Murder, pillage and arson in Baltimore, Chicago, Kansas City and Washington. And to a lesser extent in Cincinnati, Detroit, Nashville, Newark, Oakland (California), Pittsburgh and Trenton.
In three days in Washington ten died, 1,191 were injured, 7,650 arrested. There were 1,130 fire alarms and 13,600 Federal troops were called out.
Black was on the rampage: black was beautiful in the light of the flames it had started. Glossy and snarling. Civil war marched closer. Where are you Ulysses S. Grant? Where are you Abraham Lincoln?
In the household of Henry Massingham it was deemed correct to continue with plans for Sunday brunch. Only couples with kids were forgiven if they declined to brave the smouldering streets. Which was fine with the Massinghams because, in any case, they weren’t over-fond of brats littered around their feet.
The house was rented off Massachusetts Avenue not far from the Naval Observatory. In an area considered ‘safe’—an adjective already infiltrating the real estate ads. Near the home of the Australian Ambassador, former residence of Patton—enough to frighten off any rioters, they said.
French windows were open for the perfume of spring bulbs unsheathing and, perhaps, tear gas. The sunlight found half-devoured logs burning in the open grate, negating their puny radiance. Insistent good taste permeated the place: its baby chandelier, deep golden carpet, some Chippendale, leather encyclopedias, Dickens and Scott and American history behind mullioned bookcase windows. From the wall the Queen approved. All rented.
There were the Massinghams, the Richters—his wife glossy, almost waxen, and incongruously skittish, some assorted Englishmen with enthusiastic wives, two American couples patiently courteous while they planned early escape, a Frenchman playing Yves Montand, a hungry Italian and an even hungrier Belgian.
But I, Vladimir Zhukov thought, without satisfaction, am the star.
There was also a lot of food. Cold beef, pork, chicken, ham. Bowls of potato salad, tomatoes, folded fans of celery. And much booze.
The talk was of the rioting. And the adventure of braving it.
‘What does a Russian think of all this?’ an English lady with a blue rinse inquired.
He smiled, shrugged. What does a Mongolian think? What does a Martian think? He opened a can of Budweiser which hissed at him. ‘It’s a tragedy,’ he said. ‘A tragedy for America.’
She nodded. ‘I’m so pleased you think so. We never quite know what you Russians think. It’s such a pleasant change to find someone like yourself attending our little do’s.’
Yves Montand moved in, layers of pork and ham stretching the roll in his hand. ‘You must not judge America by what is happening today.’
Zhukov nodded. It was the only response to such a blinding insight into the obvious.
The English lady asked, ‘Do you have any trouble with the … er … Negroes in your country?’
A new arrival from Pakistan interrupted. ‘Any such trouble would be instantly crushed. I am thinking perhaps that is the answer. What do you think, sir?’
As we don’t have the problem,’ Zhukov said, ‘I can’t answer your question.’
‘But surely am I not right in believing that you have some citizens of Negro descent in the Caucasus? And that they are almost completely illiterate and poverty-stricken? Surely I am correct in believing such information?’
Vladimir Zhukov said that indeed there were black slave descendants in Abkhazia but he could not vouch for their standards of living.
He was rescued by Helen Massingham, luscious in tight cream trousers that showed the line of her pants, and tight mauve sweater. She exuded ripeness and thwarted fertility. A bitch on heat, thought Zhukov. From a pedigree kennel.
‘How marvellous,’ she said. ‘I didn’t think you’d make it. She brought him beer and food and manoeuvred him into a corner. ‘I hope we’re going to see a lot more of you.’ She glanced around. ‘It’s so different having someone like you here. And you didn’t bring your wife.’
Her eyes were creased at the corners, a vain woman suffering from nearsightedness who refused to wear glasses. Her hair was short and slithery, her breasts nudged him. Her mouth was shiny pink, lipstick flaked a little, and the rest of her cosmetics seemed to Zhukov to be like the bloom on a plum.
