The Longest Pleasure (6 page)

'All that, and now a chess championship,' she muttered, scribbling on her pad.

I was lucky then, too, Galitsin thought He bowed, stepped round her. Helena and Ewfim were waiting.

They dined at the Hotel Berlin. *I can't think why you come to this place,' Helena said. 'It's always-full of tourists.'

'I like tourists,' Ewfim said. 'I like watching them. Just as I like watching the fish.' He snapped his fingers, followed the maitre d'hotel to the pond in the centre of the dance floor, took his gold-rimmed glasses from his breast pocket with the air of a surgeon about to perform a difficult operation.

'Ewfim enjoys life,' Galitsin said. 'Everything about life. I admire that He is a truly happy man.'

Helena Isbinska rested her chin on her hand, gazed at her brother. He was four years older than she, and looked several years older than twenty-nine. There were traces of grey in the close-cropped brown hair. She could see her own reflection, distorted, in the bowl of fruit occupying the centre of the table. She had his hair, light brown, tumbling in curls, as his would do if it were permitted. She had his face, too, square, with features a shade too blunt, although in Helena's case they formed an attractive pattern. Now assistant controller at the electronics factory where she had worked for eight years, and mother of two boys, she remained nothing more than pleasantly plump, and her grey eyes were cool and confident Except where Alexander was concerned. She worried about him as if he were only the eldest of her children.

'And are you not also perfectly happy? The newly crowned Army Chess Champion?'

Galitsin poured champagne.
‘I
am sorry to be leaving Moscow again, after so short a visit'

*You have never liked Moscow. I think you are sorry to be returning to Budapest What happened mere, Alexander?'

He smiled. 'I was blown up by my own grenade. It was
the last day of the war for me.’

‘
You were decorated. It should be a happy memory.'

'Being blow
n up is never a happy memory.'
'There was something else,' she insisted.

Galitsin touched his glass against hers. 'There were people dying, people already dead, people being ill-treated, buildings burned, people hating. Perhaps, because it
was
the last such day for me, I remember it most clearly. Sometimes I find it difficult to believe that it can have been eleven years ago. Perhaps, when I step off the train at Buda, I expect to find it still burning.'

'Then the sooner you return,' she said severely, 'the better for you.' But he was in one of his secretive moods. As children they had shared every thought, every emotion; even when separated by the war, for long periods, she had felt she understood everything about him. But since that day in Pest he had changed. She sometimes wondered if the exploding grenade, which had opened that terrible wound in his back, had not also injured his brain. But perhaps war changed all men. Although it was difficult to imagine war changing Ewfim. 'What have you there?' she smiled, as he came back to the table.

'See for yourself.' Ewfim Isbinski was a small man, shorter than Helena, and dwarfed by Galitsin. He was an engineer. Galitsins had always been engineers, or they had married into the families of engineers. Alexander was the exception. Ewfim was short-sighted, and occasionally in bed he would take out his gold-rimmed spectacles and rest them on the end of his nose and look down at her and say, 'Helena Petrovna, I am in love with you.' And when he said that she would realise that she was in love with him, too, although they had been married for eight years, and had never shared excessive passion. Now he wore his spectacles again, to peer at the two carp flapping in the net held by the waiter. 'Chosen with exquisite care for you, my love. And for the champion, of course.'

'They look marvellous,' Helena said. 'Don't you think so, Alexander?'

Galitsin nodded. But the last of the pleasure had faded from his eyes, and the grey had turned dull. He was looking across the room, and his right hand had crept up to the lapel of his jacket, to finger the medal ribbon on his breast Helena frowned. She had never seen him do that before.

She turned her head. The orchestra was just striking up on the far side of the fish pond, and the first dancers were already on the floor, the usual motley collection, men in dark suits with ties, men in uniform, men in shabby suits, men without ties, women in long dresses, girls in short frocks, women in high-heeled shoes, women in boots, women in hats, women without hats, women dancing with men, women dancing with women, all bubbling with good humour and me
rriment, and surely not yet entir
ely full of vodka, reflecting the new mood of the city, the beginning of the new era.

But old eras die hard. Four tables away, three men had just sat down, were ordering dinner. Helena's fro
wn deep-ened. Three perfectl
y harmless men, well dressed in heavy grey suits and dark ties, enjoying themselves. Perhaps.

'There is nothing wrong, Alexander?'

'Wrong?' Ewfim demanded, 'Why should anything be wrong? Not tonight, of all nights.' He poured himself champagne, glanced in the direction of the three men. 'Oh, Beria's boys. They'd spoil any view.'

'I wish you wouldn't speak like that, Ewfim’ Helena said. ‘
You will get yourself into trouble.'

'Not I, sweetheart, Not I.
No one arrests a hero's brother-in-law. And I'm right, you know. Old Lavrenty may be dead and gone and officially forgotten, but they're all still his boys at heart, Hello. Does that chap know you, Alexander?'

Yes.' Galitsin stood up. 'It has been a long time, Comrade Colonel.'

Helena gazed at the man who stood above her. He was remarkably average, almost insignificant, except for the long nose. That sp
oiled his anonymity, protruded li
ke the antenna of a predatory insect. He frightened her, because he frightened Alexander, She knew this instinctively, and resented it.

'Too long.' Tigran Dus clasped Galitsin's hand. 'I was in the theatre this afternoon and saw your triumph. But I could not get near you. And now you are celebrating. Well done. Don't
tell me. This will be Helena.'

She gave him her hand, 'Helena Ishinska, comrade.
^’

Tigran
Dus.'

