Sacrifice

by Graham Masterton

  ‘No,’ said Michael. ‘This will not be the case.’

  They reached the third floor, and found their dezhurnaya, a stout middle-aged woman in a dark green jacket and skirt who had her hair parted in the dead centre of her scalp and a baggy humourless face like Lyndon Johnson. She noisily opened their rooms for them, throwing the door wide, and switching on the televideniye, as if to make sure that they noticed it. Michael went straight to the window of his room and looked out towards the west, towards St Basil’s, Lenin’s Tomb, the Hotel Ukraina, and far beyond, where factory chimneys and cooling-towers smudged the horizon with smoke.

  Miss Konstantinova stood in the open doorway, watching him, while the dezhurnaya stood in the corridor censoriously jangling her keys. On the televideniye there was a documentary programme about the Bratsk hydro-electric power station. Miss Konstantinova said, ‘I will wait for two hours while you bath and change, if you wish to. Then perhaps we will have dinner. I have reserved a table for us at the Moskva Café; I think you will enjoy it.’

  ‘Can I call my wife?’ Michael asked her.

  ‘You can book a call through the hotel desk. But usually it takes two hours or longer.’

  ‘Well, perhaps I’ll book a call for the morning.’

  Miss Konstantinova said, ‘You should call me Rufina. In the next few days, we shall be together very closely, for six hours of the day every day. We should be druzyamyi, friends.’

  ‘Yes, well, I’d like that,’ said Michael. He began to wonder when he would ever get the opportunity to escape from Miss Konstantinova and inspect the guidance complex out at the Central Airport. Perhaps he would find it impossible: in which case he would have a perfect excuse for Mr Wallings. He said to Miss Konstantinova, ‘Good. Pryikrashna. I’ll see you later, then.’ He pressed his fingers into the oatmeal-coloured bedspread over his bed, and remarked, ‘Seems soft enough,’ and then realized that he might have been unwittingly suggestive. Alan Taylor had warned him how prudish the Russians were. Alan’s wife Jill had been stopped by the militsya for wearing Bermuda shorts in Gorky Street, when she was shopping. Michael added, ‘I should sleep well,’ and then wished he hadn’t said that, either. But Miss Konstantinova didn’t seem to be embarrassed. She simply nodded her head, and said, ‘I will meet you downstairs in the lobby at seven o’clock, if that is acceptable to you.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Michael. He looked at her, and for a second she looked back at him with extraordinary boldness. ‘Yes, that’ll be fine.’

  ‘You should now say goodbye,’ nodded Rufina Konstantinova. ‘You should say, do svidanya.’

  Michael hesitated, and then pronounced slowly, ‘Do svidanya.’

  Rufina Konstantinova said, ‘That means goodbye, but of course not for ever.’

  ‘Well, I hope not.’

  When she had gone, John came wandering into his room, violently scratching his head. ‘You haven’t seen my toilet-bag, have you? It’s a Boots’ one, with blue flowers on. I was carrying it separately. I hope I haven’t left it on the plane.’

  ‘Knowing you, John, you left it at home.’

  John went to the window, and looked down at the traffic crawling around St Basil’s – Moskviches and Volgas and occasional Saabs and Wartburgs. ‘Don’t think much of the rooms, do you? Not my idea of “de-luxe”. I had a better room at Bournemouth, when Sonya and I went down for the dog-show.’

  ‘John, we’re not here for a holiday. This trip could make us, if we place enough orders.’

  ‘All the same, though,’ John remarked, blinking at Michael through his spectacles. ‘Wouldn’t like to arm-wrestle that lady who looks after our landing, would you?’

  Michael took a bath, and was glad of the universal rubber plug that he had brought with him, on Alan Taylor’s advice; so many Russian baths and basins had no plugs. The sunlight crossed the pale green tiles on the walls, and danced in reflecting curves. He felt suddenly lonely and afraid, and wished that he hadn’t come. The worst part of it was not being able to call Margaret.

  He put on his best grey suit, and splashed his chin with Christian Dior. John wore the same brown corduroy jacket he had worn when they met their bank manager in Croydon. Rufina Konstantinova was waiting for them at the far side of the lobby in a white embroidered dress, and she smiled and waved as soon as she caught sight of them.

