Читать книгу Angels in the Snow - Derek Lambert, Derek Lambert - Страница 11

CHAPTER FOUR

The American Club was the most cosmopolitan establishment in Moscow. You could meet almost anyone there except a Russian.

It was run by servicemen from the American Embassy with great efficiency, elaborate courtesy and a stolid suspicion of strangers. No one was allowed in without a pass or a passport and girls in slacks were barred.

The vetting was in the hands of Elmer, a muscular, impassive Texan, whose personality was something of an enigma. He was said to be a character and a ‘deep one’. He appeared to have no sense of humour, but the sensitive detected derision in his drawl. Pleas for admittance and petulant threats were atrophied by his imperturbability. ‘Sorry, ma’am,’ he said. ‘Sorry, sir. No can do.’ Rejected visitors had the impression that they were lifted gently by the neck and deposited outside.

Upstairs, servicemen dexterously served drinks behind a long bar while their colleagues made their play for the nannies—Finnish and British mostly—over cans of beer and long, lethal Scotches tinkling with ice. Later they took them down to their den on the ground floor appointed with hi-fi, cushioned sofas, television and a cocktail cabinet.

Twice a week there was a film. Newcomers decided that the first film they saw must be the worst ever made—until they saw their second and third. Thereafter they watched in a numbed coma: it passed a couple of hours, they said. Oriental diplomats, moth-like Vietnamese, silent women in saris, arrived shivering in the gloom and left as the film ended, their entry and exit unnoticed. How the films were chosen was never divulged; but a programme posted on the noticeboard contained the assessments of an enthusiastic critic called Sandy. ‘A breathtaking saga of the West—five stars.’ ‘A rib-tickling comedy, a must for the family—five stars.’ There were those who suspected that Sandy had never seen the pictures; and once when he dismissed a thriller with only four stars the regulars agreed that it was the best movie ever shown at the club.

The reels broke down regularly but there was no whistling or cat-calling; the audience sat mutely as if no one had noticed. And afterwards they scarcely discussed what they had seen. They sat at tables with drinks in front of them which they replenished during the interval. A few Americans and a couple of frustrated British businessmen usually stayed at the bar drinking.

Sometimes there were dances which were occasionally enlivened by fights. But the blows had to be struck quickly before Elmer intervened. And even then they were lugubrious affairs which lumbered from crude insults to clumsy blows and were usually fought over a girl who would have titillated neither combatant had they been sober. The rivals sometimes went to the toilet to settle their differences. A laborious punch, knuckles smashed against the wall, both bodies wallowing on the floor. Then, smelling slightly of urine, back to the dance to find that the girl was dancing with someone else.

The prettiest girls were the Scandinavian and German secretaries. They professed to have fiancés at home but were not inhibited by any such betrothals. The Finnish nannies were very young and their English very bad; the servicemen favoured the English nannies. They were untidy girls with thick legs and heavy bosoms who would be matronly at thirty-five; but word had gone round that they were easy. Not all of them were.

Marines newly arrived were told by their colleagues: ‘You gotta screw an English nanny before you leave. Man, they—like they were frightened it was going out of fashion.’

Love affairs sometimes developed between the servicemen and nannies and they held hands at the movies. Then one day duty called elsewhere and the nannies were stricken with grief and a sense of betrayal until a replacement moved up the line to console them. Then the nannies went home and married young men in their fathers’ firms and blamed bicycle saddles for their loss of virginity.

Elmer inspected Mortimer with care. ‘Sure glad to have you along,’ he said after a while. ‘Make sure you fill in a membership form as soon as possible. I guess Mr. Ansell here knows the ropes.’

‘I sure do,’ Ansell said as they walked up the stairs. ‘And one of the main things is never to have a row with that blighter.’

‘I think all these men are impertinent,’ said his wife. ‘I mean just who do they think they are?’

She was small and blonde with a pekinese face. She enjoyed giving dinner parties and was a student of etiquette.

They sat at a table near the screen. ‘Keep the seats while I get the beers,’ Ansell said.

Mrs. Ansell said: ‘Perhaps Richard would like something else. You never ask anyone, Giles. You just get up and say you’re buying beers. It’s just possible that I don’t want a beer either.’

Ansell smiled but he wasn’t amused. ‘Would you like something else old man? Name your poison.’

