Angels in the Snow

by Derek Lambert

  If it hadn’t been for her mother who perceived in her the intelligence lacking in her three sons she too would have become a housewife all too soon, cooking and cleaning and bearing children. But her mother, thinking—without rancour—what she might have been, insisted that Michele should receive a good education. And her father who agreed with almost anything his wife suggested, because she cooked so well and bore him fine children, agreed.

  Michele attended a good school where she won a scholarship and went to London where, because she was young and possessed a flexible brain and tongue, she learned perfect English. She joined the foreign service in Paris, returned to London, then came to Moscow.

  Her eyes were closed and she was breathing rhythmically. Randall looked at her supple body and wished he were younger. The age difference was acceptable now. But in ten years time what would it be like?—if, that was, they were still together then. An ageing roué with a young wife. Because wife she would have to be: she was not the sort to remain a mistress.

  Her body, he thought, looked innocent; except, perhaps, for the breasts. He wondered how many lovers there had been before him and was relieved that he was not jealous. Maturity had erased that particular torture. He could accept their present happiness without worrying about the past as perhaps a young man like Richard Mortimer would do. There might have been other lovers but he liked to think that she had never before been in love as she was now. Her attitude to physical love was warm and natural; he was very glad that at first it had not been easy.

  The sun had dried the water on her skin. She opened her eyes and the expression on her face had nothing to do with innocence. ‘It will be nice when we get to the forest,’ she said.

  And then she was on her feet, diving into the water. He dived heavily and ploughed after her knowing that he should beat her to prove that youth still pulsed inside the cage of approaching middle-age. His cupped hands touched the slimy river-bed and he ran through the shallows reaching the dry sand just in front of her.

  ‘Age before beauty,’ he said; and said no more until his breath returned.

  They drank beer from bottles which they had stuck in the sand in the shallow water and ate cold chicken and potato salad. And all the time Randall thought of what they would do in the forest.

  They left the beach while the sun was still high in the sky and Miami and Southend were, of necessity, reluctantly merging.

  They walked deep into the pine forest. And when they thought they had left people far behind they came upon an old woman guarding a herd of goats. The goats looked at them with shy, patient faces and moved nearer the shepherdess. The woman with bright black eyes in her centuries-old face watched them incuriously.

  They walked on, very small among the tall pine-trees. Silver birch and larch joined the pines and the forest thickened. Soon they found a small glade encircled by bushes. They lay down and looked at each other shyly. The sun was hot, and insects hummed in the grass. Desire was so strong in Randall that his hands trembled. He touched her face.

  She kissed his hand. ‘Do you think anyone can see us?’ she said.

  He shook his head.

  ‘Then I think I will take my dress off. It is so hot.’

  She slipped the dress over her head. He helped her with the rest of her clothes and she was naked. ‘And now you,’ she said.

  He took off his clothes and they lay looking at each other’s bodies. It seemed to him that he was a young man about to make love for the first time. He knew that it would be over quickly and that this time it didn’t matter.

  He leaned over and she came to him with a little moan. They moved urgently in the sunshine.

  ‘Luke,’ she cried. ‘Oh Luke,’ And it was over for both of them almost as soon at it had begun.

  ‘I never knew it could be like that,’ he said.

  ‘Nor did I. So quick, so sweet.’

  He gently kissed her breasts, stroked her belly, her thighs. Then covered her nakedness with her dress.

  ‘I feel young again,’ he said.

  ‘You are young,’ she said. ‘We are both young and there has never been anyone else for either of us’

  ‘I wish that were true.’

  ‘It is true, Luke. Only the present matters.’

  He dressed and smoked a cigarette, watching the smoke drift and melt in the yellow and green light.

  She moved close to him again and stroked his chest inside his shirt. ‘I want you again,’ she said. ‘Is that very bad of me?’

  ‘Very bad,’ he said.

  They made love again, gently this time, with deep leisurely satisfaction. In her eyes he could see the green of the forest flecked with sunshine.

  When they had finished she dressed and combed her hair straightened by the river water. ‘And now,’ she said, ‘I feel hungry.’

