Angels in the Snow

by Derek Lambert

  The Ambassador coped with imperturbable competence and wished it would stop raining. Champagne, weak whisky, gin and tonic, mineral water and fruit juice slid down five hundred throats. Women chattered loudly while their men went about their business which was finding out as much as possible about other men’s business. Indiscretions were what they listened for; trivia was what they mostly heard. But the most innocuous remark in between a sip of champagne and a nibble of smoked salmon might later be ponderously interpreted and dispatched to distant employers. The uniformed spies swopped useless and rehearsed information and stood awkwardly as if they missed their troops or their ships or their aircraft. The real spies tried to spot each other. Everyone sweated a lot.

  And everyone wondered if the Kremlin would send senior representatives in view of Russia’s pro-Arab line and Britain’s pro-Israeli feeling. From the windows of the embassy the other guests could see the Kremlin where the folly of the Egyptians and the loss of face which the Soviet Union might suffer by not intervening in the war were now being discussed.

  Britain, it was generally agreed later, did not do too badly considering the crisis and the warmongering accusations against the West which were just getting laboriously under way in the Soviet Press. The Kremlin didn’t send the very big wheels to the reception but on the other hand they didn’t send very small cogs. Giles Ansell said the Ambassador looked pleased but Farnworth said he always looked pleased—even when the Foreign Secretary arrived.

  Then it stopped raining and the guests went into the garden for strawberries and cream and more champagne dished out by three footmen and served by Russian maids in black uniforms.

  The trees and the flowers were dripping and high heels sank deep into the turf.

  Mortimer found himself with the Sikh, the manager of British European Airways, a Jewish businessman and a Russian artist. They talked about the war. After a while they were joined by a young Russian, sartorially smarter than any diplomats present, who had acted as interpreter for Kremlin leaders on visits to the West. He spoke with an English accent in the presence of Englishmen, a trans-Atlantic accent in the company of Americans. His diction was as immaculate as his clothes.

  ‘Israel is fighting for her life,’ said the Jewish businessman. ‘It is a gallant struggle. Thank God she is winning.’

  ‘Israel is a puppet in the hands of Imperialist aggressors,’ said the young Russian. Then when he had disposed of the clumsy Pravda line he argued with skill and clarity which was difficult to defeat.

  Evening sunshine lit the garden and a bird sang in the bushes. The leaves were set with jewels of water each imprisoning a rainbow.

  The debating skills of the Russian finally silenced his companions and he moved on to win further battles for the Arabs who had so far won none in the war.

  ‘He is terribly good, isn’t he?’ said the Sikh in his polite voice. ‘But of course it is all an act really. The Russians are terribly furious with the Arabs for presuming that they would help them fight the Israelis. The Arabs have been very very impetuous.’

  ‘That is true, I think,’ said the artist, a tall, dishevelled man with paint in his fingernails. ‘The Soviet Union does not want another world war. If we had intervened there would have been one. Egypt betrayed us.’

  ‘That’s hardly the Soviet line, is it?’ Mortimer asked.

  ‘I am an artist not a politician,’ said the artist.

  ‘I am afraid for the Jews in Russia,’ said the Jewish businessman. ‘Not for myself because I have a British passport. Already the Russians have stopped exit visas for Jews who have paid a lot of money for their fares to Israel as immigrants.’

  ‘It’s hardly surprising, I suppose,’ Mortimer said. ‘It wouldn’t endear the Russians to the Arabs if they let them go.’

  ‘They will go eventually,’ said the artist. ‘Of that I am sure. There is little anti-Semitic feeling any more. Why, we have even allowed the Jews to build their own bakery in Moscow. But it saddens me to hear these suggestions that the Soviet Union will take some sort of revenge on the Jews living here. As I say I am an artist and not a politician and it saddens me to hear such prejudice. It is sad because people merely repeat what they have been taught to think. And until they start to listen to each other there is no hope for the world. Artists and not politicians should govern Mankind.’

  Why didn’t you give your views on the Russian attitude to the Arabs when our persuasive young friend was here just now?’ the airline manager asked.

