by Paul Gallico
This meeting, being one which might be trivial, but also could suddenly turn into having serious diplomatic repercussions, was held on neutral grounds and probably the only spot the Russians had not yet managed to bug successfully although they were getting on with long distance listening devices. It was on a bench in the heart of the Central Park of Culture and Rest where there were both sounds of traffic and the screams of children playing to provide cover. Neither of the diplomats wished this particular discussion to be overheard by the security snoops of either of their countries.
‘You see, my dear Harold,’ Agronsky was saying, ‘that the situation has been removed from our purview even should we wish to help you, which I can promise you I most fervently do and you may rest assured that I will use my own good offices. But as you must see the women are undoubtedly spies as revealed by their dossiers, at least the one who calls herself Mrs Harris, and there is the further evidence of her having conspired and succeeded in passing herself off under an assumed name as a British aristocrat. Impersonation, as you know, is looked upon with extreme disfavour as I gather it is in your country as well. By now the KGB will have taken both the women into custody as well as the girl, Lisabeta Nadeshda Borovaskaya, the Intourist guide who was obviously party to the impersonation and a participant in the plot.’
Sir Harold, who for the last ten minutes of the discourse on the crimes of Mrs Harris, Mrs Butterfield and the Intourist girl had remained at his most introspective owlishness, now crossed his legs but said nothing.
‘The women,’ continued Agronsky, ‘will be subjected to no physical harm but as you know the KGB has its own methods of extracting information. My judgement of the affair is that there will be a trial, a confession, a sentence and, after the case is forgotten, in all likelihood a parole and expulsion from the country,’ and having completed his speech, the Foreign Office man fell silent.
Sir Harold, too, refrained from speaking, but uncrossed his legs and turned slightly on the bench towards his friend so as to draw closer to a screaming baby. He reduced the owlishness almost to the expression of a friendly smile. He said, ‘Except for one thing, friend Anatole Pavlovich, everything you say, from your point of view, might be taken as gospel but for the fact that the lift taken by your KGB goons chose most fortuitously to succumb to the shoddy material used by your crooked contractors in constructing it, and quit. By the time it resumed its functions Mrs Harris and Mrs Butterfield had been removed to quarters in our Embassy along with the girl, Lisabeta Nadeshda Borovaskaya, who Mrs Harris insisted accompany her.’ Sir Harold felt that Agronsky had that much coming to him even in the circumstances of their friendly relationship.
Agronsky gave vent to a long sigh, remarked, ‘There is an old Russian saying: “It is more difficult to find an honest contractor than a diamond in a suet pudding,”’ and Sir Harold, smiling, said, ‘I must remember that one,’ and the board was now clear for the next move.
Shortly afterwards Sir Harold was saying, ‘You see, my dear Anatole, you have succeeded in making asses of yourselves. Mrs Harris and Mrs Butterfield are no more spies than you are the prima ballerina at the Bolshoi. Your dossier on Mrs Harris acting as a courier for an innocent cross-section of the British public is nothing but an invention of your operatives in search of promotion. I will grant you that they are probably quite correct in labelling such people as Major Wallace and Lady Dant as anti-Soviet. I hope you will not take it amiss when I say that three-quarters of the population of the British Isles would gladly see you and your country at the bottom of the sea, but they would not so much as lift a finger to bring it about.’
‘I take that ill from you,’ Agronsky began when Sir Harold gently interrupted him with, ‘You mustn’t, for you feel exactly the same about us except that you are expending billions of rubles a year to try to achieve it. But let us return to the situation as it now stands.’
Agronsky was still irritated out of his personal relationship with Sir Harold as well as forgetting one of the forms of diplomacy which is never to say outright what you intend to. He said, ‘The case of the two women will be considered in accordance with our laws. Until then they may remain in your Embassy. The girl, of course, cannot claim asylum while she is on Russian soil and must be turned over immediately to our authorities. As a sensible chap, Harold, you must see that we cannot do otherwise.’
‘As sensible as I am, quite so,’ was Sir Harold’s rejoinder, ‘but as your personal friend, no.’
