Now the missile disarmament summit had been cancelled. The United States was planning to bring forward military exercises in Europe and fly 15,000 troops to West Germany, thirty miles from the Czechoslovak border.
In this last accelerating phase of their careers the oceans between the continents were widening and freezing once more …
Zhukov watched the faltering Czech rebellion on a colour TV set in a German bar on 3rd Avenue. The newscaster appeared in paintbox colours—bright pink face and greenish background—while Prague appeared in black and white. More real, somehow, that way; like the frozen prints of the October Revolution.
It was Zhukov’s simple aim to get good and drunk. Along the bar sat other men with similar objectives, adopting the traditional posture of the dedicated American drunk: crouched, both hands on the bar, drink between two paws, to be toyed with and stroked, before the compulsive gulp; drinks spaced at intervals, five or fifteen minutes according to your pocket; flick the empty glass forward and incline your head towards the aproned barman.
Zhukov drank a pot of draught German lager, straw-coloured with winking froth, cold mist blurring the outside of the glass tankard.
He had been advised to stay that evening at the Soviet Mission on East 67th, and Dmitri Muratov had invited him to supper with his wife. But to hell with them.
He had walked down the sidewalks of Lexington cooling in the evening, but the air trapped beneath the builder’s helmet of smog was still tropical, the snared sunshine decaying a little. In the delicatessens salami curled its tongues and the hanging hams and sausages swung like relaxed elephantine testicles. Even lime-green milk shakes had a melted look about them.
Only the swank hotels managed coolness in the refined railroad terminals of their lobbies. Zhukov took himself to the Waldorf-Astoria because of its Hollywood familiarity. In its corridors men in thin snappy suits and women in silk met over cocktails, money still crisp from air-conditioning in purse and pocketbook. Zhukov had in his pockets fifty dollars of limp Capitalist money. He decided to spend none of it here: no workers of the world ever united here.
So he ended up in the German bar on 3rd as the first watering place.
Above the barman’s head the Czechs who had allegedly welcomed the arrival of their Warsaw Pact allies shouted, jeered and climbed on to the implacable tanks. Buildings burned and gunfire crackled.
According to the newscaster with the blood-pressured complexion some of the tank crews had no idea that they were in Czechoslovakia when they climbed out of their turrets. Others were dismayed at the hostility that met them.
Zhukov wondered what Russian television was showing—if anything. A nice tableau, probably, in a quiet park. Tame girls embracing bashful soldiers, tank commanders ruffling children’s hair.
The foam winked and he poured the beer that smelled vaguely of lions’-cages down his throat. Another tankard and a shot of Smirnoff to go with it.
The drinkers ranged alongside him studied their glasses and their hands. A man beside him with a couple of chins, a bald head and ludicrous sideburns caught his eye and inclined his head, welcoming Zhukov into the fraternity.
Zhukov asked him if he’d like a drink.
‘Sure, why not. You buy one and I’ll buy one. Works out the same either way, I guess. So long as you ain’t drinking no fancy drink.’ His eyes which had an eggy quality looked accusingly at the vodka.
‘Only vodka.’
‘I reckon that’s okay. I’ll take a bourbon with you, friend.’ He placed the new glass of bourbon and ice in front of him for contemplation, as much part of the pleasure as the hangover was a remorse. ‘What are you trying to forget, friend?’
‘That.’ Zhukov pointed at the TV.
‘That?’ The drunk peered at the set. ‘What’s that, friend? Another war or somethin’?’
‘That’s Prague.’
‘Uh-huh. That’s in Europe some place, ain’t it?’
‘It’s in Czechoslovakia.’
The drunk considered this, loose eyes following the movement of the ice under the whisky. ‘Why should you be worried about what’s happening a million miles from this bar?’
‘Because I’m Russian.’
The drunk accepted the confession without surprise. He would have accepted a drink from a camel. ‘A Ruski, eh? I knew a few once, when I was at sea. Now I’m all at sea.’ He laughed sloppily.
‘Would you like another?’
‘My turn, friend.’
But Zhukov had ordered and his friend didn’t resist.
