Rising

by Fenek Solère

  ‘You look tired. Did you have an active night?’

  ‘Yeah, you could say that.’

  ‘You like Russian hospitality?’

  ‘Yes, very much . . .’

  ‘So I see . . .’ Hoffman’s eyes followed Tom’s face as it slipped all over a pert young lady swinging by, coffee cup in hand. ‘Now let me introduce you to Valentine, Rector of this august establishment. You know this is part of a new Arctogaia, a different sort of university. There was another in Kazakhstan, named by President Nursultan Nazarbayev after Lev Gumilev, the National Eurasian University. Valentine is a very important person, a leading light in the Vtorzhenie Movement, against Left and Right, a recognised authority on the anthropological aspects of the Don Basin.’ They walked together to the lecture theatre. Hoffman unbuckled the pipe stem from his mouth, licking cracked lips as Yulia came towards them, brandishing her umbrella like a medieval weapon.

  ‘Come, come, honoured guests, it is time, please!’

  Entering the auditorium, they were hit by a wall of light. The atmosphere crackled. The hair on Tom’s arms stood on end. You could practically taste the tungsten at the back of your throat.

  ‘Where do we sit?’ Yulia overheard Hoffman’s question and orchestrated them with the metal tip of her umbrella to some seats midway across the third aisle.

  ‘Reserved for you!’ They clambered along, causing a Mexican wave of shuffling knees and jostling briefcases, assuming their places next to Iryna, Tom’s guide around the Peter and Paul fortress. ‘I see you are a keen student’, she gushed. ‘Welcome!’

  ‘Indeed, spasibo.’ By the time the audience had settled, the hall was impressively full. Besides representatives from the Zaporozhian Sich, sitting under a bright red Cossack flag with a Maltese Cross above the stage, there were leading figures from Golden Dawn, Germany’s NPD, Austria’s Freedom Party, Hungary’s Jobbik, the Lithuanian Unity Party, the National Alliance Latvia, the Progress Party Norway, the Danskernes Parti from Denmark, the Sweden Democrats, Bulgaria’s Natsionalen Sayuz Ataka, National Union Attack, the Finnish Perussuomalaiset, the True Finns, the National Front from France, and an assortment of British nationalist groups. Valentine Bondarenko, the Rector, stepped up to the microphone and began to speak. His willow-thin features and speckled scalp were sweating in the spotlights. In his opening remarks, he ventured to say that in the past, such a multi-national gathering of White advocates would never have occurred. ‘But that time of suspicion and division has come to an end. We stand straight and tall’, he said proudly, ‘and speak out loudly for our ancestry!’ The audience responded with a standing ovation. Waiting for the exuberance to subside, he concluded, ‘Now it is my pleasure to invite our respected colleague, Vasili Burov, to commence proceedings with his introductory lecture on “Contemporary Misconceptions of the politics of Belarus”.’ A further wave of applause drum-tapped the speaker to the podium. A plasma screen lit up, and Burov’s right hand squeezed the computer controls like a well-drilled Tupolev fighter pilot. Two hours and three presentations later, the first break was announced. Taking the opportunity, Tom slipped away while the other delegates milled around talking, dipping malted biscuits in sweet black chai.

  3.

  . . . to discover where this exquisite creature lived who seemed to have flown straight down from heaven onto the Nevsky Prospekt, and who would probably fly away . . .—Gogol

  Hard rain pelted the college cloister. The muddy rivulets were running zig-zag cracks on the path. Tom was sheltering under a wild cherry when he first noticed the whisper trails of her brown hair, then the determined step of leather boots, textbooks clutched firmly to her breast. Coming out from under peeling bark, scabrous flesh blowing like a leper’s limbs, he fell in stride behind, eyes focussed on the suede shoulderbag swinging at a sleekly-curved hip. Following through arched gateways, along cobbled courtyards, he was mesmerised by the rhythmic click-clack of heels ricocheting like sniper bullets off stone.

  Soon they were past security, out through the gates into the city, making their way across a footbridge adorned with four gold-winged griffins. The Nevsky Prospekt, long, straight and uncompromising, beckoned. She was walking with purpose, stepping off the bridge, favouring the canal bank. The protests were dissipating, and only small groups hovered in distant doorways, shut off behind a police cordon, yelling profanities through the smoke and rain. He was about thirty metres behind, long moleskin coat flapping open as a carpet of crisp red leaves swept the bridge’s woodwork.

