Angels in the Snow

by Derek Lambert

  ‘I’d like to one day,’ Mortimer said. ‘Now I really must be off. I tell you what, Harry, it would be much more convenient if you phoned before coming round. That way I wouldn’t be rushing off like this.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about me,’ Harry said. ‘I’ve got all the time in the world. I’ll just drop in on the off-chance from time to time. Which way are you going? If you’re going into town perhaps you could drop me off somewhere near Red Square. I’m meeting the wife.’

  ‘As a matter of fact I’m going in the opposite direction,’ Mortimer said.

  He watched in his Anglia until Harry had disappeared. Then he got out again and walked slowly down Kutuzovsky turning right along the embankment. Most of the ice had disappeared from the river; instead branches of trees and clumps of spring-softened river-bank floated past on the sunlit water.

  Muscovites abroad this gentle afternoon wore blue and brown plastic raincoats, the women with head-scarves, the men in flat caps. Children skipped along eating ice-creams—in fact they had eaten ice-cream throughout the winter. The road steamed, there were moulds and spires of gold on the skyline and sparrows sprung on the atrophied grass just finding its strength in the warmth. Spring abounded but the mood of Richard Mortimer was as grey as winter.

  He cherished a remote hope that he might see her; that, hurt by his words, she might also have decided to walk beside the river. Twice he thought he saw her in the distance; but the swift joy died when he saw strange faces which were probably beautiful to someone but not to him.

  He was appalled at his jealousy; appalled at the viciousness in his character which he had not suspected; appalled at the prospect of not seeing her again. If she returned he would be content just to see her twice a week.

  He left the river and turned towards Kyevsky Railway Station. He walked into the dingy cathedral of a building, mingling with the waiting crowds and wandering around the booths selling sausages and fruit and propaganda. There were soldiers everywhere in long tight boots, the skirts of their tunics sticking out at the back from beneath their belts. The faces of fifteen republics—hard, bleak Siberian faces, brown-eyed Turkish faces from the South, all very young, all wearing Red Army expressions. They came from Estonia, Georgia, Kazakhstan and from the Republic of Russia itself and yet, Mortimer thought, to the tourist they were all just Russians.

  He scanned the patient crowds sitting on the benches eating sausages or cheese and drinking fruit water. Blue raincoats, brown raincoats—he couldn’t remember which Nina wore. The passengers waited impassively beside cardboard suitcases and bursting paper parcels as if they no longer cared whether their trains arrived or departed.

  Mortimer walked back to Kutuzovsky. The sky was bruising, the air chilling, the spring scents fading. Families out strolling hurried home, buses filled up. Mortimer lost all hope.

  When he crossed the car park pink cloud ribbed the sky to the west. He walked, head down, through the children and joined two Cubans in the lift. No one spoke.

  Mortimer’s next visitor was a girl. When he opened the door she thrust past him and went into the lounge. She was blonde, heavily built but exuding sensuality. Her breasts were large, and—because of their easy movement and the outline of her nipples—Mortimer suspected that she wore nothing beneath her cotton blouse.

  And now, he thought, the ploy about which he had been warned with such monotony. Really it was a classic Saturday for the newcomer to Moscow: a quarrel with a beautiful Russian girl with whom he was in love, a visit from an outcast from the West, and now—or so it seemed—an attempt at seduction by a Muscovite tart. It looked as if the attempt was going to be as gauche as those described by Randall. He left the front door open.

  ‘Yes?’ he said. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘You have a cigarette, perhaps?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. But what can I do for you?’

  The girl crossed her legs. She wore black stockings and Mortimer could see white flesh beyond. Already two of the buttons on her blouse had come undone and he could see the beginnings of the heavy breasts. Despite his mood he found himself imagining them naked, swinging free with lazy, pendulous movements. So it was true—however crude, however amateurish, seduction Soviet-style could succeed. But not with him.

  ‘I am told,’ she said, ‘that you are interested in music.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘I am told you buy good records at the dollar shop. And’—she leaned forward with coy intent—‘I have seen you at the Bolshoi. I liked the look of you. I hope you do not think I am being too—how do you say it?—backward?’

