Angels in the Snow

by Derek Lambert

The situation, Mortimer thought, was totally unreal. Walking beside the Moscow River, talking to a rebel author who believed that the KGB were investigating him. He began to shudder again.

  They turned left up a narrow road into the broad highway of Kutuzovsky. A convoy of buses full of Young Pioneers wearing their red neckerchiefs drove past on the way to a summer camp.

  Mikhail pointed. ‘See,’ he said, ‘there is so much good in the Soviet Union. All those children like your Boy Scouts are going for a holiday in the sun. And Soviet citizens everywhere are taking planes and trains to the sanatoriums by the sea.’ He made the Russian gesture of disgust with his hand as if grabbing a fly. ‘But that is all we are allowed to write about—the good things. If we do not equate the good with the bad then we are not writing the whole truth.’

  Mortimer stopped under a plane tree beside an art shop. ‘Mikhail,’ he said; ‘I’ll be quite truthful. I am very worried. You say first of all that Nina has told you everything. I don’t quite know what you mean by that. But instead of enlightening me you tell me at great length what is wrong with contemporary Russian literature.’ He spoke with difficulty because his lips were trembling.

  Mikhail turned his frowning face to Mortimer. ‘You are right,’ he said. ‘I talk too much about things which don’t concern you. I only wanted to let you see my motives, to let you see that I am a patriot and not a traitor.’ He lit a cardboard-tipped cigarette. ‘Nina says she loves you,’ he said.

  Joy leaped and subsided, and still his body trembled. ‘There is no point in denying anything,’ Mortimer said. ‘I am in love with your sister, too. It just happened, we could not help it.’

  Mikhail thrust his hands deeper in his pockets. ‘I understand that,’ he said. ‘I, too, am a man with a passionate nature. I understand what it means to love someone. I sensed this might happen with Nina. I will be truthful—I tried to stop it. But you cannot stop true love. In fact love is very perverse—by trying to stop it you only encourage it.’

  ‘I think we probably loved each other when we first met.’

  They crossed the street and walked down a broad street past the Gastronom where foreigners bought their food and dutyfree liquor and cigarettes for hard currency. It was packed with diplomats and their wives queueing at the counters; black, brown, yellow, white; speaking English, French, German, Swahili. Russians paused outside the shop to look at their ostentatious foreign cars.

  Mortimer said: ‘It seems a bit ridiculous that we have to walk around like this.’

  ‘It is the only way. Things are not as bad as they were in Stalin’s day but still people listen everywhere and report what they hear.’

  ‘What is it that you want to tell me, Mikhail?’

  ‘I want you to know that I personally have never had anything against any love between you and my sister. It was merely that I always knew that it could not work in the Soviet Union. The system does not allow for such things. And when it does allow it then beware because it has a motive.’

  ‘Surely any system makes allowances for people falling in love.’

  ‘Not if one partner comes from the West. And if he or she does then the romance is either stopped—or allowed to continue for particular purposes.’

  ‘That is nonsense,’ Mortimer said. ‘There have been several cases recently of Russian girls marrying Westerners.’

  ‘I can only tell you what I know,’ Mikhail said. ‘And in your case I happen to know there is another purpose.’

  ‘You mean the authorities know about my friendship with Nina?’

  ‘Of course they know. They know everything, my friend. And they are not allowing your friendship to blossom just because they are romantic by nature.’ He paused and lit another cigarette. ‘I am afraid you must prepare yourself for a shock. The KGB have approached my sister and told her to make sure that nothing happens to spoil her friendship with you.’

  He was leaning against a plane tree feeling the peeling flakes of bark with his fingers. There was a pain behind his eyes, a sickness in his body and a weakness in his limbs. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I must have fainted.’

  Mikhail was solicitous. ‘It seems to me it must have been the heat,’ he said. ‘And what I just told you, of course. I think you should rest against the tree for a few moments. I will not keep you much longer. I am only doing this for your good and Nina’s good.’

  ‘What exactly do you mean? How can the KGB benefit from a friendship between a Russian girl and a very junior diplomat at the British Embassy?’