  ‘Because what I said would not have interested him. He is committed to the party line even when he knows he is wrong. It is very sad.’

  The Ambassador, making his rounds and admiring his flowers at the same time, joined them. ‘Absolutely glorious now, isn’t it,’ he said.

  ‘Might I ask you, sir,’ said the Sikh, ‘what are your views on this very dreadful conflict in the Middle East?’

  The Ambassador was non-committal. ‘My Government is very distressed at the outbreak of hostilities and the greater implications. What is the latest information you have?’

  The Sikh took a step backwards as the Ambassador took over the initiative. ‘Only what I heard on the BBC,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, thank heavens for the Corporation at times like this,’ the Ambassador said. ‘I don’t know what we’d do without them.’

  He smiled gently and moved on leaving the four of them wondering what they would do without the BBC.

  ‘A very able man,’ said the Sikh.

  ‘He’s jolly good,’ Mortimer said.

  Diana joined them showing less of her bust than usual as a mark of respect to the Queen. She was holding a glass of champagne smudged with her lipstick. ‘Hallo, Richard,’ she said. ‘Isn’t it a super turn-out?’

  The Sikh, the airline manager and the artist wandered off in the direction of the strawberries and cream.

  Diana said: ‘God those Sikhs are sexy. I wonder what they’re like without their turbans on.’ She took his arm proprietorially. ‘And you’re not so bad yourself, Richard.’

  ‘How much champagne have you drunk?’

  ‘Not quite enough,’ she said. ‘Be a darling, Richard, and get Diana another glass.’

  Richard headed towards a waitress and hoped that someone would stop him on his way. Giles Ansell and his wife obliged. Mrs. Ansell’s pekinese face was crowned ludicrously with pink tulle and cherries. They were talking to a large belligerent West African.

  Ansell introduced them thankfully and the West African said: ‘What do you think Mr. Mortimer, sir, of this bandit aggression in the Middle East?’

  ‘It rather depends who you think are the bandit aggressors,’ Mortimer said. He remembered the Ambassador’s deft touch. ‘What is your latest information?’

  The West African grinned hugely with his lips, but the rest of his face remained hostile. ‘No, Mr. Mortimer, sir, I asked you a question. What do you think of the unprovoked attack by the Israeli bandit aggressors?’

  ‘I think it’s too early to apportion blame,’ Mortimer said, and was rather proud of the reply.

  ‘Clearly they are backed by Western Imperialists,’ said the West African.

  Mrs. Ansell said: ‘I’ve had a terrible job getting Giles away from those French women over there.’

  ‘They’re very chic, aren’t they,’ Ansell said. ‘But not half as well-turned out as you, my love.’ He peered apprehensively at the spiteful face beneath the cherries.

  The West African said: ‘You still haven’t answered my question, Mr. Mortimer, sir.’

  Mortimer said with what he hoped was a disarming smile: ‘I think you are a little prejudiced.’

  The smile was erased. ‘We in Africa have had much experience of your imperialism,’ he said.

  ‘Then why do you stay in the Commonwealth?’ Ansell asked.

  ‘Because we think that you owe us a debt. One of these days we will expel Britain from the Commonwealth.’

  The Ambassador on his second circuit joined them. �
�That sounds rather a drastic statement,’ he said. ‘Especially on the Queen’s birthday.’

  The West African’s face creased back into a smile. ‘I was only joking, Your Excellency, sir,’ he said.

  Diana materialised in search of her champagne. ‘Honestly, Richard,’ she said. ‘You are the absolute limit leaving me there dying of thirst.’

  A waitress carrying a tray of drinks passed by and the Ambassador removed a glass of champagne and gave it to Diana. ‘There you are, my dear,’ he said. And added: ‘I must say I think we are very lucky at the embassy to have such attractive young ladies in our midst.’ His smile embraced Diana and Mrs. Ansell.

  The guests were departing and soon only the British diplomats, the uniformed attachés and one or two guests who regarded cocktail sausages as their evening meal remained. One of them was the artist. He took Mortimer aside and said: ‘I believe we have a mutual friend.’