  ‘The Moskva isn’t far,’ she said, ‘but we can take a taxi.’

  The restaurant was sparkling and heavily luxurious, with crystal chandeliers glinting over two long rows of tables spread with white linen. Michael noticed that most of the diners were Americans and Swedes; although almost all of them seemed to be accompanied by an Intourist guide, polite, obliging, explaining the menu as they went along.

  They sat in the corner, Rufina Konstantinova ordered caviare and chilled vodka, which they ate with black bread. ‘In the Soviet Union, we call caviare ikra, black for the sturgeon and red for the salmon. It is very expensive now these days.’

  They toasted each other ‘vashe zdorovye!’ and then again ‘vashe zdorovye!’ until their cheeks were pink and they were laughing.

  Rufina held Michael’s hand, and said, ‘You must be the sort of man who cares very much for people, to make toys. In the Soviet Union, everybody loves children, and they say that people who love children love the world.’

  John squinted at her through his spectacles, and countered, ‘How can anybody from the Soviet Union say they love the world when they have the most powerful Army, the most threatening Navy, and more missiles pointed at the rest of the world than anybody can count? Is that love? It’s not even friendship.’

  Rufina smiled, although her smile was not one of amusement, more of indulgence. ‘In the guidebooks to the Soviet Union, Mr Bee Shop, it says not to involve your guide or interpreter in a political or polemical discussion, since this can sometimes spoil the mood of your visit.’

  ‘Mood?’ said John. The vodka had already gone to his head; that, and the jet-lag. ‘What kind of a mood can anybody be in to position an SS-20?’

  ‘Mr Bee Shop,’ Rufina insisted. ‘Please do not mar a potentially memorable evening.’

  Michael said to John, sharply, ‘Shut up, John, do you mind? This isn’t the time or the place.’

  John shrugged. He knew by Michael’s tone of voice that he was serious. Rufina ordered gribi v smetane, hot mushrooms with sour cream, and then tsiplyata tabaka – chicken flattened on to a buttered skillet and cooked until crisp. They drank Tsinandali white wine, and Narzan mineral water. By eleven o’clock, when the Moskva’s lights began to dim, Michael felt heady and unreal, and ready for bed.

  They took a taxi back to the Rossiya. The evening air was cold. The river curved like a silver snake. Michael closed his eyes for a moment in the back of the taxi and didn’t even realize that the hand which clasped his was Rufina’s. Or perhaps he did realize, and didn’t care. They walked in through the brightly-lit hotel lobby, and the doorman returned their propoosk slips, so that they could show them to the dezhurnayn upstairs. Michael said to Rufina, ‘What time shall we see you tomorrow?’

  ‘Let us discuss that upstairs,’ she said. ‘Please, you look very tired.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Michael. ‘I think I am.’

  John disappeared to his bedroom down the corridor with a backhanded wave. Michael went into his room and stripped off his jacket and loosened his tie. Rufina stood by the window looking out over the lights of Moscow at night. On top of the Palace of Congresses, five red stars shone out over the city; streetlights were reflected in the river. Rufina said, ‘This city has changed so much; and yet so little. If you look at the Kremlin today, you know, its skyline is not so different from the way it looked in 1800.’

  Michael lay back on his bed, and rubbed his eyes. ‘I don’t think I’m used to Russian vodka,’ he said, smiling at her.

  She tugged the curtains closed. ‘The Soviet Union is not what you think it is, Mr Townsend.’

  Michael didn’t answer. He knew now that he
was being propositioned. He watched Rufina as she crossed the room and closed the door. He said, ‘Is that what happens to all British businessmen? Courtesy of Intourist?’

  Rufina sat down on the bed beside him. She took off his tie, and unbuttoned the front of his shirt, laying her hand on his chest. ‘There are times when even a guide can feel different,’ she said.

  ‘What about the dezhurnaya?’ he asked her.

  ‘Sometimes the dezhurnaya can be persuaded to have a temporary case of deafness,’ smiled Rufina.

  ‘You’ve paid her off?’

  ‘A little French perfume goes a very long way, you know.’

  Michael said, ‘You know that I’m married. It may be unfashionable, but I’m a faithful husband.’

