young Russian in an open-necked white shirt with a threadbare collar. He sang Russian ballads in a low, beautiful voice, accepting every invitation to drink vodka with a sad nod of his head.
Mason ordered two beers and said: ‘Of course you realise you’re seeing Intourist Russia at the moment.’
‘I don’t think that was an Intourist attraction in the taxi,’ Mortimer said.
‘That was a tourist attraction anywhere in the world,’ Mason said.
The sad songs were having their effect on the Finns. One was weeping while another, with his arm round his shoulder, comforted him.
‘Time for bed,’ Mason said. ‘I know these people. Very soon they’ll be fighting the Russo-Finnish war all over again.’
The bed sighed as Mortimer sank into the deep soft mattress. Russian jazz, requests to buy his money and his clothes, an invitation to sleep with a slut. One day in Leningrad. Nina I love you, he thought.
Mason turned out the light. ‘Good-night, Richard,’ he said. ‘It’s been quite a day, hasn’t it.’
‘It certainly has,’ said Mortimer.
That night he made another discovery about Mason—he snored.
Next morning they flew back to Moscow.
They sensed the restlessness and tension immediately they walked into the embassy. The Foreign Secretary had already upset the diplomats by criticising the embassy filing system and angered the male receptionists by making jocular comments about their clothes. After that he had frozen a few sycophantic smiles by announcing that he was staying a few days longer than expected.
The Ambassador alone seemed unperturbed by his presence. He remained affable and undismayed by the prospect of a sojourn in the Yemen. He was respectful and attentive; but he seemed to observe the Foreign Secretary from a pedestal supported by a lifetime of sophisticated experience: the professional diplomat dealing with the politician.
The Foreign Secretary held a Press conference and talked enthusiastically about progress in his talks with the Kremlin leaders. Correspondents found it difficult to understand just what that progress had been.
At lunch-time Mortimer walked into the main hall and collided with the Foreign Secretary.
‘Hallo, brother,’ said the Foreign Secretary, ‘where are you rushing off to?’
He was smaller than Mortimer had expected. Grey and shrewd and as pert as a budgerigar.
‘I was just going to lunch,’ Mortimer said.
The Ambassador smiled indulgently beside the Foreign Secretary. In the background a young diplomat deputed to act as guide and nurse jumped about pulling faces and gesturing to Mortimer to get out of the way. The Foreign Secretary turned and caught him at it. ‘What’s that young man doing?’ he asked. ‘Is he on camera or something?’ He returned to Mortimer. ‘What do you do in the embassy, brother?’
‘I read the Russian papers mostly, sir.’
‘That’s a damn sight more than I can do. Anything about me in them today?’
‘Not so far, sir,’ Mortimer said. ‘But they’re always a bit slow about these things.’
‘I sometimes wish our Press was equally as slow. Anyway, keep at it, brother.’ He shook hands with Mortimer and moved on with his entourage towards the limousine waiting outside. The Ambassador nodded benignly at Mortimer.
Back at his flat that night Mortimer wrote to his mother: ‘You’ll never guess what happened today. I actually met the Foreign Secretary.’ That would please her, he thought. Or would it?—she had been a Tory all her life. ‘I thought he was extremely pleasant and kind considering that he was talking to the most junior member of the staff. I gained the impression that a lot of the bluff manner which is always publicised so much is defiance. In fact, mother, I thought he was a little sad. I can’t quite explain it. But I think he is jolly capable and just the sort of person needed to wake up some of the old school tie brigade—especially here in Moscow. Not that they’re a bad lot. The Ambassador himself is tremendously capable. It’s just that they all seem so out of date. They still carry on as if they owe allegiance to Queen Victoria. I’m afraid their kind of diplomacy doesn’t carry much weight with the Russians. And if it doesn’t impress the Russians what on earth must its effect be on the Chinese?’
He wrote a long letter because it distracted his mind from the knowledge that tomorrow was Saturday and in the afternoon he had a Russian lesson.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Spring breathed into his small flat through the open windows. It smelled of blossoms, of freshly-dug soil, of rain instead of snow. It was warm and exciting.
Far below men washed and polished their cars because now that winter had gone the penalty for driving a dirty car was a rouble. Already some diplomats and correspondents were packing sandwiches and heading for river beaches. When winter was so long you took advantage of every minute of spring and summer.
Nina was due in ten minutes. He had determined, after a sleepless night, not to question her about the National bar. It was none of his business anyway; and in any case he had convinced himself that when Mason saw her she had been a chance visitor. No, their relationship would continue as before. It was enough that he could see her twice a week. He owed it to his mother not to ruin his career.
