His mother still followed the Russian Orthodox faith, if in later years he suspected rather more through social behaviour than religious mores. She had entered that church upon her marriage — or whatever form of conjunction she and his father had undergone. On arrival back in London she had even chosen a house for its proximity to an Orthodox church, to facilitate, he assumed, her growing desire born of recent widowhood for holy renewal. His as well as hers, as it had turned out. She had dragged him — religiously, he supposed one could say — to every service and that first year or so, he remembered, had been filled with the smell of incense and the sound of chanting. Whether, in his mother’s case, it was faith or a nostalgia for the mystery of an altar secluded behind the iconostasis and its array of holy icons, he couldn’t say. For him it had become a natural part of life. Until, by the time the liturgy had just about become second nature, he had found himself shipped off to a boarding school, one that didn’t cater for foreign notions like Orthodoxy. There he’d been fed the standard Anglican fare that the rest of the school were given for divine sustenance. At first he had found it akin to eating stale bread after being accustomed to the staff of life. And, looking back, he supposed that that might have been the point at which his appetite for that sort of thing — along with his soul — had begun to shrink. Which had withered first, appetite or soul — chicken or egg? He couldn’t say, but once both had shrivelled to the dimensions of the indiscernible, the matter was beyond consideration. The critical point now was that if the need for salvation arose, how long would he have to stay on his knees to make any impression on a shrunken soul?
Later in the afternoon, tiring of the novelty of being doused by sea-spray, he passed back through the companionway into the saloon. It was still empty except for Korbelov and Solokov, ensconced in a corner, the one writing furiously before passing each page as it was finished to the other who read through and amended it. The pages, Paul saw, were covered with Cyrillic script and he was struck by how alien it looked and how long it must have been since he had read anything in Russian. His mother had the great novels in the original, Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, Gogol, Turgenev and all the rest, but he had not looked at them since he was a boy. It would all come back, he supposed, in the manner they said riding a bicycle does to one who hasn’t been in the saddle for some time. And, in truth, he was counting upon the fact. There would be no English spoken where he was going. If he knew what was good for him he’d refrain from attempting to use it.
‘Good afternoon,’ he said to the pair as he entered.
They both nodded to him, amiably enough, and he ventured to remark, ‘You look busy,’ before wishing something a little more intelligent had come to mind.
‘We are writing our address to the Petrograd Soviet of Workers’ and Soldiers’ Deputies,’ said Korbelov.
‘Really?’ said Paul. ‘You expect to give a speech, then?’
The Russians exchanged glances as if the fact should have been self-evident.
‘But of course,’ Solokov said, his goatee bobbing up and down like the rear end of a pied wagtail. ‘They will expect our view of British socialists following Russian example in casting off imperialist yoke.’
‘Oh yes,’ Paul said, ‘I suppose they will,’ trying to imagine Trotsky’s reaction to having a fatter version of himself in the Soviet. Perhaps he would take it as a case of the sincerest form of flattery. It might even be that the place was full of imitation Trotskys and Lenins. ‘That’s Russian, is it?’ he asked, pointing at Korbelov’s script.
‘You speak our language?’ asked Korbelov.
‘No, not a word, it’s just that I don’t think I’ve ever seen it written down before.’
‘You speak Finnish?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Then how will you conduct your business, if you speak neither Russian nor Finnish?’
‘A translator,’ Paul decided. ‘My company have arranged for a translator.’
‘This company works for British Government?’ Solokov asked.
‘Oh, no,’ Paul said quickly. ‘That is, we have government contracts, of course. In time of war and all that. Absolutely.’
‘And workers? They have labour unions?’
The conversation had taken a turn Paul had not foreseen. He had worked up a few responses concerning pit props, and had decided to stick to coal as the product of his fictitious mines. At least knew what that looked like when it came out of the ground. Labour relations were a seam he hadn’t investigated. He decided it best to back out before the roof caved in.
‘Would you mind?’ he asked, gesturing at the page Korbelov was holding. ‘It’s only curiosity.’
‘Of course,’ said Korbelov handing it to him.
Written Russian script, Paul remembered, varied slightly from the printed form of the language, which complicated matters, and Korbelov’s execrable handwriting could have been Arabic for all he could tell. He recognised a word or two: справедливость and товарищ, which were justice and comrade, but beyond that the speech was a meaningless scribble.
Korbelov was observing him closely.
‘My handwriting is careless, Mr Filbert,’ he apologised.
‘Even so,’ Paul admitted, ‘I couldn’t make head nor tail of it.’
‘Perhaps you will meet some Russians on your travels and learn something of our language.’
‘You never can tell,’ he said, excusing himself.
He went below. Pinker was standing at the porthole staring out at the sea as it rose and fell beyond the thick murky glass.
‘Filbert! I was wondering where you’d got to,’ he said as Paul opened the cabin door.
‘Oh, just walking around the deck. Then talking to those Russians. I thought I might lie down till dinner.’
‘Feeling all right?’
‘What, you mean the weather? It’s starting to blow a bit but so far so good.’
‘As long as it keeps the U-boats away,’ Pinker said, ‘it can get as rough as it likes.’
Paul rolled onto his bunk and Pinker went back to staring out of the porthole. Looking for periscopes, Paul supposed. He closed his eyes and wondered if he would be sick if it got any rougher. The boat out to France had been a nightmare. They had embarked at Portsmouth, packed in like the proverbial sardines. Between the choppy water and the thought of action the decks had been awash with vomit before they’d cleared the harbour. Standing in it, being sprayed by it, smelling it, had been enough to start off even those not normally susceptible to seasickness. He’d been below but feeling queasy had been forced to abandon his section for the crowded deck. It hadn’t been any better up there but at least one had the wind in one’s face. He’d still been sick, however, and had only been able to console himself that whatever he’d find in France couldn’t be any worse than the hell of the troopship. Well, he’d soon been disabused of that notion. Within a month he would have taken sliding around in a little vomit as welcome light relief.