'And you already know my name?
^’

'I know a great deal about you, Helena Petrovna. Alexander Petrovich and I are the oldest of friends. Is that not so, Alexander?'

'Colonel Dus recommended me for my decoration,' Alexander explained.

'It was my pleasure. By his prompt and courageous action Alexander s
aved my life. Amongst others.'

'Then you must join us, Comrade Colonel,' Ewfim said. 'And we will have some more champagne.'

‘I
thank you, comrade, but my friends are waiting. It has been a great pleasure, Helena Petrovna. And you, comrade. And as for you, Alexander Petrovich, I see that you have made a career out of the army, after all.'

'I never considered any other career, Comrade Colonel.'

'And now you are a captain, and will assuredly rise further, which shows the wisdom of your decision. Where is your regiment posted now, Captain Galitsin?'

'Budapest, Colonel Dus.'

Helena gazed at the colonel. The two men shared a secret. A secret from which she, and the rest of the world, was excluded. A secret which disturbed Alexander. And Dus? It was impossible to say. His smile was as professionally exact as the rest of him. 'How exciting for you, Captain. I would call Pest one of your more fortunate cities. It has been my great pleasure, Helena Petrovna.'

II

‘
Vodka,' Rosenblatt said. 'We must take lots of vodka or Madam Csank will not welcome us.' Although it was easy to see that Rosenblatt, a tubby little man who bulged out of his uniform, and had round, red cheeks, would find it difficult to relax without his bottle of vodka close at hand.

Galitsin thought vodka was a good idea. This was his first weekend off duty; he had been half dreading it and half anticipating what might come of it. Budapest had been rebuilt, was again beautiful. The two Ring-Strassen circling the twin cities, and the Danube flowing between them, reminded him of Moscow. Of course, Budapest lacked the dramatic centrepiece of the Kremlin, although the Blocks-berg, rising some four hundred feet above the houses, was perhaps even more striking from a distance. Apart from the Blocksberg, there was nothing to remind him of the last time he had been here. The Blocksberg, and Tigran Dus. Dus had brought memory with the clarity of looking at old photographs, and now it was sunset again, a dull sunset, red and black, promising rain soon and fine weather later. But there was no white belly hanging in the sky. The white belly had not been there for a long time. For ten years. Now he saw only long strands of thin brown hair, and red toe« nails dipped in blood, and a name, scrawled in the dust.

They strolled down Nador Street, could see the Parliament Buildings beyond the corner. 'There is a liquor store, over there,' Galitsin said.

Rosenblatt giggled; his epaulettes jumped and his medal ribbons wrinkled. This is Buda, Alexander. Remember?' We do not shop in there.'

Galitsin adjusted his cap. The store was somewhat shabby, but there were bottles in the window. "You will have to tell me why, comrade.'

Rosenblatt giggled some more. 'Wh
ere have you been since the end
of the war?'

'I spent two years in hospital,' Galitsin said. 'And then it was Berlin for two years, and then the East'

Rosenblatt slapped him on the shoulder. 'Then you have been unlucky. Here, in the occupi
ed countries, this has been the
place to be.'

'The occupied countries?'

Rosenblatt shrugged. 'They are occupied, are they not? We will buy our vodka in that shop over there.'

This shop had a freshly painted facade, and the labels on the bottles in the window seemed brighter. 'You are a connoisseur,' Galitsin suggested.

Rosenblatt laughed again. 'Of vodka? It is all the same to me, comrade. I am interested in the price. Were you not told? Listen to me, Alexander. Here in Buda there are four classes of shop. There are those for the Hungarian workers. That was a workers' shop you wanted to visit, just now. Then there are shops for the middle classes. Then there are shops for local Party members. And then there are shops to serve us, and only us. And shall I tell you something else, Comrade C
aptain? The prices are progres
sively cheaper,
too.'

'Then we should sneak into the workers' shop to buy our liquor.'

Rosenblatt went into peal
s of laughter. ‘Y
ou are a droll fellow, Alexander Petrovich. I never knew that chessplayers had a sense of humour. You have g
ot it backwards, comrade. A bottl
e of vodka is four times more expensive for a worker than for a Russian soldier. And for a Russian officer
...'
He turned the palms of his hands outwards. 'But you would not have a crowd of Magyars lying about the streets drunk? They are a rebellious lot as it is. They stare at us in the street as if we were Germans.'

'I have noticed that,' Galitsin sai
d. 'I must learn
the language.'

'It is not necessary,' Rosenblatt pushed open the door; went inside. The dark girl behind the counter, petite and pretty, with bows in her hair, smiled at him. 'All the good ones speak Russian. Enough to get on with. Vodka. Six botties.' He dumped a handful of paper currency on the counter.

'Of course, Captain.' The girl smiled at Galitsin, from his boots to his close-cropped hair. 'And for your friend?'

'Six between us, you silly bitch,' Rosenblatt shouted. 'We do not wish to empty your storeroom A rebellious lot. And the Central Committee is no better. Sometimes . . . sometimes, Alexander, I wonder if Stalin was not right, after all.' He winked. 'All this talk of liberalisation worries me. Sometimes.'

'We are soldiers,' Galitsin said. "Let the politicians worry about doctrinal matters.' He lowered his voice. 'And you want to be careful, comrade. That girl could be an agent of the Fourth Bureau.'

'Her? Of the Avo, more likely. Her business is spying on Hung
a
rians. Not on us. But I am serious. Even soldiers must worry about who employs them. Now take the set-up here. Rakosi had to
go,
he was a Stalin man. But his crime was his old age. He no longer kept the country at his heels. So he had to go. But this Gero, I do not trust him. He has too much in common with Tito.'