by Fenek Solère
Ekaterina moved closer to him. ‘It is cold’, she said, pulling his arm around her shoulder. Tom could smell the sweet perfume she had used to entice him. He could feel the loose strands of her hair blow against his face. He caught himself looking at her profile, waiting on her every word. His eyes watered with what he passed off as the effect of the abrasive easterly, but was really the rise of intoxicating feelings that had lain dormant far too long.
They disembarked by the Palace Bridge and stood by the Vasily Zhukovsky, Ekaterina posing modishly on the pavement, her finger jutting out to attract a passing car. Several very new European models drove on.
‘I would love a ride in that’, Tom indicated as an Audi sports car swung away from them.
‘They do not need our money, they have enough of their own.’ Eventually, a beaten-up VW pulled over, leaking oil and puffing fumes. The asthmatic driver wore a cloth cap and toothless grin, and cast an otherworldly gaze over them. Ekaterina leaned in close to negotiate a price. ‘Skolka?’ Tom watched her step back from the man’s toxic breath. Then, tugging on the door, she turned, telling him to get in. The Professor sat amid a collection of discarded pizza boxes and sardine-smeared overhauls, listening as Ekaterina gave slow and simple directions.
They entered Nevsky from the Neva end, travelling as far as the Kazan cathedral, before the dark sky broke and bright sunshine covered the thoroughfare. ‘Look’, Ekaterina said excitedly, dropping her usually reserved demeanour and pointing upwards. ‘It is a rainbow, you must make a wish!’ Tom could see the variegated light painting the brimstone colonnades of the cathedral. The vibrant red, yellow, and violet were made all the clearer set against the crisp arctic air.
‘Make wish!’ she encouraged.
‘I already did’, he said, reaching forward to squeeze her shoulder.
‘And you will not tell me what you prayed for?’
‘No, of course not. That would spoil the surprise.’
The driver shot Tom a mean glance through the rear-view, pulling over, talking harshly as Ekaterina thrust money at him, notes cascading between thin legs. Tom almost fell out through the door as the car accelerated away. Halfway across the road, he grabbed her by the arm. ‘What was that all about?’ At first she did not answer. He saw a look of discomfort distort her youthful features, but he was genuinely curious and not a little angry, so he persisted with his questions. Stopping to avoid the oncoming traffic, she looked deep into his face, evaluating how he would respond to what she told him.
‘He said I was selling myself to a Westerner and should find myself a good Russian man for marriage.’ Their fingers interlocked.
‘Then good Russian men will have to wait in line.’
Following a drink in the Sea Bell, they parted temporarily on the eastern side of Nevsky. He trailed back to his room to await their rendezvous in the foyer of the Angleterre. The arms of the giant clock on the former KGB building at the corner of Bolshaya Morskaya read 13.15. Occasionally, a sunbeam would fall through the cloud cover, alighting on a spiral cone of flies hovering over an open restaurant vent. The waft of sour cabbage followed him. To either side, the colossal buildings pressed in. He had a sense of what it must have felt like to be one of those comical clerks Gogol had written so eloquently about: insignificant biological entities with big noses and frayed overcoats playing out their meaningless lives in this vast metropolis of oblong architecture. His stride lengthened and he puffed out his chest, trying to maximise his proportions in response to his surroundings. Somehow, the designers of this interminable city had found a way to crush the individual will whilst instilling in the collective a subconscious civic dignity. It was a truly marvellous psychological achievement which had served the rulers well, regardless of their political alignment. He could see those familiar red eyelids over the arched windows ahead. His mind was on the girl. She was intriguing him. What had Churchill said about Russia? ‘A riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma’, or something like that.
People are herded into Kazan’s sixteenth-century Annunciation Cathedral and burnt to death in the shadows of the Spasskaya Tower. The President of Tartarstan, speaking from the Qol-Sarif Mosque, described the action as ‘defensive’;
A second Battle of the Torches takes place on the slopes of the Tabasaran Mountains, with the insurgents achieving their objective in cutting the railway to the south towards Baku and seizing the road to Rostov-on-Don;
During the second Tokhtamysh-Timur skirmish, the Bolghar complex is captured and turned into a centre for a local hajj for the Muslim population;
The Astrakhan Kremlin’s Maria Ascension Cathedral holds a final Christian Mass prior to the forced expulsion of ethnic Russians;
Evidence of human sacrifice in the de-consecrated Unzha Chapel is revealed on State TV. In response, Orthodox believers raise the holy icon of St Prince Mikhail of Tver and commence an armed pilgrimage to Stavropol.