  The canal was cut with military precision. Black water slapped mouldy slabs, brickwork crowned with ornate railings. Above, shuttered windows were locked tight against acrid air. A thick Baltic mist rolled towards the Neva, where the golden spire of the Admiralty spiked the skyline like a heroin syringe.

  Swelling crowds greeted them at Gostiny Dvor, clusters of commuters waiting for streetcars that ran on webbed wires. Oily tracks curled over bridges, crossing Nevsky’s canals at irregular intervals. He found himself pushing through herds of women, men smoking foul black cigarettes, lining up for trams. The grizzle of gasoline filled his lungs. Chemical rat-bites had nibbled at the nearby Mikeshin monument of Catherine the Great. People came from far and wide, spilling out of cafés, bars, and boutiques onto the wet boulevard. It was a forest of dripping umbrellas and flickering neon.

  He wondered what the Russian word for stalker was? Whether she had even noticed him? A band of Roma with swarthy arms, tattoos, and outsize hoods swaggered by, giving him the eye. He buttoned his coat and turned up the collar. Raindrops were running down his neck. The street kids moved on, distracted by easier pickings coming out of a gift shop, speaking like Elvis Presley.

  She was gliding gracefully past the scaffolding surrounding the town hall tower, still smoke-stained following a recent incendiary attack. A dog barked furiously. Sharp, yellow teeth snapped at his knees, until a flat face wrapped in a ragged shawl yanked its chain. He sidestepped the beast, his gaze fixed on the girl, who was now looking for a point to cross the Griboedova. A Russian Little Red Riding Hood lost in the wintry colonnades of the Kazan Cathedral.

  Tracking her to a sports café, he pushed on the swing door, hung his coat, then walked across the polished wood floor. ‘May I join you?’

  Big, grey-blue eyes travelled over him, evaluating this stranger for threat and opportunity. He estimated she was in her mid-20s. Her elegant white throat was wrapped in a roll-neck jersey, lilac fingernails tightly curled under a porcelain chin. He thought for a second that her glance was tinged by a sense of distance, that remote demeanour which attractive young women often affect for the purpose of self-preservation. But instead, she slid aside textbooks by Gumilev and Panarin, gesturing for him to sit. Doctor Hunter took the green light and took the empty chair.

  A finger travelled to her lips, tossing back her hair as she spoke. ‘You are from London, yes?’

  ‘You speak very good English.’

  ‘Also German, French, and some Italian.’

  ‘I’m afraid I speak very little Russian!’

  ‘That is because English is the world language.’

  ‘Well, that’s my excuse, truth is I’m lazy!’

  She let out a bubble of laughter. ‘I thought that was the Americans?’

  ‘We blame them for everything else. Sure, why not?’

  ‘I’m Ekaterina.’ She held out a demur hand, which he accepted, thinking how soft it was in his. No wedding ring.

  ‘I’m Tom’, he replied. ‘Glad to meet you.’

  ‘And are you enjoying your stay in Piter?’

  ‘Yes, I am on a lecture tour, speaking at the conference.’ His head moved sideways, indicating the way back towards the Cathedral. Tom reached out, lifting her books. ‘May I?’

  ‘Gumilev taught in the history faculty at Leningrad before being denounced and sent to Norilisk. This book, Ethnogenesis of the Biosphere of the Earth, is seminal.’

  ‘And the son of the Silver Age poets Nikolai Gumilev and A
nna Akhmatova!’

  The girl’s lip curled with surprise. He winked.

  ‘And Panarin’s work Strategic Instability in the 21st Century is a critical analysis of globalisation.’

  ‘I prefer his demolition of Fukuyama’s thesis in The Revenge of History.’

  ‘Or perhaps Orthodox Civilisation in a Globalised World?’

  ‘Indeed, I think that won awards?’

  ‘The Solzhenitsyn Prize of 2002!’

  ‘Ah, the great Alexander Isayevich. I am very fond of his novels.’

  ‘“Should someone ask me whether I would indicate the West such as it is today as a model to my country, frankly I would have to answer negatively. No, I could not recommend your society in its present state as an ideal for the transformation of ours”’, she quoted from Solzhenitsyn’s 1978 Harvard speech. Tom smirked and made the mistake of engaging in a contest. Scratching his head, he replied: ‘“A decline in courage may be the most striking feature that an outside observer notices in the West today. The Western world has lost its civic courage . . . such a decline in courage is particularly noticeable among the ruling and intellectual elites . . . from ancient times decline in courage has been considered the beginning of the end.”’

