‘Whose tomb is this?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know, darling. But is it a tomb? It isn’t big enough, surely.’
‘“To the memory of Pug,”‘ he read out, ‘“who departed this life June 24th 1754.” Presumably a young child, though it seems odd to give just the nickname. And to bury it here, or rather not bury it… Do you want to get married in a church?’
‘Well yes, if we can, but perhaps we can’t.’
‘M’m.’
She certainly followed his thoughts at that point. ‘I hear the evensong wasn’t a success.’
‘We had some of the people in for interview today. They said they enjoyed the singing but didn’t know what the parson was talking about.
‘Oh dear. He’s very old, isn’t he?’
‘The attendance at the exhibition of visual arts has been very bad, almost non-existent, in fact, and some of the paintings have been defaced or ripped from the walls. I’m dreading the music recital.’
‘When is that?’
‘Tomorrow night. I wish I knew what we’ve done wrong.
‘You’ve all had something else on your minds.’
‘Yes.’ He spoke without conviction.
‘Is everyone ready for Sunday?’
‘As ready as they’ll ever be.’
Suddenly Nina felt a dreadful incredulity, like a void in the middle of her life and emotions; could it be another involuntary message from Theodore? At any rate, she found herself facing as if for the first time the concept that in a single day the whole world was going to be changed. She was being asked to believe that within a few kilometres of her there were hundreds of respectable-seeming people, including the mild young man she was talking to, who after a morning and afternoon just like any other would start pulling out guns, arresting important officials, occupying public buildings, giving orders. And being obeyed – that was the hardest part. Surely Director Vanag would just smile, shake his head and go on as before if anybody tried to tell him what to do. She started to speak and stopped again.
‘I suppose…
‘What’? What is it?’
‘This isn’t all a joke? There is going to be a revolution?’
‘No joke. Whether there’s going to be a revolution or not is largely a matter of words. By now it looks more as if there’ll be just a peaceful and orderly transfer of power. The important part, the real work will come afterwards.’
Before she could say anything to that her attention was caught by the sight of Alexander a hundred metres away leading Polly up the shallow incline from the churchyard, moving purposefully, not at his more usual dreamy stroll. Nina waved to him and he raised his hand rather stiffly in reply. He was hitching the mare to the little temple when, as though by prearrangement, the figures of Elizabeth Cuy and a brown-liveried manservant of the house emerged from the hall door on to the top of the steps. On seeing Alexander she hurried down them and embraced him with much zeal; even at the distance of the summer-house the lack of real warmth in his response could be seen. Before she had released him he shouted a quite sufficiently curt order to the servant to take the mare to the stables; then he set off towards the waiting pair with Elizabeth unregarded at his side.
‘She keeps coming back for more,’ said Nina. ‘I couldn’t if it were me.’
‘Why does she do it? Assuming you’re right.’
‘It’s funny, it’s as if she positively wanted him to turn her down. I suppose in one way that’s easier than… And even the bad language…
‘What? How beautiful you look. What on earth am I saying? How beautiful you are.’
She was certainly looking her best, happy, healthy and altogether young; there were indeed freckles enough over her jaws and temples but of lines none at all. By some trick of chance her sleeveless dress had been cut right and its two shades of green suited her colouring, which was brighter than ever in the sun. Without a word she stepped up into the summer-house and, out of sight, they kissed. Although he was nothing but gentle with her he seemed to her infinitely strong.
They were sitting on the steps when the other two arrived. Alexander’s expression was curious. It was serious and even troubled but Nina thought she read a kind of elation in it too. Addressing himself directly to Theodore he said,
‘The information was not forthcoming.’
‘Any reason given?’
‘The person who was to have supplied it to my source is proving stubborn. Or so I was told.’
‘That sounds rather fishy, somehow.’
‘I thought so too. Delivery is promised for Friday afternoon without fail.’
‘Not much more than forty-eight hours before we go into action. Fishier and fishier.’
