by John Gardner
‘I have great interest in the decadent West. But I find difficulty to understand. You have the permissive society and also the students are revolting.’
‘The Beatles are having their private revolution as well, but don’t let that bother you, Shagsi, the generation gap always poses problems.’
‘Ah, but this permissive society. It intrigues me. I have friend. Pen pal. Lives in Barnes and has very good job as hairdresser at grand hotel called Royal Garden. There she sees all the great people and movie stairs.’
‘She would, yes.’
‘She tells me that in England marriage is now a thing of the past. If people love then they make love. She spends nearly all her money on clothes. Is this true?’
‘A slight exaggeration. No, what happens is that all the bums get up around six in the morning, crowd into their cars or the trains and head into London where they work their arses — I mean work very hard all day. About seven o’clock at night they get home and their wives feed them frozen meals and they sit in front of the television screens and listen to the yobs and the sly boys and confidence men who have made it big in their own particular way. Now these people who have made it big can live pretty well as they like, so long as they don’t actually break the law, so they can be permissive and they can sleep with whom they please and talk about it openly. The bums watch all this and take it all in. Then they shout hell out of their wives because they’re livid green at the yobos and con men who’ve made it. And their wives shout hell back because they wonder what they’ve married and why he never made it big.’
‘But this is not what my friend Christine tells me in letters. She say that she is ordinary girl from ordinary family and she completely permissive.’
‘Yes, well that’s the trouble, isn’t it?’
‘So?’
‘All the kids think they can make like the big time yobs so at weekends they do sort of plastic impersonations. The world’s for living in, they say, so let’s live a little. But it’s all imitation living. Plastic leather, man-made fibres, nylon fright wigs and chop houses with Spanish waiters where you get minestrone out of packets. None of it’s real. The great swinging all-embracing permissive society is a cheap, gaudy, cardboard myth.’
Shagsi began to talk back. Where did I get all that stuff I was spouting anyway? Was I livid green with jealousy because my own youth had begun to split slightly at the seams? No. Retreat back to LA.
So here I was at last sitting across the table from the girl I’d come out here to find. It wasn’t going to be an easy job getting her out, but then easy jobs are cream. Me, I prefer yoghurt, with chives. Her lips kept moving, yack-yackity-yack. Nice ample lips. She was asking me something.
‘Mr. Upsdale. You are interested to see how ordinary girls live here in Moscow?’
‘Always.’
‘We are not really allowed, but if you like I take you to see my apartment.’
That was it. The crunch, the come-on. But what the hell.
‘That would be nice, Shagsi. I’d enjoy that.’
We took a cab and she sat close as I tried to see if we were being picked up by a tail at this point. There were no signs, either on the way or when we reached her place, a big old block near Gorky Park. It was an eight storey walk up, built long before Otis. Solid doors and a few cracks in the walls, the lamp bulbs on the landings naked and casting violent shadows.
‘Here is my little nest.’ She flung the door open. It could have been London, New York or wherever. Warm colourful with a large photograph of John, Paul, George and Ringo staring out of one wall. There were three doors leading off the main room. She opened each in turn, chanting. ‘Bathroom. Kitchen. Bedroom. You see I am self-contained.’
I skinned my eyes. It was all too Western. If she was up to no good this was where it was all going to happen. But it looked clean enough. All of the rooms were empty.
She offered tea and I refused. Then vodka, which I took.
‘I have a little surprise.’ She smiled, enough to defrost a king size fridge. ‘You sit here, drink your vodka and I be back in a minute.’ Shagsi swept off into the bedroom and closed the door. I kept shifting my position so as I wouldn’t be silhouetted against the window or taken by surprise from the door. It felt like an hour though it couldn’t have been more than five minutes. I was facing the main door when I heard her come out of the bedroom. I wheeled round.
‘What you think? I am like London girls? Real Dolly, yes?’
She was balm for even the worst case of conjunctivitis. The boots were still on and I started a slow upward pan from there. Yards of thigh, golden encased thigh, slim and smoothly rounded. Slate grey mini skirt and roll neck sweater.
