by Adam Roberts
In I went.
I signed in, and rode the lift to the top of the building where Comrade Polenski himself met me. ‘A real stab in the arse with a dagger, this pair,’ he said.
‘UK?’
‘American.’
I was impressed. I said so. If I had known what was coming - I mean, what these Americans would mean for my life, and for the saving of my nation - I would have been more than impressed.
‘Since Gorbachev,’ Polenski was saying, ‘my desk is clogged with Americans eager to visit Moscow.’
‘What do these Americans want? Trade?’
Polenski stopped. He was twenty years my junior, and exactly my height; but since I had been considerably shrunken by age, he appeared somehow more condensed and solider than I. He certainly possessed more pugnacity. ‘What do they want? Let me tell you something, you scorch-face bastard. Don’t you worry what they want. Worry what I want. I’m the one you should worry about. And one of the things I want is for you not to jab me in the arse with a dagger. All right? It may be that you have friends who enjoy being jabbed in the arse, but I am not your friend, and that is not how I choose to spend my time. Yes?’
I looked at my immaculately cleaned and clipped fingertips. ‘Not the arse, comrade. I understand.’
He glowered at me; and then, abruptly, beamed. ‘This must be why I continue to call on your services. Skvorecky,’ he said. ‘You are at least droll. You know how many people in this building are droll?’
‘Is there a sub-department in charge of the production of drollery?’
‘Droll isn’t really our governmental style,’ he said. ‘Is my point.’
‘Dictatorship of the drolletariat,’ I said.
His scowl was back. ‘See, sometimes you’re amusing,’ he said, ‘and sometimes you go out of your way to jab me in the arse with a dagger. Come on.’
He took me through to a small windowless room, the walls of which were painted an unpleasant algae-green. Inside was a table, and four chairs, and two of the chairs were occupied with - exotic! - American bodies. I was introduced to Dr James Tilly Coyne, US citizen, and also to Ms Dora Norman, US citizen. Had this latter individual been cut into two portions with a horizontal slice at her waist, hollowed out and laminated it would have been possible very comfortably to fit the former individual inside her, afterwards replacing the upper element. ‘[I am pleased to meet you both,]’ I said, in English. ‘[My name is Konstantin Skvorecky.]’
‘[It’s indeed a pleasure to meet you, sir,]’ said Coyne, shaking my hand. I met his eye. Within twenty-four hours I would be staring at his corpse, lying on the ground wry-necked and with blood coming out of its nose. Poor James Tilly Coyne!
His frame was both short and slight, and his houndlike face was woodgrained with vertical age-lines down his brow and both cheeks. These wrinkles looked, rather mournfully, like the erosion lines of decades of tears. Yet his eyes were lively, and he smiled often. Had I been asked to guess I would have put his age in the sixties; old enough, easily, to be Dora Norman’s father. Despite his age his hair was very dark, though visibly thinning. It lay across the pronounced knobbles of his skull like the lines illustrators carve into metal plates to indicate shading in their engraved pictures.
‘[I am afraid I have exhausted my guidebook Russian on your colleague,]’ said Coyne, with a smile.
The four of us sat down around the table. ‘[He’s no colleague of mine,]’ I said, in English. [I am not a member of this ministry.]’
‘[A civilian?]’
‘[A translator, only. I have no official standing.]’
At this point, Dora Norman intervened. ‘[Mr - Koreshy?]’ Her prodigious jowls quivered as she spoke. ‘[Excuse me, but . . .?]’
‘[Skvorecky, madam.]’
‘[Excuse me,]’ she said again. ‘[But - you have something stuck on the end of your nose. I think it is a piece of paper tissue.]’ She reached out, her hand remarkably small and dainty on its ponderously conic forearm, and brushed the end of my nose with forefinger and thumb. ‘[If you’ll permit me,]’ she said, and had another go at brushing the end of my nose. Her voice was high pitched, but melodious and indeed rather attractive. The bulk of her frame gave her soprano tone the merest hint of a sensual underthrum.
I took hold of her wrist and guided her hand away with as much gentleness as I could. ‘[Madam,]’ I said. ‘[You are kind, but mistaken. It is not paper. It is a small tab of scar tissue. The mark of an old wound. An unfortunate place to have such a thing, I know.]’