‘Eh?’
‘Mrs Ada Harris is no spy, courier or anything else subversive. You have my word for it and you know that I have never lied to you. I gather, then, that your representatives of the Utopia for the proletariat of the world are about to prosecute one of Britain’s favourite characters, their daily, the char, a hardworking woman who arises at four o’clock in the morning to clean offices and does not see the end of her day until often long after sundown. She receives the equivalent of half a ruble an hour, is usually a widow, feeds and educates her children and is one of the mainstays of our way of life. Put this working woman in the dock, my friend, and our newspapers will raise such a hue and cry that in the end you will wish you had never heard of her.’
‘But the impersonation of Lady Char and having herself introduced to your Prince,’ expostulated Agronsky.
‘Oh come,’ replied Sir Harold. ‘Your clerks are as blockheaded as your builders and manufacturers are crooked. We have obtained a copy of her original visa application and one of your brighter civil servants got charlady and Lady Char back to front. Besides which everyone heard her denying it immediately to the Prince himself. If you will listen to the counsel of an old friend who is genuinely fond of you, Mrs Harris and Mrs Butterfield will be allowed to complete their somewhat bizarre Moscow package tour on the noon British Airways jet for London as scheduled tomorrow.’
Agronsky suddenly burst into a roar of laughter, slapping his knee, ‘Oh hell,’ he said. ‘It all used to be so much easier in the old days when people simply disappeared and nobody kicked up a fuss. Very well, you are, of course, quite right. The whole thing is utterly absurd and the pair may depart. I will arrange for the flowers and if the KGB takes it out on me you will have lost your best tennis partner. The girl, Lisabeta, however, must be returned to us immediately.’
To match this bonhomie Sir Harold, too, should have joined in the laughter and slapped his side but he did not do so. Quite the opposite. His face turned sternly owlish once more. He brushed his moustache with a forefinger and said, ‘Hmm, yes, but I am afraid that this will not be entirely sufficient. You see, Mrs Harris has attached a certain condition to her departure. She wishes the girl, Lisabeta Nadeshda Borovaskaya, to be given an exit visa and allowed to accompany her to London.’
Agronsky’s explosive ‘What?’ drowned out even the squalling baby and the screaming children.
‘A matter of the heart,’ replied Sir Harold quietly and then launched into the narrative of the unhappy affair involving Lisabeta Nadeshda Borovaskaya and Geoffrey Lockwood.
For the first time Agronsky became truly incensed and said angrily, ‘But that is impossible. You know it is. Who is this scrubbing woman to make conditions to the Russian government? And what’s more, my friend, if you will forgive me the use of the word, you are a fool for having told me, for now I cannot risk my own position by remaining silent as to this past liaison and as a result the girl will be severely punished. Within an hour there will be KGB representatives at the Embassy and I demand that the girl be turned over to them at once. You, I know, will not be anxious to kick up an international rumpus during our mutual attempts at détente. Do you agree?’
Curiously the British diplomat did not reply to this question, but looked rather sad as he said, ‘What is it about you Russians that you take such grievous delight in keeping young lovers apart, in denying people who have cherished and cared for one another the right to be together? You arrange visas to separate families. Every obstacle that an unbudgeable bureaucracy is
able to put in the way of young people if one happens to be a foreigner you use. Your cruelty in this respect is unrivalled and yet you are a warmhearted, sentimental folk with perhaps the strongest family ties of any nation. Can you explain this, Anatole Pavlovich?’
‘Come now, Harold,’ replied Agronsky, ‘if you are going to begin to try to analyse the Russian soul surely you have been here long enough to know that this is a labyrinth from which there is no exit. Besides which if you have not yet learned to distinguish between Russian sentimentality and political hard-headedness …’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Sir Harold. ‘I was only thinking of the newspapers. Mention the phrase “unrequited love” on Fleet Street and the presses begin to turn almost automatically.’
‘Oh well,’ Agronsky sighed, ‘we are used to abuse from them which in the end really does no harm. People skim over the headlines and …’
‘Oh,’ exclaimed Sir Harold, now at his most owlish and quite serious, ‘I wasn’t thinking of that so much as the charwomen’s underground.’