‘Agreed.’
‘Fucking hell,’ said Elizabeth, looking from one man to the other. ‘Don’t try and behave as if we’re not here – I won’t have it.’
The general topic under discussion was clear enough to Nina. ‘You can say anything you like; I’ll vouch for her.’
Theodore said rather wearily, ‘As you’ll have gathered, we were expecting some information that has failed to arrive. There’s an old principle about being kept in ignorance of what you needn’t know.
‘Of course,’ said Nina. ‘So that there’s that much less for you to be able to give away under interrogation.’
‘Or not under interrogation.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well… voluntarily. Willingly. In the course of duty.’
Nina crossed her arms and clasped her shoulders, frowning. ‘But that wouldn’t apply in this case. In Elizabeth’s and my case.’
‘You never know,’ said Theodore, still wearily.
‘You never know? Are you saying you can’t be sure I’m not one of Vanag’s people? That you’ve no way of being sure?’
‘What way could there be? How can anybody be absolutely sure about anybody?’
‘About anybody. Dear God, what a terrible world we’ve made.’
‘I’ll go if you like,’ said Elizabeth with some violence, turning her head to include Alexander specifically in her audience. ‘I was just passing. I didn’t come for anything in particular.’
‘Shut up, Elizabeth,’ said Alexander; ‘life’s hard enough as it is.’
‘You’ll have a hard life, my lad, about the day the King of England gets to sit on his throne.’
‘We are helping to run a revolution, you know.’ Theodore’s tone now was querulous rather than weary. ‘It’s a heavy responsibility.’
‘I can see it must be. Locking up a few policemen. Very responsible work.’
‘There’ll be more to it than that. Certain persons will have to be killed.’
This was accompanied by a glance at Nina that showed awareness of having contradicted the reassuring forecast he had given her a few minutes before. To her, he sounded like someone organising a garden party who complains of a shortage of good servants. Again she was visited with incredulity: had she somehow misunderstood everything, childishly mistaken a sophisticated game for a serious proposal to overthrow the administration by force? She hoped she was not looking as shaken as she felt.
After staring at Theodore in a parody of amazement, Elizabeth said sarcastically, ‘Killed!’ and gave a great snort. ‘But not by you or the gallant soldier here, that’s for certain.’
Alexander went red. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said in a shrill voice.
‘Oh yes I do. You haven’t got the guts, my lad. Not for a killing in cold blood, which calls for a lot.’
He said, this time in a furious, rapid whisper, ‘Perhaps you’ll change your mind when I shoot my father.’
‘Impossible!’ exclaimed Theodore, but after much too long a pause to carry conviction.
‘Are you mad, Alexander?’ Elizabeth turned to Nina. ‘Did. you know about this?’
‘No,’ said Nina, still trying to take it in but experiencing only a sense of monstrous unreality.
‘What did y
ou go and blurt that out for?’ Theodore was quite as angry as Alexander had been.
‘They’d have known soon enough.’
‘Why?’ said Elizabeth with great determination. ‘I want to know why you think you have to… w H Y.’
‘It’ll have great moral effect,’ said Theodore.
‘That’s no justification.’
‘I can assure you it’s necessary.’
‘Necessary for what?’
‘For the revolution.’
‘What will it achieve for the revolution?’
‘Don’t argue with her, Theodore,’ said Alexander. ‘You won’t get anywhere, and the thing has to be done whatever anybody thinks about it.’
Elizabeth looked steadily up at him. ‘To shoot an unarmed man is a terrible thing to do, and for you to shoot that man is revolting.’ She was wise enough to say no more of not believing in his ability to kill in cold blood. ‘You’ll be using your position to get close to him without him suspecting anything, so you won’t be giving him any sort of chance. And what’s he ever done to you or anyone else to justify the least violence against him? He’s always treated you kindly, too kindly for your own good perhaps, but I’d be willing to swear he’s never done you an injury. And this is how you repay him.’ She looked away and paused and then spoke in a new tone. ‘I’ve been in love with you for two years while knowing you’re rather a fraud. Now I think you’re rather evil. But I still love you. I don’t suppose you can be bothered to try to imagine what that’s like, so I’ll tell you – it’s hell.’
