And this the following day all came about. Komarova handed her patient and his belongings over to the militia. The militia put him on Polar Aviation’s flight for Yakutsk. At Yakutsk he was escorted to the Aeroflot flight for Irkutsk and Murmansk. And at Murmansk, late at night, he was conveyed to the International Seamen’s Hostel and signed in as a transit visitor awaiting ship. Here he was given a locker and a bed; and after the long day slept most soundly.
Transit visitors at the hostel were not allowed ‘shore rights’ but as most of them were foreigners with hard currency this was never a problem. Five dollars was the recognised contribution for taking a breath of air, and taxis were always available at the end of the street. Since all passports were retained by the hostel, and there could be no question of absconding anywhere, the system worked well enough. It was usual for discreet taxi-loads of three to take the air together, and the taxis took them to the red light district.
Porter made up a threesome at eight the following evening. His Norwegian companions couldn’t understand him so at the first place they amicably agreed to split. There was no shortage of taxis in the red light area either, and he took one to the airport, again using dollars and taking his change in roubles and kopeks. With the kopeks he made three telephone calls, at precisely twelve-minute intervals. He allowed each one to ring twice, and then cut off. Then he made a fourth, and let it ring twelve times, when it was answered.
He said in Russian. ‘I am here.’
Murmansk was a major naval base and the airport was thronged with uniformed sailors. He watched quietly from a seat in the concourse and saw the man arrive thirty minutes later. The man had a sea-faring look himself; a solid, chunky individual dressed, like Porter, in donkey jacket, muffler and woolly hat. He carried a hefty grip. The plan, if no seat was available next to Porter, was to move elsewhere. But a seat was available, and the two men were soon in warm conversation. Then the new arrival asked Porter to watch his bag while he made a call and suggested that they meet in the Automat. Porter agreed and off the man went; and so presently did Porter, with the bag, following the arrow marked Toilets.
Familiar with the routine, since Otaru, he locked himself in and went swiftly to work. In the grip was a set of clothing, new documentation, a wallet and a toilet bag. He started with the toilet bag, taking out the towel and wrapping it round his neck, and then the scissors and the hand mirror. He cut off the pigtail at the roots, and dropped it in the bag, and then scissored away all over his head until it was down to the shortest fuzz he could manage. This too went from the towel into the bag. Then he lathered his scalp and his moustache with the liquid soap and started work with the razor.
He had been clean-shaven before but never totally bald, and the effect was startling. He wasted no time examining it but right away changed into his new clothing. This was handsome: winter-weight velvet cords, fine white woollen rolltop, a stylish fur-lined leather jacket, two-tone ankle boots, and a splendid bushy mink for his shaven head. Kolya (Nikolai) Khodyan was a snappy dresser. Dark snow glasses were in the top pocket of the jacket. He briefly tried the effect, and took them off again. Then he packed everything of Sung Won Choo’s in the bag, and went back with it to the concourse.
The seaman was in the Automat, by the samovars, at the busiest corner, as planned. Porter jostled his way through and got himself a glass, and they amicably exchanged a few words. Then the man picked up the bag, they nodded to each other in the scrum, and he was gone.
Porter remained a while, finishing his tea, and made his way to the left luggage office, fishing the receipt out of his new wallet. The two pieces awaiting him were every bit as opulent as the rest of Khodyan’s effects; a fine large Scandinavian case and a soft antelope grip. He took them over to the check-in desk.
In his breast pocket he had the sheaf of open-flight tickets. It took almost thirty minutes to get the stages of the journey booked, a computer being out of action at one of them. Then he handed in the case, and went and bought himself another glass of tea. The place was still swarming, flights still being called to take the fleet sailors to distant parts of the country.
But he was smoking in the lounge when, at midnight, the first of his own flights was called. This was to Irkutsk. At Irkutsk he changed for Yakutsk. At Yakutsk, in a blizzard, he made Polar Aviation again for Tchersky.
Three days after leaving it he was back. This was the second of October, just over a month after his arrival at Narita airport in Japan, and ten weeks since he had first heard of inaccessible and forbidden Green Cape. He now took a taxi there, and fifteen minutes later let himself into the apartment.
Four
THE PALE WOMEN OF SIBERIA
23
He switched the light on, closed the door behind him and stood quite still, looking and listening.
He was in a living room, a warm and foetid one. A faint smell of rotting fruit. The place had been empty for four months; its last occupant hurrying out to catch a plane in June. He had left a mess behind — newspapers on the floor, a discarded grip, scattered work boots, half-open drawers. A toy panda sat on the sofa, cutely watching. It had lipstick on. He could see all the flat at once, all its doors open, bedroom, kitchen, bathroom. A subdued noise of music and voices came from surrounding apartments.
He waited some moments longer, then moved to the window and closed the curtains. He saw that the port was not visible from here, or even the street. He was at the back of the building, second floor — a big block, 165 apartments. Directly opposite was its twin, five storeys of lighted windows. At the end of the stamped-snow courtyard the two blocks were joined by a glassed-in walkway. Through the panes of the walkway he could see, beyond, a supermarket, part of the same complex. A few lights glimmered in it but the place was shut. Almost nine o’clock. He sighed and took his mink hat off.
Apart from the night’s sleep at Murmansk he had barely stopped moving for three days. He took Khodyan’s jacket off too, and prowled the flat, sniffing, touching. The furniture looked new, Finnish, good quality. Bed left unmade; a huge kingsize; fine pillows, plump duvet: Swansdown, the label said in English. The slob who owned all this was a bachelor who liked his comforts. Wardrobe stuffed with winter clothing, all good.
The bathroom too — towels of fine quality, fluffy foreign ones; the tub and shower also far from standard, all extra, all paid for by this high earner. There was a lingering smell of used clothing. He looked around and saw heavy winter socks and underwear spilling out of a laundry basket. A bra and panties were mixed in with them.
In the kitchen further signs of hurried departure; rinsed breakfast things upside down on the drainer and, in a sink-tidy alongside, the source of the fruit smell; orange peel and pear cores. Not much food in the cupboards: tea, coffee, a few cans. He had a look in the fridge. Sausage, eggs, fuzzy cheese, all due for despatch. But not tonight.
Tonight sleep. But the sheet, on closer inspection, showed signs of use, so he changed it first. Piping hot from the linen cupboard, the new one was beautifully silky, the elasticated edges slipping neatly and smoothly under the mattress. He marvelled at it. He’d never had such stuff himself. They lived high, in the Arctic. Alexei Mikhailovich Ponomarenko had lived high.