5.
They cannot understand as yet that we are not fighting a political party, but a sect of murderers of all contemporary spiritual culture.—Baron Roman von Ungern-Sternberg
When he got back to the hotel, Ulrich Hoffman was at reception, getting ready to check out. Whirling creases surrounding deep-set eyes emphasised the intensity with which he was scrutinising the computer printout spilling from the till. Tom’s sudden appearance, however, caught the German’s attention.
‘One moment’, Hoffman said as he signed off the receipt and collected his American Express card. ‘Do you have time to talk?’ There was a paternal look on the veteran’s face.
‘Not really.’ Tom felt surly, contemptuous of Hoffman’s apparent cowardice. He was in no mood for a condescending lecture.
‘I think you do, Professor Hunter.’ There was something in the tone. The German’s voice was commanding Tom to listen. ‘Come with me.’
They walked in silence out of the lobby and across the square. Ten minutes later, somewhere in the backstreets on the Neva side of the Marinskii, Hoffman led him into a small courtyard. They walked up some steps. A narrow path rose directly to the doors of a synagogue. The place was open, a portal to another world. ‘We will not be disturbed here.’ Tom sensed his companion was trying to sound protective, not pressurising. Pigeons flapped over gravestones. Pale Hasidic Jews in black yarmulkes sauntered between the monuments, talking animatedly to each other.
‘Look’, Tom began, ‘what is all this?’
Ulrich tried not to look offended. ‘Carl Jung once said, “The Jew who is something of a nomad has never yet created a culture form of his own and as far as we can see never will, since all his instincts and talents require a more or less civilised nation to act as host for their development”.’
‘You’re beginning to sound like Ezra Pound. Wasn’t it he who insisted we should keep Jews out of banking, education, and government?’
‘It served the Byzantines well, the longest-lasting empire in the history of the world.’
‘But we live in the post-Enlightenment.’
‘So we do, and Bolshevism was the bastard child of that deeply optimistic, utopian ideal: the classless society that supposedly transcends conflict and economic exploitation. The sort of nonsense that resulted in the pseudo-science of Trofim Lysenko and the prison colonies of Karaganda.’
‘So what are you going to do?’
‘Ms Karre has already left for the airport!’
‘So?’
‘You may want to consider following her example.’
‘Why?’
‘Threats! Our friends in the Bloc use some very unsound methods!’
Tom shook his head. ‘So you are running? Grigori’s people can protect us!’
‘’They are not so well-organised or so well-connected to the underworld. Have you been contacted?’
‘Yes, they threatened me also, but I told them . . .’
‘You don’t have a family?’ the older man’s irascible voice advised. ‘Leave now like the rest of us. Grigori is organising a
counter-demonstration. There will be a war and we will be responsible.’
‘You saw how our Dutch friend handled them the other day!’
‘He’s one man, for God’s sake!’
‘You said Grigori’s bringing our people out in force. And of course there are the police.’
‘My previous experience with the Russian authorities does not fill me with great confidence.’
‘I see . . .’
‘Do you, really? Let me tell you a little story in keeping with a place like this.’ He waved towards the sacred stones. ‘There was a rabbi called Loew who poured spring water on some mountain soil. He walked around this pile of earth singing incantations and reciting from ancient scriptures, “Ata Bra Golem Dewuk Hachomer W’ tigzar Zedim Chewel Torfe Jisrael”, and a life was formed, a Golem. A creature that did its master’s bidding. And its master inserted a shem into its mouth so that he always had complete control over its thought and actions.’
‘You speak in parables.’
‘The Golem is like a robot.’
‘So?’
‘The Bloc is an army of Golems!’