Bursting abruptly into tears, Elizabeth turned and ran towards the house. Alexander gave a cheer and clapped his hands, but so quietly that she could not have heard. The other two had moved a little way off and Theodore was talking in gentle, serious, explanatory tones while Nina listened attentively, nodding her head from time to time, by the look of her not far from tears herself.
17
The music recital, which included works by Dowland, Purcell, Sullivan, Elgar, the composer of ‘Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay’, Noel Coward, Duke Ellington (taken to have been an English nobleman of some sort), Britten and John Lennon, fell a long way short of the disaster Theodore had feared. The audience remained good-natured throughout and even applauded after several of the items. They disappointed the organisers, however, by talking loudly and continuously from start to finish, or rather for all but the first five minutes, when the strangeness of the experience almost silenced them. Somebody pointed out afterwards that they had not been told of the custom of keeping quiet at such shows; somebody else said this might have been just as well. The performance the following evening of ‘Look Back in Anger’ was an out-and-out success. Only very rarely in the past could the theatre have rung with so much happy, hearty laughter. Afterwards the members of the cast had been chaired round the neighbouring streets by an enthusiastic crowd.
The night after that (Thursday) was to see the production of ‘Romeo and Juliet’ that had earlier interested Alexander. He made preparations to attend. These included obtaining through unofficial channels not only a ticket but something called a dinner jacket and a dickey with a small black bow-tie clipped to it, made specially for the occasion like the church clothes. He also got one of the servants to make him up a bouquet of flowers from the garden and arranged for its delivery at the theatre. A couple of days earlier to do as much might have seemed too troublesome, but the recent decline in his passion for Mrs Korotchenko, consequent on her persuasions in the matter of her daughter, had allowed his interest to move in other directions.
He changed in Theodore’s office, had a pint of best bitter and a cheese-and-pickle sandwich at the Marshal Stalin in St John’s Street and strolled round the corner to the theatre. It was a fine September evening, unusually hot and sticky for the time of year. A few people passed in the streets; most had already gone to their homes or to the lodgings that served as their homes in this cut-off island. Two military policemen, noticeable for their blue cross-belts and gaiters, moved slowly by in step, hands clasped behind backs. All was quiet. And yet in seventy-two hours, more like seventy-six hours to be exact, the revolution was to be launched and everything would be changed, set off by his shooting of his father. Was he going to be able to do it? He must; not to would be admitting to himself, and to others, that he was a trifler, a poseur, a booby. No going back now.
The foyer of the theatre was crowded with expectant English, none of whom had attended the play the previous evening (it had been a question of one or the other), but they had obviously heard all about it. Some were reading parts of the programme aloud for the benefit of illiterates among their hearers. A doubt or two was expressed whether a story of the kind summarised there could be very funny, but the doubters cheered up a little on finding that the characters called Mercutio and the Nurse were considered by experts to demonstrate Shakespeare’s powers of comedy at their best.
The appearance of many of the men present would have struck most observers as odd. The dinner jackets they wore were just that; inefficiency and shortages had prevented the matching trousers from being ready in time. There were those like Alexander who had managed to find something not too incongruous among their own (usually very small) stocks of clothes; others had settled for tweed-like patterns or corduroys of various colours. The women looked strange too, though collectively rather than singly. A further set of shortages had caused them all to be wearing the same dress, a garment with a narrow and on-the-short-side skirt (to save material), no sleeves (same reason; hard on the not-so-young) and an unfetching round neck. By a stroke of petty lavishness, at the last minute so to speak total uniformity had been averted; exactly half the dresses were electric blue and the others emerald green, giving their wearers the appearance of opposing teams about to engage in some little-known sport. Not many younger people turned up and those that had were mostly in the bar downstairs. Nothing stronger than beer and stout was on sale, but a certain amount of spirits was being drunk, having been illegally distilled and brought along in pocket-flasks, or rather small bottles of all sorts. Here and there a mild rowdiness was beginning to show itself.