‘[Oh my word, I’m sorry,]’ she said, in an alarmed voice. A blush spread across the silk expanse of her neck, passing as rapidly as pink tea suffuses boiling clear water, over the humps of her two chins and spilling colour upwards into her cheeks. This was really quite a pretty effect. ‘[Gracious I’m so sorry,]’ she gushed.
‘[It is perfectly all right.]’
‘[I’m so sorry! God, embarrassing! God how embarrassing! I’m such a fool!]’
‘[Please Mrs Norman, think nothing of it,]’ I said.
‘[Oh God!]‘
[‘Really, I insist.’] I was starting to become embarrassed at her embarrassment.
‘[No - how ridiculously stupid of me. I’m the world’s biggest fool.]’
‘[Believe me,]’ I said, forcing the least convincing smile imaginable from my tight face, ‘[you are very far from being the first person to make that particular mistake. It is after all an unusual place to have scar tissue.]’
‘What are you two saying?’ said Polenski in a suspicious voice. ‘Don’t exclude me. Why is she stroking your face? Are you two flirting, Konsty, you goat?’
‘She mistook the scar on my nose for a piece of tissue paper.’
‘Ha,’ grunted Polenski. ‘Ha!’ He went on in his intermittent, bolting manner of laugher. ‘Haha! Ha! Did she? Ha!’
Polenski’s reaction deepened Norman’s blush. ‘[I apologise, I can’t apologise enough,]’ she said, looking from him to me. ‘[I really am the world’s biggest fool.]’
‘What’s she saying now?’ Polenski wanted to know.
‘She says she’s the world’s biggest fool,’ I reported.
‘She’s certainly got the world’s biggest arse. How do these Americans get so fat?’
‘It certainly contrasts severely with the universal slimness of our Russian women,’ I said.
Polenski decided to take offence at this. ‘Are you really going to compare Russian woman and American?’
‘[Amerikanski,]’ said Coyne, brightly, in English. ‘[I know that much Russian, at any rate.]’
Polenski beamed at him. ‘That’s right, I said American, you fucking little sewer-rat,’ he said, in a warm voice. ‘You’d like to be awarded the Soviet Order of the Turd for your linguistic expertise, is it?’
Coyne looked expectantly to me. ‘[Comrade Polenski,]’ I said, ‘[is saying how important it is for the Soviet people that good relations are maintained with the American people.]’
‘[I couldn’t agree more,]’ said Coyne. ‘[That’s precisely why we’re both here.]’
‘I will concede,’ said Polenski, to me. ‘Maybe some of our babushkas get a little plump. I like plump. You ever fucked a really skinny woman, Skvorecky? Your hipbones bang together like a spoon on a pan. No, no, no, plump is one thing. But this?’ And he angled his smile again towards Dora Norman. ‘It’s ridiculous. It’s like a - tent. A tent pumped full of jelly.’
‘[Is he asking me a question?]’ Dora Norman asked me. ‘[He’s looking at me. Is there something he wants to ask me?]’
‘Tell her I wouldn’t stick my stubby little prick in her mouth for fear she’d swallow me whole,’ said Polenski, still smiling broadly and nodding.
‘[Comrade Polenski is saying how rare it is for a man in his position to have official dealings with a beautiful woman,]’ I said.
Her blush went from ros’ wine to burgundy. ‘[Gracious! Hardly! I hardly think - I am certainly no beauty!]’
‘[R
ussian men,]’ I said, ‘[appreciate the fuller-figured woman, Mrs Norman.]’
She fixed her gaze upon me. ‘[Miss,]’ she said.
‘[I apologise,]’ I said.
‘[Oh,]’ she said, eagerly. ‘[I’m not rebuking you, Mr Svoreshy! Not at all! Only I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea.]’
‘[I shall strive,]’ I said, bowing my head a little, ‘[not to get the wrong idea.]’
‘Can we get on?’ growled Polenski. ‘I have work to do. And judging by the way you’re eyeing her up, you presumably wish to take Madame Tub here to a hotel room and give her some private lessons in the Russian tongue.’ He laughed at his own joke. ‘Ha! Haha! Ah.’