  Great bruised clouds gathered behind the Kremlin. Rockets burst in the sky in liquid red and green stars which dripped blurred sparks. The explosions, as sharp as cannon-fire, echoed and joined the muttering thunder.

  Randall and Michele stood holding hands and watching the May Day fireworks. On one side of them stood the vast new Russiya Hotel acknowledging the pioneering spirit of Conrad Hilton; on the other the old magnificent madness of St. Basil’s Cathedral.

  When blobs of rain began to splash heavily in the dust they went into the marbled hall of the new hotel where the eager staff tried with a measure of success to overcome traditions of inefficiency in catering which had settled into a national characteristic. But there were no free tables in the sprawling restaurant where a miniature Glenn Miller-style band was already playing. So they drank champagne cocktails in the bar upstairs and ate the cherries hungrily.

  They drove along the embankment where families were parading as they did every national holiday, and bought pizozhki and ice-cream filled with nuts. Then they cruised up Gorky Street into Leningradsky Prospect. There, near the Dynamo Stadium, a street had been roped off and strung with fairy lights for dancing and promenading.

  Randall and Michele promenaded in the sultry dusk. ‘You can’t accuse them of being stolid and unimaginative today,’ Randall said.

  ‘I feel as if I am finding Russia for the first time,’ Michele said.

  After grumbling a little the thunder clouds sailed away. The night was warm and the lights, red, green and yellow, were strung in loops so that, with the couples strolling and the music waltzing, you felt that the sea could not be far away.

  Randall watched the friendly people and thought of the rockets on Red Square. He listened to the music and heard again the repetitive threats of the speech-makers.

  ‘The trouble,’ he said, ‘is that this evening is an oasis in their lives.’

  They returned to the embankment where, beside the Kremlin walls, beneath its bright red stars, Muscovites were determined to stroll all night. Randall led Michele to the parapet and they gazed at a vast picture of Lenin fashioned in coloured lights on the other side of the river.

  Then he took her home. ‘I hope we will not always have to part like this,’ she said.

  ‘I hope so too,’ he said.

  But as he drove back, dodging the drunks, he remembered the second letter he had received from his wife that week. It told him that the operation on his son, a tonsilectomy, had been postponed—and re-affirmed her determination not to divorce him. And he wondered with fear if the love he and Michele shared was just an oasis, like the May Day mood of the Muscovites abroad that evening.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Since Yury Petrov the poet had revealed that he had masters other than the Muses and the manager of the taxi depot Harry had avoided visiting the beer hall. There were one or two similar establishments in Moscow but all of them were a Metro ride from Harry’s apartment. The alternative was a restaurant, but they were expensive and you were expected to eat; and in any case you didn’t meet good listeners in them. He could take his bottle to a park—but Harry had never been a solitary drinker: he could drink at home but the r
eproach from his wife and the hostility from his mother-in-law spoiled the pleasure.

  This particular hot and sticky evening Harry was more restless than usual. He read Izvestia, but it didn’t take him long because he was not interested in politics or current affairs; and tonight’s issue was almost entirely devoted to a long and predictable speech by Brezhnev in Bucharest. He scanned Soviet-sky Sport and noted with disgust that his football team had been beaten away by Kiev Dynamo. He sat in his shirt-sleeves and scratched at the sweat tickling his chest. ‘What you need,’ said his mother-in-law, ‘is a good wash.’

  Harry’s wife waited and wondered; she had often wondered recently why Harry no longer accepted such challenges.

  Harry smiled tolerantly. ‘You see,’ he said, ‘it’s not always me who starts it.’

  Marsha sensed his need for a drink. ‘Why don’t you go out for a drink, Harry? You never go down to the beer hall these days.’

  ‘I don’t know which is worse,’ said his mother-in-law, ‘the old days when he used to come home boozed every night or nowadays when he stays at home getting on everyone’s nerves.’

  Marsha looked fondly at Harry. ‘He doesn’t get on my nerves,’ she said. ‘I just thought it might be nice for him to go out. A man likes to have a drink with his friends. It’s only natural.’