He whistled cheerfully as he arranged mimosa in a vase on the window-sill. He put on the kettle for coffee, sat down and tried to read one of
his set books on Russia.
He looked at his watch. She was late. Perhaps she wasn’t coming. Perhaps she was ill, perhaps she was in trouble for leaving the apartment with him.
Two minutes later the door bell rang. Mortimer went to answer it and found that his hands were shaking and his lips were trembling.
She held a bunch of mimosa in her hand. ‘Hallo, Richard,’ she said. ‘I’ve brought you some flowers.’
‘They’re beautiful,’ he said.
She came into the flat. ‘But you’ve got some.’
‘It doesn’t matter. I only bought them because you were coming. Now it’s a joint effort.’
‘Isn’t it beautiful, this weather?’
Would you like to go out somewhere?’
She stood at the window gazing down at the sunlight mirrored in the cars, the children chasing a polished brown dachshund, the nannies knitting, the militiaman strolling for the first time without his overcoat, the new green fur on the sparse trees.
‘I would like to go into the country,’ she said. ‘But it is not advisable.’ The sunlight touched her hair with glossy lights.
‘We could go to a museum or somewhere like that where it would be part of the lesson. At least we could walk there and back in the sunshine.’
‘It seems to me it would not be advisable either for you or for me. Please do not think I would not like to walk in the sunshine with you. I would like nothing better.’
Mortimer said: ‘I understand.’ But while he was making coffee he said: ‘No one has been getting at you, have they?’
‘Getting at me? I don’t understand.’
‘No one has been saying anything about you and me?’
‘Not really,’ she said. ‘There is nothing for them to say.’
Vague fear stirred inside him. Fear for her rather than himself. ‘What do you mean “not really”?’
‘My brother Mikhail said I talked too much about you. But you know what he is like. He is very jealous—not like a brother at all.’
‘It’s none of his damned business to whom you teach Russian.’
‘Maybe he is right. Maybe I do speak too much about you.’
Pleasure joined the fear. ‘It’s good to know you talk about me.’
‘Perhaps it is not so good. Mikhail thinks that I should only like Russian men. He is always introducing me to his friends. But they are all so bitter and intense. They talk all the time of the bad things that are happening to the Soviet Union even though they love the country.’ She looked anxiously around the room and lowered her voice. ‘It is all right to speak here?’
‘I don’t know,’ Mortimer said. ‘It would be better if we went out.’
‘No, we cannot do that.’
‘Surely it’s not a crime in the Soviet Union to walk in the sunshine.’
She sat down and sipped her coffee. ‘Mikhail brought me here,’ she said. ‘It is quite possible that he is waiting for me in the street.’
‘It’s intolerable,’ Mortimer said. ‘He’s only your brother, not your guardian.’ Jealousy nosed its way into his thinking. ‘I suppose he is your brother.’ He walked to the window appalled at his words.
She looked puzzled. ‘Of course he is my brother. Who else did you think he was?’
‘I don’t know. I’m sorry.’
‘What a strange thing to say. I think it is time that you learned a little more Russian. Where are your books, Richard?’
He brought his books in from the bedroom. He sat beside her and made a pretence of learning. But he was conscious of the warmth of her body and once the touch of her hair on his cheek when they leaned over the books.
‘Leningrad has not improved your Russian,’ she said. ‘It is a beautiful city. Did you like it?’
‘I wish you could have come with me,’ he said. ‘My Russian is still very bad when I try to speak to people.’
‘It is because you do not concentrate during our lessons together.’
‘We’ve done enough for today. It’s like being back in a school classroom with the spring days beckoning outside. Tell me—why does your brother feel so strongly about you teaching me?’
‘I told you because I talk too much about you.’
‘I don’t see why you should bother so much about your brother’s views.’
‘You would not understand,’ she said. ‘We Russian families are very close together. We do not like being apart. Even when we marry we do not like to be too far away from each other.’
The jealousy searched around for more trouble. ‘Did he mind you going to the National bar?’
She moved away from him and stared out at the blue sky.
‘Well, did he?’
‘Who told you I went to the National bar?’
‘It doesn’t matter. I just wondered if your precious brother minded you going there.’
‘What is so wrong about having a drink in the National bar?’
‘Nothing except that it’s frequented by whores.’ It seemed like someone else speaking.
