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Authors: Beryl Bainbridge
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tormentedly up the steps of St Basil’s.
Bernard walked off in a northerly direction. He saw no reason why he should enlighten Ashburner; he hadn’t any intention of swimming, only of sketching the surroundings of the pool.
Cowering behind a stout pillar at the entrance of the cathedral, Enid and Ashburner watched his progress. But for a flock of pigeons he was alone in the centre of the Square. A line of people, plodding two by two, heads bowed, wound in a straggling procession about its perimeter. Directly opposite the cathedral the wooden doors of the Fortress opened on to a courtyard. A squad of soldiers, fur-capped and muffled from throat to ankle in top-coats of olive green, stood to attention on the cobblestones. Above them the golden domes burned in the grey sky. The soldiers, responding to some unheard shout of command, tramped into the square and advanced towards Bernard. Unaware that he was outflanked, mackintosh flapping, he limped onwards. Ashburner called his name. Alerted, Bernard looked back and faltered; attempting to run for it he slipped and fell on all fours in the snow. The pigeons lifted into the wind and circled above the square. The troops strutted past. Picking himself up and changing course, Bernard headed for the street. He raised his arm as if hailing a taxi.
‘Better pretend we didn’t see that,’ said Enid, as they stumbled down the steps in pursuit. ‘I expect he’s in pain.’
Nobody could be sure they would recognise a taxi if they saw one. Ashburner thought taxis probably didn’t exist; such things were surely out of place in an equal society. When a large white car stopped at the kerb he hesitated but then, nudged forward by the others and galvanised by the cold, clambered inside.
‘Hotel Nationale,’ said Bernard.
The car drove off so fast they all fell backwards in their seats. Almost at once the driver held up his arm and rubbed his fingers together suggestively.
Enid was the only one who had any roubles. ‘This isn’t a taxi,’ she whispered. ‘There’s no meter.’ She was fearful they were being hijacked.
Ashburner didn’t care what sort of vehicle it was; he would gladly have ridden in a cattle truck to be out of the frightful blast of the wind. His ears, previously frozen, now throbbed exquisitely.
They waited for two hours in the English bar before Olga Fiodorovna arrived. She had spent a banal morning holding on to the end of a telephone.
‘Somewhere outside,’ she said, gesturing towards the windows, ‘people are conducting their lives in a simple, uncomplicated manner.’
Ashburner nodded doubtfully and fetched a chair to the table.
Telex messages were stuttering back and forth between Sheremetyev airport and Heathrow, she said, but as yet there was no news of his elusive suitcase. Ashburner’s signature was required on several new forms. Her life, she implied, was a paper chase. Even so, she had managed to purchase some little commodities; taking from her handbag a toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste and a bar of soap, she laid them in front of Ashburner.
‘I’m much more concerned about head-gear,’ he said ungraciously, and began to question her as to where he could buy a fur hat or a cap with ear pieces and the relative prices of such items here and at home. It wasn’t until Enid put her oar in and mentioned balaclavas, recounting a gruesome incident on the Polar trek north when sweat soldered wool to the head, necessitating medical treatment, that he remembered the absent Nina and cried out her name. His energetic rise from the table spun a dish of sweet gherkins to the floor.
Olga Fiodorovna said there was no need for alarm. At this moment Mrs St Clair was lunching with Boris Shabelsky in the Artists’ Union Club, once the home of Prince Nevsky, and afterwards she would be driven by him to her next appointment. This afternoon they would all be reunited in the studio of the illustrator, Andrei Petrov.
Reassured, Ashburner went into the
Bernard walked off in a northerly direction. He saw no reason why he should enlighten Ashburner; he hadn’t any intention of swimming, only of sketching the surroundings of the pool.
Cowering behind a stout pillar at the entrance of the cathedral, Enid and Ashburner watched his progress. But for a flock of pigeons he was alone in the centre of the Square. A line of people, plodding two by two, heads bowed, wound in a straggling procession about its perimeter. Directly opposite the cathedral the wooden doors of the Fortress opened on to a courtyard. A squad of soldiers, fur-capped and muffled from throat to ankle in top-coats of olive green, stood to attention on the cobblestones. Above them the golden domes burned in the grey sky. The soldiers, responding to some unheard shout of command, tramped into the square and advanced towards Bernard. Unaware that he was outflanked, mackintosh flapping, he limped onwards. Ashburner called his name. Alerted, Bernard looked back and faltered; attempting to run for it he slipped and fell on all fours in the snow. The pigeons lifted into the wind and circled above the square. The troops strutted past. Picking himself up and changing course, Bernard headed for the street. He raised his arm as if hailing a taxi.
‘Better pretend we didn’t see that,’ said Enid, as they stumbled down the steps in pursuit. ‘I expect he’s in pain.’
Nobody could be sure they would recognise a taxi if they saw one. Ashburner thought taxis probably didn’t exist; such things were surely out of place in an equal society. When a large white car stopped at the kerb he hesitated but then, nudged forward by the others and galvanised by the cold, clambered inside.
‘Hotel Nationale,’ said Bernard.
The car drove off so fast they all fell backwards in their seats. Almost at once the driver held up his arm and rubbed his fingers together suggestively.
Enid was the only one who had any roubles. ‘This isn’t a taxi,’ she whispered. ‘There’s no meter.’ She was fearful they were being hijacked.
Ashburner didn’t care what sort of vehicle it was; he would gladly have ridden in a cattle truck to be out of the frightful blast of the wind. His ears, previously frozen, now throbbed exquisitely.
They waited for two hours in the English bar before Olga Fiodorovna arrived. She had spent a banal morning holding on to the end of a telephone.
‘Somewhere outside,’ she said, gesturing towards the windows, ‘people are conducting their lives in a simple, uncomplicated manner.’
Ashburner nodded doubtfully and fetched a chair to the table.
Telex messages were stuttering back and forth between Sheremetyev airport and Heathrow, she said, but as yet there was no news of his elusive suitcase. Ashburner’s signature was required on several new forms. Her life, she implied, was a paper chase. Even so, she had managed to purchase some little commodities; taking from her handbag a toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste and a bar of soap, she laid them in front of Ashburner.
‘I’m much more concerned about head-gear,’ he said ungraciously, and began to question her as to where he could buy a fur hat or a cap with ear pieces and the relative prices of such items here and at home. It wasn’t until Enid put her oar in and mentioned balaclavas, recounting a gruesome incident on the Polar trek north when sweat soldered wool to the head, necessitating medical treatment, that he remembered the absent Nina and cried out her name. His energetic rise from the table spun a dish of sweet gherkins to the floor.
Olga Fiodorovna said there was no need for alarm. At this moment Mrs St Clair was lunching with Boris Shabelsky in the Artists’ Union Club, once the home of Prince Nevsky, and afterwards she would be driven by him to her next appointment. This afternoon they would all be reunited in the studio of the illustrator, Andrei Petrov.
Reassured, Ashburner went into the
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