by Robin Byron
‘So, have they fixed you up with some decent accommodation?’ asked Baby-face.
‘Not too bad, apart from the cockroaches.’
‘Ah well, hunting cockroaches is a national sport in Moscow – isn’t that so, Larry?’
‘True,’ said Larry, ‘though actually it’s often the newer apartments with central heating that have the most cockroaches – they come up the pipe tunnels.’ As conversation flowed back and forth Marianne was pleasantly surprised that there didn’t seem to be any subjects off-limits. From further down the table she could hear discussion about the events of 1968 in Czechoslovakia; Galina was saying, ‘… unfortunate, I agree, but remember our people died to save them in the war, so they have to make the same sacrifices as we do.’ Opposite her, Andrei seemed to raise his elegant eyebrows a little and Marianne leant forward and said to him in Russian:
‘I sense that perhaps you don’t entirely agree?’
‘Ah, my dear, I never dare to disagree with my wife. And may I say that your Russian is excellent but I think it would be rude for us not to speak English when not all of our company can speak Russian as well as you.’ Then, continuing in English, he said, ‘Larry tells me you are at the university, finishing your doctorate in Russian literature.’
‘Yes.’
‘May I ask on what subject?’
‘It’s to do with Lermontov’s use of the Byronic Hero.’
‘Goodness! Quite the intellectual then,’ said sharp-faced Cynthia joining in the conversation. ‘And I hear you have a four-year-old daughter to take care of as well.’
‘Yes, but I have just started her at the local kindergarten so that will be a big help.’
‘You mean a Russian kindergarten?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s incredibly brave. Does she understand any Russian?’
‘Not much yet, but I’m sure she will in time.’
‘Well, I’d rather my children stick with the language they know. I think that’s better for their development. And I’ve heard some alarming stories about the kindergartens here: how they smack the children and sometimes lock them in the closet if they misbehave.’
‘Well, it’s true they are strict, but they seem kind enough and I’m sure Izzy will tell me if anything like that happens to her.’
On their arrival at the table Marianne had noticed that there was already an elaborate spread of food. Plates of cold herring and fried trout with pomegranate, interspersed with small dishes of red caviar; a meat dish which Marianne recognised as cold chicken with walnuts and garlic was immediately in front of her and she noted several plates of crushed French beans further down the table. A waiter handed around hot flat bread which he held out in a damask napkin.
‘Quite a banquet you’ve got for us,’ she said, turning to Larry.
‘This is just the beginning,’ he said. ‘There are lots more dishes to come. You know there is a tradition in Georgia that when you are entertaining guests there should be as much food on the table at the end of the meal as there was at the beginning.’
‘That seems incredibly wasteful.’
‘True – and we won’t be quite that extravagant tonight, so enjoy what’s on the table but leave some room for what’s to come.’ Sure enough, the cold dishes were gradually replaced with hot ones. ‘Khachapuri – that’s like a cheese pie,’ said Larry. ‘Khinkali – dumplings, very popular in Georgia, and that’s a Georgian Solyanka, a kind of meat stew. These are fried eggplant – try some.’
‘Ah, yes. Aubergine,’ said Marianne, smiling at Larry.
Despite his encouragement that Marianne should sample all the dishes that appeared on the table, Larry appeared to eat sparingly whilst keeping up a steady dialogue with her. She learnt that he was thirty-six and had been in Moscow for two and a half years. He had been married but the marriage had broken down before he had left America and he was now divorced. They spoke of Russian culture and history: he seemed well informed even though he had no academic background in Russian and had only started to learn the language in a six-month crash course in Washington.
Marianne found Larry an easy conversationalist. He didn’t flirt or boast but spoke quietly, sometimes earnestly, but with a lacing of irony which she found refreshing – for all that it was surprisingly un-American. She managed to forget the startling similarity to Daniel which had so unsettled her at the embassy party; or perhaps it was precisely that similarity, that sense of the familiar, which gave her the feeling that she had known him for years already. They spoke of the increasingly harsh tone which the authorities were using against Solzhenitsyn and the continuing newspaper campaign against him and Andrei Sakharov.
‘There was a remarkable article only a few days ago, I don’t know whether you saw it. Lydia Chukovskaya – she wrote a piece called “The People’s Wrath” in support of Sakharov.’
‘Oh dear, I’m so wrapped up in the nineteenth century that I’m a bit out of touch with the current scene. What will happen – will they go after her now?’
‘Perhaps, although she’s always lived on the edge. Ultimately her father’s status as a major Russian poet may protect her.’
‘Delicious food, I’ll give you that,’ said Edward as they left the restaurant later that evening.
‘It certainly was. And how was the company at your end?’
‘Not that exciting. The Russian woman was quite sparky – although very orthodox in her views. The American couple were a bit predictable, with all the usual moans about living in Moscow. You seemed to be getting on well with Larry?’
‘Yes, it’s curious…’ Marianne paused for a moment before continuing. ‘He says he wants to meet me for a coffee tomorrow.’
‘Are you serious? He’s trying to get off with you even though he knows you’re married. That’s outrageous.’
