by Jonathan Coe
In fact Tony saw rather more of Mr H-A than I did, since he had the task of showing him over the scientific exhibits in the pavilion, and his impression, I have to say, was not at all favourable. I don’t know if I mentioned it before, but my dear room-mate Mr B is a little bit of a radical, in his friendly way. Approves of CND, for one thing – and don’t get him started on the subject of Suez. He’s no great admirer of Mr Macmillan and his cabinet, that’s for sure, and so after Heathcoat-Amory and his entourage had dispersed, he was pretty vocal and forthright about what he thought of them. Anneke, who happened to be with us at the time, was highly shocked – she hadn’t realized we phlegmatic Brits were capable of such bluntness! Although, naturally, Tony too well brought up to say any of this to our guests’ faces. We are all here to represent the best of Britain, after all, and nobody wants to create a scene.
The other news I mentioned relates to Tony as well. Because, after weeks of doing his best to give the hapless Clara the slip, he has suddenly landed on his feet, girl-wise. He has started knocking around with Emily, the girl from Wisconsin. Now, nobody can quite remember where she appeared from, or how she popped up in the Britannia one day. But pop up she certainly did – and how! She is, according to her own account, an actress by profession. Roles on Broadway being hard to come by, however, she has been sent over here to pose as an ordinary young housewife in one of the many impressive domestic displays in the American pavilion. Her job is to demonstrate – mainly to the awestruck Soviet bloc visitors – the myriad of labour-saving devices in common currency in the Land of the Free. Vacuum cleaners seem to be her speciality, and she spends her days in a dazzling mock-up American sitting room, cheerfully Hoovering mountains of dust which an accomplice has tipped onto the floor for this same purpose a few minutes earlier. Anyhow, she wandered into our little hostelry recently and attached herself to Tony B in a big way. So now he is walking around with a grin on his face like the cat that got the cream: for young Emily is quite a looker, if I haven’t mentioned that already; on top of which, despite the fact that she comes from some little town in the backwoods which is probably called something like Diddly Squat, WN, she seems fearsomely cultivated and well-spoken and independent. These Yanks certainly don’t lack confidence, I’ll give them that.
Ah well – in the meantime Expo 58 rumbles on, as busy as ever. The Bolshoi Ballet are coming to town soon, and yesterday the Britannia was visited by a sizeable delegation from the impressively named 5th European Congress on Fluorisation and Prevention of Dental Decay. Unfortunately one of their members broke a tooth on the crust of one of our restaurant’s speciality pork pies, and his colleagues had to perform an impromptu extraction.
With love as always,
Thomas x.
PS Just remembered – I did promise that I was going to tell you all about the enigmatic Mr Chersky in this letter, didn’t I? Well, he must wait until the next one.
28th June 1958
Dear Thomas,
Thank you so much for your last. You cannot imagine how exciting it is, in the midst of my humdrum little domestic life, to receive these tantalizing little bulletins of yours. They are like dispatches from another world – a world of infinitely more interest than my own, sadly. I really don’t know what I can tell you of the last few weeks that will not bore you to tears by comparison with your own account of a visit from the Chancellor of the Exchequer.
And not only are you spending your days hob-nobbing with the Great and the Good, it would seem, but Brussels is also a veritable hotbed of romantic entanglements! Your new friend Tony must be terribly good-looking – it sounds as though he is attracting women like flies. I’m sure that you, he, Emily and Anneke must make a most appealing foursome when you all go out together to sample the bright lights of an evening.
Back here, alas, I have nothing so glamorous to distract me. I live in a world bounded entirely by prams, nappies, feeds and gripe water. My only distraction this week was a trip to the cinema, and I wouldn’t even have had that if it wasn’t for the kindness of Norman, once again. I had mentioned to him, during one of our chats last week, that I had been dying to see the film Peyton Place. (You will remember this, because I asked you to take me to see it the weekend before you left, but you chose another film instead.) Well, I never thought it was anything but a pipedream, but then, the evening before last, just as I was about to put my supper on, Norman suddenly turned up on my doorstep with a young girl I did not recognize. He introduced her to me as Susan, one of the secretaries from his office, and said that she had kindly agreed to babysit while he took me out to the flicks! Well, I was absolutely dumbfounded as you can imagine. I started to protest but he insisted that it was all arranged and that I deserved a treat, and so before I knew what was happening I was upstairs putting my best dress and make-up on! Norman and I took the tube up to Oxford Circus and managed to catch the early-evening showing at the Prince Edward cinema. It was quite a long film and we did not come out until after nine o’clock but even then he insisted on taking me for dinner. We went to Jimmy’s restaurant on Frith Street, which is a rather dingy place in a dark basement. The menu included some Greek dishes such as moussaka and Norman urged me to be adventurous and try something like that but I’m afraid I lost my nerve and ordered lamb chops and mashed potatoes instead. It was very tasty I must say. We also drank a whole half-bottle of red wine between the two of us! I am sure I was quite tipsy by the time we left. That is probably why I can’t remember very much about the film or what we talked about afterwards, except that the subject of Norman’s corns came up more than once. He is not what you would call a brilliant conversationalist – I am sure he could not hold his own in a conversation with you and your new friends about Atomic Energy or Nuclear Disarmament – but he has a good heart and is full of kindness. And that certainly counts for something – as far as I am concerned, anyway.
