‘I watched a ballet once,’ Kostya confessed, scenting an opportunity to introduce one of his World War II stories. The ballet had taken place on a battle-weary cruiser on which he was serving as a gunner’s mate. After VE day, the ship was despatched to Dubrovnik on a triumphant good-will visit - but for fear the crew would be contaminated by alien ideas, only the Captain and three senior officers were permitted ashore. In sight of Croatian beauties waving from shore, the crew were soon in a bad way, even for sailors. ‘Even for Soviet sailors. Ever hear of socialist masturbation? “All together now - stroke.” ’
Frustration, the Adriatic sun and dashed hopes of a new deal after victory heated the crew’s blood to danger level. At last the Captain sanctioned entertainment by local girls. The cruiser vibrated with excitement as a stage was improvised on the main deck. Finally the curtain was raised . . . on excerpts of Giselle , performed by an amateur ballet group.
‘ Giselle , would you believe it? Giselle! We all took a
socialist oath never to see another ballet. Or talk to a ballerina. The kids an exception because - well . . . she's OK. You wont rat on me, will you, kid?'
Who did Giselle?' Oktyabrina asked impatiently. ‘Did you all fall desperately in love with her?' Except for a gleam in her eyes, I d have sworn that the point of the story had escaped her.
Anyway, I m glad I never got ashore,' said Kostya, ‘never set foot on foreign soil and never will, thank God. Everybody I know is dying to swap ten years of his life for a weekend in Paris — and its insanity. You go abroad, see what real civilisation is like and you're ruined forever. I
don t want to find out I've been fooling myself all these years.’
Poor precious, purred Oktyabrina, casting a skinny arm around his shoulders. ‘Some day I’m going to take you on tour with me. To Paris, Rome, everywhere. You’ll be my distinguished elderly gentleman - I'll buy you a cape and a cane. We 11 sit in the sun and 111 take care of you, all right?'
‘Promise?’
‘If you throw away that awful rotgut.'
Kostya’s grin cut deep lines into his cheeks. He was more than ordinarily paternal with Oktyabrina, but she pretended not to notice and plunged into a lecture about Giselle. The crucial difficulty of the role, she explained, is the inversion of the plot line. ‘The first act throbs with passion, but in the second, you re all cool and celestial. The dramatic tension is fantastically difficult to maintain.'
‘I knew a boxer once who specialised in dramatic tension, said Kostya. It was otherwise known as “taking a dive . He was the favourite of a certain commissar in Odessa....'
But I stopped Kostya. It was time for me to leave: my China story had to be telegraphed from the central post office before five o clock. I shrugged on all my outdoor paraphernalia before going to the door, in accordance with Kostya s principle of shaving every possible second from 22
the time his guests spent in the corridor.
‘Are you really American?’ asked Oktyabrina, studying my rather ungainly boots. ‘I thought Americans were so marvelously dashing .’
‘He had a difficult childhood,’ said Kostya. ‘Hunger, exploitation, class struggle - life’s sheer hell over there.’
The concern that spread over Oktyabrina’s face looked like a schoolgirl’s at the movies. ‘Yes, but please don’t worry,’ she cooed. ‘Because you’re here now. A good friend is worth more than a hundred relatives - it’s an old Russian saying.’ She gazed into my eyes again, an obvious artifice to make me feel special - which nevertheless worked.
‘You’ve got it all wrong again, kid,’ sighed Kostya. “‘A rich father-in-law is better than a hundred hundred friends.” Or: Whatever the prophets say, marry like Adzhubei.’
‘Kostya, darling, give me back my dill. I’ll speak to you anon.’ She turned to me with an expression suggesting that Kostya’s soul was lost, but there was still hope for mine.
‘Has anyone shown you Moscow properly?’ she asked. ‘If you’re an authentic foreigner, there’s absolutely too much to see. I really must recommend myself as your . . . well,
I managed to stifle my smile. ‘Thanks awfully, Oktyabrina. But I’ve been here just a bit too long for a guide.’ She was an engaging creature, but it wasn’t wise for someone of my age and in my position to become involved with a capricious child in Moscow. Perhaps that was a pretext. After the divorce, I needed a period of no involvement with anyone.
‘Hell, no. It’s a brilliant idea,’ exclaimed Kostya. ‘Of course he needs a guide - he’s just shy.’ And before he hustled me down the corridor to the door, he’d arranged that Oktyabrina would telephone me when she was free and identify herself as ‘Tanya’ - the signal to meet exactly half an hour later at the fountain just below Petrovka, in Sverd-lov Square.
The call came a few days later. The voice was a strained falsetto, perhaps caused by the excitement of the subterfuge, or, as it seemed, the sport of operating a public telephone alone.
‘It’s me , Mr Washington. You remember Tanya, your dear old friend. I’m calling you from inside a telephone booth. Just to see how you’re getting on.’
Oktyabrina sounded even sillier without Kostya. Yet her voice, like her eyes, somehow made me feel more alive. On the other hand, perhaps it was simply the thought of a change - any kind of change. The choices of what to do in the evenings boiled down to bridge again with the how-terrible-Russia-is Embassy crowd or a love-thy-factory film show alone on the hard bench of some local theater. In early winter, Moscow can be dismally empty for a foreigner. I was getting used to living alone again, but the few unmarried journalists I knew spent too many evenings drinking and brooding.
I replaced the phone in a better mood and checked the latest copy on my agency wires. The major news was a cabinet crisis in Rome - and the very notion of Italy, with a Mediterranean climate and Latin temperament, seemed like fantasy. I tuned into Moscow Radio while I dressed: a stitcher in a clothing factory was sighing that she worked on each garment as if it were meant for her dear leader Lenin himself; it exhilarated her - and helped her raise her productivity. I listened to the next story too - about an asbestos plant - because I didn’t want to arrive early for the appointment. After a full twenty minutes, it was time to go.
I left the apartment feeling foolish excitement. A passing taxi had room for one more passenger and soon dropped me at Sverdlov Square. I wrapped my scarf tight, hurried the 24
few yards to the fountain - and waited. The air was like iron. After five minutes, my toes were too numb to feel my own stamping.
It was still early evening but the square, the streets, the entire city center were virtually deserted. Most Muscovites seal themselves early into their rooms for the greedy winter night, as if fear of wolves-after-dark fingered in the folk subconscious - or perhaps the Building of Communism precluded anything so socially wasteful as night fife. From time to time a furtive black overcoat slithered along a path leading to the dormant fountain. It was so cold that my watch seemed to have slowed down. I played the game of trying not to look at it for a pre-determined number of minutes.
Oktyabrina arrived half an hour late, strolling. An oversized aquamarine caste mark decorated her forehead. My thoughts raced at the sight of her: what was I doing with this odd waif? Yet something pulled me towards her -something more than the wild contrast she presented to everything around her. She arched her back and deposited a kiss on my cheek.
‘Aloha, darling. Are you frozen? Who sold you that funny little hat?’
‘Hello, Oktyabrina. What on earth kept you? As a matter of fact, I’m half icicle/
‘I’m dreadfully sorry, darling. Just imagine: there I was, dashing to wonderful you, when I ran into two of the most superb weightfifters. It took hours to reconcile them - they almost came to blows over who'd seen me first. Hows the world ever going to have peace and friendship if men can't even stop fighting over me? 7