The drunk tried to back track on the conversation, but the immediate past was elusive. ‘Why did you say you were drinking?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘I’m drinking because there ain’t nothing else to do. My wife left me, the kids grew up. I’m drinking because I like it, friend. What else should I do? Tell me that. Go for a walk in the park? Pick up some broad down Times Square?’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t kid myself like some of these guys here. They’ll give you some shit about a family sorrow or somethin’. Me—I drink because there ain’t nothing else to do. Nothin’,’ he added with finality.
Zhukov decided to move on and toasted the drunk in Russian.
‘What was that?’
Zhukov stood up and paid.
‘Hey, friend, it’s my turn to pay.’ The drunk slapped a collection of coins on the bar, willing to pay for another couple of minutes’ escape from ulcerated loneliness. ‘I worked down in Florida once. They had a bar there where you could have any drink in the house for forty cents. How about that?’
But Zhukov was gone, walking down 3rd, surprised the liquor hadn’t affected him at all.
He went into a bar called Costellos as easily as paper into a vacuum cleaner. A good honest bar designed for unremitting boozing and extravagant talking; there were Thurber drawings on the walls and the breath of Brendan Behan who used to take drink there hung balefully over the bar. Zhukov warmed to it immediately; it reminded him of the Moscow beer halls where in the evenings tired men swilled beer and ate crustacean snacks the way New Yorkers gobbled peanuts.
Along the bar he recognized the Australian journalist in the pink shirt engaged in hearty argument. And a group of British journalists with a couple of tanned, long-haired American girls trying to understand their jokes.
Zhukov switched to whisky because everyone else seemed to be drinking it. After he had drunk the first one, ice clanking against his teeth, he managed to dispatch the faces of Prague into the wings. Americans, British, Australians and one Russian drinking together in a noisy bar. This, Zhukov thought, is where the United Nations should meet. Who is the enemy? No one. No one at all.
Relaxation slid over him as smoothly as sleep. The world’s leaders should meet in bars like this. Brezhnev, Kosygin, the President of the United States, the Prime Minister of Great Britain, de Gaulle, the Germans, a little Chinaman tinkling his ice like wind chimes.
Down the bar the Australian recognized him and waved, not as deferential as he’d been at the U.N. He came down and clumped Zhukov on the shoulders. The British smelling a story over the rims of their glasses wandered over leaving the girls talking about clothes and diets.
The Australian said, ‘Have a drink, comrade.’
Ah, the camaraderie of social contact. ‘Thank you,’ he said politely. ‘I’ll have a Scotch whisky.’
The Aussie bought him one. And everyone else including an American at the bar who had presumed that he was alone.
A stocky Englishman with Byronic curls above his honest face said, ‘Introduce us to your friend, Dave.’ His accent reminded Zhukov of the diplomat at Massingham’s party: a bit of coal dust there.
Dave said, “This is Vladimir. Vladimir, meet the press.’
‘How did you know my name was Vladimir?’
‘As far as I’m concerned,’ Dave said, ‘all Russians are Vladimir. Drink up, mate, there’s another round coming up.’
The rounds came up with a wave of
the conjurer’s wand. No one seemed too worried about Czechoslovakia. Or the Presidential election or pollution or the gathering student revolt. They were talking about a racehorse owned by one of them which had just come in first—in the race after the one it had run in. And about girls, poker, expenses and stories. Zhukov liked them all, loved them.
He tried to buy a round and was waved aside. An amiable middle-aged American who managed to look like a tourist in his own city, drank up gladly, agreeing with most things that were said.
One of the Englishmen, a man of great affection who reminded Zhukov of hugging vodka friends in Moscow, began to sing ‘Underneath the Arches.’ But no one joined him, too early yet for songs.
These are not the sort of Englishmen I have met, Zhukov thought. Maybe he had never met any nationalities—only diplomats.
The Aussie walloped him on the shoulders again and said, ‘How’s it going, Vladimir?’
‘It’s going fine,’ Zhukov replied, feeling a grin crease his surprised cheeks.
‘Good on you,’ Dave said, drinking the American’s whisky. ‘What are you doing over here, mate?’
‘Observer,’ Zhukov said.
‘Not much to watch. A lot of bloody talk that’s not going to do anyone any good. What did you think of your guy’s performance?’
