A Shadow of Myself

by Mike Phillips

  We ate in silence, more or less. Afterwards the man produced a big bottle, a cork rammed into the top. He pulled the cork with his teeth, and without asking, poured the vodka into the bowls from which we’d eaten. Valery said he must have made it himself, and I was never sure it was actually vodka. It wasn’t kvas, which was what I expected, and which is a mild-tasting watery drink a bit like ginger beer. Valery gulped his down as if it was kvas, but when I did the same I gasped and choked as it flooded down my throat – this was pure alcohol, liquid fire. No one seemed to notice and the peasant’s only reaction was to pour some more into my bowl, which I sipped slowly, my head already beginning to spin. Time seemed to stop. The wife had been staring at me all the while, and as I sat swaying she suddenly asked me a question which I didn’t understand. Before Valery could say anything the peasant turned to her and replied in a loud voice, which seemed to start some kind of argument in which the children joined. Valery listened, smiling. ‘They’re trying to work out,’ he said, ‘if you come from the same country as Paul Robeson.’ That was my cue, and I started explaining, with Valery translating, where I came from. They listened politely, but talking about my life and about why I had come there seemed almost cruel, as if I was mocking their poverty. In the villages I had been to in my youth life had never been as hard. The rest of the night is lost in memory. I don’t know where or how we slept, but in the morning it had stopped snowing and the peasant showed us a track which led to a village where the train stopped. We were back in our comfortable room in Cheryomushki by the afternoon.

  Adventures like this made me firm friends with Valery. Hussein said I was naïve. He said as little as possible when Valery was around, and if we were talking in the room and he came in Hussein would take the first opportunity to leave. ‘You can’t trust him,’ he would say. I didn’t understand why it mattered, and, in any case, there were times when Hussein’s cynicism annoyed me. I was enjoying everything, learning something new every day. Katya seemed to be taking an interest in me, which made going to the classes an excitement. At the time I had no idea what to do about my desire for her, apart from working hard at her lessons, but my pleasure was intense when she spoke only to me or came close to show me something in a book. The other boys noticed and began teasing me. Calvin, an Indian from the Caribbean, whenever he saw me silent or abstracted, would call out her full name softly in his strange accent. All this irritated Hussein as much as my friendship with Valery. One time he came into the room, picked up a book of Soviet history Katya had lent me, and flipped through the pages, laughing. ‘Don’t believe any of this,’ he said. ‘The Party invents history according to what they need.’ The odd thing was that when he said this it gave me a kind of shock, if only because I found it hard to believe that an entire book, an official printed record, could tell lies. ‘Look at Khrushchev’s secret speech,’ he continued. That made me look around, wishing that he’d lower his voice. Everyone knew about the speech in which Khrushchev had described Stalin’s crimes against the people, but at our first meeting of the foreign students’ union we had been addressed on this subject, among others, by the warden, who was also the deputy chairman of the regional committee. There were all kinds of rumours designed to demoralise the nation, he said, and it was therefore important, as guests of the Party and the state, not to gossip openly about internal politics. We could all read between the lines, and Hussein’s sceptical language seemed exactly the kind of gossip which would disturb the authorities.

  ‘They’re busy rewriting the history of Comrade Stalin and Comrade Beria,’ Hussein said, laughing. ‘Just ask your precious Katya to lend you Stalin’s book on politics. A year ago everyone had to read it. Now you would never know it existed.’

