We arrived in due course at the meat inside the pastry.
‘Mr Kropotkin says,’ Stephen said, ‘that he asked everyone in the world of horses to give any help they could in the matter of Alyosha.’
I expressed my warmest appreciations and felt the faintest quickening of the pulse.
‘No one, however,’ Stephen continued, ‘knows who Alyosha is. No one knows anything about him.’
My pulse returned to normal with depressing speed.
‘Kind of him to try,’ I said, sighing slightly.
Kropotkin stroked his moustache downwards with his thumb and forefinger and then set off again into a deep rumble.
Stephen did a dead-pan translation although with more interest in his eyes.
‘Mr Kropotkin says that although no one knows who Alyosha is, someone has sent him a piece of paper with the name Alyosha on it, and the piece of paper originally came from England.’
It hardly sounded the ultimate solution, but definitely better than nothing.
‘May I see it?’ I said.
It appeared, though, that Nikolai Alexandrovich was not to be rushed. Bread and butter first; sweeties after.
‘Mr Kropotkin says,’ Stephen translated, ‘that you should understand one or two things about the Soviet system.’ His eyebrows went upwards and his nostrils twitched with the effort of keeping a straight face. ‘He says it is not always possible for Soviet citizens to speak with total freedom.’
‘Tell him I’ve noticed. Er... tell him I understand.’
Kropotkin looked at me broodingly and stroked his moustache.
‘He would like it,’ Stephen said, relaying the next wedge of rumble, ‘if you could use everything you have learned here at the Hippodrome without explaining where you heard it.’
‘Give him my most solemn assurance,’ I said sincerely, and I think Kropotkin was probably convinced more by my tone than the actual words. After a suitable pause, he continued.
‘Mr Kropotkin says,’ Stephen faithfully reported, ‘that he doesn’t know who sent him the paper. It was delivered to his flat by hand yesterday evening, with a brief note of explanation, and a hope that it would be handed on to you.’
‘Does he sound as if he really doesn’t know who sent it, or do you think he’s just not telling?’
‘Impossible to know,’ Stephen said.
Nikolai Alexandrovich showed signs at last of producing the goods. With great deliberation he drew a large black wallet from an inside pocket and opened it wide. His blunt fingers carefully sank into a deep section at the back, and he slowly drew out a white envelope. He accompanied the hand-over ceremony with a small speech.
‘He says,’ Stephen said, ‘that to himself this paper does not seem to be of much significance. He wishes it were. He would like it to be of some use to you, because of his earnest desire to express his thanks for your speed in saving the Olympic horse.’
‘Tell him that if it should not turn out to be a significant paper, I will always remember and appreciate the trouble he has taken to help.’
Kropotkin received the compliment graciously, and slowly parted with the envelope. I took it from him at the same unhurried pace, and drew out the two smallish sheets of paper which were to be found inside.
They were fastened to each other with a small paper-clip. The top one, white and unremarkable, bore a short paragraph written in Russian.
The lower, also white but torn from a notebook and ruled with faint blue lines, was chiefly covered with a variety of geometric doodles, done in pencil. Near the top there were two words: For Alyosha, and about an inch lower down, surrounded by doodled stars, J. Farringford. Underneath that, one below the other, as in a list, were the words Americans, Germans, French, and below that a row of question-marks. That seemed to be more or less all, though near the bottom of the page, in their own individual doodled boxes, were four sets of letters and numbers, which were DEP PET, 1855, K’sC, and 1950.
On top of all the scribbles, across the whole page from top to bottom, there was the wide flowing S-shaped scrawl of someone crossing out what they had written.
I turned the small page over. The reverse side bore about fifteen lines of what must have been handwriting, written in ballpoint, but this had been meticulously scribbled over, line by line, also in ballpoint but in a slightly different colour.
Kropotkin was watching me expectantly. I said, ‘I am very pleased. This is most interesting.’ He understood the words, and looked heavily satisfied.
The business at that point seemed to be over, and after a few more compliments on both sides we stepped from the office into the central corridor of the stable block. Kropotkin invited me to see the horses, and we walked side by side along to where each side of the corridor was lined with loose boxes.
Stephen made choking noises behind me as we reached them, which I guessed was because of the smell. My own nose twitched a bit over the unusually piercing stink of ammonia, but the trotters seemed none the worse for it. They would be racing that evening, Kropotkin said, because the snow was not yet too deep. Stephen manfully translated to the end, but gulped at the eventual fresh air as if it were a fountain in the desert.
There were still several horses exercising on the track, and to my eyes they came from lower down the equine class system than racehorses or eventers.
‘All the riding clubs are here,’ Kropotkin explained through Stephen. ‘All stables for horses in Moscow are in this district, and all exercising is done at the Hippodrome. All the horses are owned by the State. The best horses go for racing and breeding, and the Olympics; then the clubs share what is left. Most horses stay in Moscow all winter, because they are very hardy. And I wonder,’ added Stephen on his own account, ‘what it smells like in these barns come March!’
Kropotkin said a solemn goodbye at the still unattended main entrance. He was a great old guy, I thought, and through him and Misha I had learned a good deal.
‘Friend,’ I said. ‘I wish you well.’
He pumped my hand with emotion in both of his, and then gave me the accolade of a hug.
‘My God,’ said Stephen as we walked away. ‘Talk about schmaltzy sob-stuff...’
‘A little sentiment does no harm.’
‘Ah... but did it do any good?’
I handed him the envelope and coughed all the way to the taxi rank.
‘To Nikolai Alexandrovich, by hand,’ said Stephen, reading the envelope. ‘So whoever sent it, knew Kropotkin fairly well. You’d only use that form of someone’s name... the patronymic Alexandrovich without the last name Kropotkin... if you knew him.’
‘It would be more surprising if they didn’t know each other.’
‘I guess so.’ He picked out the two small clipped-together pages. ‘This paragraph on the front says, “Note paper”... sort of jotting paper, that is... “used at International Horse Trials. Please give it to Randall Drew”.’
‘Is that all?’
‘That’s the lot.’
He peered at the second page, and I waved uninhibitedly at a taxi cruising with its windscreen light on. Once more on our way, Stephen handed back the treasure trove.
‘Not much cop,’ he said. ‘A case of the lion straining to produce a gnat.’
The taxi driver spoke into my thoughtful silence.
‘He wants to know where we’re going,’ Stephen said.
‘Back to the hotel.’
We stopped however on the way at a shop he identified as a chemist. The Russian letters on the shop-front, when approximated into English, read Apotek. Apothecary... what else? I went inside with him, seeking dampeners for the troubles in fingers and chest, but ended only with the equivalent of aspirins. For his own purchase, he leaned across a counter and spoke low to the ear of a buxom battleaxe.