Her husband joined them. Cavalry twill trousers, rough old sweater smelling vaguely of stables. He was accompanied by another British diplomat; his senior, Zhukov gathered. Chunky, balding prematurely, aggressively fit with chipped-ice eyes and a broken nose. Zhukov was pleased to find that not all British diplomats were like his host. Although you couldn’t always tell: it was probably Massingham’s sort that had led the Charge of the Light Brigade.
The newcomer said, ‘Name’s Barnes. Pleased to meet you.’ He put a wrestling hold on Zhukov’s hand. ‘I think a lot of us would have given this a miss if it hadn’t been for you.’
Massingham laughed uncertainly. ‘Thanks very much.’
Zhukov said, ‘Am I so interesting then?’ The role was becoming increasingly repugnant to him.
‘You are interesting, yes. And I know what it must feel like to be exhibited in this way. But can’t you persuade your ambassador to allow your people to mix more freely? There’s no harm done, surely. Perhaps a lot of the problems of East and West would be sorted out this way. A bit ambitious, I know, but it would be a start.’
Zhukov agreed and told Barnes so. He liked the belligerent little man with the coal-face accents from the north of England. They skirted the obvious—the assassination and the riots—and advanced on politics.
A tall, impeccably sincere American from the National Foundation of the Arts and the Humanities joined them because you at least had to speak to the Russian before departing. With him was a quiet, pleasant-looking young man named Charles Hardin to whom Helen Massingham, bored with politics, turned her attention.
The sincere American, anxious to make friends, said that American legislators were deeply influenced by whatever the Kremlin did. Unhappily, he found himself wading into the Communist coup in Czechoslovakia in 1948. But as he was now in it—up to his neck—he struggled on. ‘That’s what really made the isolationists in Congress support the Marshall Plan.’
‘I can understand that,’ Zhukov said. ‘It would have been strange if it had worked otherwise, it seems to me.’
The American was surprised and waded fatalistically on. ‘You’re surely not admitting the error of the Soviet Union in that instance?’
Vladimir Zhukov smiled at such a blundering safari after truth. He didn’t think it would be such a good idea for Russians to mix more freely. All the antagonisms of the world powers were alerted within seconds of contact over a can of beer. All observed by Her Majesty up there on the wall.
The history of dissension continued with an attack from the Belgian on Russia’s one-party system. An attack veiled as a question.
Zhukov sighed. But he could give as well as he could receive. It was time to remind the assembly that he did not accept invitations to lunches just to be set up for target practice. It is time to remind them that, although I am here by myself and therefore vulnerable, I represent the Soviet Union and the dream of Socialism. ‘There is little difference in our electoral systems,’ he began. Oh’s and ah’s. ‘In the Soviet Union we choose our own candidate in much the same way as yourselves—Americans that is.’ The protests found voice, but Zhukov held up his hand, standing there on the rostrum in Red Square. ‘You have two parties, true. But it seems to me that there is little difference in the Democrats and the Republicans …’
The sincere young American, itching to speak, stammered with indignation.
Again Zhukov held up his hand, aware that all other conversations in the room had stopped. And, because he was not too sure of his facts on political parties—but it was good provocation—he swept on to a fresh attack. (Although he was far from sure that Mikhail Brodsky would have approved.)
‘America is in fact a dictatorship. Your President has total power, unlike
the leaders of the Soviet Union. As I understand it, if an act is passed by both your houses, he can do one of four things. He can sign it. He can hold it which means it becomes law in ten days. He can veto it and return it which means it must then be passed by a majority of two-thirds. Or he can take no action which means that Congress adjourns within ten days and he has effectively thrown it out. Those surely are the powers of a dictator.’
‘The point,’ said the young American eagerly, ‘is that he does not exercise this latter power.’
‘It seems to me,’ Zhukov said, ‘that the power is there whether he exercises it or not. And if people are aware of this ultimate power then they act accordingly. And,’ he added, ‘as is well known, the President is also your Commander-in-Chief. Also he is in charge of foreign affairs assisted by your Secretary of State. No such overwhelming powers are held by our leaders.’