  ‘Really,’ Mortimer said. ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘A friend of mine called Mikhail Bashkirov. He’s a writer.’

  For a moment the name didn’t register with Mortimer. He looked puzzled.

  The artist said: ‘His sister teaches you Russian, I believe. You met him at the Bolshoi.’

  Mortimer felt apprehensive. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I met him once at the ballet. His sister is a very good teacher.’

  ‘She has, I believe, a soft spot for you.’

  Mortimer flushed. ‘I’m sure she hasn’t,’ he said. ‘Who told you that? Her brother?’

  ‘That is so. He is a strange man. A man of passionate beliefs and ideals. I do not think he likes the idea of his sister being fond of a Western diplomat.’

  ‘Did Mikhail ask you to warn me?’

  ‘Not exactly. He mentioned his feelings the other night. He also said that I might meet you here today.’

  Mortimer glanced around but there was no one near. ‘Tell Mikhail,’ he said, ‘that I am not aware that his sister is fond of me. In any case her feelings are not something that I can control.’

  The artist shrugged. ‘You could always get another teacher.’

  Anger flickered. ‘Why should I? Nina is an excellent teacher. It would be a reflection on her ability if I asked for a replacement.’

  ‘It seems to me that if you don’t the reflection might well be on your character. You say that you are not aware that she has become fond of you. What about your feelings Mr. Mortimer?’

  ‘It is none of your business.’

  ‘Hardly a denial I feel.’

  ‘You seem to forget,’ Mortimer said, ‘that I don’t have to deny anything to you.’

  ‘Very well. I’ll tell Mikhail that I met you.’

  ‘Tell him what you like,’ Mortimer said bravely. He knew that tonight, despite the brevity of the darkness in between the reluctant dusk and the eager dawn, the old torments would return.

  ‘And now I must go,’ said the artist. ‘I am afraid I am the last guest. It has been very interesting meeting you, Mr. Mortimer.’

  After he had gone Farnworth strolled up and said: ‘I didn’t know you were on such good terms with our artist friend, Richard.’

  ‘I only just met him,’ Mortimer said.

  ‘He’s a bit of an enigma. One of the rebels who got into trouble with the system. But he conforms these days. Paints pictures of Lenin for the anniversary celebrations instead of abstracts which are not permitted. I don’t suppose we’d have invited him if he hadn’t been okay with the Kremlin.’

  Ansell said: ‘What about continuing the party round at my place?’

  ‘Damn good idea,’ Farnworth said.

  ‘We’d love to, wouldn’t we, Richard?’ Diana said.

  ‘Fine,’ Mortimer said. He hoped the party would carry him through to the dawn.

  ‘Then that’s fixed,’ Ansell said. His wife looked less enthusiastic.

  The bird stopped singing in the bushes and looked hungrily at the cherries on Mrs. Ansell’s hat.

  On the Saturday that the Soviet Union broke diplomatic relations with Israel Russians and Arab students staged a good-humoured demonstration outside the British Embassy. Fifty or so men and women lazily waving banners.

  It was very hot and the river behind them moved like oil. Militia lolled about in the background in case of trouble—but they had little hope of any this leisurely afternoon. Across the river the Kremlin sprawled in the sunshine offering itself to tourists.

  The gates of the embassy were locked. The Ambassador who lived there peered through a window once and then returned to a well-earned siesta after the morning’s informal Queen’s Birthday reception for the British community. A male receptionist and a communications clerk watched briefly before deciding that the demonstration was even more boring than their Saturday afternoon duties.

  A man in a loudspeaker van delivered anti-Israel and anti-Imperialist recitations, simultaneously perusing a sporting magazine. The women chanted with lukewarm support from the men who looked as if they should have been at a football match.

  Richard Mortimer chanced upon the demonstration on his way to the embassy to pick up some papers which he had left behind. He had walked there because it meant that he would be longer away from the apartment and the microphone ears which he now believed listened to his every movement.

  He stood at the back of the crowd for a while acutely aware that he was on the wrong side of the gates. If he tried to get in the demonstrators might decide that they would have to follow.