‘A beer will be fine,’ Mortimer said.

‘Right, three beers it is.’

‘And a dash of lime in mine, please darling,’ said Mrs. Ansell.

‘You’ve never had lime before.’

‘Tonight I feel like a little dash of lime.’ She waited until her husband had gone to the bar. ‘I’m so afraid Giles will get set in his ways,’ she said. ‘It’s not good for his career to get into a rut.’

She peered behind her in the gloom and waved girlishly at two young men sitting at a table littered with cans of beer. ‘There’s Peter and Geoffrey,’ she said. ‘Such nice boys.’

The two men, who were in the commercial section, acknowledged her without enthusiasm. They were third secretaries whose wives were spending a few days in Helsinki. They reclined elegantly and drank thirstily.

Ansell brought back the beers. ‘Peter and Geoffrey look pretty fed up,’ he said. ‘I expect they’re wondering how much their wives are spending.’

The film was about a reformed prostitute trying to start a new life. She found her true vocation nursing in a children’s home and fell in love with a rich man-about-town. A few days before they were to be married she caught him apparently trying to interfere with a little girl from the home. Disillusioned she left town.

Mortimer waited for disgust or incredulity to be expressed. But the audience might have been watching a travelogue. The Indians and Orientals slipped away, without emotion, accepting without question whatever was fed to them on the small silver screen. The remaining men went to the bar.

A marine fed kopeks into a juke box and pressed half a dozen buttons. He took a big nanny on to the floor and began to dance. In one corner of the bar a drunken American wearing a tartan bow-tie said in a loud voice that he thought the film had been a lot of horse-shit. It was the only positive reaction to the film Mortimer had heard. No one responded. ‘Goddam horse-shit,’ repeated the American. ‘Isn’t that right, Mac?’ He banged an empty glass in front of the barman. ‘Scotch on the rocks?’ asked the barman. ‘A large one,’ said the American. ‘A stinking great large one. Why do they show horse-shit like that?’

Mortimer tried to avoid his gaze; drunks had a way of picking on him. He eased his way back through the crowd to Mr. and Mrs. Ansell. They had been joined by a neat bespectacled man in a sports jacket.

‘Dick,’ Ansell said, ‘I want you to meet Harry Green. You’ll be seeing a lot of him. Harry this is Dick. Dick Mortimer. He’s just joined us.’

‘Nice to meet you,’ Green said. ‘What was the weather like in London?’

‘Not bad,’ Mortimer said. ‘Something of an Indian summer really. Are you on business out here?’

‘You could call it that,’ Ansell said. ‘Harry’s one of the scavengers they’ve been warning you about. He’s a bloody Pressman.’

One hour later the bow-tied American had progressed to the colour problem in the States. Alcohol had uncorked vapours of madness and his eyes were wild. ‘The only reason this Goddam country hasn’t got a colour problem is because it hasn’t got any niggers.’ He rounded on a British businessman fortifying a glass of lager with Scotch. ‘Do you know something?’ The Englishman shook his head. ‘I hate niggers. I’m an honest man and I’m telling you I hate niggers. I don’t screw-up the issue with any face-saving horse-shit. I just tell you straight I hate niggers. What do you think of that?’

The Englishman looked at him vaguely. ‘I’m sure you’re entitled to your opinion,’ he said. ‘But I wonder if you could keep your voice down a bit. I’ve got the most awful headache.’

The American glowered at him and said: ‘Goddam nigger-lover.’

On the other side of the bar an African giggled into his beer.

The barman said: ‘Please keep your voice down or you’ll have to go.’

‘Who’s going to make me?’

The barman shrugged, his eyes looking beyond the drunk.

Elmer said: ‘What seems to be the trouble?’ He was chewing gum slowly. Even this action gave the impression of latent power.

The drunk’s voice became quieter. ‘Nothing’s the matter,’ he said. ‘Absolutely nothing.’ He pushed his glass over to the barman. ‘On the rocks,’ he said.

‘I reckon you’ve had just about enough,’ Elmer said.

‘Just one more,’ the drunk said.

‘I reckon you’ve had just about enough.’

‘Make it a beer then.’

The barman looked at Elmer who shook his head.

‘I don’t have to take that from you,’ the drunk said.