  ‘Forward,’ Mortimer said.

  ‘I believe in the West it is the man who introduces himself to the girl. It is not so in the Soviet Union. And I think to myself that you look shy. So the only thing for me to do is to come and see you.’ She leaned forward even farther and Mortimer had a sudden vision of the breasts, warm and milky, smothering his face. ‘You do not mind?’

  ‘I’m afraid I do,’ Mortimer said. ‘I’m sorry but I’m engaged to be married.’ He was ashamed of his thoughts.

  Then she was across the room and standing close to him. He could smell her body and the lacquer on her hair. ‘Am I not attractive to you?’

  ‘You’re a pretty girl,’ Mortimer said. ‘But, as I told you, I already have a girl friend and we’re very much in love.’

  She pulled at the shoulder of the blouse so that half of one of the breasts was revealed. Now was the time to act. Mortimer remembered Randall’s advice. He evaded her and walked swiftly towards the door.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she said.

  ‘Across the landing to get a friend of mine. He’s a cameraman with a British news agency.’

  ‘No, please,’ she said. ‘I am sorry I disturbed you. I will go now.’

  Mortimer waited at the door. He felt rather proud of himself for having remembered the Russians’ pathological fear of cameras.

  She clattered down the stairs, breasts swinging wildly. So that was that, Mortimer thought. The attempt had been made. It could hardly have been more crude. The frightening aspect was that he had glimpsed just how easily such attempts could succeed if a man was lonely and frustrated and perhaps a little drunk.

  The next visitor was not so unexpected: it was Diana.

  ‘It’s wonderful to have you back,’ she said.

  ‘I was only away one night and I saw you at the embassy yesterday.’

  ‘You don’t seem very pleased to see me. You’re a very moody person, aren’t you, Richard?’

  ‘I suppose so. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I can guess what you want after your journey—a few home comforts.’ To underline the message she sat down beside him and put her hand on his thigh. ‘I thought we might go into the country tomorrow. I’ve brought a few things with me. I could make some sandwiches and we could start off early in the morning. I might even stay here the night. That is if you want me to.’ She squeezed his thigh. ‘Do you want me to, Richard?’

  If he rejected her he would be alone. He saw the shadows washing the ceiling and an anguished voice calling to him. ‘Of course I do,’ he said.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  In April Luke Randall received instructions from Washington to fly to Khabarovsk in the Far East of Russia to meet a contact. He applied to the Ambassador for permission to take a week’s leave within the Soviet Union.

  The Ambassador ushered him into a room which experts had declared to be unbugged. ‘I guess I don’t have all that much say in whether you go or not,’ he said.

  ‘I wouldn’t say that, sir,’ Randall said.

  ‘And I suppose I’m not supposed to know too much about the purpose of your vacation?’

  ‘I just thought I’d like to take the sun somewhere near the Chinese border.’

  ‘One of these days people like you are going to get us all thrown out of the Soviet Union.’

  Randall grinned. ‘I guess that’s a better proposition than being held inside it
.’

  The Ambassador didn’t smile. ‘You know you’ll have to take someone with you.’

  ‘I know,’ Randall said. ‘It’s a problem. I’ve been trying to figure it out but I can’t think of anyone suitable.’

  ‘What about King?’

  Randall grimaced. ‘I don’t think he would be quite suitable. In any case he’ll have to stay here and take over my work while I’m away.’

  ‘Then whom do you suggest?’

  ‘I’m not sure you’ll approve of what I’m about to suggest.’

  ‘If you’re not sure then I’m darned sure I’m not. Who is it?’

  ‘Well, I thought perhaps Miss Marchmont could tag along with me.’ He spoke rapidly to stem the protests. ‘I know it’s not normal practice but it would make the Russians less suspicious—they’d think we were just having a ball together. And in any case I can’t think of any suitable male in the whole embassy.’

  ‘It hasn’t occurred to you, I suppose, that it will cause a scandal in the embassy.’

  ‘It had occurred to me.’ He hated himself for what he was about to say. ‘But honestly, sir, can you imagine anyone seriously suspecting anything like that with Elaine Marchmont?’

