‘George, do you know what date it is?’
‘I never ask myself such a thing.’
‘Well, do it now. What’s the bloody date?’
‘How should I know? I was told on what date to meet you in Leningrad, and I did. Now I’m in your hands. Why should I show any interest in the calender?’
‘It’s the 21st of June, and tomorrow will be the 22nd. Don’t you know what happened in 1941?’
He looked sideways at me. ‘Of course I do. The Great Patriotic War began.’
‘In which your father died.’
‘Correct. And so?’
‘Tonight is “on the eve”, if you catch my meaning. Twenty-six years ago the March on Moscow began. Perhaps that column of smart little cars is going there, to celebrate in the morning. They’re full of middle-aged men, and the timing can’t be accidental. After Moscow they’ll push on to Kharkov and Kiev, swapping yarns, standing on hills with their old staff maps, and with binoculars around their necks wondering when there’ll be a next time and talking about how was the first time.’
Usually quick and intelligent, and smart on the uptake, he said nothing for half a minute, though much must have been fluttering through his mind. It was six o’clock, and the day was far from dark, patches of forest to either side of the road, a glittering lake like a large stamped-out coin fresh from the mint, isolated dwelling blocks and a workshop here and there.
‘Catch them up,’ he said quietly.
‘Beat them to Moscow? They’ve got too much of a start in their fast little cars.’
‘Yours is faster. You’re a good driver. When I was told to meet you in Leningrad and stay with you as far as Rumania I added up the distance in my uncle’s atlas. It came to 2,500 kilometres, so I naturally feared for my safety at being in the car with an English writer who would keep stopping to drink whisky from a bottle under the dashboard. Luckily you aren’t like that. You have so many maps to carry there’s no space for bottles.’
‘Whoever taught you English certainly did a good job, but I don’t need flattery. Did you learn it from the BBC?’
He thought I’d given up the chase, saying glumly: ‘We have good professors of languages in the Soviet Union.’
I stepped up the speed. ‘It won’t be easy, unless they’ve stopped for another session of physical jerks. But we’ll mount a surprise counterstroke and see what can be done.’
I went like a sword of light along a sheet of chromed metal, though careful to stay alive, my heart calm enough as we caught up with them about thirty miles from Moscow. Overtaking a couple, I didn’t suppose they were even aware of our game, though the densest should have had some inkling by now.
One, two more — watch that lorry — then another. George slapped my shoulder. ‘Nine more to go.’
‘Just do me a favour,’ I said, ‘and light another couple of those choice Havanas. Then we shall see.’ With a not unpleasant smell of ordure from such smokes, we devised a formula for getting quickly and safely by as much traffic as possible. To avoid a too-cautious coming out into the empty-enough lane George would lean from his open window.
‘Clear?’ I’d ask.
‘Go! Davai!’ and out I would shoot, which made for rapid overtaking now that the die was cast.
Or I would calclass="underline" ‘Clear?’
‘For God’s sake — NO!’ and I would hold my place. More of their cars were left behind. We thought the main body of the group might already be in Moscow, but I was enjoying the chase. Speed was exhilarating, but to give myself heart and soul to such a challenge would have blighted my pride
There the rest of them were stalled behind a slow heavily laded Russian lorry, before a long section of roadworks. It was hard to say at first why they weren’t overtaking, until I saw a sign demanding single file traffic. Like good socially responsible people they were obeying the law, though the empty road ahead was wide enough for two files. Nor was anything coming the other way.
Here was a time for lateral thinking, which I thought Edward de Bono would approve, or Liddell Hart for a manoeuvre of the ‘indirect approach’. ‘All clear?’
‘Davai!’ George cried again.
With blinkers doing their job, and sounding V in Morse, I ran along the side of the column till every car was left under the arse of that splendid Soviet lorry. The no overtaking rule persisted for another mile, hard to think why, and they couldn’t soon follow because heavy traffic now streamed from the other direction. I smothered my anxiety till getting unscathed — and unseen — back on to the legal side of the road.
‘A good thing no highway policeman is on our trail,’ George said as we went on like respectable citizens who would never even think of doing anything so wrong — or foolish — as to disobey the regulations.
We passed the motorway ringroad around Moscow at eight o’clock, dusk coming on. I was hungry again. ‘A motor car eats up the chauffeur as well as petrol,’ I said to George, but now we were within easy range of the hotel. Having left Leningrad that morning, we ran freely along a dual carriageway towards the centre of a twentieth-century metropolis, between white and pink blocks of flats, cranes around some still under construction poking into the empty sky. A television transmitting tower seemed like a needle of Nimrod hoping to draw blood from God with his arrow. We had brought the good news from Aix to Ghent, whatever the news was, though there must have been some. George was happy at being nearer home, and I was glad to have done the trip without an accident, and had a bit of fun on the way. I set him down at his mother’s flat, then went on down Gorki Street, turning left to the Hotel Metropole in Sverdlov Square.
Thursday, 22 June
I stood at my hotel window wondering how to spend the day, though I needn’t have worried, since my diary showed plenty to do.
The room was on the back and away from street noise, overlooking a courtyard that was small in proportion to surrounding buildings. Clouds above roof slopes were as if trying to decide on the time to let down rain. A slim and pretty girl wearing blue overalls and headscarf straddled the apex of a nearby roof replacing a tile. I stared till she turned and fluttered her fingers at my friendly wave.
I was waiting for the telephone to ring, and hear that George was downstairs. Hundred-rouble notes smouldered in my pocket, and he could help me to spend one or two. The girl clambered to another join of roofs, which I thought a slightly safer position, to chip at excess mortar. I liked watching her skill with hammer and chisel, and how she debonairly (as well as mischievously) sent flakes of plaster skimming downwards. She was happy, I supposed, at having no overseer close enough to watch over her.
I was sorting things for the laundry but looked at her now and again, saw that she had stopped working to gaze across the rooftops as if dreaming of better days. She smiled, and waved, and I beckoned her closer, even into my room, if she liked. Broken clouds framed her, and she seemed to crave a more compatible life on gazing between them. Next time I looked she was adjusting her headscarf before putting in a few more minutes of work. Then as a joke she indicated that I go over the roof to join her. I made to climb out of the window, but the telephone rang and drew me back.
George said he wouldn’t be able to show me around the city because of an upset stomach. His mother, a doctor, found him in bed, unusual so late in the morning: ‘What’s the matter? Why aren’t you getting up? You’ll be late meeting your English writer.’
‘I’m as sick as a dog,’ he moaned. ‘My stomach’s full of razorblades.’
‘My poor darling’ — she reached for a thermometer — ‘it must be something you picked up on your travels yesterday. What restaurants did you eat at?’