  Mikhail shrugged. ‘Who knows? Who knows the mind of a secret policeman? All the time they think ahead. They want to penetrate the British Embassy and they think they may do it through you. Probably they have not thought ahead more than that. You may be a weak man susceptible to blackmail. They may wish to photograph you making love to my sister. …’

  ‘Shut up,’ Mortimer said.

  ‘I am sorry. I speak only of what they may have in mind. It would not be the first time they have photographed a Westerner with a Russian girl.’

  ‘I said shut up.’

  Mikhail sighed. ‘It is just as distasteful to me as it is to you. All I am saying is that at the moment they probably do not know exactly what they do want. The point is they have made contact and they are in a position to exert pressure. That is why you must act.’

  ‘How are they in a position to exert pressure?’

  Mikhail rasped the dark stubble on his cheeks. ‘I am afraid it is through me,’ he said. ‘They have told Nina that unless she does what they tell her they will arrest me.’

  Mortimer started to walk along the dusty street again. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Now I understand your concern.’

  ‘I thought that is what you would say. It is not quite as simple as that.’

  ‘It seems simple enough to me. You want to save your skin.’

  ‘Your fainting spell has interfered with your reason,’ Mikhail said. ‘If I wanted to save my skin as you put it why should I be telling you this? It would surely be in my interest to encourage my sister to stay with you and extract the occasional little British Embassy secrets from you.’

  They retraced their footsteps towards the Gastronom where a glossy West German, leaning against his Mercedes, was quarrelling noisily with a shabby East German.

  Mortimer said: ‘Then why are you telling me?’

  if you do not mind,’ Mikhail said, ‘I will give you another insight into the Russian character. We are very proud people, we also love our families more perhaps than any other nationality in the world. I cannot allow my sister to become more deeply involved in this. If she gets out of it now then there is still hope for her. The affair as far as the secret police are concerned is only just beginning. If it failed now they might just shrug their shoulders and forget the whole thing.’

  ‘And if it continued?’

  ‘Anything could happen. You have heard of these exposures before. The diplomat is disgraced and sent home. But that is not the end of it. The girl who is no longer of any use to the police—is an embarrassment in fact—is accused of immoral behaviour and dispatched to a labour camp. Only a couple of years ago a girl who used to frequent the National bar and mix with Westerners was sent to a labour camp.’

  ‘For God’s sake don’t bring the National bar into it,’ Mortimer said.

  ‘Then you have heard how my sister got into trouble before?’

  ‘I didn’t know she got into trouble.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. It was nothing. Just innocence misunderstood. Now her only crime is to fall in love with you. You must not let her become involved in this thing.’

  The trembling had stopped but the sickness was still there, and one of Mortimer’s eyelids was flickering uncontrollably. ‘What must I do then?—presuming, that is, that you are telling the truth.’

  ‘I am telling the truth, my friend. What you must do is ask UPDK to find a replacement because Nina is inefficient.’

  ‘No one will believe that. She’s on
e of the best teachers there.

  ‘Then say she is always late. Because she has a boy friend, perhaps. It doesn’t matter what you say. Just make sure that she no longer works for you.’

  More coach-loads of Young Pioneers sped along Kutuzovsky towards the sea and the sky and the forest.

  Mortimer watched them. ‘My God,’ he said, ‘what sort of future are they being prepared for? I suppose after the camp fire sing-song there will be a short indoctrination session.’

  ‘They are being prepared for a future which no one dreamed possible before the Revolution.’

  ‘And you, Mikhail. What sort of future do you envisage if I sack Nina?’

  ‘It seems to me that my future will be pretty bleak. They will probably guess that I told you because Nina wouldn’t do so because she would be frightened that I would be arrested. Even if they don’t guess they will still want some small compensation for the failure of their schemes. So they will probably arrest me for writing subversive literature and I will join my friends Daniel and Sinyavsky. That I do not mind. We are the instruments of change.’

  ‘I feel like catching the next plane to England,’ Mortimer said.