  The demonstrators showed no sign of leaving and Mortimer, deciding finally that it was too incongruous to be standing with a crowd demonstrating outside his own embassy, walked away along the embankment.

  Mikhail Bashkirov joined Mortimer as he crossed the bridge leading into Kutuzovsky. ‘You must excuse me,’ he said, ‘but I must talk to you.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m in a hurry,’ Mortimer said. ‘I have to get ready to go out this evening.’

  ‘This is very important. It will not take long.’

  ‘We can go up to my flat if you like.’

  Mikhail shook his head emphatically. ‘That would not be a good idea. People listen in your flat.’

  ‘Do you know that for a fact?’

  ‘Not all Westerners flats are bugged,’ Mikhail said. ‘But yours is. That is what I want to speak to you about.’

  Fear returned and he shivered in the heat of the afternoon. ‘Where shall we go then? The Ukraine?’

  ‘I think we should stay out of doors,’ Mikhail said. ‘That way it is safe. Or as safe as it ever is in Moscow.’

  They walked past the Ukraine Hotel, where a delegation of despondent Czechs was disembarking from a battered coach, and headed towards the embankment.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Mortimer asked.

  ‘Nowhere in particular. I cannot go to your home, you cannot come to mine. That is how it is in Moscow. So we shall talk as we walk along.’

  ‘What is it you want to tell me?’

  The premature lines on Mikhail’s forehead deepened into a frown. He wore a blue shirt, dark slacks and sandals. He dug his hands deeps into his pockets and scowled at the sunny day. ‘Nina has told me everything,’ he said.

  ‘I see.’ Mortimer stopped, leant on the stone parapet and gazed at the slow water. Could it only be nine months ago that he left his mother at the airport and boarded a plane for the frozen and alien territory beyond the Iron Curtain? The jokes, the repetitive advice about Russian girls when he arrived … his body was shaking uncontrollably.

  ‘You are cold?’

  ‘No,’ Mortimer said. ‘I’m scared.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ Mikhail said.

  Mortimer looked at him in surprise. ‘Sorry? Why are you sorry? I presume you have met me to tell me to keep away from your sister. Or to threaten me perhaps.’

  ‘In a way,’ Mikhail said. ‘But first I must try and explain. None of this would be necessary in your part of the world. That you must understand first. You must also understand that although I
do not approve of some aspects of our system—aspects which make this conversation necessary, for instance—I do love my country. I would do anything for the Soviet Union. But sometimes what I think is right for my country other people think is wrong. That has always been so. When there are sufficient numbers of people who think differently to the Government they rebel and become heroes. Until that day they are traitors not heroes.’

  Mortimer said. ‘I do not quite see what this has to do with me.’

  ‘You will. Let us walk a little more.’

  A steamer crowded with passengers pushed up the river followed by a tug pulling three barges loaded with rubble.

  Mikhail said: ‘You see I wish first to justify my actions.’

  ‘What actions?’

  ‘There is no harm in what I am about to say because I have discovered that the secret police know all about me anyway. That shocked me. But, as I say, this is Moscow. As you know I am a writer. Not a very good one, perhaps, but I do have sincerity. I look about me and I write about what I see. That is not always appreciated in the Soviet Union. There are writers in labour camps today to prove my point. So although I write the truth, and although I love my country, and although I believe that what I write is for the good of the Soviet Union, I am regarded as a traitor.’

  ‘I still don’t see what any of it has to do with me,’ Mortimer said. ‘And I don’t really think you should be telling me all this.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter any longer. It seems that the KGB has found out about me. When I don’t know. But up until now I cannot have been considered very dangerous otherwise they would have locked me up. I suppose they know that I cannot get my writing published—not necessarily because it has no value but because if your writing is not politically acceptable in the Soviet Union there is just nowhere to publish it. Other writers have managed to smuggle their writing out of the country. I have not yet done this because it seems to me that such action might be harmful to the Soviet Union. I do not want to tell the world what is wrong with my country. I just want to be free to tell my own people the truth.’