‘Underground,’ repeated Agronsky and his ears went up like those of a terrier at the squeak of a mouse. ‘Underground, you say. But this is what the whole affair has been about. So there is something to the dossier.’
‘Really, Anatole,’ calmly replied Sir Harold. ‘Obsession is no part of the mentality of a diplomat of your calibre. I was referring to the dailies’ gossip grapevine. You were in London for a decade. Didn’t you encounter this specimen?’
The Russian suddenly broke into a smile of charming reminiscence; he had loved London. ‘Yes, dear Mrs Minby who worked for Kip Slade-Watts. I grew very fond of her.’
‘Exactly,’ agreed Sir Harold. ‘And how was it that you knew three days before we did that the Ngonbian African Middle States government was breaking off relations with us and withdrawing its Embassy?’
‘Why, of course from our Intelli– …’ Here the Foreign Official suddenly stopped, clapped his hand to his forehead and said, ‘Oh my God, but of course, Mrs Minby! She had it from Mrs Cranshaw whose friend cleaned in the Ngonbian Embassy.’
‘Precisely,’ said Sir Harold. ‘Communication with the press is not the practice of a person like Mrs Harris anyway, but of course eventually the journalists get wind of the story, but then as you say with all the fuss being raised at the moment over your dissidents it would just be more of the same. Very well, then, and I shall rely upon you that there will be no last minute interference by the KGB with our nationals.’
‘You needn’t worry,’ Agronsky said. ‘When that division sorts out its blunders on this case it will be having problems of its own.’
‘Thank you,’ said Sir Harold but made no move to arise and looked suddenly shy and slightly uneasy. ‘Look here, Anatole, I have one more request to make of you. It is slightly embarrassing but in this case I am putting it purely on the basis of our special friendship. Could you find it possible to accompany me to the Embassy for a brief moment to listen to a personal plea that Mrs Harris would like to make on behalf of this girl?’
Agronsky stiffened and repeated, ‘A personal plea? But you must know that it would be useless.’
‘Of course I do,’ concluded Sir Harold, ‘but it would be a kindness. She is a simple, good woman, utterly sincere and really believes that if she could only speak to someone in authority it might soften your hearts. At least then when she returns she will know that she has tried without success and will not be plagued by the awful thought that it might have worked if only she had had the chance.’
The Russian regarded his friend for a moment and then clapping him on the shoulder said, ‘You are a good fellow yourself, Harold. Very well then, in the name and memory of our Mrs Minby I will do as you ask.’
The two men left the park bench and entered the British Embassy car. On the way there Agronsky was thinking that this was probably the silliest thing he had ever done in his life. On the way back he was thinking rather the opposite and thanking his lucky stars.
The plea of Ada Harris to Anatole Pavlovich Agronsky could be nothing more than simple, sentimental, genuine and touching. Liz was waiting in another room. There were only herself, the two men and Mrs Butterfield who occasionally wiped a tear from the corner of her eyes as Ada spoke of the constancy of the two lovers who, unable even to communicate with one another, had yet remained faithful and ever hoping.
‘ ’E’s a gent,’ explained Ada. ‘ ’E could ’ave put it down to a passing fancy and forgot about ’er. But not ’im. Moonin’ like a schoolboy over ’er photer, tryin’ to move ’eaven and earth wif the British authorities to ’elp ’im get permission to ’ave ’er join ’im.’
At this point Sir Harold Barry had a private thought, Who didn’t do a bloody thing to help him, so how much more civilized are we British than the Ruskies?
‘Liz, I mean the girl,’ continued Mrs Harris, ‘is a hangel from above. She give ’er word and never broke it. For all she knew ’e could ’ave been married and ’ad two kids, but she’d promised and when a heart like that makes a promise it never changes. It ain’t often, sir, that two people who are separated by circumstances like wot’s ’appened stand by their word. When it does then you know you’re talkin’ about real love, not like wot’s on the telly or in those stupid songs. You know what would ’appen if you let ’er go? Two people would love your country like it ain’t never been loved before. Sir, what ’ave you got to lose, to join two broken ’earts together and make ’em ’ole? Let ’er come. You yourself would be feelin’ all the better for it.’