  ‘She’s a nice enough girl.’

  ‘Sure, she’s a nice girl. That’s my point.’

  The Ambassador walked restlessly around the room. ‘I guess you’re right in that respect,’ he said. ‘Okay, Luke, have it your way. But don’t think I like it. I don’t like anything about this kind of business. But I reckon it’s out of my hands anyway. You go off to the Far East on your vacation and don’t make any trouble for us back here.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Randall said.

  They walked to the door and the Ambassador turned and stretched out his hand. ‘All I hope,’ he said, ‘is that you play this game as well as you play poker.’

  Randall said: ‘Even better—the opposition’s not so tough.’

  Back in his office Luke said: ‘Come down for coffee, Elaine, I’ve got news for you.’

  In the canteen Hans tossed salad with nonchalance and dished out hamburgers with diffidence. From his attitude it was presumed that he had now accumulated enough money to return to Germany to open a restaurant.

  ‘What’s come over you, Luke?’ Elaine asked.

  ‘You know how you’ve always wanted to go to Siberia.’

  ‘I have?’

  ‘You know you’re always talking about it. Bermuda, Hawaii, Siberia.… Well, I’ve decided to take you on vacation. I wasn’t sure which of the three you would prefer but I guessed Siberia. Was I right?’

  ‘When did you manage to slug that coffee you’re drinking with vodka?’

  ‘We’re going to Khabarovsk,’ Randall said.

  ‘We are? That’s great. That really is one of the places I’ve always wanted to visit. When are we going?’

  ‘As soon as we get clearance.’

  ‘Are you kidding?’

  ‘No,’ Randall said, ‘I’m not. I’ve got to go there on business and I asked the Ambassador if I could take you along.’

  She stirred her coffee thoughtfully, nibbling at her bottom lip. Colour touched her pale cheeks. ‘You certainly sweep a girl off her feet,’ she said. ‘Why did you choose me—because I’m the girl people are least likely to gossip about?’

  Randall grinned. ‘Miss Marchmont,’ he said, ‘kindly remove that chip from your shoulder. Sit back and enjoy the prospect of your big treat. It’s not every girl who can say that she’s been invited to elope to Khabarovsk.’

  ‘You can say that again. Especially when the lucky girl doesn’t even know where Khabarovsk is.’

  ‘It’s about four thousand miles from here in the Far East of Russia.’

  ‘Gee,’ she said, ‘what a lucky girl I am. What’s this business of yours? You haven’t got another girl there, have you?’

  ‘Her name’s Olga,’ Randall said. ‘Or was it Natasha?’

  He said good-bye to Michele and made love to her with a tenderness which, in his youth, he had hoped he would one day experience. He had long ago abandoned the hope.

  He was warm with the knowledge of her love as he waited with Elaine Marchmont at the airport for the aircraft that would fly them across Asia. They waited in the Intourist lounge with a troup of African dancers from Dahomey on their way to perform in Tashkent. The girls tied each other’s hair into piccaninny knots; the men in tapered trousers and short jackets talked and bent themselves double, convulsed with chocolate-brown laughter. Both the planes to Khabarovsk and to Tashkent were delayed; but the Africans were not worried about the delay; life was a sunny, indolent experience erupting now and then with laughter and music, not the endurance test which white men made it.

  Russians, whose attitude to negroes did not necessarily reflect Kremlin policy, pointed at them and sniggered. A blonde girl, bursting out of her shabby uniform, who was selling amber jewellery and wooden dolls in the lounge grimaced at Randall. ‘They come straight from the jungle, it seems to me,’ she said.

  ‘They’re the happiest people you’re ever likely to see,’ Randall said.

  She looked puzzled at the reaction to her conversational gambit.

  Elaine said: ‘Gee but they’re graceful. I’d love to go to Africa one day.’

  ‘The way they do things in West Africa is great training for Russia,’ Randall said. ‘It’s a toss up who are the slower and more inefficient—the Soviets or the West Africans.’

  A woman announced over the loudspeaker that their aircraft had been delayed for another hour. She gave no reason.