‘You sure do,’ Elmer said, chewing rhythmically.

‘We’ll see about that,’ said the drunk. He blundered through the dancers.

‘They usually say they know the Ambassador,’ Elmer said.

Couples were smooching now. A Swedish secretary and an Italian journalist with long sideburns, a Frenchman with his hand on a German blonde’s backside. Chest to chest, hands squeezing, loins testing, feet scarcely moving, lips nuzzling.

Ansell whose wife had left with a woman who lived in the same block watched the couples wistfully. ‘Plenty of crumpet here, you know. Why don’t you chance your arm?’

‘I don’t really fancy any of them,’ Mortimer said.

‘You will. It’s like Africa. They get whiter every day. Are you engaged or anything?’

‘I’ve got a girl friend back in the UK. We’re not engaged or anything though.’

Or were they? There had been a certain proprietary manner about Valerie when he left as if the purchase of a ring would be a mere formality. And she and his mother had chosen his winter clothes as if the two of them were already in-laws.

‘It’s impossible for me,’ Ansell said. ‘This place is like a village.’

They were drinking gin and tonics at the bar. Mortimer found he had to pick his words with care. Ansell’s face was flushed.

‘You’re lucky to have your wife with you,’ Mortimer said.

Ansell nodded dismally. ‘I suppose you’re right. Excuse me while I go and have a pee.’

‘Two more gin and tonics,’ Mortimer said to the barman. He took a pound note from his wallet.

‘Sorry, sir,’ said the barman. ‘Roubles only.’

Mortimer felt through his pockets. ‘I haven’t got any roubles,’ he said. He was hot with embarrassment.

The barman sucked on his unlit cigar stub. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘Your friend’s got plenty.’

Harry Green came up to the bar. ‘Allow me,’ he said; and put a ten-rouble note on the bar.

Mortimer protested. ‘No, really, Giles Ansell’s got plenty of roubles. I somehow thought they’d want hard currency here. Silly of me.’

But the barman had changed the ten roubles. ‘Not to worry, Green said. ‘It’s only Mickey Mouse money. You’ll find you don’t mind spending roubles but you resent spending dollars or sterling. It’s ridiculous really because it’s all lovely money whether it’s roubles or yen.’

‘Thank you,’ Mortimer said. ‘But you really shouldn’t have bothered.’

‘Forget it. I hear you had a bit of trouble at the embassy today.’

Mortimer sipped at his drink, relieved that the money crisis was over. ‘Quite a drama,’ he said. ‘Some Russian tried to defect.’

Green nodded casually. ‘I suppose he tried to chat up the Ambassador’s wife or something.’

Mortimer said: ‘No, it was someone else’s wife. She was in her car.’

Ansell returned from the toilet. ‘Hallo, Green,’ he said, ‘haven’t you got a home to go to?’

‘We were just discussing this incident at the embassy today,’ Green said.

‘What incident?’

‘Come on. It’s not every day you get a Russian trying to defect on the Ambassador’s doorstep.’

‘There was some sort of minor incident I believe. Nothing of any interest to you.’

‘Who said it was? And in any case that’s for me to judge.’

Ansell tried to recall his diplomatic training. ‘Of course I realise you know your business. Have a drink.’

Green said: ‘I’ll have a Scotch.’

Mortimer said nothing. The suspicion that he may have been guilty of an indiscretion was chilling into a certainty.

‘As a matter of interest who told you about this incident?’ Ansell asked.

‘Tut, tut.’ Green waved a finger under Ansell’s nose. ‘You should know that a journalist never discloses the source of his information.’

‘I just wondered,’ Ansell said. ‘Out of interest.’

It occurred to Mortimer that Ansell was not as drunk as he had seemed to be earlier.

Green clinked the ice in his glass. ‘A lovely sound,’ he said. ‘Reminds me of chandeliers tinkling in the breeze.’ He finished the drink. ‘I got the story the usual way—someone talked.’

‘I wonder if I can ask you a special favour,’ Ansell said. ‘After all we’re almost colleagues.’

‘I trust you’re not going to ask me to suppress a story. And as for being colleagues it’s hardly the case, is it? We’re not allowed to use the commissariat any more. And the embassy can’t even help a friend of mine to get his child into the Anglo-American school.’