  Ekaterina was already one step ahead. ‘“Without any censorship, in the West fashionable trends of thought and ideas are carefully separated from those which are not fashionable; nothing is forbidden, but what is not fashionable will hardly find its way into periodicals or books or be heard in colleges. Legally your researchers are free, but they are conditioned by the fashion of the day. There is no open violence such as in the East; however, a selection dictated by fashion and the need to match mass standards frequently prevents independent-minded people from giving their contribution to public life. There is a dangerous tendency to form a herd, shutting off successful development.”’

  ‘Bravo, I see you are a real scholar!’

  ‘My grandfather has a big library. Lots of books by Nikolay Danilevsky and his thoughts on civilisation, even more on Lev Alexandrovich Tikhomirov and the Slavic Commune.’

  ‘His selection is eclectic.’

  ‘It tends to challenge the cultural hegemony of the current dominant sect!’

  ‘A true disciple.’

  ‘I am a discerning student. I see the smoke and mirrors.’

  ‘You mean people like Max Horkheimer, Leo Lowenthal, and Franz Neumann?’

  ‘I see you critique the Frankfurt School of thought.’

  ‘Nothing but politically correct social saboteurs!’

  ‘Shush’, a sharp finger went to her lips. ‘Lenin would have had you shot!’

  ‘Isn’t he lying in a vat of embalming fluid in the Kremlin?’

  ‘Please, your respect, my mother was a young Pioneer’, she said in mock anger. ‘I’ll have you sent on the Vladimirka to Siberia.’

  He leaned forward to whisper, ‘Would you take the trip with me?’ Another bubble of nervous laughter. Then Tom added more realistically, ‘Would you like to attend the conference?’

  ‘No, I’m visiting my grandfather. He’s not been well.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. I’m speaking there and was trying to impress you.’ Ekaterina reached into the bag slung over the back of her chair and took out a flyer printed in Russian.

  ‘Everyone knows about what’s going on at the university.’ He looked at the material she handed him and pointed out his name on the list of dignitaries. It was her turn to smile. ‘I hope the Reds don’t get you!’

  Tom sat with his back to the wall, following her eyes around the café, studying her every move. The place was buzzing. He overheard some English being spoken through the crescendo of chatter and jazz-fusion. A woman strolled by, babe in arms. Businessmen from a local office were gathered, huddled in blue clouds over an ashtray. Catching the attention of a sullen waitress, Tom and Ekaterina ordered borsch and sparkling water. Someone dropped a set of plates across the far side of the room. White chips of crockery splintered on the hard floor.

  ‘How long are you staying?’ she asked, as the waitress came back with their order. He waited for the tray to be set down and loosened the caps on green Evian bottles. Pouring for Ekaterina, they watched as the slices of lemon rose in the glug of water.

  ‘My return flight is scheduled for the 23rd.’

  ‘When does your visa end?’

  ‘One month.’

  ‘Multiple entry?’

  ‘No’, he said. ‘Your precious authorities have imposed new controls.’

  ‘Which hotel?’

  ‘Astoria.’

  ‘That is a good hotel.’

  ‘Close to the Hermitage and the embankment.’

  ‘Have you been out on the river?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You should, it’s beautiful!’

  ‘Will you show me?’

  There was a second’s hesitation. ‘Yes, I’d enjoy that very much.’ Unfolding cream napkins, they lifted curved spoons, making uneasy eye contact as they took steaming borsch.

  Tom accompanied Ekaterina on a bone-shaking metro ride out to Ulitsa Dzybenko. Mounting cracked steps, they were greeted by jutting balconies, hanging slack like broken concrete jaws, looking down from Stalinist apartment blocks. Sliding between traffic, they entered a south-facing tenement, just as sunset threw a bloodshot eye over the Kurpatov tractor factory. She was moving quickly up the hallway, dying sunrays sending lasers through the prism of shattered glass. He watched the amber light play through her hair, glowing fingers caressing the nape of her neck.