  At times like this I felt as though there were currents running under my feet which I could hear, like rushing water under the ice, and in this mood I took every chance I could to avoid both Hussein and Valery. Calvin was my refuge. He hung out with a crazy Siberian called Dimitri, and they always seemed to know about places to go where there was drink and girls and dancing. One evening we went to the Komsomol college where they were having what seemed to be a combination of a picnic and a dance out in the snow-covered grounds. They were playing some kind of game. It was one of those customs which in that strange country seemed more familiar to me than anything I encountered in England. It was the sort of game they might have played in villages on the coast, ploughing through the sand on the shore instead of snowdrifts. In this one the boys and girls all stood in a huge circle, singing and clapping their hands. In the middle one of them danced with a scarf, then dancing over to the circle, threw the scarf round the partner of their choice who would then come into the circle, exchange a kiss, and take up the dance, repeating the exercise until everyone in the circle was exhausted. Halfway through the proceedings half the boys in the circle would be drunk enough to fall over, and would be pulled up by their companions covered in snow to lurch unsteadily round the circle bellowing whatever music or chant came into their heads. The women were not far behind, either, throwing their legs up and tumbling over to show their legs up to the tops of the woollen stockings under the long overcoats and thick skirts. In these white nights the sight still comes back to me as if it was yesterday and sometimes I feel like shouting and singing in the faces of the old men around me – unforgettable, the boys and girls whirling as they kicked up the clouds of white powder, the shrieking of the women’s voices, the feel of your partner’s arms on either side clutching you tight as the circle moved like an irresistible turning wheel in which we pranced and kicked like tireless young ponies. In spite of everything, I remember these as the most joyous moments of my youth.

  On this occasion there was a group of us from Cheryomushki, Calvin and Dimitri, a South African named Bloke, a big Yoruba named Olu, and a few more Africans from all over the place. We had half a dozen bottles between us, Stolichnaya, Moskovskaya, Pertsovka and Starka, and we were nipping steadily comparing the tastes, so it wasn’t long before we were deep in the spirit of the thing. Before too long, one of the girls in the ring spotted Olu, probably the most conspicuous man in the ring. She threw her scarf round him and dragged him in, and they kissed, a luscious open-mouthed slobber which roused a riot of screeches and yells all round the ring. When it was Olu’s turn to choose he threw the scarf round a girl who was as physically notable in her way as he was in his. She was tall, a beauty with thick blonde hair which swirled in a cloud round her as she danced. In the circle Olu threw his arms round her, but when he thrust his lips forward she seemed to flinch and turning aside, kissed him on the cheek before breaking away. Olu tried to grapple with her again, but this time she thrust him away. He stood there for a moment then, moving deliberately, walked out of the circle. When we looked for him he had gone.

  This was the talk of Cheryomushki for a while. In the impromptu students’ union meeting which took place the next day, Olu claimed that the girl had said, ‘Abyezhyana’ – monkey. Valery pointed out that this was so nekulturny that a Komsomol student could never have said it. In public the other students were non-committal. In private Hussein said that this would teach some of us that the white man was the same whether he was in Nairobi or Moscow. Calvin and Dimitri said nitchevo – it doesn’t matter. That same night, Calvin invited me to meet a girl to whom Dimitri had introduced him. She worked in one of the new fertiliser factories, but she had expensive tastes, for which her boyfriends paid. Calvin shrugged. ‘Listen man,’ he said. ‘The thing is cheaper than these stuck up pussy at the college. I give her what she want, she give me what I want.’ Sometimes, he said, a student from back home would bring bundles of stockings and cosmetics which the girl, Marina, loved, but a present of a few roubles would do. The allowances which the foreign students received were three times that of the Soviets, so we always had roubles to spare. Marina, he said, would greet me with open arms. The only snag was that visiting her required careful co-ordination, because although she lived in an apartment in Pro
spekt Kalinina near Novy Arbat, a district of shops and markets full of traders from the republics where a foreigner wouldn’t stand out too much, she shared it with several of her family, and she was only available when her mother was absent and she was by herself, or when she could gain some privacy by locking the children of the house in their room.