The ringing of a bell immediately produced something of a hush. When a bell rang, it meant authority was calling for attention, and plenty of those in bar and foyer could vividly remember the time when it had been wise to respond to that call without reserve. But the word soon got round that taking one’s seat was as much as was asked for. This process went on longer than would once have usual, given the number of parties and couples with no member able to read. In the end it was done and there fell another relative silence, in which this time an immense rustling of paper could be heard as several hundred boxes of chocolates, one to each seat, were torn open and their contents explored. A Russian researcher of unusually wide reading had come across the remark (sarcastically intended) that chocolates seemed to be compulsory at English theatrical performances. Those of tonight contained sweet pastes of uncertain flavouring, but they went down well enough with men and women who had had an early supper of (typically) cabbage soup, belly of pork with boiled beets, and stewed windfalls. After another pause the house lights were dimmed.
A tubby old man came on to the stage in front of the curtain. His painted face and his clothes, which were hard to imagine as the attire of any person in the real world, combined with the circumstances to suggest at once that here was an actor. Applause, led by a small claque, greeted him and he bowed. Confirmation of his histrionic status was soon given by his manner of speech, monotonous but unnatural, the voice dropping at the end of every line of verse. When he came to the words ‘the hour’s traffic of our stage’ there was of course nobody to remark this notice that the text of the production had been cut by something like half or the metrical deficiency of the altered line. The man soon finished his say and, to more applause, withdrew. The curtain rose.
A loud sigh of pleasure and wonder arose from the audience. The wonder at least was understandable: the sets were the work of a R
ussian artist or artisan whose instructions had been to portray sixteenth-century Verona in a style the twenty-first-century English would appreciate. (He had conscientiously read the play in a recent translation and had put in many a touch he thought was Shakespearean.) Two men carrying swords, more fancifully dressed than their predecessor, came in and conversed for a short time. Two other men followed. The attention of the audience was held at first by the sheer unfamiliarity of everything before them, then by the excitement of the fights, which had been well arranged and thoroughly rehearsed, then by the (to them) dazzling opulence of the clothes worn by the Prince and his train. The exchange between Montague and Benvolio was cut almost to nothing; the good-looking young man playing Romeo was a natural actor, with a command of expression and gesture that enabled most of those there to catch the drift of those passages he understood himself, and it was found generally inoffensive.
Alexander had naturally not bothered to read the synopsis in the programme (an unnecessary demand on his English, for one thing), so he was almost surprised when, just after the start of the third scene, the tall dark-haired figure of Sarah Harland walked on to the stage. She was wearing a blue-and-white dress that miraculously both fitted and suited her and altogether she was looking even finer than he had remembered. After she had made a couple of brief remarks, two other females chatted for a few moments; she moved away and looked out into the auditorium and immediately, or so he fancied, caught sight of him. If she had, the way her face changed boded ill for his chances after the show, chances which seemed further diminished when he turned his eyes away and found himself looking straight into those of Kitty Wright. She arid her father were sitting remarkably near for him not to have noticed them before. It was going to be tricky, making for Sarah without Kitty seeing, but short of cancelling Sarah it would have to be done. An old Russian proverb said a rabbit in the snare was worth two in the field, and someone with far less experience of women than his would still know full well that infidelity even in remotest intention drove them wild with rage, in sad contrast to his own view that they could do what they liked provided they were available whenever he wanted them. (This may well have been his expressed view; his practice on learning of such conduct was to turn wild with rage and walk out at once, unless indeed nothing else was fully available at the time.)
Russian Hide-and-Seek Page 19