  ‘I shouldn’t think he’s got any friends left.’

  ‘That is where you are wrong,’ Harry said with such conviction that he silenced his mother-in-law for a few moments.

  ‘Harry’s never had any trouble making friends,’ Marsha said.

  Harry fidgeted and tried to concentrate on the television—scenes from the current Russian stage version of West Side Story showing in Moscow. But when the programme ended and Battleship Potemkin began he could stand it no longer.

  ‘I can’t stand that bloody film again,’ he said.

  ‘It is a magnificent film,’ said his mother-in-law. ‘It captures the whole mood of Russia before the glorious Revolution.’

  ‘The trouble is Russia hasn’t changed much since the Revolution,’ Harry said.

  ‘Do you know they had to paint the colour on the red flag on the battleship on every reel of film that was ever issued,’ Marsha said.

  ‘It’s a pity they didn’t paint the whole bloody film red,’ Harry said. ‘It depresses me. The only bit worth watching is when all those Russians get shot on those steps.’

  ‘Go and have a drink,’ said his mother-in law. ‘Go and get drunk with these fine new friends of yours. We don’t want you here spoiling the film for us. Here. I’ll even buy you a drink if you promise not to come back here for a couple of hours.’ She took fifty kopeks from her purse, thought better of it and gave him twenty.

  Marsha kissed his thin, unshaven cheek. ‘Take no notice,’ she said. ‘You go out and have a nice drink. But try not to drink too much, Harry.’

  ‘I won’t get very drunk on twenty kopeks, will I?’

  Harry stayed for the massacre and then left.

  He spent the twenty kopeks at a beer wagon on the corner of the crumbling street. A group of boys were kicking a football against a wall. They stirred distant memories of boyhood near the London docks; of pride at his own agile skills with the ball and a winning shot angled between goalposts built from jackets and caps.

  The ball soared his way as he sucked at his beer. He trapped it and passed it back accurately. The boys shouted their approval and he experienced again the pride that had glowed within him long ago.

  He turned into the main street and walked slowly towards the beer hall. He had still not made up his mind whether to go in. And he had not yet admitted to himself that he was frightened of meeting Yury Petrov because he had so little to report.

  He lingered in front of shops in which he had no interest, shops with window displays so shallow and unimaginative that often you had little idea what they were selling. He walked more and more slowly among the shirt-sleeved men and their cotton-frocked women. The pavement was still warm from the day’s heat, the air was soupy and thunder rolled around the sky.

  He decided to look into the beer hall and see if Petrov was there. If he was he would wave casually and escape down the side-streets. Harry wondered if Nicolai Simenov with his smart talk and smart suits was aware of Petrov’s other occupation. Perhaps even Nicolai was one of them. At last Harry Waterman admitted to himself that he was scared.

  At the top of the steps a drunk was arguing sloppily with one of the big waitresses. She pushed him and he fell against the wall accusing her of assault. Harry greeted the waitress with the heartiness of a man who thought he should have been missed during his absence; she ignored him. He walked slowly down the hollowed steps.

  Inside it was crowded, but at least the stale air was cool. Harry bought a mug of beer and peered around apprehensively. But there was no sign of Petrov. In the corner he saw Nicolai Simenov sitting alone; he was wearing a brown, light-weight suit that was a couple of sizes too small for him. It made his protruding wrists look very frail.

  He spotted Harry and beckoned him over. ‘Comrade Waterman,’ he said, ‘where have you been hiding yourself?’

  ‘Nowhere in particular,’ Harry said. ‘I’ve been a bit off colour and Marsha’s not been well either.’

  ‘It’s good to see you. It’s such a long time since we had a chat that I’ve almost forgotten what that camp of yours was like.’

  Harry smiled, happy and surprised at Simenov’s pleasure in seeing him—even if he did appear to be a little drunk. ‘It’s good to see you too, Nicolai. Let’s sink some beer and then we can have a talk. I haven’t had a good natter for weeks.’

  Harry brought back two more mugs of beer. The beer was warm and filled their bellies without quenching their thirst.