***
They met over a glass of Courvoisier in the Borsalino before tilting umbrellas against the storm slewing across Palace Square. Navigating gusty arches, they entered the Hermitage’s inner courtyard, fork lightning slicing through sulphurous smog. Then, waiting with some Italian tourists to check their coats and bags, they marched hand-in-hand past security, old men with jaundiced expressions ripe for reliquaries.
Mounting the Jordan staircase, looking skywards at gilt stucco and classical statues, they watched as a mesmeric shimmer of light played across gold and white. Stone faces transformed into ghostly apparitions, arms and shoulders cut from the purest marble overseeing a staircase lit by crystal chandeliers. He was enchanted by the wood carvings on the doors, entering endless galleries filled with Rembrandts, Van Dycks, Monets, and Picassos. Whole rooms were given over to Sassanid gemstones and ancient Scythian hoards. A labyrinth of panelling led from one treasure to another. Great, sky-lit windows cast grey, powdery light down into the vaults. A thousand Ali Baba caves collected together. Sculptures, ceremonial swords, Stone Age artefacts, and Egyptian mummies piled up in every corner.
They paused at Raphael’s The Madonna Conestabil. He was struck by how the face in the painting resembled the woman standing next to him.
‘We were taught in school that art had a hierarchy’, Ekaterina was whispering in his ear. ‘First, there were the fine arts, then minor arts, then civilised art, and barbaric art. Painters were the same. Raphael’s beauty was superior to Da Vinci’s depth or Michelangelo’s form and texture. This is an early Raphael. He learned his trade in Perugino’s studio in Urbino.’
Tom’s eyes flowed over the blue cloak, pink neck, and red dress clasped over delicate breasts. ‘It is very beautiful.’
‘Pergino’s Madonna sequence greatly influenced Raphael’s work. There is no artifice, it is almost perfectly innocent, don’t you agree?’
‘Oh yes, most certainly.’ But Tom could not tear himself away from the face, a reflection of Ekaterina caught on canvas.
In the Chinese gallery, while she stood entranced before a fourteenth century silk tapestry, they met two friends who had been amongst the crowd at Marina’s the night before. After a few minutes of excited chatter, drawing disparaging remarks from uniformed attendants, Ekaterina asked if the young men would like to join Tom and her in the Persian rooms before getting a coffee and a bite to eat.
Yuri was an arts graduate with a warm, intelligent disposition. He wore a sheepskin coat and cowboy boots. His conversation was littered with references to poems by Constantin von Hoffmeister as he lit cigarette after cigarette and stirred sugar after sugar into his cup. Alexei was younger, still studying philosophy, pale and acne-riddled, his manners refined, almost effeminate, his voice light like a piccolo.
‘You have wonderful theatres and museums’, Tom said, throwing up his arms, opening them wide, trying to encompass the whole twenty kilometres of corridors and rooms above their heads.
‘But for how long?’ Alexei questioned, ‘We are under siege just like before. You know, in the Great Patriotic War the chief conservator here stockpiled crates and straw to protect everything. The staff would fetch and carry along the corridors and galleries for hours and hours, even during the German bombardment.’ Tom’s imagination was fired by spiralling lights cascading over the Neva, anti-aircraft fire pounding along the embankment, tracer shells like fireworks in the night. ‘Trucks were loaded and armed convoys took the artefacts away down the Nevsky towards the railway station. I think they smuggled out millions of items right under the noses of the fascist Tiger tanks.’
‘And those times have returned?’ Yuri shook the ash from his Marlboro.
‘Worse. At least the Nazis were cultured. Now we are besieged by svoloch.’ Alexei went on.
‘They broke up the Mad Crowd Gang, killing Dmitry Borovikov and arresting Ruslan Melnik.’
‘The ones who allegedly murdered the anti-fascist campaigner Nikolai Girenko?’
‘Girenko was pro-African. Did you read Novy Petersburg: “It’s obvious that these black-skinned Africans are coming to our country from stagnant places that are teeming with infections. Bacteria and microbes living in Africa represent a serious danger to the health of White people.” Just look at the outbreaks of tuberculosis in your own country, the viruses sweeping France. Girenko was a tool of the Sova Centre, acting against us.’
‘The us, being?’
‘Russky Obraz, Shultz 88, and Russian Republic!’