She blinked in the sunlight. ‘I didn’t know that you could say such ugly things.’
‘It’s not ugly. It’s a fact that you find whores in that bar.’
‘And you think I am one.’
He, too, was disgusted with the ugliness fermenting inside him.
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘All sorts of ordinary decent people go there for a drink.’
‘If they have hard currency. I presume you went there with someone who had currency.’
She looked at him sadly. ‘I went there with my previous employer. I did not see anything wrong in it. I was very stupid, I suppose. Then the authorities started a campaign against Russian girls going to these bars or even associating with people from the West.’
‘I know,’ Mortimer said. ‘One of the girls was sent to a labour camp.’
‘She was a bad girl.’
‘And you weren’t?’ He seemed to be unable to control his tongue.
‘It seems to me that you want me to deny things of which you have no right to accuse me.’
‘It seems to me that you are not in a position to deny them.’
She stood up and he thought he saw tears in her eyes. ‘It is time for me to go,’ she said.
‘Not already, surely.’
‘Yes, I must go.’ She walked quickly to the door and opened it.
‘I haven’t paid you yet.’
‘Could you please give me the money in coupons?’
‘You’d better hurry up,’ he said, ‘or your brother will be wondering what you’re up to.’
‘Good-bye, Richard.’
The door closed. Immediately remorse began to replace the jealousy. He went to the window and stood by the vase of mimosa looking down at the marionettes dancing in the sunshine below.
Richard Mortimer had three more visitors that day. He welcomed none of them.
How could he have behaved so badly? He wanted to contact her and apologise, but he had no idea where she lived. In any case it would be madness to visit her at home. He tried to analyse her farewell to see if he could detect finality in it. All worry about ruining his career evaporated: instead he worried that he had lost her.
The first visitor arrived almost immediately after Nina had left.
‘I thought I’d find you at home today,’ Harry Waterman said. ‘Who was that bit of stuff I saw leaving just now?’
‘That was my Russian teacher. It’s nice to see you, Harry, but as a matter of fact I was just going out.’
‘I won’t keep you a minute,’ Harry said. He was already inside the flat, hanging up his coat, settling himself in the sofa. ‘I just thought I’d pay my respects. We Brits have got to stick together. But I’ll tell you what I would like, Dick. I’d like a beer. I just fancy one at the moment.’
Mortimer said: ‘All right. I don’t want to appear inhospitable, but I do have to go out in a few minutes.’
‘That’s all right,’ Harry said. ‘Just a bee
r and a little chat and then I’ll be off.’ He drank noisily. ‘She’s quite a dish, isn’t she? I mean for a Russian girl. Has she been teaching you long?’
‘A few weeks. She’s a very good teacher.’
‘I hope that she’s only been teaching you Russian.’
‘That’s all,’ Mortimer said.
‘What’s her name?’
‘Her name’s Nina, although I don’t see that it’s any business of yours.’
Harry appraised Mortimer. His eyes scanned the room photographing its contents. ‘No offence meant,’ he said. ‘I was just curious. They’ve caused a bit of trouble in their time these women teachers. My wife knows a few of them, you know. I bet you didn’t know one of them’s defected. Dropped a Yank right in it. They won’t let him leave.’
Mortimer poured himself a beer. ‘I don’t think there’s much chance of Nina defecting,’ he said. ‘She’s far too patriotic.’
‘You can never tell. No one thought this other bird would hop it. She was always on about the glories of the great Soviet Union. That’s why they gave her an exit visa. Lucky bitch.’
‘You’ll get a visa one of these days, Harry.’
‘I’ll get one all right. Don’t you worry about that.’ He made a show of pouring the last drops from the bottle into his glass and Mortimer gave him another. He drank noisily. ‘What sort of work do you do at the embassy, Dick?’ he asked.
‘I’m in the political section,’ Mortimer said. ‘But I’m only the office boy.’ He wondered if Nina would ever come again, and he wondered how he could get rid of Harry.
‘That must be very interesting work.’
‘It’s quite interesting. I don’t have anything to do with anything very important, though.’
Waterman wandered around the flat looking at the pictures on the walls, picking up newspapers and magazines. ‘Have you finished with any of these, Dick?’
‘You can take them all.’ He hoped the gesture would be regarded as a farewell present.
‘That’s bloody good of you. I miss the sport. I used to support Fulham. Do you follow soccer, Dick? I could take you to a match if you like. That’s one thing I’ll say about our comrades—they know how to play soccer. What about it, Dick, why don’t you come along one day?’
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