  ‘What weather,’ Simenov said. ‘They say it’s been the hottest day for twenty years. I’m glad I managed to get hold of this light suit.’ He pulled his wrists back into the sleeves and waited for compliments.

  ‘A nice bit of whistle,’ Harry said.

  ‘Whistle?’

  ‘Whistle and flute—suit. Cockney rhyming slang. Where did you get it from?’

  Simenov winked. ‘A friend gave it to me,’ he said. ‘A friend who spoke very good English. Better even than yours.’

  ‘You’d better watch yourself, Nicolai,’ Harry said. ‘They’re very hot on that sort of thing these days. And you’d really be in trouble—working in a tax office, a position of trust, all that shit.’

  ‘I can look after myself,’ Simenov said. ‘Anyway, what’s wrong with buying a decent suit? I wouldn’t do it if there were any decent clothes in the Soviet Union. But they’re disgraceful. They’re too expensive and the more a factory rushes to fill its quota the shoddier they get. Why shouldn’t I buy a decent suit when I get the chance even if it is second hand? Why should I go short of clothes when thousands of people are living off the fat of the land? Take the footballers—they’re supposed to be amateurs and yet they’re bloody millionaires. One team’s even brought back a player who was convicted of rape. Why should I bother about what’s right and wrong when people like that are earning fortunes?’

  Harry realised that Simenov was drunker than he had first appeared to be. ‘Keep your voice down,’ he said. ‘You never know who’s listening.’

  ‘I don’t care what mother ——’s listening,’ Simenov said. ‘If that’s Socialism they can stick it.’ His rage fed upon itself. ‘Writers, artists, architects, all with apartments and dachas in the country and big cars to take them there. I ask you, Harry, what kind of equality is that?’

  Harry realised that he might be accused of sympathising with Simenov’s treason and he wanted to escape. ‘For Christ’s sake keep your voice down, Nicolai,’ he said.

  ‘I’m only talking the truth. That should not hurt anyone.’

  ‘Don’t be such a bloody fool. Shut your mouth and I’ll buy you another beer and tell you about the tarts at the camp.’

  He left Simenov t
rying to cover his wrists with his sleeves. When he returned with the beer Simenov was contrite. ‘I’m sorry, Harry,’ he said. ‘But why can’t they make us decent suits? You know how I like my clothes. I don’t like walking around in a uniform because that’s what Soviet suits are—badly made uniforms. And what about the women, poor bitches. They see all these fashion pictures in the magazines but they can’t buy any of them. It’s dishonest, that’s what it is, Harry. Dishonest.’

  ‘What’s got into you tonight, Nicolai?’ Harry said. ‘Apart from the beer and vodka, that is. I’ve never heard you speaking so bitterly.’

  Simenov guzzled beer and belched. ‘I just feel bitter,’ he said. ‘You can’t help it sometimes. People with everything and us with nothing. That’s what Socialism was supposed to cure. I wonder what went wrong.’

  ‘If you don’t shut up you’ll be going wrong,’ Harry said. He tried to divert Simenov’s interest. ‘Did I ever tell you about that fat tart we had at the camp? She was so shagged out by the guards that she didn’t care who was doing her or how many. She’d just lie there—back or front, she didn’t care—and we’d jump on and off and she wouldn’t know how many of us had been through her.’

  ‘Yes,’ Simenov said, ‘you told me.’

  Harry said carelessly: ‘I suppose Yury will be in soon.’

  Simenov put down his mug and stared at Harry. ‘You mean you haven’t heard?’

  ‘Heard? Heard what? I’ve heard nothing.’

  ‘Yury Petrov won’t be in. Yury Petrov is dead.’

  At first he experienced shock, then relief, then fear. ‘I didn’t know,’ Harry said. ‘Poor old Yury. What happened?’

  ‘No one really knows. His body was found floating on the river up by the Lenin Hills. No marks or anything on it. But Yury was a deep one. You never really knew what he was thinking with his poetry and all that. That’s why I’m a bit drunk tonight. I was thinking of Yury dying for nothing, dying with nothing. I began wondering what all this sacrifice and hardship is all about.’