‘[Comrade Polenski,]’ I translated, ‘[is eager to press on.]’
‘[As are we,]’ said Coyne.
‘Tell him to make his pitch,’ growled Polenski.
‘[Mr Coyne?]’ I said.
‘[That’s my cue, is it? Well, I represent an American religious institution, the Church of Scientology. We are interested in establishing a Scientological centre here in Moscow.]’
I translated for Polenski. ‘A church?’ he returned. ‘Does he want me to quote to him what Marx said about religion? I will, you know. Marx said you can stick religion up your arse. Tell him that.’
‘[It is not official Soviet policy to invite in missionaries from religious organisations,]’ I told Coyne.
‘Marx said it was the opium of the people,’ Polenski growled.
‘He also said it was the heart of a heartless world,’ I put in.
‘Fuck off, Konsty.’
‘[We appreciate that. Please relay to Mr Polenski that the Church of Scientology is not an ordinary religious organisation. As you can tell from its name, it is based on the laws of science. Our interest is not in converting Soviet citizens to our belief-system, but rather in undertaking mutually beneficial and officially-sanctioned research.]’
‘[What sort of research?]’ I asked.
‘[We have a number of ideas, and of course would need to discuss possibilities with the authorities. But for example, we in the Church of Scientology are very interested in the science of human personality. In trauma, and the effect trauma has upon the healthy development of the human mind. We have, by the same token, grave reservations about the so-called science of psychiatry, as it is practised in its post-Freudian mode; reservations we believe largely shared by the Soviet authorities. There are,]’ he concluded, ‘[a number of areas in which we could work; and with your sanction we would like to purchase a Moscow site to function as our Russian base in order to continue this work.]’
I began the process of translating all this for Polenski’s benefit, but he interrupted me after a few moments. ‘Wait, wait. Scientific research?’
‘[Scientology] from [science], science,’ I said.
‘Then it’s not my problem!’ He beamed enormously at the two Americans. ‘Fantastic! They can go bother the Office of International Scientific Coordination instead! I need never see their ugly faces ever again!’
Both Coyne and Norman seemed delighted at Polenski’s big smile. ‘[Comrade Polenski,]’ I told them, ‘[is genuinely delighted by what you say. The Soviet Union is always interested in legitimate scientific exchange and research.]’
‘[Well that’s really excellent news,]’ said Dora Norman.
‘Tell them both to fuck off,’ said Polenksi.
‘[Comrade Polenski,]’ I said, ‘[will forward your request to the Office of International Scientific Coordination.]’
‘Tell them, I hope I never see their grotesque faces again as long as I live.’
‘[He will be in touch soon,]’ I said.
And that was that. We all stood up; Dora Norman apologised once again for trying to flick away the scar tissue from my nose, and I left the room, not expecting to see either of the Americans again.
CHAPTER 4
In the lift going down I buttoned my coat and settled my hat over the worn carpet-texture of my hair, preparatory to making a dash through the entrance hall under the severe, disapproving gaze of the massy worker in the heroic mosaic on the far wall. I ducked past the doorman’s booth, scurried along and out through the main doors, and into a flurry of wind.
Collision awaited me on the open street. I was keeping my head down to avoid the breezy debris, and ducking round the corner in that posture I didn’t at first see whom it was I bumped.
‘Konstantin Andreiovich Skvorecky!’ declared this stranger, in a theatrical voice. ‘Once again we meet! It must be fate!’
‘Ivan Frenkel,’ I said. ‘I am just leaving.’
‘Going? No no, I won’t hear of it,’ said Frenkel, gesturing peculiarly with his arms. ‘It is destiny that we have met again. You and I - just the two of us.’ He had the manner of a not very good actor overplaying a role. At the time I assumed this was merely his personal style.
Standing a little way behind him was the looming presence of the tall man; his bodyguard, or perhaps his chaperone. ‘You must come with me,’ said Frenkel. ‘Just round the corner from here is an excellent Russian restaurant. We must have lunch.’
‘Isn’t it a little late for lunch?’
‘Afternoon snack. Early supper. Come anyway! Have a little vodka with me.’