‘And Alexei Voyevodin and Artyom Prokhorenko?’
‘Heroes!’
‘But those not dead are in prison.’
‘Look, the cops were under orders. Putin was hosting big international meetings both here and in Moscow. But not all the cops are bad, many are on our side. Some, though, are like Kolovrat says: They do not have nationality or fatherland, Zionists turned them into house dogs”.’
‘He’s right’, Alexei chimed in. ‘Many have sympathy for the Boevaga Organisation Russkih Natssionalistov, some are even in our combat units.’
‘I’ve read that Nikita Tikhonov and Yevgenia Khasis were in contact with Leonid Simulin, one of Vladislav Surkov’s operatives.’
‘I was there when they were sentenced for executing that dog Markelov. They were holding hands, how you say, dignified.’
‘And Russky Verdikt continues to appeal for their release.’
‘But of course, there are many unanswered questions about that Moscow trial. We all know they were acting on orders from the top when Nikita fired the Browning pistol into that human rights activist’s head.’
‘Do you think they killed the anti-fascist militant Khutorsky?’
‘Someone did.’
‘And could you guys kill?’
‘Hell, yes, but we’ll only kill for Utro Rossii!’
‘Dawn of Russia’, Ekaterina interpreted. Tom nodded, knowing of the rise of the paramilitary group, similar to that of the Resistance in France.
For a time they sat in silence. Yuri stubbed his cigarette, Alexei bit into a sandwich. Ekaterina sipped her cappuccino.
‘Listen’, Yuri eventually said, ‘if you want to see what it is really like, come to my place. I’ve got a movie called Russia 88.’
‘That’s banned, right?’
‘Not at my place!’
They trudged past shuttered shop fronts and courtyards full of broken furniture, walking shattered streets littered with condoms and silver foil. Confronted by a sudden hole in the road, they skirted the web of rusted pipes feeding the apartment blocks, hissing steam and spitting vapour, noxious sulphur rising into the air.
Alexei caught the incredulous look on Tom’s face. ‘So much for communal services’, he explained. ‘It’s worse now than the Gorbachev time!’
‘Look, I was born here’, declared Yuri. ‘They built kindergartens next to fac
tories. Can you imagine all this filth being breathed by kids? Alexei, on his case comes from Vyborg.’
‘Yes, Lenin’s land, they called me the Finn at college.’
‘And other things too!’ The two exchanged angry smiles. Ekaterina remained silent, walking arm-in-arm with Tom, picking their way through detritus.
They entered a mouldering entranceway, climbing staircases covered in anarchist graffiti. Curling As at the centre of swirling crimson circles had taken over from swastikas and the hammer and sickle. A fat rat waddled by, glass claws scurrying over tiles. Ekaterina screamed, jumping backwards. ‘Looks like they’re laying poison again’, Alexei said, pointing to the creature’s cannibalised companion, a tangle of ripped fur and warm blood.
Yuri’s flat was at the top of the block. Drafty and dark, a single lightbulb lit a faded poster of Spartak Moscow’s former Miss Charming, Olga Kuzkova, as they took seats around a low table and Alexei slopped vodka into freshly-rinsed glasses. ‘A toast’, he insisted. ‘To broadening cultural horizons!’
Yuri went to a cupboard and rooted around amongst the clutter, tossing Arkona CDs, flashcards filled with live performances by Solncevorot, and books by Louis Pauwels and Hermann Wirth aside. Meanwhile, Tom was going through his host’s back copies of radical journals: Russkoe Vremia, Elementy, Istoki, and Milyi Angel. ‘Here it is!’ Yuri declared triumphantly, ‘starring Pyotr Fyodorov, Kabez Kibizov, Aleksandr Makarov, and Vera Strokova.’ He was laughing. ‘I bet you never heard of them, right?’
‘They are pretty unfamiliar, I have to admit’, Tom was forced to confess. ‘Can I take a look?’ He reached out for the plastic box. The scratched cover read in English, ‘A cross between Romper Stomper and This is England’. Obviously an imported pirate copy. The photograph gave him no clue as to the identities of the actors. ‘Gangland?’ he surmised.