‘All from London.’ She swirled three times as she advanced into the room, giving me a blink of white pants unmistakably Marks & Spencers — and I knew my Marks & Spencers underwear.
‘My friend, Christine sends me all the gear. I got cupboard full. Now I look like English girl, yes?’
‘You just look all girl to me, yes.’
‘Come.’ She offered me her hands which I took, banishing all thoughts of plot or trickery. ‘Let us go into the bedroom and be permissive.’
Slow fade as I stretch out onto the bed and grope for her while she gropes for me and our tongues dance like sunlight through heavy leaf. Fade, fade, fade as she groans and prepares and as I take her. Fade while the soundtrack picks up the rustle of clothing and the sighs and gulps and the caught breath of action as I made the supreme sacrifice.
Fade. Darkness.
*
It was day and I was lying on my bed in the hotel. Physically I felt normal enough, but there was a nervous anxiety flooding my system. I recalled the previous evening and its climaxes, though for the life of me I could not remember returning to the hotel. There were some delicious memories knocking around the old skull but nothing about leaving Shagsi and getting back to point A. I put my feet on the floor with the care of a man stepping on to ice the thickness of custard skin. No aches, pain, bruises or disorientation. One problem: I was fully clothed and heard Shagsi’s voice telling me that she’d pick me up around ten. My watch showed nine-thirty.
I bathed, shaved and sloshed a lot of cologne around. I figured that punks smell like punks: the rest of us ought to set an example. Today was a day for looking sharp. I chose the grey suit, blue shirt and wine-coloured knitted tie. By the time the operation was completed I looked straight out of the catalogue.
The knock at the door came at exactly ten. Only it wasn’t Shagsi’s knock. This one brought me straight back from Los Angeles and bang into the middle of Moscow with speed. The anxiety became more pronounced. You didn’t have to possess a special nose to get the whiff of trouble.
It was right from a TV soap spy opera. He wore the long black coat with Astrakhan collar and matching hat. A heavy man with a fat face wreathed in smiles. Bulldog jowls. ‘Good mornink, Mr. Upsdale. May I come in?’
I had no option.
‘Good. My name is Boris and this is a shake down.’
So it had come at last. I tried to summon up the stiff upper and keep my cool. ‘Boris who?’
‘Poo. We don’t bother with incidentals.’ Boris waved the question away as though it was some testy insect buzzing round his ear. ‘Let us get straight down to business, Mr. Upsdale. What are you doing in Moscow?’
‘Who’s asking?’ How was that for the old one-two. Gascoigne would have been proud of me.
‘Believe me,’ chortled Boris, ‘it is someone who can make life most unpleasant for you. If you believe me not then I suggest you look outside the door.’
I nodded and crossed the room. In the passage stood two policemen and a couple of the plainest plainclothes men I had ever seen. I shut the door quickly. My heart had Michael de Silva knocked right out.
‘You’ve brought friends I see.’ That had style.
‘Why are you here?’ Boris’s smile had been fixed by a plastic surgeon who knew his job.
‘You know as well as I do. I’m a writer and journalist. I have been cleared to do an interview with Comrade Styles.’
‘A writer and journalist.’ Boris wheezed with mirth and dabbed at his streaming eyes with a spotless hanky. ‘You are a very funny man, Mr. Upsdale. Last night I had to read one of your writings.’ He was lost in another fit of laughter that almost choked him. ‘Gascoigne: Berlin. A writer? You would be more useful as a typewriter cleaner.’ He seemed to think this was the epitome of wit. ‘Why are you here?’
‘I’ve told you.’
‘Good. Now we start the shake down.’ From inside his coat Boris produced a large envelope. ‘Here I have some photographs which I’m sure you will find a trifle embar-rassing.’
They were eleven and a half by nine matt prints. About thirty of them and they would have got a good price at some of the Soho shops. The star performers were Shagsi and myself and I was suitably surprised at some of the things I had been doing last night.