Ansell’s diplomacy lay in ruins. ‘Surely the interests of your country are more important than some bloody little headline with your name under it.’

Green didn’t lose his temper. Mortimer suspected that he rarely did. ‘I don’t think,’ he said deliberately, ‘that the interests of my country are well served by attempts to suppress news. And in any case I don’t see how the fact that a Russian tried to defect can possibly have anything to do with the interests of my country.’

‘It certainly won’t help Anglo-Russian relations,’ Ansell said. ‘And it will be an acute embarrassment to Mrs. Masterson.’

‘That,’ said Green, ‘is more like it. Do you mind if I just make a note of that name? I didn’t know it before.’

‘Do what you like you little shit,’ Ansell said.

‘I will,’ Green said. ‘I’ll go and phone the story to London.’

‘Come on,’ Ansell said to Mortimer. ‘Let’s go.’

‘Good-night, gentlemen,’ Elmer said. ‘Sure hope you enjoyed the film. Don’t forget to fill in that membership form. I wouldn’t like to have to turn you away.’

A couple of nannies made their way towards the hi-fi and the sofas.

At the desk downstairs Luke Randall was asking for his coat.

‘Hallo,’ Mortimer said. ‘I didn’t see you in there.’

‘I was drinking in a quiet dark corner,’ Randall said. ‘I saw you making friends with the Press.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?’ Mortimer said.

Randall shrugged. ‘I didn’t say there was.’

Elmer helped him into his coat. Randall was one of the few people he seemed to respect.

Outside a snow-dusted militiaman watched the cars speed away hoping that one day he would be given authority to arrest foreigners for driving under the influence of drink.

Ansell drove too fast, skidding to a halt at a red light. ‘I didn’t know you knew Randall,’ he said.

‘I don’t know him very well,’ Mortimer said. He added: ‘The lights have turned green.’

Ansell applied his anger to the clutch and accelerator. ‘Was it you who told Green about the business this afternoon?’

Mortimer said: ‘He seemed to know all about it.’

‘Like hell he did. He didn’t even know Mrs. Masterson’s name.’

Mortimer wanted to say: ‘Not until you told him.’ Instead he said: ‘He knew there had been some trouble at the embassy.’

‘And that’s all he bloody well knew. Until you filled in the answers for him.’

‘I suppose I was a bit indiscreet. But honestly, Giles, I just didn’t realise. I suppose I’d had a few drinks and I presumed he knew all about it.’

‘He’s a cunning little shit.’

‘I don’t know, I suppose he’s only doing his job.’

‘And what a bloody job it is.’

Mortimer felt physically sick with the knowledge of failure and dramatic with alcohol. ‘I’m not cut out to be a diplomat,’ he said. ‘I never was. I’m just not the type. I think I’ll pack it up and get some sort of job with an oil company. That’s what all my friends who were no good at anything else did. I always thought I could do better than them. But obviously I can’t. If I can’t keep a secret for more than five minutes then there’s not much point in trying to succeed in diplomacy. I’ll go and see the Ambassador in the morning.’

‘Steady on old man,’ Ansell said. ‘Everyone makes mistakes. The thing to do is to learn by them. You’ll feel different in the morning. It was just bad luck that Green got at you. I suppose I was a bit harsh, too. I just get so browned off with the bloody Press learning all our business.’

He swerved to avoid a cat walking delicately across the road, and swerved back again to avoid an oncoming taxi. Mauve sparks still spilled from the embryonic blocks along Kalinina lighting the falling snow. The streets were deserted and the city was tranquil in sleep. Ansell accelerated along Kutuzovsky and changed down savagely for the U turn. Again they skidded. ‘Bloody road surfaces,’ he said. ‘You’d think they would have done something about it by now. After all it’s not as if it only snows every five years.’

The militiaman watched them from his grey box, an incurious, disembodied head, theatrically illumined by the light from a naked bulb. A few of the flats were still lit, blurred figures moving behind the curtains.

‘See you in the morning, then,’ Ansell said. The snow whitened his hair but he didn’t look distinguished. ‘Don’t worry too much about what’s happened tonight.’

‘I don’t feel much like sleep,’ Mortimer said.