Well, this is not such a very long letter, but as I mentioned at the beginning, I really have very little of interest to tell you. Anyway it is time for me to feed Baby again so I had better put a stop to this.
With love from,
Sylvia.
2nd July 1958
Dearest Syllabub,
No word from you in a long time, so I can only hope that everything is well at home. I did try to telephone the other day but the line is obviously still playing up: all I got at the other end was a lot of crackle. I wonder what is going on . . .
So, in the absence of any news from you, I will write you a few lines (as promised) about Mr Chersky.
Andrey (as I have come to call him) is a gentleman from Moscow who for many years has made his living editing magazines of a cultural or literary nature. He has been sent over to the Expo for six months to produce a weekly newspaper called Sputnik. I feel rather sorry for him, as he has been put in a very awkward position: what his bosses want him to produce, clearly, is a crude propaganda sheet, whereas Andrey’s instincts are far more sophisticated than that. Consequently he has a very fine balancing act to perform.
Most pleasingly, he has decided to come to me for help. I don’t think he knew my name as such, but word must have got around that someone from the COI was on site for the duration of the fair, because he came and sought me out at the Britannia on the night of our launch party. Since then, we have had a number of meetings, all of them at the pub. I was surprised at first that he would prefer this venue, but it turns out that Andrey has a deep love for all things British. He has an encyclopaedic knowledge of the Sherlock Holmes stories, seems to have committed the London Underground map to memory and has developed a passion for – of all things – Smith’s potato crisps, of which Mr Rossiter keeps a steady supply. He collects the little salt sachets, which he says he is going to show to his nieces and nephews when he returns to Moscow. That is one of the wonderful things about this fair – discovering the different (often very surprising) aspects of one’s own culture that appeal to people from
other countries. In return, in a few days’ time Andrey has invited us to see the Bolshoi Ballet at the Monnaie Theatre in town, and to attend a private party afterwards. This is really very generous of him, considering that the advice I have given him so far has been pretty footling. Really just a question of ‘toning down’ the propaganda element of his paper, making it a bit less obvious and using rather more humour, which is always a good tactic in these circumstances.
I have just one bone of contention with Andrey. He has got it into his head that it would be interesting for the readers of Sputnik to learn something about the ZETA machine in the British pavilion, and last time he came round to the pub he did his best to get some information out of Tony about it. Tony – who is (in my humble opinion) rather naive when it comes to political matters – doesn’t find anything wrong with this, but I have been trying to talk him out of it. In fact, I wonder whether Tony, Emily and Andrey are not becoming altogether too friendly. Did I mention that our Muscovite friend was a very handsome specimen? Sometimes I catch Emily looking at them both and it is hard to tell which one she seems to admire more.
To change the subject completely, last week there was another conference taking place here. This time it was the second annual congress of the Belgian Society of Urology. A selection of the delegates came to sample our beer on the Friday afternoon. Luckily nothing untoward happened in connection with their visit whatsoever.
With much love,
Thomas xxx.
PS I have reopened this envelope to add a line and to let you know that your last letter has arrived, finally. So, no diminution in the attentions of Mr Sparks, I see. A trip to the pictures, and dinner afterwards! It’s a good job I’m not the jealous type.
Artificial stimulants
There are certain people, Thomas thought, who command attention; and there are others who blend into the background and become invisible, no matter how many interesting things they might have to say. It struck him, at the time, as an original reflection, being new to him, at any rate. And the person who had inspired it, sitting a few inches away from him at the glass-topped table, a small beaker of vodka raised to her lips, her eyes flitting evenly between Tony Buttress and Andrey Chersky as the latter tried to persuade the former of the many benefits of Soviet children’s holiday camps, was Emily, the girl from Wisconsin.
The bar was crowded. Even though Andrey had told him that the dress code was not important, and that nobody would mind if he came in a lounge suit, Thomas still felt self-conscious, surrounded by so many impressive-looking figures in white tie. The air was buzzing with after-show conversation: much of it, but by no means all, in Russian. Thomas was only half-listening to his friends’ conversation, however. He kept finding his eyes drawn back to Emily, and not just because she was so good-looking: there was an element of that, of course (why deny it?), but this had more to do with the strange quality he was struggling to define – he supposed that charisma would be the word for it, or magnetism. Or perhaps, thinking (as he so often did these days) in terms of atomic physics, what Emily gave off was a kind of energy. An energy concentrated in her eyes, and the brilliance of her smile, rather than her gracefully angular features, or slender but masculine frame.
Now she turned to look at him. She was laughing delightedly at some instance of the combative banter between Tony and Andrey. Thomas joined in with her laughter weakly, half-heartedly, annoyed with himself for not following the conversation. He felt excluded, squeezed out: a feeling, it now occurred to him, which had recently become quite familiar when he was in the company of these three.