He eased himself through the circle to get more food, not anxious to continue the one-sided debate. A devastating thrust, strategic withdrawal. In his dark suit and white shirt he felt more conspicuous than usual among the sweaters and slacks.
He moved to the french windows trailed by Helen Massingham. ‘You showed them,’ she said in her juicy voice. ‘You really showed them.’
‘They seem to think that because I am a Russian they can criticize me in any way they like. They wouldn’t dream of attacking a Brazilian or an Italian that way.’
‘You are rather different, Vladimir. Rather special.’
She took his arm and they were in the small garden. A few trees fluttering with mating birds, crocuses piercing the lawn still pale and attenuated from winter. A flake of ash swung down from somewhere like a black autumn leaf. Behind them, faces hovered in the french windows uncertain whether to follow, as if Zhukov and Helen Massingham were ambassador and secretary intent on State matters.
Helen Massingham said, ‘This house is a bit too grand for Henry, really. But I subsidize him. My parents are disgustingly rich.’ She peered around at him as if there were a tree in between them. ‘Does that put you off me?’ She fitted a cigarette into an ivory holder.
‘Not at all. If you live in a Capitalist society you might as well be one of the privileged.’
‘My father’s got a lot of racehorses, too. They’re always winning, bless them. I love horses. Do you like horses, Vladimir? I think you do. I can imagine you as a Cossack or something galloping along and bending down from your saddle to pick up a handkerchief with your teeth.’
‘Then you have a very vivid imagination.’
Her fingers tightened on his arm. ‘Poor old Vladimir. You can’t really adapt to the Western sense of humour, can you? It must be awful because I’m sure you’ve got a wonderful sense of humour really. Just different, that’s all. That’s the greatest barrier of all, isn’t it?’
In the mouth of the french windows Zhukov spotted Massingham, face bobbing anxiously like a man bidding at an auction. Through the trees he saw other houses like the Massinghams’. Grand, uniform, competing. He didn’t know if he envied their owners with their rebel children, their mortgages, their sons in Vietnam, their coronaries, their wary pushing days fading into after-dinner brandy and Johnny Carson, the desperate enjoyment of their tanning holidays. With all their materialistic benefits they were probably no more content than a peasant donning his valenki to bring wood for the earthen stove in the middle of his wooden cottage.
‘What,’ Helen Massingham asked, ‘do you admire most about America?’
He answered instantly. ‘The Mafia.’
She laughed, holding the cigarette holder hard between well-tended teeth. ‘I knew you had a sense of humour. Why the Mafia?’
‘Because they get what they want. Because they are efficient. Because democracy, despite all its claims, cannot put them down.’
‘America has the Mafia and you have the K.G.B.’
‘We all have a K.G.B. of some sort.’
‘Are you in the K.G.B, Vladimir?’
‘Of course’
Carefully he avoided treading on the crocuses. Next door two youths were excavating the garage. A canoe, tent, skates, barbecue, skis, baseball bat … Such assumption of possessions. In Moscow he had bought a toy for a friend’s son. A rifle with a butt insecurely screwed, crude piping barrel, wobbly sights: the boy had been delighted.
She flicked the cigarette-end into the bushes. ‘And what do you dislike most about America?’
‘Drugs,’ he said. ‘How can I admire a Capitalist society when it allows this to happen to its children?’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘It’s awful.’
‘It’s more than awful. We have no such problems in the Soviet Union. You see, there is much to be said for our way of life. Our repressions …’
‘I thought you would say racism.’
‘No, that is inevitable. It is part of the war of evolution. It will determine itself.’
She laughed uncertainly. ‘We’re getting dreadfully serious, aren’t we. I’m not a very serious person really. And this wasn’t the sort of thing I intended to talk about at all.’
‘What then?’
‘It’s rather difficult,’ she said. ‘You’re so different. So self-contained. You’re fearfully attractive, but it’s very difficult to get at you.’
‘What are you trying to say, Mrs Massingham?’
‘There you go, you see. Mrs Massingham. How can you flirt with a man who calls you Mrs Massingham?’