‘They’re very nice.’ I really was genuinely pleased with them. They’d make superb illustrations for an encyclopedia of jollies. ‘I’ll take three copies of each and a big blow up of number five.’
Boris couldn’t contain himself. He spluttered and fell about.
‘Number five...Ah, Mr. Upsdale but you are comical man...Number five I already title — Don’t speak with your mouth full — yes...?’ Boris was the comedian’s delight. He took a deep breath. ‘Why are you here, Mr. Upsdale? Please.’
We were back at square one. ‘You know why.’
‘If you are not telling me then these photographs go straight to your Embassy.’
‘Well, if you like, but I wouldn’t have thought they were their thing.’
‘You don’t mind?’
‘Why should I? They’re a compliment.’
‘To your editor then. I send them straight to your editor.’
I knew I had him beaten. ‘Not a chance.’ Shaking my head. ‘They’d never publish. Wait a minute though; yes, you send him some, they’d be a change from the usual stuff you see around the Street.’
‘You realize I have enough evidence here to get you put on the next plane home?’
I smiled. ‘I thought you were never coming to it. Please Boris, do that. I don’t like Moscow — except for Shagsi of course. I’d like nothing better than to be sent home.’
Boris sat quite still, his eyes flickering to and fro like windscreen wipers. Then he laughed, this time with a hollow echo. You pull my foot, eh? There would be great scandal if I sent you home.’
‘Nothing like a good scandal. They love it back home. Especially if there’s a bit of juice to spice it up.’ I moved over and gave him a playful dig in the ribs.
Boris groaned. ‘You ruin me. I, Boris Petrovich Urgyanovich. Ruined.’ He lifted one eye. ‘You really have nothing to hide?’
‘Nothing. I’m just a simple newspaper man.’
‘It could be true. This always works. We use it constantly. Politicians, members of visiting trade delegations, even actors. It has worked beautifully. It is my department. Now you arrive. My record is blotted. My copybook is broken.’
You couldn’t help feeling sorry for the poor guy. I’d reduced his confidence to that of a gibbering loon.
‘Perhaps they’ll give you another job.’
‘Another job? Likely. Yes. The last head of this department who failed got another job. In charge of the ticket office at Ust-Kut. That’s a job for a man like me?’
‘A new start perhaps.’ An idea crawled into the more revolting area of my mind. ‘Perhaps we all need a new start. How about me meeting Shagsi again?’
His face brightened. ‘You mean try once more? Maybe I get lucky the second time around...’ His voice trailed off. ‘Oh no. No...No...No. You don’t catch me like that you filthy capitalist fascist swine.’
‘There, you’re more like your old self already.’
‘Pha.’ Boris began to gather up the photographs. ‘Can’t I have just one? A souvenir?’
‘What the hell. Take the lot.’
Photographs showered round me as Boris departed on a trail of Muscovite abuse.
I gathered up the photographs — they would warm my old age — and put them back into the envelope that Boris had left.
I needed a drink, the hard bite of cognac at the back of my throat. These guys played it rough and the job was crumbling.
Another knock at the door. The joint was becoming a regular knocking shop.
‘Intourist. Mr. Upsdale?’
This one was for real, there was no doubt about that. She had short hair that looked like it had been cut by a hedge trimmer, wire framed glasses, buck teeth and the start of a moustache. There was also a long red coat and a red beret.
‘Hallo.’ I didn’t care to give it any encouragement.
‘You ready to see the sights?’
I was tempted to tell her that now I had seen the lot. I nodded, shrugged myself into my coat and shoved the photographs into my suitcase.
‘I’ve a colleague down the hall who might like to come.’ At least Hester would be more company than this scraggy bird.
‘Miss Havisham? She has already left with her own guide. We arrange that last night.’
I wondered if they had pulled the same gag on Hester. ‘My name is Irena,’ offered Miss Intourist.
‘Good.’ I felt monosyllabic.