‘I don’t,’ I said, ‘drink vodka.’
‘Not drink vodka!’ He made pebble-eyes at me. It was all stupidly self-conscious and actorly. I wanted to say to him, Please don’t put yourself to all these theatrics on my account, but he was in spate. ‘Is this,’ he addressed the street, or the front of the building, or the world at large, ‘the Skvorecky I used to know? He could drink vodka! He could have represented the Soviet Union at the vodka Olympics!’
‘I was drinking too much,’ I said. ‘I stopped.’
‘Coffee then!’ He again addressed himself, or so it seemed, to an imaginary audience. ‘Surely he can’t refuse a cup of coffee!’
‘Frenkel, you’re acting very peculiarly.’
‘I have,’ he said, putting his reeking mouth close to my ear and speaking in a more confidential tone of voice, ‘something of the utmost importance to convey to you.’
‘I have a pressing appointment.’
‘Nonsense. You’re chaffing me. Come along!’
I screwed my courage to the sticking point. Or, at least, I licked the back of my courage and pressed it against the sticking point in the hope that it would adhere. ‘Not today, Ivan. Another day. I’m afraid I really must go.’
I jinked round him and made a little dash for freedom along Leningradsky Prospekt, but I ran straight into another obstruction. Frenkel’s minder, the huge individual with the military bearing and the Easter Island face, was standing in my way. The sheer muscular bulk of this individual was remarkable.
‘You remember Trofim?’ Frenkel said, from behind me. ‘From when we chanced upon one another before?’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Good afternoon, comrade.’
‘Comrade,’ he nodded.
‘Come and sit with us,’ said Frenkel, strangely excited. ‘I promise not to make you late for . . . for you next appointment.’ His minder, Trofim, took hold of my elbow with a grip of remarkable force. I almost squealed.
I stood there, under a sky the colour of tooth-enamel. It was a cold afternoon. ‘I suppose it would take me no more than a few minutes,’ I said, ‘to drink a coffee.’
‘Excellent!’
And so the huge fellow Trofim steered me along the road and down a side street towards a restaurant frontage. Upon the window pane was a poorly painted representation of a fat white O - a life buoy, I think - with the words ДapЬi мopя, indicating that it was a seafood restaurant. Beneath this, sitting on the dusty inner shelf behind the glass, was a dried, spiny-looking and almost heroically unappetising fish about a metre long, and looking like it belonged in a paleoarcheological museum.
We bundled in through its narrow tinkling door, all three of us, to find the interior wholly deserted of cu
stomers. A pained-looking young woman was standing by the kitchen hatch. Frenkel, practically dancing on his toes with excitement, selected a corner table and sat himself down. The waitress came over and he shooed her away; then he called her back and ordered black bread and coffee.
So began the second meeting, the one I mentioned above - where I was bitten by a mosquito. It was also, as you shall see, strangely important.
I sat down, and Trofim squeezed himself into one of the chairs across from me, somehow fitting his enormous legs under the lid of the little table. Frenkel said, ‘I’m so delighted to have chanced upon you again, my old friend.’
‘It is a wonderful coincidence,’ I said, deadpan, looking directly at Trofim.
‘So what were you doing in the ministry? Translating, was it?’
‘Indeed.’
‘I’m going to leave you now,’ Frenkel said.
I transferred my gaze to him. My day was going from odd to odder. ‘Well, goodbye.’
‘Just for a moment, you understand. I just have a quick phone call to make. I’m sure they have a phone here?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ I replied. ‘You’re the one who chose this place.’
‘That’s right we did! A sleepy little place! Right in the middle of town! A sleepy little place! Sleepy!’
And off he went, leaving me under the unflinching gaze of brother Trofim. I puzzled my brain momently with wondering whom Frenkel might be calling, and what he might be saying. (I’ve got him, he’s here, we captured him!) But it was more than I could fathom. And, to be honest, I found it hard to care one way or another.
There was a very strange atmosphere in the place. I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was about the place that unnerved me. I felt a huge weariness, perhaps a regular exhaustion, perhaps an existential ennui. I could barely move my limbs. A sleepy little place, I thought. A sleepy little place.
A mosquito bit at the back of my neck.