  ‘There’s your answer,’ Elaine said. ‘The Soviets must be.’

  Their journey had already been twice confirmed and postponed; their tickets had then been made out to the wrong destination; their cab driver had set out for the wrong airport and demanded more money for the extra mileage; the aircraft had now been delayed for five hours without reason. It was nearly midnight.

  Contented snores joined the laughter as a couple of male dancers stretched out on the sofas and returned in their dreams to their lazy villages.

  Randall and Elaine Marchmont went into the restaurant and ordered a carafe of brandy. Just as it arrived an Intourist girl came and led them to the aircraft. The rest of the passengers waited patiently on the tarmac as they, foreigners—and Americans at that—were ushered up the steps first to the big, pregnant TU 114 with as many propeller blades on it as a lawn-mower.

  They waited another hour in the aircraft before it took off. No one complained. Not even Randall who was already anticipating his return to Michele in a few days time. He smiled fondly to himself as he thought of their love-making earlier in the day. He was glad that, at first, she had refused him. In the past girls had gone to his bed too readily as if it were customary with them, and very soon afterwards, following the male code that condones promiscuity only by males, he had despised them.

  The stewardesses, wearing soiled blue uniforms and tattered headscarves, watched with detachment as soldiers, sailors, farmers, builders and technicians barged up and down the spacious plane, with its luggage racks which looked like the racks of an old-fashioned express train, searching for seats.

  ‘At least two passengers will be thrown off,’ Randall said. ‘They’re always over-booked.’

  ‘Supposing it’s us.’

  ‘It won’t be us,’ Randall said. ‘We get the treatment. We’re visitors to the Soviet Union and it would never do to make us victims of their Goddam inefficiency. Especially as we happen to be Americans.’

  A few minutes later three Russians were ordered off the aircraft. They left unhappily but without protest: there was no point in protesting against authority in a life that had been arranged for them by authority.

  The aircraft took off—without instructions to passengers about cigarettes or safety belts. An hour later at 2 a.m. a stewardess awoke them and handed them a meal of raw fish, fat ham and desiccated cake on a battered tin tray. The other stewardess
gave them plastic glasses of flat mineral water.

  ‘Gee, Luke, this is heaven,’ Elaine said. ‘One thing about you—you always do things big. When they elope other girls have to put up with champagne and caviar and first-class travel all the way to the Riviera.’

  He patted her thin hand. ‘You’re just a very lucky girl,’ he said.

  ‘No kidding, Luke, I like travelling in a flying cattle truck toying delicately with a slab of raw fish washed down with a draught of stagnant water.’

  ‘You’re gorgeous,’ he said. ‘I’m glad I brought you along. Just for the conversation if nothing else.’

  ‘You might not believe it,’ she said, ‘but I am enjoying it. I really am. It’s an adventure.’

  He thought of Michele in bed asleep, knees drawn up, hands crossed at her breast, shadows under her eyes fading as sleep nourished her. He imagined himself kissing her and seeing her smile without waking. In front of him a white-faced boy with cropped fair hair munched steadily through his meal without leaving a crumb—the son of parents who had known hunger. He thought of his own children and realised guiltily that he had not thought of them so much in recent weeks.

  Elaine lay back in her seat and closed her eyes. ‘You know something,’ she said, ‘it’s sort of comforting relaxing here beside you at night. I guess that must be one of the good things about marriage—sharing sleep. I wonder if you can meet in your dreams if you know someone well enough.’

  ‘Maybe. I’ve never known anyone well enough.’ She should have had a husband, he thought, glancing at her peaceful face. Why did men chase the bitches of the world when there were girls like Elaine wanting only to love and be loved? Instead they chose big breasts and legs that opened easily immediately you tried to insert the key—and spent the rest of their lives regretting their choice. He hoped that he was not hurting Elaine Marchmont.

  Together they slept but shared no dreams. When they awoke the aircraft, overtaking and defeating time, was gobbling up the day. The sun rose and set within a few hours. Beneath them they saw pastures of pearled grey cloud and, occasionally, the lunar landscapes of Siberia veined with rivers.