  ‘Marina was a language student at Herzen University, like me’, she was saying. ‘A dear friend and good to meet. Many from my class will be here tonight. We talk, listen to music, exchange books and downloads by our favourite bands. X Terror, Wavex, and Trezvy Reikh.’

  ‘I’m glad to see the real Russia at last’, he confessed. ‘I was beginning to feel like a tourist.’

  Ekaterina stopped in front of a blue metal shutter. Then, after a quick call on her mobile, the door clanked open, the corridor filling with Iron Order’s rhythmic drumming. As they entered, Tom estimated that the flat was hosting ten or twelve people. They were mainly journalists, teachers, and would-be artists. Marina emerged from the lounge, kissing his companion on each cheek, shaking Tom’s hand with a certain degree of formality, before ushering them into a small kitchen, where she uncorked a fresh bottle.

  ‘Chilean’, she smiled, ‘Very lovely taste. I prefer French, I think?’ They were soon joined by her partner, Nikita, a serious young man with a brooding intellect. He wore black shoes, black jeans, and a black turtleneck jersey. His crow-like eyes and pale skin were offset by the obligatory goatee worn by all the city’s intelligentsia. Thin fingers played with the metal frames of round spectacles.

  ‘Hi’, he said. ‘Your first time?’ Tom nodded, sipping his drink. ‘I went to London once when I was young. I stayed in Bermondsey by the river. My father did some work for a bank there. He told me I should come with him, chance of a lifetime.’

  ‘And was it?’ Nikki looked surprised by the question.

  ‘Yes, of course. London is a most fine cultural city. Much to do. Very much to see!’

  ‘Which was your favourite?’ By now a crowd had gathered, listening to their hero talking to the surprise guest. ‘Katja!’ people were calling, throwing their arms around her, looking with curiosity at the stranger. They smiled, giving each other knowing looks, whispering their opinions.

  ‘Is he looking for a Russian bride?’ someone asked. ‘He looks that way.’

  ‘No, he’s a spy!’

  ‘We’d better send for Lev Ovalov, he knows all about MI6.’

  Nikki pulled a cork on another bottle and re-filled their glasses. Marina dragged Ekaterina into a corner where she was immediately surrounded by gushing girls, lighting cigarettes and flicking long hair.

  ‘They are joking’, he said. ‘Lev Orvalov is a hero from old Russian espionage stories. I am nothin
g like him. Anyway I prefer books by Ivan Shevtsov!’ Tom waved his apology aside. ‘You were asking about my favourite exhibit?’ For a moment the Russian looked perplexed. ‘Most certainly the National Portrait Gallery.’ The Professor signalled his approval. ‘I recall sailing down the river between Westminster and Greenwich. We drank black beer in a pub by the Cutty Sark.’

  ‘The Gypsy Moth.’

  ‘Named for another boat! Are all English people on the sea?’

  ‘We’re an island nation!’

  ‘Indeed. But it is being taken over by Brussels.’

  ‘You have fears for my country?’

  ‘England is also changing’, the young man asserted, throwing back a mouthful of wine, ‘and not for the best.’ Tom agreed. ‘We saw those riots and who was to blame. I saw the way your BBC tried to hide who was responsible for the sex trade of children in Rotherham, Manchester, and Sheffield. Our Russian media are less politically correct. We understand all.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘We do, but we have our own problems from the East.’

  ‘Do you think Russia will implode?’

  Nikki grimaced. ‘Russia is stuck in the old debate between the Westernisers and the Eurasianists. Look, we have hundreds of ethnic subgroups and regional languages in our territory, but whatever argument you make, people like the Kyrghyz and Ingush are still inorodtsy, aliens. For Vitaly Aveyanov, a former Director of the Institute of Dynamic Commemoration, the Russian Empire should expand, but to do so it must “recruit new and good people”. The point is the current ruling elite is always going to be split on ethnic lines, with members at different times seizing the assets of the Union of Republics for personal gain, ignoring the interests of the nation as a whole. For Aveyanov, “the myth of empire is needed as a so-called attracter to win support for achieving that goal”.’

  ‘Careful, you are beginning to sound like our old friend Zhirinovsky. Didn’t he say, “We should think about saving the White race because today the white race is the minority in the world. It is a minority that needs to be protected and saved. If we don’t fight against this danger—the Islamic danger, the Asian danger—then in the future we will have a religious danger and, finally, religious wars where we will be swamped by what is called the yellow peril”?’