  She stroked his hair. ‘Of course. Can I call you Michael?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Michael.’

  ‘Well, Michael, what am I talking about is not of course immorality but companionship. You have a difficult visit ahead of you. There will be very much competition for you to face. Perhaps if you had a woman beside you who would help you and appreciate your talent, you might be more successful.’

  Michael said nothing. But Rufina began to unbutton her dress, one button at a time, erotically, deliberately, as if she were daring Michael at each button to say ‘stop’. ‘I am not asking to make love to you,’ she said. ‘Only to sleep beside you, to give you a feeling of comfort. You are married; you can understand such things.’

  Michael licked his lips. ‘I’m not sure that I can.’

  She stroked his hair, and then leaned forward and kissed his forehead. ‘If you object to me, I shall go.’

  ‘No, I don’t object to you. Quite the opposite.’

  She said nothing, but leaned forward once more and gave him another kiss.

  ‘Did they ask you to do this?’ Michael said, watching those slanting brown eyes. She was much younger than Margaret, only 24 or 25, and there was something flawless and fresh about her that really appealed to him. He had never had many girlfriends; none that had been strikingly pretty, like Rufina Konstantinova, and he had to admit to himself that he had thoroughly enjoyed going out with her this evening, and watching the way that other men’s heads turned.

  ‘Is that what you think?’ she asked him. ‘That the KGB wanted me to sleep with you?’

  ‘I’m sorry. That was a crass thing to say.’

  ‘But is that what everybody believes in Great Britain? That all of our lives are ruled by the KGB?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  Rufina Konstantinova stood up, and for a moment Michael was afraid that she was going to leave, but then she went across to the mirror beside the bathroom door, and in a strangely expressionless way watched herself unbuttoning her dress all the way down. Then she peeled it back from her shoulders and let it drop softly to the floor.

  ‘We have deep feelings, great passions,’ she said. ‘We are a patient people. Do you know how patient? Pravda said that last year the Soviet people spent thirty-seven billion hours waiting in queues for basic necessities, like food and clothing. Thirty-seven billion! But sometimes we can be very impatient, very hungry for what we want.’

  She was wearing a small white lacy bra and a pair of lacy bikini briefs, through which Michael could detect the dark shadow of her pubic hair. She turned around and faced him, her features lit by the awkward lamplight from beside the bed. ‘I would not force myself upon you, Michael. But I would wish very much to be with you.’

  Michael said nothing for a very long time. He was thinking of Margaret. But somehow Margaret and the house in Sanderstead seemed to have shrunk away, diminished by time and distance to the size of a tiny lighted dolls’ house, somewhere far away on the face of the night. Would it really be betrayal, to spend the night in the arms of this pretty Russian girl? Or would it be the kind of adventure he deserved, and which he had never experienced? Perhaps it might even make him a better lover, improve his marriage. Alan Taylor had boasted about a fling with a French girl once, when he was in Zurich, and he always swore that it had been the making of his marriage to Jill. ‘Absolute making of it, old chap.’

  Michael sat up, then stood up, overbalancing a little. He came up to Rufina and put his arms around her. She was much smaller than Margaret, she only came up to his chest. He suddenly felt very masculine and protective. His first night in Moscow, and already he had managed to find himself a girl. It was absurd, but he hadn’t felt as confident or as attractive as this, not for years.

  With the practised hands of a married man, he unfastened her bra. Her breasts were higher and firmer than Margaret’s, and the nipples were as red as raspberries. He touched them gently, and they tightened. He kissed her, the palm of his hand flat against her left breast

  He undressed, letting his shirt and his pants lie where they had fallen. His erection bobbed up like the mast of a dinghy. They stripped back the covers and dived slowly together into the bed, all arms and elbows and kisses. Her hand guided him into her sticky hairiness. The bed made no sound, unlike the bed at home, although halfway through their lovemaking there was a tremendous rattling and shuddering of hot-water pipes in the room above theirs.

  Rufina climaxed with a small gasp, almost polite. Michael ejaculated almost immediately afterwards. They lay side by side for a long time saying nothing, watching lights traverse the ceiling from the narrow gap in the curtains.

  ‘You are not regretful?’ asked Rufina, touching his shoulder.