‘No, I really don’t think so. He wasn’t at all flirtatious. Said he has a meeting with a Professor Belozersky at the university and wanted me to join them. It sounds innocuous. Do you mind?’
‘No, I don’t mind. But don’t forget that this isn’t London or New York. You have to have some care who you are seen to be talking to.’
Marianne put an arm around Edward. ‘My very wise and understanding hubby. I promise I will be alert for anything untoward and if he makes a pass at me I’ll give him one of those slaps they do in the movies…’
‘Be serious, Marianne. I’m not sure I care for this Larry friend of yours.’
4
Marianne did not feel any great need to be wary as she approached the university for her meeting with Larry. She felt stimulated after the previous night’s dinner, and not for the first time she felt a spring in her step approaching the massive edifice which loomed before her. It was not fashionable to admire the new Moscow University building on Sparrow Hills, tarnished as it was in the minds of many by its Stalinist origins and the gulag labour used in its construction, but Marianne could not conceal from herself a sense of awe as she approached the grandiose structure; its central tower, the tallest building in Europe, flanked on either side by its massive gothic wings.
Once she had arrived at the cafeteria and armed herself with a coffee – the usual milky and metallic substance she was training herself to drink – Marianne was introduced to Professor Belozersky. The professor promptly made a few polite enquiries as to Marianne’s well-being, and then excused himself, leaving her alone with Larry.
‘So what was that all about? And why did your professor leave so quickly?’
‘Vasilli? He was just sharing a few thoughts with me. But he would naturally be circumspect with someone he didn’t know.’
‘What sort of thoughts?’
‘Well, he’s Jewish, or at any rate part Jewish, so that may give you some idea.’
‘Is there really much anti-semitism in the Soviet Union?’
‘Well, you know, it�
��s subtle and difficult to characterise. Jews flourish within the universities, in the film and television industries, in medicine and law. In fact, they say that Jews have three times more university graduates than other nationalities in the Soviet Union.’
‘You talk about nationalities, but Jewishness is not a nationality, is it?’
‘In the Soviet Union most definitely it is. Don’t forget there are a great many nationalities which make up the Soviet Union and a Soviet Citizen’s internal passport will have a box for nationality. If you are Jewish then it will say “nationality: Jewish”.’
‘So it does matter then?’
‘Well, there are definite restrictions on how far Jews can advance in the Party and in the uppermost reaches of the professions. But there is also the question of emigration and Israel. After the Six Day War the Soviet Union became aligned firmly with the Arab states and Israel and Zionism became dirty words.’
‘They do allow emigration now, though?’
‘Up to a point, but once a request to leave has been made then a whole programme of harassment begins. Pensions are cut off, people get fired from their jobs and sometimes attacked by “outraged citizens” for being anti-Soviet. If in the end their application to leave is turned down, then their future can be very bleak.’
‘I see,’ said Marianne. ‘But anyway, why did you ask to meet me here today?’
‘I’ll tell you. I want you to give me a little assistance. It’s my job to keep abreast of current Soviet culture; with ideas and opinions which may be circulating, particularly among what we might call the intelligentsia. That’s why I have a coffee with Vasilli from time to time and that’s why I would like to do the same with you. What’s the gossip in the university about political matters? Do you hear cynicism about the Soviet bureaucracy? Jokes about politicians? Hostility or admiration for the West? I would like you to keep your eyes open for any interesting samizdats – you know, self-published news sheets, essays, literary works and similar stuff which may be circulating informally around the university.’
Marianne sat in silence contemplating what she had heard. Although she had suspected some ulterior motive in Larry’s desire to meet her – and of course she had no reason to suspect he might make advances to her nor indeed, she was sure, any wish for him to do so – she nevertheless felt somehow used and not a little angered by his request. ‘You want me to spy for you?’
‘Well, I was coming on to the details. We’ll have to get you kitted out – the miniature camera, dead letter drops, the cyanide pill…’
She stared at him, her lips pulled back in a rictus.
‘Marianne, don’t dramatise – it’s not spying. I just want us to meet for a drink or an ice-cream every couple of weeks – here at the university or elsewhere if you prefer – and just chat and you can tell me of any interesting conversations you may have had with Russian colleagues at the university. You know, you are young – and, if I may say so, very attractive – and you speak excellent Russian. People will talk to you if you let them.’
Marianne drained the last of her coffee, wrinkling her nose in distaste. ‘I’m not sure. I don’t know whether my husband would like it.’ (God, why am I sheltering behind Edward, she thought – make up your own mind, girl.)
‘You can tell him, of course. We wouldn’t want him to get the wrong idea, would we? He may also have some interesting things to tell you from the medical world.’
‘Edward’s not like that. He wouldn’t want to get involved. He’s very English, you know, not American.’
‘If you say so. Though I thought Cambridge graduates were natural spies.’
‘That’s not so funny.’
‘No, sorry. Listen, just think about it. Same time, same place next week? You can tell me what you’ve decided then. If you don’t want to meet again after that, fine. It’s entirely up to you. We won’t talk about it anymore now. Tell me how your daughter is getting on. How is she finding the kindergarten?’