  I said yes without thinking about it. The truth was that I had not touched a woman for months and the prospect filled me with lustful excitement. A few days later the visit was arranged. On the train to Arbatskaya we hardly spoke, although every time Calvin caught my eye he grinned and winked. It was already dark and we slipped without notice through the market as the traders packed up crowding the stalls for vodka and little snacks of pirozhki. At the apartment building we raced up the narrow stairs, and on the landing Calvin rapped softly on the door. On the way up we met no one, which was just as well because anyone who saw us would have known we were not supposed to be there. Marina opened it immediately and waved us inside without speaking. Behind her the apartment was a warren of small rooms to judge by the number of doors opening off the hallway which also seemed to serve as a bedroom, because there were a couple of cots leaning against the wall with a heap of folded blankets stacked next to them. Marina led us into a room at the end of the hall. It was neat and pretty, arranged like a bedsitter with a big double bed, a wardrobe, a table and a sink in one corner. The walls were lined with photographs which I guessed were her mother’s. She was a short, dark-haired girl with big, wide blue eyes, short sturdy legs, big breasts and a smiling, vivacious manner. Calvin put his arms round her and they kissed, then he introduced me, his arm still clasping her proprietorially. She smiled and shook my hand, seemingly oblivious to the fact that by now Calvin was standing behind her with his hands under her sweater, squeezing and stroking her breasts. On the way to the apartment I had been wondering how Calvin conversed with the girl, because, although he had been in the country a year longer than me, his Russian was hardly any better than mine. As it happened she spoke a few words of English, and with the Russian we knew it was enough. In any case Calvin made it clear that he wasn’t there to talk. He had wrapped some things in a package before we left, some presents he’d been saving up, he said, and now he took it out of his pocket and gave it to her. She opened it excitedly. There wasn’t much, lipstick, creams, soap, a bra and pants and a pair of stockings, but Marina seemed thrilled, turning round to hug and kiss him. In return Calvin sat down on the bed and pulled her down to him, his hand burrowing quickly under her skirt. From that point neither of them took much notice of my presence, except that Marina pulled back long enough to draw the blanket over them, concealing her body. In a minute Calvin was on top of her thrusting like a steam engine, both of them gasping and groaning as if they were completely alone. Under the cover I could see her knees raised and as the exercise became more vigorous her legs shot up, dislodging the blanket. This time she didn’t bother about it and I watched them, my penis so erect that it was pressing painfully against my trousers. She was still wearing her stockings rolled round elastic bands high on her thighs, the muscles bulging and straining above them. Her legs circled Calvin’s waist and she pressed with her heels on Calvin’s buttocks. It seemed an age, but in a few minutes the thrusting quickened, Marina squirmed urgently and Calvin groaned, loud and agonised as if someone had jabbed him with a needle. He stopped moving, and Marina relaxed while Calvin rolled off her. He looked at me. ‘Go ahead,’ he muttered.

  Marina was smiling, her face flushing red, her legs slightly apart, the patch of dark hair at the bottom of her belly glistening. I got on the bed and she put her arms around me. Her body felt soft and welcoming and without my aiming it my penis slipped easily into her. She gave a high-pitched moan in my ear and gripped me tight. I don’t suppose I took any longer about it than Calvin had, although I tried to prolong it, stretching out the incredible pleasure of being inside that tight warm crevice, pushing against the pressure of her flesh, the rush coming irresistibly from a distance like an express train. I was vaguely aware of Calvin sitting beside me on the bed, although what he was doing I didn’t know or care. Later on he told me he was squeezing her breasts and working himself up for another go, but every time I slowed down trying to hold off the explosion Marina pushed against me, clutching me to her, squeezing me between her thighs, urging me on. It was over in what seemed like a couple of minutes. Afterwards I could hear again and I saw Calvin grinning at me. ‘Boy,’ he said. ‘You needed that.’ Marina laughed, slipped off the bed and pulling her skirt down went out the door. Calvin stretched luxuriously. ‘Good stuff, eh?’

  I gave Marina most of the roubles I had in my pocket, embarrassed about doing so, but she took the money with a pretty smile and tucked it away without self-consciousness. Before we left, Calvin had her again, up against the wall next to the outer door this time, while I kept watch. All the way home he whistled and talked in a mood of infectious euphoria. I felt good too and that night I slept without dreams.

