chanced upon you again, my old friend.’
‘It is a wonderful coincidence,’ I said, deadpan, looking directly at Trofim.
‘So what were you doing in the ministry? Translating, was it?’
‘Indeed.’
‘I’m going to leave you now,’ Frenkel said.
I transferred my gaze to him. My day was going from odd to odder. ‘Well, goodbye.’
‘Just for a moment, you understand. I just have a quick phone call to make. I’m sure they have a phone here?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ I replied. ‘You’re the one who chose this place.’
‘That’s right we did! A sleepy little place! Right in the middle of town! A sleepy little place! Sleepy!’
And off he went, leaving me under the unflinching gaze of brother Trofim. I puzzled my brain momently with wondering whom Frenkel might be calling, and what he might be saying. ( I’ve got him, he’s here, we captured him! ) But it was more than I could fathom. And, to be honest, I found it hard to care one way or another.
There was a very strange atmosphere in the place. I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was about the place that unnerved me. I felt a huge weariness, perhaps a regular exhaustion, perhaps an existential ennui. I could barely move my limbs. A sleepy little place, I thought. A sleepy little place.
A mosquito bit at the back of my neck.
I slapped at it with my hand, and this action occasioned a very strange expression to bloom very slowly, like some creature of the deep seas, on Trofim’s face. I remember thinking to myself: A mosquito? In Moscow at this time of year ? Spring was not far away, true, but winter nevertheless had the city in its grip, and it was still very cold. Nor was it particularly warm inside the restaurant. A Scarf Of Red was playing on the radio. Except that there was no radio. I was imagining the music. Or it was playing next door. The sound had a distorted, unsettling quality. Perhaps it was playing next door, and the sound was coming muffled through the wall. Something like that.
There was a very strange atmosphere in the place. I brought my hand back round to the front, and saw only a miniature Moscow-shaped splatch of blood in the exact centre, like a stigmata.
Something was wrong. Something was not right.
I couldn’t put my finger on what was wrong. The restaurant was deserted, but even though I could look round and see that it was empty I somehow got the sense that it was simultaneously crowded with people . Clearly that couldn’t be right: either a place is empty, or else a place is full. I tried to wrangle the excluded middle. It wouldn’t budge. It occurred to me that the place might be haunted - I might have picked up on the spectral presence of the dead, still thronging that place. But I don’t believe in ghosts.
I looked at Trofim. Trofim looked at me.
‘So,’ I said. ‘Trofim, is it?’
‘Comrade?’
‘That’s your name?’
He nodded once.
‘I am Skvorecky,’ I said.
He nodded again, as if to say, This, I know.
I looked around. I was acutely, suddenly, uncomfortable. I felt utterly out of place. Time to leave, I thought. Like a schoolboy caught out of school, I measured the chances of being able to make a run for it, dashing past Trofim to the door and away. But I was old and frail, and Trofim young and fit-looking. It was unlikely I would even reach the door. Besides, there was some kind of obstacle in the way, something invisible, or visible (one of the two) that interposed between the door and myself. Perhaps this was only my mind rationalising a disinclination to move.
The back of my neck stung from where the mosquito had bitten me. The strangest little conversation with Frenkel was not taking place.
Trofim, on the other hand was staring at me with a weird intensity.
‘Comrade,’ he said, eventually, with the air of somebody who has been weighing up an important question in his mind. ‘Your nose?’
‘My nose,’ I said.
‘Your face ?’
‘Like it, do you?’
‘What is wrong with
‘It is a wonderful coincidence,’ I said, deadpan, looking directly at Trofim.
‘So what were you doing in the ministry? Translating, was it?’
‘Indeed.’
‘I’m going to leave you now,’ Frenkel said.
I transferred my gaze to him. My day was going from odd to odder. ‘Well, goodbye.’
‘Just for a moment, you understand. I just have a quick phone call to make. I’m sure they have a phone here?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ I replied. ‘You’re the one who chose this place.’
‘That’s right we did! A sleepy little place! Right in the middle of town! A sleepy little place! Sleepy!’
And off he went, leaving me under the unflinching gaze of brother Trofim. I puzzled my brain momently with wondering whom Frenkel might be calling, and what he might be saying. ( I’ve got him, he’s here, we captured him! ) But it was more than I could fathom. And, to be honest, I found it hard to care one way or another.
There was a very strange atmosphere in the place. I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was about the place that unnerved me. I felt a huge weariness, perhaps a regular exhaustion, perhaps an existential ennui. I could barely move my limbs. A sleepy little place, I thought. A sleepy little place.
A mosquito bit at the back of my neck.
I slapped at it with my hand, and this action occasioned a very strange expression to bloom very slowly, like some creature of the deep seas, on Trofim’s face. I remember thinking to myself: A mosquito? In Moscow at this time of year ? Spring was not far away, true, but winter nevertheless had the city in its grip, and it was still very cold. Nor was it particularly warm inside the restaurant. A Scarf Of Red was playing on the radio. Except that there was no radio. I was imagining the music. Or it was playing next door. The sound had a distorted, unsettling quality. Perhaps it was playing next door, and the sound was coming muffled through the wall. Something like that.
There was a very strange atmosphere in the place. I brought my hand back round to the front, and saw only a miniature Moscow-shaped splatch of blood in the exact centre, like a stigmata.
Something was wrong. Something was not right.
I couldn’t put my finger on what was wrong. The restaurant was deserted, but even though I could look round and see that it was empty I somehow got the sense that it was simultaneously crowded with people . Clearly that couldn’t be right: either a place is empty, or else a place is full. I tried to wrangle the excluded middle. It wouldn’t budge. It occurred to me that the place might be haunted - I might have picked up on the spectral presence of the dead, still thronging that place. But I don’t believe in ghosts.
I looked at Trofim. Trofim looked at me.
‘So,’ I said. ‘Trofim, is it?’
‘Comrade?’
‘That’s your name?’
He nodded once.
‘I am Skvorecky,’ I said.
He nodded again, as if to say, This, I know.
I looked around. I was acutely, suddenly, uncomfortable. I felt utterly out of place. Time to leave, I thought. Like a schoolboy caught out of school, I measured the chances of being able to make a run for it, dashing past Trofim to the door and away. But I was old and frail, and Trofim young and fit-looking. It was unlikely I would even reach the door. Besides, there was some kind of obstacle in the way, something invisible, or visible (one of the two) that interposed between the door and myself. Perhaps this was only my mind rationalising a disinclination to move.
The back of my neck stung from where the mosquito had bitten me. The strangest little conversation with Frenkel was not taking place.
Trofim, on the other hand was staring at me with a weird intensity.
‘Comrade,’ he said, eventually, with the air of somebody who has been weighing up an important question in his mind. ‘Your nose?’
‘My nose,’ I said.
‘Your face ?’
‘Like it, do you?’
‘What is wrong with
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