Perhaps they weren't there; everything, indeed, proceeded quite normally. He took me to the Byka, an Azerbaijani restaurant. It was fairly small by Soviet standards, perhaps thirty tables, and the otherwise gloomy atmosphere was enlivened by some bright rugs on the walls and a band. In Russia, there's always a band — Russians consider dancing a necessary part of a night out, like certain Midwesterners. As we came in, this one was playing a mournful version of "Memories Are Made of This," and the room was hooting, considering the tune much too old-fashioned. Our meal was superior to the entertainment. Azerbaijan is a Soviet Socialist Republic wedged between northern Iran and the Caspian Sea. The people are Shüte Muslims, the cuisine something like Turkish. I started with a sort of tolma (stuffed vine leaves), went on to dovta (sour milk soup) and then shashlik kebab—each of these dishes being accompanied, not very authentically, by Starka vodka, which Glubin poured out remorselessly, glass after glass. With my tongue thus loosened, I blurted out all my secrets, including my true reasons for being in Leningrad. I was writing a book, it seemed, a personal book — no politics — that would contain anecdotes and reflections based on my years of living in Russia. The idea behind the trip was to revisit all the parts of the country where I'd lived or traveled before… as anyone could confirm by checking my "Travel Memo" at Intourist.
Viktor, listening dutifully, gave an understanding nod. "It sounds very interesting, Robert. It will be a book full of feeling."
By now the band was playing "A Hard Day's Night" — apparently more acceptable to the audience — and men were going among the tables, asking the women to dance.
"You're right," I said. "It has to have feeling. But I don't want it to be too sentimental… too Russian, if you know what I mean."
Viktor smiled. Russians are proud of being sentimental and don't mind being teased about it… though they wouldn't like you to point out that the obverse of the sentimental is brutality.
He raised his glass. "To Russian tears. Let us drown them."
We drank. Then, showing he'd read my file, he remarked that I would have a long trip, for I'd lived in so many places — Kiev, Kharkov, Moscow, even Semipalatinsk — and we drank to each of these spots in turn. He grinned happily, and somehow there was nothing objectionable, or even hypocritical, about all this. We were in Russia. He knew, and I knew, that the purpose of our dinner was to enable him to make a report to the police. But this wasn't its "real" purpose, any more than the real purpose of taking a breath was to avoid suffocation; you simply did it, without thinking. Indeed, two weeks from now, with complete sincerity, he'd be telling his pals about his nice evening with "my American friend Robert Thorne." But, one way or another, my story seemed to have convinced him, and after a time I set down my glass and looked around the room. The band had started up again, some tune I didn't recognize. Opposite our table, a pretty Hungarian blonde adjusted the straps of her dress to cover the straps of her bra, then gave her hand to a soldier wearing the blue beret of a Soviet paratrooper. Everyone started to move; I think they might have been doing the frug. After a time, even Viktor got up, though only to announce a trip to the John. I took another sip of vodka, then a forkful of baklava. As my eyes moved over the tables, I remembered the time when I could have made a feature story from any of them: the old waiter whose grandmother had marched in the Peace and Bread demonstrations that had brought the Bolsheviks to power; an East German engineer who'd last been in Leningrad in 1942, when the German siege of the city had come within a few hundred yards of the Putilov works that I'd passed this morning; and a Rumanian poet, disciple of Barbu, who was being shown around town by a cultural commissar. As the second city of a great empire, Leningrad has always had plenty of stories to tell.". though my eyes, I admit, kept coming back to the Hungarian blonde. She was a real stunner; and there was the irony of the paratrooper. But then, as I watched her, I began to catch the quick, wary looks she'd dart to the far corner of the room as the movements of the dance turned her that way. I followed those looks… and that's when I saw him. Short, chunky, but wearing a well-tailored dark blue suit that slimmed him down. I should have spotted him before, I realized, because he was the only person in the place with a table to himself.
I set down my fork.
I should say that I wasn't afraid, though, right away, I had no doubt that he was there because of me. But KGB officers come in all shapes and sizes. Many are thugs; quite a number are young CP careerists taking a fast route to the top; and most are merely the petty bureaucrats of oppression, the fonc-tionaires that all totalitarian states need to carry on business: the censors; the people who manage the internal "passport" system which, like South Africa's, controls people's movements through the country; or the upravdom in Soviet apartment buildings whose task is to report on all the occupants' comings and goings. These men exist, as the mandate of their organization candidly puts it, to be the "shield of the Party" — that is, to defend the Party against any possible threat from the people. Thus, very few of them have much involvement with espionage or even foreigners, and those that do are relatively sophisticated, well educated, even well traveled. Like this man. And I took that as a good sign. If they'd intended anything nasty — even a quick-step out to the airport — they would have sent someone else.
I watched him, and when the music stopped, he got up from his table and crossed the room.
"Mr. Thome?"
There was a polite, even formal, expression of inquiry on his face.
I have a rule: be polite but don't be obsequious. So I just nodded and said, "That's right."
"My name is Valentin Loginov, Mr. Thome. Viktor mentioned that he'd be bringing you here tonight and asked me to drop by. He thought it might be useful if we talked."
The Hungarian girl, returning to her table, looked away; a waiter, hurrying past, averted his eyes.
"May I?" he said.
I nodded.
"It's a good band?"
"Not bad."
"For rock and roll, however, a band doesn't work. There are too many players. All those instruments just get in the way."
"Yes, I suppose that's true."
He nodded. "That's why they don't like rock and roll. The professionals, I mean. The musicians. There are not enough jobs. They prefer Tommy Dorsey and Benny Goodman, but the people no longer like them."
I expect he was right. As they began "Serenade in Blue," only a few people got up and danced. The Hungarian and her paratrooper had now shifted positions — so the girl had her back to my table.
"Of course," Loginov said, "Benny Goodman began with a trio — him and Gene Krupa and Teddy Wilson. And then Lionel Hampton."
"I don't know much about music… about swing."
He smiled. "It only shows I am much older than you."
No; it showed that he was "friendly," and that he wasn't a hick. He was about fifty years old, with a barrel chest and a fair belly, though the suit made him look sleek. He wore a small pin in his lapeclass="underline" a cross made by a flyer's wings and a propeller. This is the insignia of the Soviet Air Force, but KGB officers frequently hold commissions in other branches of service and wear their uniforms — the Air Force being favored because theirs are the best-looking. Since our conversation about music seemed to be over, I said, "I'm afraid Viktor didn't mention you'd be joining us, Mr. Loginov."