‘Then don’t try, Mrs Massingham.’
You know how to put me in my place, don’t you. Not many men do.’ She considered this. ‘Not any that I can remember.’
‘Not even your husband?’
‘Henry? You must be joking.’
‘No,’ he said, ‘I wasn’t.’
‘You’re so … I don’t know. Self-possessed. No, that’s not the right word. Impervious. That’s better. Impervious to all our blandishments. You make me feel superfluous.’
At the window Henry Massingham looked as if he might join them at any moment. Beside him stood the Italian waving a glass of red wine.
Helen Massingham rushed on. ‘I wish you would be more cooperative. You make me feel so unsure of myself.’
Zhukov waited.
‘I wondered perhaps if we could meet. You know, somewhere safe because I know you people are not supposed to get involved in anything like that. Who is?’ She giggled. ‘But I thought perhaps we could meet by accident somewhere—in the Madison or the Mayflower or the Statler Hilton maybe …’
‘It doesn’t sound very accidental,’ Zhukov said. The young scents of spring made him homesick. A breeze playing the parchments of silver birch. Celandine, violets, anemones all presenting themselves at once as if they had been pushing at the ice all winter. Cheryomukha cherry trees instead of the Yoshino—so much more shy. Hand in hand in Sokolniki Park. Kvas wagons emerging, cars uncovered and stuttering in the fresh air.
She said, ‘I think I’ve lost you.’
He returned. ‘I’m sorry. You were saying?’
‘Somehow you manage to be extremely polite and bloody rude at the same time.’
‘We Russians are not great ones for the niceties of conversation. I’m sorry.’
‘You might at least listen to what I’m saying. I’m making myself cheap enough as it is.’
‘You were mentioning a meeting …’
‘I thought if we could meet by accident we could have a drink. And then a meal, perhaps.’ She looked at him speculatively. ‘Perhaps I could take a room in one of those hotels …’
‘I don’t think that would be very discreet.’
‘It could be done very discreetly.’ A gentle puppy nudge from her breasts. ‘Don’t you find me attractive, Vladimir? Most men do. The trouble is I don’t find them terribly attractive. Well, not many of them, anyway. I suppose it’s because they’re all trying so bloody hard. Men should never try too hard. You don’t, do you, Vladimir?’
Zhukov grinned at her and agreed that he d
idn’t. She was, he supposed, desirable. Like a whore on a street corner. Like a dessert. Afterwards you discarded the empty plate and forgot it. He could not sleep with such a woman and then return to the trusting if unresponsive body of his wife. He didn’t condemn other men who did. It just wasn’t him.
But he thought again: This is what I am expected to do. This is my infiltration. This is the seal of my success. My first breakthrough. He saw Helen Massingham rifling her husband’s briefcase and bringing him the contents. Tuning her antennae to the unguarded comment of a counsellor from Chancery and relaying it to Vladimir Zhukov, secret agent.
You will have to compromise, Zhukov. Make your play before the cool sheets are drawn back for the ritual of sex. Those girdled breasts drooping a little, belly not quite as flat as its owner would have wished, black welcome mat of hair belying a certain aristocracy of feature. Plum juices fast flowing.
‘Can we then?’ she asked, eager little girl. ‘If you think so, don’t say another word. I’ll arrange it all.’
Should I? Mikhail Brodsky replied, ‘Of course.’ Valentina, Natasha, Vladimir …
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘But please—be discreet.’
Henry Massingham joined them, accompanied by the Italian, tongue and teeth mauve with wine.
On the landing, emerging from the bathroom, he found Helen Massingham waiting. Downstairs the insect noise of the brunching guests. On either side cream-painted doors, and through one, half open, the end of a bed covered with coats.
Her breasts brushing his chest. Her breath smelling faintly of gin. Lips against his, mouth open, lipstick that tasted of strawberries. Thighs moving, hand pulling at the hair on his neck.
He felt himself respond. Grabbed her arms theatrically, pulled them down and pushed her away.
She stood back. ‘What’s the matter, Vladimir?’
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