Yellow Blue Tibia (7 page)

‘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
!]’

‘[Russian 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 customers. 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.

I slapped at it with my hand, and this action occasioned a very strange expression to bloom very slowly, like some creature of the deep seas, on Trofim’s face. I remember thinking to myself: A mosquito? In Moscow
at this time of year
? Spring was not far away, true, but winter nevertheless had the city in its grip, and it was still very cold. Nor was it particularly warm inside the restaurant.
A Scarf Of Red
was playing on the radio. Except that there was no radio. I was imagining the music. Or it was playing next door. The sound had a distorted, unsettling quality. Perhaps it was playing next door, and the sound was coming muffled through the wall. Something like that.

There was a very strange atmosphere in the place. I brought my hand back round to the front, and saw only a miniature Moscow-shaped splatch of blood in the exact centre, like a stigmata.

Something was wrong. Something was not right.

I couldn’t put my finger on what was wrong. The restaurant was deserted, but even though I could look round and see that it was empty I somehow got the sense that it was simultaneously
crowded with people
. Clearly that couldn’t be right: either a place is empty, or else a place is full. I tried to wrangle the excluded middle. It wouldn’t budge. It occurred to me that the place might be haunted - I might have picked up on the spectral presence of the dead, still thronging that place. But I don’t believe in ghosts.