‘Come on, Thomas, back me up on this,’ she said. ‘Mr Chersky is trying to tell us that these wonderful children’s holiday camps on the Baltic Sea are havens of innocent fun and pleasure, and the thought of political indoctrination doesn’t enter anybody’s heads. And your friend is putting up a very feeble counter-argument, if I may say so.’
‘All I’m saying,’ Tony insisted, after a pause in which it became clear that Thomas was not going to intervene, ‘is that Andrey has a point. After all, American children go to summer camps every year.’
‘Yes,’ said Emily, ‘to learn how to be independent, and how to enjoy themselves in the wild.’
‘And to have all the other American values drummed into them,’ said Andrey. ‘Don’t they raise the flag every night, and sing patriotic songs? Of course they do. I keep telling you, in all its essentials, the West is no different to the East.’
‘He has a point,’ Tony repeated, draining his fourth or fifth vodka glass. ‘There’s propaganda on both sides. And personally, I think Artek sounds wonderful. I’d give anything to go there.’
‘Darling, I’m beginning to think you’re practically a Communist yourself,’ said Emily, tickling him playfully under the chin. Thomas wondered if the endearment had any meaning, or if Emily was perhaps the kind of person who called everybody ‘darling’. She was an actress, after all.
‘My goal,’ said Andrey, ‘is to make Communists of you all. My weapons are ballet, and vodka.’ To emphasize these two words, he gestured around the bar of the Monnaie Theatre, first of all, and then held up the three-quarters-empty bottle.
Tony and Emily laughed. After a moment Thomas joined in – again, rather faintly. He was beginning to feel that the others were somewhat too ready to accept Andrey’s relentless outpourings of pro-Soviet sentiment as little more than a charming foible; whereas it was all intended, as far as he could see, in deadly earnest. None the less, he made no complaint when Andrey filled up his glass, along with all the others’. The man was persuasive, there was no denying that. And in any case, what were you supposed to do, other than drink vodka, after an evening of Russian ballet? He told himself that he should relax, and enjoy the moment.
‘Mr Chersky, does this stuff contain much alcohol?’ Emily asked, not so innocently. ‘Because it sure tastes that way. In fact it tastes as though there’s nothing much else in it.’
‘Miss Parker, do you think that I would try to get you drunk?’ the Russian responded, wide-eyed. ‘Come on. We are all friends. We can all trust each other. Budem zdorovy!’ At which words, the three men downed their vodkas in one draught, as they had been told to do. Emily took a careful sip and, as before, she winced when the bitter liquid caught her throat for the first time.
‘I always thought that Russians said Na zdorovie when they were making a toast,’ she said.
‘A popular myth,’ Andrey explained. ‘We say it to foreigners, because – knowing no better – they say it to us, and we are too polite to embarrass them. But no Russian would ever say it to another Russian. We have an elaborate etiquette of toasts. Toasts for different occasions. Toasts which must be spoken in a certain order. Toasts which signal the start of a celebration, and those which signal the end. Come on now, drink up! I will help you on your way.’ He spoke a few more words of Russian – an especially resonant, florid and musical phrase – in response to which Emily, holding his gaze in something between scepticism and adoration, drank down the rest of her vodka.
‘It’s a beautiful language,’ she admitted. ‘At least, the way you speak it. What did you just say?’
‘That,’ Andrey conceded, ‘is a relatively new toast, from the more recent era of Soviet history. Loosely translated, it means, “May all your scheduled tasks be completed according to the designated timetable.’ ”
Emily’s eyes locked onto his again for a moment. ‘How poetic,’ she said, her mouth trembling slightly at the edges. And then, recovering herself, she rose to her feet. ‘I must pay a short visit to the ladies’ room,’ she said, and disappeared in the direction of the cloakrooms.
The men watched her retreating figure in silent admiration.
‘Your companion is charming. Quite charming,’ said Mr Chersky, turning to Tony.
‘Thank you. I think so too.’
‘With your permission, gentlemen, I will or
der another bottle. The music of Tchaikovsky has transported me to another world this evening, and I’m sure we would all like to remain there for as long as possible: with the aid of artificial stimulants if necessary.’
Andrey did not go to the bar, but walked over to one of the waiters and exchanged a few whispered words with him. It appeared that he was asking for a particular bottle to be obtained from some special quarter. While he was thus occupied, Tony noticed Thomas glancing at his watch.
‘What’s up, old boy?’
‘Oh, nothing. I just thought that Anneke would be here by now. She promised she would drop by.’
Tony’s face darkened at the mention of her name. Thomas was surprised.
‘What’s the frown for? I thought you liked her.’
‘Oh, I like her well enough. What I don’t like is the way you’re behaving towards her.’
Thomas sighed. ‘We’ve been through all this.’
‘Yes, we have. And I’ve still never had a satisfactory explanation of what you think you’re playing at.’
‘There’s nothing to explain.’