  ‘Even that is not easy in the Soviet Union,’ Mikhail said. ‘I think you are aware of that.’

  ‘Yes,’ Mortimer said. ‘I am aware of it.’

  ‘And now I must go. I do not think we have been followed.’

  ‘I sometimes wonder,’ Mortimer said, ‘if this whole atmosphere is not one colossal myth.’

  ‘You will find out soon enough if you do not do what I tell you,’ Mikhail said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Randall stood at the window of his office looking at the trees in the street below. Already the leaves were changing colour as summer spent its quick and feverish life. He had just been told that, because of his special duties, he would have to stay in Moscow for at least another year; he looked ahead and saw again the chewed-up snow on the roads and the skidding cars. But before the snow came he would take some leave.

  From his office it looked as if the hurrying Muscovites below had already bowed their heads to receive winter. He felt again the new compassion for them which had developed during the past few months; compassion coupled with admiration for their faith and their sturdy minds.

  He turned to Elaine Marchmont who was pecking at her typewriter. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘I’ll buy you a coffee.’

  In the canteen Hans, who was returning to Germany next day, smiled at them.

  ‘Jeepers,’ Elaine said. ‘I didn’t know he had any smiling muscles.’

  ‘You’d be smiling if you had his dough.’

  They sat in a corner where, Randall hoped, they would not be joined by any newspapermen.

  ‘How much longer is it now?’ Randall asked.

  ‘Three days. Funny, isn’t it?—I’ve spent my whole tour wishing myself out of this place. Now I don’t know. I feel sad instead of happy.’

  ‘You’ll get over it,’ Randall said. ‘A few weeks leave in New York and then off to a little flat in Paris.’

  ‘It’s the little flat bit that bothers me. I guess it will always be little flats for me.’

  ‘You’ll probably meet some guy like Yves Montand and have five kids.’

  ‘I’d like to marry him first,’ Elaine said.

  They sipped their coffee and remembered their time together.

  ‘It feels like the end of an era,’ he said. ‘The years in Moscow begin and end in the fall.’

  ‘I’ll always remember that day in the forest,’ she said. ‘The day we played angels in the snow.’

  ‘And our time in Khabarovsk.’

  ‘Not so much Khabarovsk. But we were pretty close, I guess, that day in the forest. Or as close as I’ll ever be to anyone.’

  ‘It’s a good picture of Russia to take with you. The snow, the silence, the ski tracks.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘Jesus,’ he said, ‘you’re making me feel morbid. It’s always worse for the one left behind you know.’

  ‘You left behind? Come on, Luke Randall. You’ve got your girl here and you’re pleased as hell that you’re staying.’

  ‘Sure. And I’ve got a wife who won’t divorce me and a couple of kids in the States who probably hate my guts by now. I had another letter today. Niet divorce.’

  ‘She’ll come round,’ Elaine said. ‘You wait till she meets someone herself. It’ll be a different story then.’

  Randall bought more coffee from Hans who was humming to himself as he tossed the salad. You’re pretty Goddam happy,’ Randall said. ‘Was Moscow as bad as all that?’

  Hans grinned. ‘It was a job,’ he said. ‘It paid well. That’s all I cared about. Now I will open my own café in Dusseldorf. You must come and visit me there. Drinks on the house.’

  ‘I’ll hold you to it,’ Randall said. He returned to Elaine who was applying lipstick to her thin mouth. ‘I’m taking some leave soon,’ he said. ‘How long do you reckon you’ll be in New York?’

  ‘A few weeks, I guess. Look me up if you’re coming across. Weil go to Central Park instead of the forest.’

  But Randall knew he would not look her up. He didn’t even know if he would go to the States. If he did he would have to see the children because it was time they were reminded that they had a father. Or would the appearance of a father already damned in their eyes only disrupt the routine of their lives?

  He had still not told Michele that he proposed to take leave. If he left her in Moscow and flew to the States it would indicate to her what the future held—an estranged husband with little hope of divorce constantly flying away to see his children.