When Larry left half an hour later, Marianne was not sure whether she had agreed to meet him the following week. I suppose I have plenty of time to consider it, she thought.
In the event, it was her row with Edward that persuaded Marianne to meet Larry again – although in truth it was scarcely a row, since it takes two to have a decent fight and Edward never allowed himself to descend into such vulgarity.
‘My God, what a nerve these people have,’ Edward said, when she told him of Larry’s request. ‘They pick on an innocent young woman like you and try to ensnare them into their web of deceit…’
‘Hang on, Ed, that’s a bit extreme. He’s a cultural attaché; he needs to get out and meet people and find out what’s being talked about in academic circles.’
‘But surely you’re not thinking of going along with this, are you?’
‘Well, I haven’t made up my mind. I wouldn’t go out of my way to do anything particular – and anyway, I doubt I’d have much to tell him – but I don’t see that meeting him occasionally for a coffee or ice-cream, as he put it, would do any harm.’
‘That’s just a start, Marianne, don’t you see?’
‘I don’t agree. I don’t think it’s any more than that.’
‘Marianne, don’t you remember the undertaking that we both had to sign before we came to Moscow about not getting involved in any political activity…’
‘But this isn’t political activity.’
‘It is, Marianne. It’s highly political. And anyway, I didn’t take to this Larry, despite – or perhaps because of – being wined and dined at an expensive restaurant.’
‘That’s what embassy people…’
‘… I think he’s smarmy and untrustworthy.’
‘So that’s your real problem, is it? That I actually get to talk to another man from time to time – rather than spending all my time locked away in the library…’
‘Marianne…’
‘… while you spend the day with all these Russian nurses you admire so much…’
‘… this is unworthy of you.’
‘Well, I shall make up my own mind and I don’t need any lectures from you about who I’m allowed to meet.’
5
‘Detsky bad. Detsky bad-bad-bad,’ shouted Izzy, her blue eyes flashing as Marianne struggled to get her daughter’s arms into her overcoat. This was a routine which had become quite familiar to Marianne as Izzy played games with the Russian name for kindergarten. At first she seemed to have got it into her head that detsky sad meant she was going to a place where she was sure to be sad. Now it was often detsky bad or even detsky mad – a variation Izzy had been particularly pleased with.
‘Come on, darling, it’s not so terrible. What happened to detsky glad?’ asked Marianne. ‘You’ll get to play with Yelena and Irina – they’re your friends, aren’t they?’
‘Sometimes… but yesterday Irina was mean to me and…and… Yelena…’
Getting her young daughter used to the idea of going to kindergarten every day had been no easier than Marianne had expected but she tried to keep the battles away from the kindergarten itself. The first morning that she had delivered her, Izzy had kicked and screamed and created a scene which would not have seemed unusual at an English or American nursery but was watched in stunned silence by both teachers and children in the Moscow kindergarten.
Now that Izzy had been at the kindergarten for nearly two months her resistance was little more than token and having dropped her off without further fuss, Marianne made her way to the park for what had now become a twice-weekly meeting with Larry. She no longer mentioned these meetings to Edward and he no longer interrogated her on whether she was still seeing him. Indeed, they barely seemed to have any conversation now, his hours at the hospital extending late into the evening when he would come home and go straight to bed. Did he assume she had stopped meeting Larry? She didn’t know and pref
erred not to think about it.
The freshness of autumn had now given way to the chill of early winter with the first snows expected any day. It was damp, depressing weather, which Muscovites particularly disliked; no matter how low the temperature might drop they looked forward to the real winter when the air would become clear and the cold somehow more bearable. It was too chilly to linger in the park that day and Larry guided her to a nearby café.
Marianne suffered a bout of coughing as she entered the thick smoky atmosphere where the stench of Russian tobacco, mixed with damp wool and animal fur, combined to overwhelm the more agreeable smell of ground coffee beans. Larry ordered coffees for them both and lit a cigarette – one of the half dozen which he permitted himself to smoke in a day.
To begin with, Marianne’s meetings with Larry had been dominated by the Yom Kippur War which had broken out between Israel and some of the Arab states a few days after their first meeting at the university. Russia, Larry told her, almost certainly had advance knowledge of the attack. She had made no special effort to pick up any gossip and when they were not discussing the war, Larry had seemed content to chat about life in Moscow or the things that they both missed from their respective homes. Marianne had lived in England for six years before moving to Moscow, had married an Englishman and fully expected to spend the rest of her life in England, but she was always happy to reminisce about her childhood or college life in America, or to tell Larry stories about her time at Cambridge.
In recent weeks, however, she had become conscious that she was making more effort to please him. She had sought out a research assistant who worked for a prominent Jewish physics professor who was believed to be contemplating applying for permission to emigrate to Israel. She told Larry about her conversation which, whilst guarded, hinted that his decision to apply was now imminent.
Larry’s glasses had steamed up as he entered the café and he had kept them off as he now looked intently at Marianne across the narrow table.