Zhukov shrugged. ‘It’s not for me to say.’
‘I thought it was a load of garbage,’ Dave pronounced. ‘A load of bullshit.’
‘You are an honest man,’ Zhukov said. ‘I like honesty very much.’
‘Pity the Kremlin doesn’t like it, too.’
A jovial British reporter with a wrestler’s build and thinning blond hair said, ‘Come off it, Dave. The American delegate came out with just as much self-righteous bullshit.’
‘Yeah? And what about my British lord, for Chris’sake?’
‘What about him?’
‘Please.’ Zhukov held up his hand. ‘Let us not argue about it. I insist on buying everyone a drink.’ The drinks were in their hands as if the barman had decided it was about time Russia put his hand in his pocket. ‘Let’s not spoil the atmosphere. I would be disappointed. Because it seems to me that this is the sort of place where the problems of the world should be sorted out. In a bar called Costellos.’ He felt that he had made a contribution of some magnitude.
Dave the Aussie gave him a one-armed Australian bearhug. ‘I like that, Vladimir. Do you mind if we use it?’
‘Use it?’
‘Yeah—quote you on it. An anonymous Soviet called Vladimir solving problems of the world in a bar within a quarter of a mile of the United Nations.’
‘I don’t think that would be taken very seriously.’
The wrestler, also with a coal-gritted voice, said, ‘Why not? We don’t work for Pravda, you know. People want to know what ordinary Russians think. We have no bloody idea what ordinary Russians are like. You never tell us. In London everyone thinks they’re all crane-drivers or spies.’
The foreign voice of the American spoke up. ‘I think you’re both right,’ he said.
Another Englishman, smooth and gout-suffering, asked Zhukov what he really thought about the Soviet presence in Czechoslovakia.
‘If the Czechs asked us to intervene then it is justified.’
‘Ah, but did they? And if they did—who did?’
The whisky slipped down as easily as beer. A sort of shambling benevolence encompassed Zhukov, although he was saddened at the turn of the conversation.
The affectionate Englishman was singing about a street called the Old Kent Road, glancing at his watch as if the predestined moment for accompaniment was almost nigh.
Zhukov said, ‘I don’t know, my friend. I have no idea.’
What did the ordinary Russian think? The ordinary Russian didn’t even know. But he, Vladimir Zhukov knew, and if he wasn’t very careful his thoughts would take wing. Because he wanted to tell them, wanted to tell someone: the alcohol oiled the ball-bearings of his want. ‘Let’s hear your friend sing another song,’ he said.
The singer bowed. ‘I’m Enery the Eighth I am …’
Americans in the bar looked startled at the inhibited British who only got drunk at hunt-halls.
The Australian took the rostrum: ‘Once a jolly swagman …’ Then songs from the north and the London-end of England, and a couple from the Guinness heart of Dublin with Behan’s echo in the rafters.
Student melody bubbled inside Zhukov, beneath the crust of long conformity. Bubbled and erupted with a preliminary belch. ‘The Song of the Volga Boatmen’—a song they knew. ‘Yo-ho heave-ho.’ Such gaiety, such spontaneity. Wasn’t this the way life should be treated?
A Canadian newcomer attempted a Cossack dance and fell on his back.
‘Yo-ho heave ho.’
The Aussie punched Zhukov gently in the belly. ‘I like you Vladimir. You’re a good guy.’
‘I like you all.’
‘Pity it can’t always be like this, old mate.’
Zhukov agreed that it was indeed a pity.
‘You don’t mind if we do a little piece about it, do you? Quite harmless. Just showing how we all can get together if the politicians would keep their bloody noses out of things.’
What harm could it do? The philanthropy of the common man overcoming the dogmatic hostilities of the overlords. The balloon of well-being expanded the membrane of reserve outside his consciousness.
Zhukov punched the Australian back. ‘Go ahead if you wish. But please—no names.’
‘No names,’ said the wrestler. ‘We’ll call you Ivan-it’s the only other Russian name we know. And we’ll call you a tourist. Up for cup. Okay?’
‘What cup is this?’
‘Just a North Country expression. Don’t let it worry you. Have another drink.’