‘I’d ask you up for a night-cap but I expect Anne will be looking for blood. She’s probably got the rolling-pin out now. In any case I think we’re out of gin.’

‘Do you think there’ll be much trouble about Green’s story?’

‘Bound to be, I’m afraid. It’ll come zooming back from the FO first thing in the morning. Then there’ll be a bloody great inquest with old Farnworth doing his big security act. You can be sure the buck will be passed firmly down the line.’

‘Until it reaches me?’

‘I shouldn’t worry about that. Don’t say anything unless you’re asked. I’ll try and cover up for you.’

‘Thanks,’ Mortimer said. ‘But I think I’d better see the Ambassador or Farnworth in the morning.’

‘There’s no need to be a martyr,’ Ansell said. ‘Anyway we’ll have a chat about it in the morning.’ He paused. ‘Funny you getting to know Randall so quickly.’

‘What’s so funny about that?’

‘Nothing really. He’s a funny bugger though.’

He walked away looking apprehensively up at the lighted window of his flat.

The shadows caressed each other on the ceiling, fusing and parting with tremulous movements. They seemed to Mortimer to make a faint noise, the slithering of a snake or the rustle of a petticoat, but it was only the hush of night. In one corner a shadow beat a noiseless tattoo. Mortimer went to the window to find the source of the movement, but all was still outside.

He couldn’t sleep. When he closed his eyes he recited his confession to the Ambassador, argued defensively with Randall, listened to Green reading his report of the attempted defection, heard the crackle of flames burning furniture.

Was the flat bugged? Was a patient KGB man sitting in a flat somewhere listening to his coughs, the movement of the bedclothes? He curled up in the bed and tried—with a desperation that defeated its object—to sleep. The phone rang with the impact of a gun-shot. He picked up the receiver with a shaking hand.

A nasal voice said: ‘Hallo, Richard, I hope I didn’t wake you up?’

‘Who’s that?’ He tried to speak calmly.

‘Harry Green here. I thought I’d give you a ring to apologise for the unpleasantness in the club.’

‘You needn’t have bothered. It’s your job. I was a bit gullible, that’s all.’

‘I didn’t want you to get too upset by Ansell’s nonsense. I haven’t quoted anyone and in any case the story doesn’t matter a damn.’

‘Why did you write it then?’

‘It was a good story,’ Green said. ‘That doesn’t mean to say it matters all that much. It won’t get anyone into trouble. Mrs. Masterson tells me she isn’t the slightest bit embarrassed and in any case it will all be forgotten in a couple of days.’

‘I see.’ Mortimer searched for words. ‘It’s nice of you to phone. It’s just a pity from my point of view that I had to meet you tonight.’

‘Listen,’ Green said, ‘if the embassy had any idea of public relations situations like this would never arise. They condescend to hold a briefing once a fortnight. And the sole purpose of that, as far as I can see, is to find out what we know. Whenever there’s a real story they don’t get in touch with us. Frankly they are as deceitful in their way as the Russians. The only difference is that they’re polite about it. I suppose you’ve been warned about talking to the Press?’

Mortimer said: ‘I don’t really think I ought to discuss it with you.’

‘You’re learning,’ Green said. ‘I suppose Ansell’s been giving you the big lecture.’

‘You’re not going to write another story about security at the embassy, are you?’

‘What security?’ Green asked.

‘I don’t want to make any more blunders. As it is I think I’ll have to apologise to the Ambassador in the morning.’

Green sighed. ‘Don’t be a fool,’ he said. ‘Do you know why Ansell was so hysterical about the story?’

Mortimer said: ‘Because he was concerned that it might harm Anglo-Soviet relations, I suppose.’

‘Not on your life,’ Green said. ‘He’s already had one bollocking for shooting his mouth off. He’s frightened this one Will be traced back to him. Especially as he was seen talking to me in the club. He’s got a reputation for being a blabber-mouth. You’ll soon find out about Mr. Ansell. Do you know who in fact leaked the story in the first place?’

Mortimer shook his head at the telephone. ‘No,’ he said. ‘And I don’t really think you should tell me.’

‘For the first time in my life,’ Green said, ‘I will divulge my source of information. It was Mrs. Ansell.’

Mortimer fell asleep quickly after Green had rung off. His brain was exhausted by the permutations of minor intrigue.