  Prague

  September 1999

  FOURTEEN

  George parked near the embankment, not far from the looming beehive of the National Theatre, and walked along to the Charles Bridge. He could have driven over the next bridge and parked on the left bank, but it was a bright cool evening and he wanted to take some time to reflect. Further up, the river made the rushing sound of a waterfall as it tumbled over the weir in long streams of feathery white. Below him the water lapped and sucked against the worn stone pilings. Halfway across George stopped and leant on the railing. From here he could see the back of the building where he was due to meet Liebl. George knew the café and it was far enough off the beaten track to be a quiet retreat. Tourists going to and from the castle stayed on the bridge, and there were few residents living in the immediate vicinity. Trade would be generally restricted to a small group of regulars, who, early in the evening, would still be working or on their way home. This, George presumed, was the reason Liebl had selected the place.

  The phone had rung at nine in the morning, and, somehow, George hadn’t been surprised to hear the familiar voice wheezing through the receiver. These messages had once been so much a part of his life that it seemed normal, as if the silence of the previous years had merely been a longer pause than usual. He was driving into Prague, Liebl had said, in order to see George, and he would say no more, except to name the time and place. That too, was as usual.

  George had been certain, from the moment he picked up the phone, that what Liebl was after had something to do with the pictures, but none of the scenarios he outlined in his mind seemed satisfactory. Oddly enough, that period of his life, recent as it was, already seemed over and done with, ancient history. This was mostly because of the debacle in Hamburg. Afterwards they had decided that the whole enterprise was too dangerous to continue. For George the event had been earth-shattering, a trauma.

  ‘I understand,’ Valentin said. ‘But there was nothing to be done. It was them or us.’

  To George’s surprise, both of his partners treated his distress with a kind of respect, almost as if they were humouring the nervousness of a raw recruit unexpectedly precipitated into a gun battle. They had disposed of the bodies without telling him where, but although Valentin maintained that they would never be found, the men’s faces floated through his dreams from time to time. Somehow, putting a stop to the treadmill of thieving and smuggling seemed like a kind of expiation which gave him relief. His partners had agreed. Victor had enough money to begin winding up his motor business in Russia and complete the process of getting out. In any case, as he said, if he could keep the sums he had to pay out for protection he’d be a rich man, even in the West. The rest of the hoard could stay where it was. Valentin merely shrugged, his fertile mind already occupied with the prospects of the new and legitimate enterprise George had proposed. George had insisted on getting out of Germany and basing themselves in Prague, the nearest convenient location, because he assumed that, sooner or late
r, the Georgians’ accomplices would work out what had happened and come looking. Nevertheless, after more than a year during which there had been no sign of trouble, he had begun to forget about the trail which must have connected the beheading in Smichov with the objects he had sold in Berlin. But it had always been there at the back of his mind. Liebl’s reappearance was an unpleasant shock, but one which he had somehow been expecting, like a rotting corpse bobbing up from the depths of a lake.

  As usual, Valentin seemed unaffected by the dread which had begun to churn inside George from the moment he heard Liebl’s voice. In the end, he said coolly, all they could do was to hear what the man had to say. They had decided that George would go alone to the meeting. After all there was no point in letting Liebl know any more than he needed to about them. Valentin would come and find him afterwards.

  He looked at his watch. He was now several minutes late, as he had intended, and he walked quickly on to the first flight of stairs off the bridge, which led on to Na Kampé. This was a short street lined with hotels and bars, ending in a postage-stamp park bordering the river. A long black limousine was parked immediately outside the door of the café. It was empty except for the driver, one tattooed arm crooked through the open window, blond hair cut close to his pink scalp. George guessed that this must be Liebl’s vehicle, and he let his gaze rest on the driver’s face, waiting for some sign of interest or recognition, but the man’s only reaction was to give him an impassive glance before turning his head away.