We had a gas of a day looking at the subway stations that are more like art galleries, the Kremlin Armoury with its treasures which must be worth billions, the Bolshoi, Moscow Art Theatre, the University and the Lenin Stadium. In the afternoon Irene took me round Gum which is a cross between Maceys and a street market. I bought one of those little wooden painted dolls that you open up and it has another six wooden painted dolls inside. It cost more than one I’d seen in Harrods a couple of months back which must prove something about the import-export business.
We had a look at St. Basil’s, the fairytale church that somehow manages to stay up in Red Square and, last of all, joined the queue to see little waxen dead Lenin lying still and cheerless in his mausoleum.
The experience left me dull and depressed. I got back to my room around six, walked along the corridor and knocked at four-ought-nine. Hester was there. I was glad to see that Slattery was not.
‘Had a nice day?’ I breezed.
‘My feet are killing me. Insteptourist had me rubber-necking all over town. You too?’
I nodded, keeping my piggy little eyes on her. At last she broke the silence. ‘Anything else happen?’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know. You tell me. Slattery seemed to think they’d try something and we did see a large blonde lady heading towards your door.’
‘Intourist.’ I threw away lightly, not knowing how much I ought to tell her.
‘I didn’t know they provided that kind of service. The guy who took me round had acne and BO.’
‘The wheel of fortune. Some people are just lucky that way.’
‘So nothing happened?’
‘I wouldn’t altogether say that.’
‘I mean nothing untoward?’
‘Nothing. Had we better eat before we start the spectacular?’
She thought for a moment. ‘I suppose we should. Give me a minute to slip into another dress.’
There was no stupid mock modesty. She changed her clothes then and there, before my very eyes in living colour, making my flabby body sweat considerably. I noted that she had taken to wearing much sexier underpinings with a lot of lace and stuff.
‘Not now, Rex. Down boy, we’ve more important things to hand.’
I sighed, removed my manual appendages, returned to my chair, lit a cigarette and enjoyed the view.
Downstairs, in the dining room, we ate little and talked less. By eight forty-five we were back in my room, Hester trying to look efficient with the cameras, me with the notebook trying to remember all the movies where Cary Grant, Tyrone Power or Walter Pidgeon were tough
newspaper men.
The half-empty bottle of Seagram’s sat quietly on the bedside table attempting to look unobtrusive.
The whole idea of escape to search for mother Bacall’s girl in LA departed. This was hideously real. So real that I could only play it by the standards of the Daily Mail or Express, or maybe those guys who write the deep hard fiction about espionage men who return to the warm.
Chapter Six — I Said To Myself This Affair Never Will Go So Well
The man’s face was familiar. The crumpled good looks of encroaching middle age. Sandy hair fading and wilting with the uncompromising motion of time. It was a face that had smiled out of the front pages of every European newspaper only a few years ago.
People used to remark that he had good teeth which he showed to advantage when smiling. Kit Styles still had good teeth which flashed as the face lifted into a fragment of joy.
But the smiles are more rare now, since he took up work at the KGB’s Central Office in Moscow.
It is a far cry from the tudor manor house outside Motherdale in Yorkshire where he was born and lived as a child.
A long way from the click of the leather against willow among the lush fields that surrounded his Surrey Prep School, or the regulation days of Eton and the quiet walks along the Backs at Cambridge.
It is further still from the colour of Embassy parties or the rich whispers along the Western corridors of power.
Styles bowed, the smile still fraying the corners of his mouth. ‘Mr. Upsdale and Miss Havisham.’ The voice had a careful modulation. The voice of an educated man. A man of some background and a heavy layer of dreaded class. It did not belong here in a Russian hotel with its owner wrapped in heavy clothing, a fur cap dangling from gloved hands.
‘Mr. Styles. Come in.’ I held the door back and waved him into the room. His walk betrayed arrogance. Standing at the foot of the bed he turned and looked around the room, ignoring us and letting his eyes take in everything. His nose wrinkled and he turned his attention to Hester, then to me.
‘Well, here I am. The traitor you despise, Rex Upsdale.’ He dropped lightly into the one easy chair. ‘You want to take pictures and ask me questions. Go ahead. After that, I have a few things to say.’