Vice Foreign Minister Agronsky was indeed moved by Mrs Harris, in fact even more than he had expected to be, but not budged, since from every angle and aspect and the security of his own skin the situation was unbudgeable. The girl had broken a half dozen stringent Soviet laws and at that very moment the supremos were being particularly finicky on this subject. It was the first time that the Vice Foreign Minister had seen Mrs Harris since he had been minding the store while his superiors attended the reception. He now looked upon the tiny figure, the lines in the face that marked, in a way, each stopping place on the long road and the knotted hands distorted by years of manual work. His thoughts turned to the millions upon millions of Russians equally battered by life and hard work begging some minor civil servant for some slight permission or permit or necessary document and being rudely and automatically turned down just for the sheer joy of showing power. Well, this was Russian bureaucracy and he was a part of it. But he took no satisfaction out of the necessity for his reply, ‘I’m afraid, Madam, that there is nothing that can be done to comply with your request. The girl, Lisabeta Nadeshda Borovaskaya, has broken Russian law and must suffer the consequences.’
Some of the gentleness melted from Mrs Harris’s expression but Agronsky missed it. ‘What law ’as she broke?’ Ada inquired. ‘To fall in love?’
The Vice Foreign Minister said, ‘That is neither here nor there.’ He failed to see the stiffening of the frail body, the flush mounting to the wrinkled cheeks or the fire come into the little eyes that a moment before had been soft and beguiling. ‘It is impossible. Your own Ambassador will tell you that this is so.’
Mrs Harris turned to Sir Harold and said, ‘Is that how it is?’
Sir Harold said, ‘Yes, I am afraid so.’
Mrs Harris, now sitting up in her chair ramrod straight, said, ‘What will they do to her?’
For the life of him later, Sir Harold could not remember why he told the truth. Instead of trying to lessen her hurt by a lie about a light sentence he heard himself say, ‘Probably give her ten years in a labour camp.’
Mrs Harris cried, ‘Like they done to that writer chap I been readin’ about?’
Sir Harold realized his mistake and tried to minimize it. ‘They are not all that bad,’ but the damage had been done. Ada Harris turned upon Anatole Agronsky and cried, ‘You monster! You barstid! Except for that poor girl whose life you’re goin’ to ruin, I ain’t come across a livin’ soul in
this country that ain’t got the devil in ’im. Yer a ’ole bleedin’ nation of monsters is what you are. You ’ate everybody includin’ yer own selves. You ’ates Christians carryin’ on the innocent work of the Lord and you ’ate the Jews until you need ’em. Like poor little Mr Rubin. ’Im and ’is toilet rolls and keepin’ ’im tipsy for eight weeks. Birdseed indeed! There ain’t one of you can do anything the straight and honest way. There …’ And here Mrs Harris broke off in mid-sentence from pure fright over the change that had suddenly come over the man from the Foreign Office. He had turned sheet white, swayed as though he were about to faint, then recovered, fumbled for a handkerchief and wiped a deluge of moisture from an anguished countenance. ‘W-w-what?’ he stammered. ‘What was that you said about birdseed?’
Mrs Harris was not yet wholly aware that she had struck gold but one thing was perfectly clear; she had unstrung this rigid man.
‘You ’eard me. A ’undred billion rolls of you-know-what-paper-for-the-use-of to be sent into the country labelled as birdseed. Yer carn’t even do an ordinary business transaction straight. I suppose when yer buys a load of tractors yer label it complexion cream or potato crisps.’
Sir Harold was not disconcerted as was his friend but from behind his huge horn-rimmed glasses he was regarding Mrs Harris suddenly with an expression of great wonder and awe for he had got it. Mrs Harris somehow had come into the possession of a piece of information that the Russians did not wish her or anybody else to have. Mrs Butterfield looked baffled.