  ‘Angels in Central Park,’ he said. ‘That would be quite something. I’ll certainly look you up if I come. I don’t know what the hell to do at the moment.’

  ‘Do you want my advice?’

  ‘Sure. What should I do, Elaine?’

  ‘The trouble with advice is that people only accept it if it’s what they were going to do anyway. And I’m darn sure you know what you’re going to do even if you haven’t admitted it to yourself yet.’

  ‘Maybe. But I certainly haven’t admitted it to myself yet.’

  She took off her glasses and he was saddened to see how vulnerable she looked blinking at him with pale, focusing eyes.

  ‘This is what you must do,’ she said. ‘You must tell your girl that you have to visit the kids. If she doesn’t understand then it doesn’t matter because it means she’s not worth worrying about anyway. But don’t worry—she will understand. Then you must take the plane to the States and see the kids just for a week. That won’t harm them. But it will harm them if they think their old man doesn’t give a damn for them. Then fly back to your girl or meet her on the Continent somewhere.’

  Randall drained his coffee and grinned. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I guess that’s what I was going to do anyway.’

  ‘There you are,’ she said. ‘I just wish I had someone to advise me what to do. And don’t say anything about waiting for Mister Right to come along—he must have turned left a long time ago.’

  He arrived back at Kutuzovsky at the same time in the evening as the rest of the diplomats. They walked across the playground to their various entrances, a medley of nationalities and races in diplomatic grey, each heading to his own hutch where he tried to recreate home. One hung with silk tapestries, another impregnated with the smell of Gauloises, another sauced with curry, another decorated with trophies from Harvard.

  The evening was warm but the sky had lost its summer glow. It was in the evening, Randall thought, when you could identify a season. Morning and afternoon could deceive you into confusing spring, summer and the fall. But not evening. There was no mistaking the sky and the smell of dampness rising and the sharpness of children’s voices.

  Some boys played soccer and fought on the dirty sand. Others, a couple of years into their teens and soon to be shipped home, lounged beside the big packing cases teasing girls in the first skirmishes of sexual
awareness; and the girls who had been aware much longer responded with knowledgeable ways that alarmed the boys. On the other side of the playground women in denims burned refuse on an untidy bonfire.

  Anna, who had been hired for the evening by an Australian to help at a dinner party, put on a show of sweeping the corridor when he walked in. He guessed that she had picked up the broom as he put his key in the lock. She greeted him as if he had been away for a year.

  He started to make a vodka Martini and found that his shaker was still half full of yesterday’s cocktail. ‘Anna,’ he said, ‘come here.’

  ‘I’m just coming, Gaspadeen Randall,’ she said from the kitchen. ‘I have something for you.’

  Randall examined a packet which he was sure had contained twenty cigaretes that morning; now it contained fifteen. ‘What have you got for me, Anna?’ he said. ‘And what is it today—your birthday, or your second wedding anniversary this year?’

  ‘It is neither of those things, Gaspadeen Randall. But I have something very special for you.’

  She put a painted wooden bowl of dried apple pips on the table.

  ‘What in heaven’s name am I supposed to do with those?’

  ‘You must eat them, Gaspadeen Randall. They are very good. But first you must peel off the skin.’ She demonstrated with half a dozen pips.

  ‘Well, thanks, anyway,’ he said. ‘Now why didn’t you clean out this shaker? I know it’s only a small thing but surely it wouldn’t have taxed you too much.’

  She clapped her hands together. ‘Am I not good?’ she said. ‘I have saved you all that drink. Now you will not have to make another one. All the time I think of your pocket, Gaspadeen Randall.’

  ‘Is that why you smoke my cigarettes?’

  ‘Ah,’ she said, ‘you have found the packet you gave me last week. I have been looking for them.’

  Randall recalled giving her a pack. ‘Where’s the full pack I left here this morning then?’

  Anna pointed to the shelf under the table. ‘There they are,’ she said. ‘Is that not good, Gaspadeen Randall? You have found my cigarettes and I have found yours. Now you must smoke one of mine.’ She offered him the pack.