  ‘Why should I be?’

  ‘Well, you are not thinking of your wife now, with guilt?’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t think that what we’ve done is anything to feel guilty about.’ He kissed her cheek, and wished that he could believe himself.

  Michael fell asleep quickly, and dreamed no dreams that he could remember the following morning. When he woke up, the sun was gleaming on the domes of the Kremlin, and the sky was pale and stunningly clear. Rufina was in the bathroom, washing her face, naked in front of the basin.

  ‘Ah, zdrastvuytye,’ she said. ‘How are you feeling today?’

  Michael sat up and rubbed his eyes. ‘I don’t know yet. I think I have a hangover.’

  Rufina walked unselfconsciously through to the bedroom. She was densely hairy between her thighs, a shaggy sexual pelt. She climbed on to the bed and kissed him on the mouth. Then she stayed there, on hands and knees, staring at him so close that he couldn’t focus on her face, smiling.

  ‘We’re not going to be able to behave like this during the day, you know,’ he told her. ‘If John realizes what’s happened – well, of course he’ll be bound to tell Margaret.’

  ‘Would Margaret not understand?’

  ‘No,’ said Michael. Then, ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Well, we must go and find some breakfast,’ Rufina suggested. ‘If you have a hangover, the best thing for you is ham and eggs and a glass of vodka.’

  Michael swung his legs off the side of the bed and stood up. He felt nauseous, and his eyes refused to focus on the gilded cityscape outside the window. He was halfway across the room, frowning with his headache, when the door suddenly opened and John was standing there, dressed in an orange Bri-nylon shirt and a pair of green cotton slacks, his spectacles askew, obviously all ready to go downstairs to breakfast. He blinked at Michael, and then he blinked at Rufina, and then he abruptly swung the door closed and called out in a muffled voice, ‘I’m sorry! Beg your pardon.’

  ‘Well, that’s done it,’ said Michael. He sat down suddenly on the end of the bed.

  Rufina came up close to him. He could feel her bare breasts touching his back. She ruffled his hair, and said, ‘Why should you worry? He is your friend. If you explain everything to him, he will not say anything to your wife, will he?’

  ‘I suppose not,’ said Michael, glumly. He could see himself in the mirror, naked, vulnerable, tousle-haired, and wondered why on earth he had allowed Rufina to stay with him last night. He must have been so drunk that it
was a miracle that he had been able to perform. In fact he found it impossible to remember most of what had happened. He could recall the restaurant, the caviare, the crisp white table-linen. He could remember Rufina holding his hand in the taxi. But what had happened after that? What had suddenly taken hold of his mind, and made him decide to take Rufina to bed?

  Rufina said, ‘Come on, Michael. Let us go and eat our breakfast. You must not be worried about John. He will say nothing, I know his kind of man. Perhaps he will disapprove of you, but he will not jeopardize your marriage.’

  ‘You don’t think so?’

  She kissed him again. ‘Do not let anxiety stand in the way of love. And remember what Richard Stern said, “When love gets to be important, it means that you haven’t been able to manage anything else.” You can manage much more than me, Michael, and much more than Margaret. We are nothing more than incidents in your life. There is far more for you in your life than either of us.’

  Michael went to the bathroom and peered at himself in the mirror. To his surprise, he hadn’t changed at all. He didn’t even look as tired and as hungover as he felt. He splashed his face, and brushed his teeth, and then he dressed. He went downstairs to the breakfast-café with Rufina, and the dezhurnaya didn’t even glance at them.

  John was already sitting at one of the tables in the café, drinking milky coffee and eating toast. Michael sat down, and said, ‘Zdrastvuytye, John.’ John didn’t say anything, but put down his toast and reached for his coffee-cup.

  ‘That means good morning,’ said Michael.

  John wiped his mouth. ‘Well, you’ve obviously had some coaching.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  Rufina still hadn’t joined them: she was talking to another Intourist courier at the door. John said, ‘You know what it means. They do it on purpose, don’t they? Entrap you. And who’s the first person to fall for it? You. The great sophisticated Michael Townsend.’

  ‘Don’t be so damned naive,’ Michael breathed at him.

  ‘Oh, naive, is it? I’d like to hear what Margaret has to say.’