Mike muttered something placating, and took over his guiding duties. He led them down a block or two to the Allegro which was one of the best places in town for draught beer. The Allegro specialized in callos for their tapa. They charged slightly for it, but callos was well worth it. It was a tripe dish with chick peas and pork fat. You dipped little chunks of bread into the sauce and thanked the Gods for providing such things.
Mike was thinking it over. Catherina was right. What had he in mind? Certainly not a vacation romance, ending for all time when her two weeks were up. Not with Catherina.
While the Russkies were wolfing down their callos , with many a shout of approval, he edged her to the side again. "You could stay on," he began feebly.
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She laughed at him, albeit sadly. She said, "Mike, Mike. Eventually I'd have to go back to my job, back to Moscow. I work at the Bolshi-Films as a production secretary. I like my work, and I believe that everyone should work. I think you feel the same way, or you wouldn't be here at this type of job, which is below you. I like you. I could probably learn to like you very much more. I know it. But why hurt each other? It simply isn't in our destinies."
Nick Galushko staggered from his place at the bar. He shouted to Catherina to come and try this wonderful new dish. "Do you know what it's made of?" His voice went sly. "I won't tell you until you've tasted."
Catherina laughed. Tripe, you old glutton. You'd eat anything."
Nick edged her back into the melee, leaving Mike standing alone. He didn't know what he had hoped to accomplish this evening, but whatever it was he wasn't accomplishing it, The first germ of his idea began to hit him when they were passing the Cathedral on the way to Pepe's where the specialty was Valdepenas white wine with squid deep fried in olive oil for a tapa. It was delicious; one of the best tapas in Malaga, a town noted for its tapas beyond any other save Madrid.
Mike was walking beside Catherina. She said, wonderingly, "Look how the Spanish do when they pass the church. Isn't it fascinating?"
"What?" Mike said.
They make the sign of the cross. I've read about it. Isn't religion fascinating?"
One of the older Russians, heavyset and now lurching from the evening's wine, said, "When I was a boy my grandmother used to go to church. It was very strange, but, you know… she seemed to like it. She had a very strange look on her face when she returned from church each Sunday. You won't believe this, but it was a pleasant, peaceful look. I've always wondered about what they said to her when she went to the church. Very strange."
Catherina turned to Mike Edwards. She said, "Why don't you make the sign of the cross when you pass
"the
Cathedral? Aren't you religious? I thought that all Westerners were religious."
"Who me?" Mike said. "Oh, sure." He didn't want to disillusion her and, besides, the very beginning of the germ of idea was coming to him. "Only I belong to a different church."
"I didn't know there was more than one," Nick Galushko said. "Is there more than one?"
They were all fascinated. "Religion is a thing of the past in the Soviet Complex," one of them said. "An interesting subject. Tell us about your beliefs. We promise, we won't laugh."
"Of course not," Catherina said indignantly. "It wouldn't be cultured."
Mike thought fast. The tour had hardly begun but already some of them were reeling. They'd probably been soaking it up in Torremolinos, long before he'd had them driven in here to Malaga. He could see what would develop. Somewhere along in here one of them would shout for champagne, or, even worse, Page 22
vodka, and then the fat would be in the fire. Another of them would begin buying drinks for the house, all the Spanish customers, in one of the bodegas. And before you knew it, Mike would have a brawl on his hands, and eventually cops charging in; the well known Spanish Guardia Civil -complete with their hard, medieval hats, complete with billies. Even a few quick bribes might not cool it.
Mike said, "Well, as a matter of fact, what we teach is moderation."
Nick Galushko was charmed by the idea but not quite clear. "Moderation in what?"
"In all things," Mike told him definitely. "In eating, in drink, in smoking. All of the animal pleasures. That's our basic tenet."
Catherina said, "But what has that got to do with religion? Do you know, you're the first really religious person I've ever met."
Mike developed the point. "The idea is that whoever or whatever created you-we're not fanatical about that phase of it-had no intention of you blunting your facilities by overindulgence in any way. Otherwise, why give you keen senses?"
"Why, that's wonderful," Ana Chekova said. "And so obvious."
Mike was doing rather well, he admitted to himself. Especially in view of the fact that he was a life long agnostic. He was a better evangelist than he ever would have thought. He elaborated on the theme, dragging from the depths of memory long neglected words of wisdom from the saints and prophets of yesteryear.
They had arrived at Pepe's where the specialty of the house was the dark, rich, strong Malaga muscatel, some of it as old as seventy-five years. The tapas were varied here, fish soup, cold shrimp, Spanish style potato salad, but none of the Russkies seemed to be in any hurry to sample the wine and food.
Instead, they stood around the table where Mike sat, listening to him expound his gospel, from time to time injecting a word or question. He realized that they were eating it up.
"One of our basic teachings," he said, "is The Golden Rule. Do unto others what you would have them do unto you."
"That's marvelous," Catherina exclaimed. "So obviously and beautifully true."
Mike said, "And another of our basic teachings is that it is better to give than to receive."
That one stopped Nick for a moment. "Why?" he demanded.
Mike explained. "Don't you see? There is more pleasure in sacrificing your own material things for the sake of some one else than there is in being selfish and attempting to acquire more than you possibly need."
"Hmmm," Nick Galushko muttered. "You might be right at that. Tell us more about this religion of yours."
Mike launched into a bit of Zen Buddhism and some of the later Jewish prophets, and then gave them a precis of the Sermon on the Mount, not bothering to give credit to the Author.
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Finally he stopped his own sermon and said, "It just occurs to me why you're so fascinated. Religion is taboo in the Soviet Complex, isn't it?"
"Taboo?" somebody said.
"Forbidden," Mike said. "That is, you're not allowed to go to church, to worship."
"Why not?" Catherina was perplexed.
Mike looked at her, perplexed himself. "I don't know. That's what I've always understood."
"Oh," Nick Galushko said. "That was in the old days. Quite a while ago. When the Bolsheviks overthrew the Czar, the churches lined up with the old regime, with the White armies that fought the Red army. So the Bolsheviks had to fight them. It doesn't make any difference any more. I doubt if there's anybody still alive that remembers the Civil War that followed the revolution."
Mike said, "Well then, why hasn't religion returned, if the authorities don't care?"
Nobody seemed to know the answer to that.
"Maybe because there are no longer any churches, except those converted into museums. And there are no longer any priests, or rabbis, or preachers. We read about them in school, but there no longer are any. Not that I've ever heard of, at least," Nick offered. 'The whole thing never made much sense to me.
That is, of course, until hearing you."
There was a murmur of assent from around the ring at that.
Mike cleared his throat. "Well, we'd better get about having our Malaga muscatel, and then get on to the next place. I can recommend the very old muscatel. It has aged so long that it has become very strong, and very dark and almost as thick as syrup."