Another glass appeared on the bar.
They sang ‘The Lambeth Walk.’
‘And now,’ Zhukov said, searching for the slippery globes of words, ‘I must go.’
‘One more for the road.’
‘Just one more.’
The faces blended into a single song to which he beat time with one hand, loosening his tie with the other. ‘There’ll always be an England …’
‘And a Russia,’ he bellowed.
‘You’re a good guy, Ivan.’
‘You’re all good guys.’
He made his way elaborately to the door, apologizing to a chair which got in his way.
Outside, the glow of the day was suspended in warm dew. He bought a slice of pizza across the road and looked for the next bar, the last bar. A grey-haired Negro sat on the kerb waiting for rain or a bus or a benefactor. Zhukov gave him a dollar which he took with a soft mumble. The old Negro made Zhukov feel sad with his waiting face that had by-passed hopelessness. He chewed on his pizza as if it were gum and hummed a song that wandered over the steppes in the fall.
Two cops stopped him on the corner of 49th. ‘Say, fella, isn’t it about time you took a cab home?’
‘No,’ Zhukov said. ‘Why do you ask?’
They were both young with smooth smart faces. ‘Because you’re loaded, buddy,’ said the second cop. ‘That’s why.’
‘Loaded? I have no gun.’
‘Say, fella,’ said the first cop, ‘where you from?’
‘And where are you going?’ said the second.
‘I’m going to Prague,’ Zhukov said.
‘That’s a long way, fella. Do you have any papers on you?’
Zhukov produced his wallet, dropped it, picked it up grazing a knuckle on the sidewalk and handed it to the cops.
The first cop showed it to the second. ‘Guess we’d better leave well enough alone.’
‘He ain’t doing any harm anyways.’
They saluted. ‘Watch yourself, comrade. If you take our advice you’ll go back to your hotel before you get into any trouble.’
Zhukov nodded. Nice young men—kind behind their strutting manner.
He walked on mourning the loss
of innocence, crossing a street against the lights and upsetting a cab driver. The driver shouted a few obscenities and Zhukov waved back at him benignly.
At the next block he side-stepped into a bar packed with men and women picking each other up. In groups, couples and singles: something for everybody with not less than twenty-five dollars on them and an apartment within the river boundaries. The barmen energetic and as swift with the change as shopbreakers with loot.
Zhukov bought himself a Scotch, leaning with gratitude against a wall. Around him he saw the loneliness, felt the fear of it. If you had missed your knight or your damsel you came here and hoped that he or she didn’t disgust you in the light of dawn. The bar was tactfully dark.
A girl of about thirty wearing a blonde wig knocked his drink. ‘Sorry,’ she said, not looking sorry at all. She was thin and smart and unloved.
‘Don’t worry,’ Zhukov said.
‘Say, do I detect an accent?’
‘I’m Russian,’ Zhukov said.
‘You’re kidding.’
‘Why should I be kidding?’
‘Wow,’ she said. ‘I really believe you are Russian. Say, you must be the first real Russian I’ve met. What’s a nice Russian like you doing in a place like this?’
‘Drinking,’ Zhukov told her.
‘You can say that again,’ she said peering at him. ‘Did someone try to strangle you or something?’ She pointed at his tie which was sliding beneath his jacket.
Zhukov replied that no one had tried to strangle him.
‘You don’t exactly make with the small talk, stranger. What’s your name?’
He told her it was Vladimir.
‘Vladimir. That’s kinda cute. Would you like to buy me a drink, Vladimir? Or don’t girls ask guys questions like that in Russia?’
‘Certainly I’ll get you a drink.’ He pushed off from the wall. ‘What would you like?’
‘With you it’ll have to be a vodka. A vodka tonic.’
‘You shouldn’t mix tonic water with vodka.’
‘Okay then—I’ll take it straight.’
Zhukov pushed into the throng with a steady breaststroke. Everyone was shouting, sweating with the effort of pick-up cleverness. The men smelling of after-shave and deodorant, assessing how far they could go with suggestive openers; the women acting haughty to start with and talking intently to their girlfriends as if men were the last creatures they had come to meet in the market.
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