‘Thanks, but I’m trying to give them up.’
That seemed to amuse the man. ‘That is exactly what I am doing – converting to American cigarettes after a lifetime of Belomor is as good as giving up.’ He blew smoke away towards the vaulted ironwork overhead.
‘The recital,’ Sam said, ‘was wonderful. You played so well together.’
Egorkin nodded. ‘We are, what do you say in English? In harmony. But I didn’t come here to talk about my music. What I want to do is to explain my situation.’
Sam sat back on the bench and looked out across the gardens. He noticed inconsequential things. A woman walking a poodle. Two children running and laughing ahead of their parents. A fountain shattering sunlight into a thousand fragments. Quotidian events impressed on his retina and, perhaps, his memory. ‘Tell me.’
Egorkin hesitated, as though he had not really thought this through. But he must have. Whatever it was, he must have thought about it long and hard. ‘You perhaps know something of me by reputation.’
‘I know something.’
‘For example, that I have been outspoken about matters in my homeland and so I have been forbidden to travel to the West. My being here in Czechoslovakia is considered a great concession, almost a prize for having accepted my fate with good grace.’
‘I’ve heard something about it.’
Egorkin nodded. ‘And I am only here now because it is early morning and my escort is lazy. Like the whole Soviet system, they watch only when they know they are being watched.’ He laughed. ‘It is not quite as simple as that, however.’
‘I didn’t think it would be.’
‘I expect you to act in an entirely professional manner over this.’
‘Of course I will.’
‘So. There is also the matter of Nadezhda Nikolayevna.’ The Russian seemed to gather his thoughts, or perhaps, his courage. ‘She is, you understand, in love with me. And I’ – he hesitated as though he were not so clear on the matter – ‘I am in love with her.’
The man paused, smoking and looking out of the colonnade. The woman with the poodle had gone, so too the children. An ancient couple, who perhaps had come to the spa to find the key to eternal life, walked past. They looked at Egorkin as though they recognised him.
Sam asked, ‘What does this admittedly awkward state of affairs have to do with a British diplomat?’
Egorkin nodded thoughtfully. Finally he said, ‘I would like your advice. You see’ – another draw on his cigarette – ‘I want your assistance in getting us to the West. We wish to claim political asylum.’
‘You and Nadezhda Nikolayevna?’
‘Exactly. Does that surprise you?’
‘Not entirely. But I don’t see how I can help you. The very best you could expect is to gain entry to one of the Western embassies. You might be granted asylum of some kind, but that might mean the two of you becoming prisoners in the embassy itself. Like Cardinal Mindszenty in Budapest. Twelve years so far. Unless the Czechs would agree to your leaving.’
The man frowned. Dark eyebrows, pockmarked skin, a mouth clamped into a line of disapprobation, as though he had heard discord in the strings. ‘Did you know that the London Symphony Orchestra offered me the post of principal conductor when they got rid of Kertész? I was not able to take the post because my country did not allow it. That is what I have to deal with.’ He fidgeted another cigarette from his case, snapped at the lighter, drew sharply in. Sam continued, dredging up his knowledge of consular affairs.
‘Whether an embassy would give you shelter is entirely at the discretion of the ambassador. You understand that, don’t you? Most countries, including my own, do not recognise the legality of what is known as diplomatic asylum – sanctuary in one of its embassies. Legally a refugee cannot apply for political asylum until he is actually in the receiving country’s territory.’
‘But isn’t an embassy—?’
‘—an extraterritorial possession? That’s a popular misconception. Under international law an embassy remains the territory of the host nation. It’s just that the agents of the host nation may not enter the embassy without the express permission of the ambassador. So you, or anyone else seeking refuge, would be relying on the goodwill of the ambassador. His job would be to consider what risks you might run if he were to insist that you leave his embassy, but above all he would have to consider the best interests of his own country. I’m afraid I’m beginning to sound like a textbook. Or a lawyer. Maybe I will have one of your cigarettes.’
There was a pause for the little ritual of lighting up. Sam attempted a smile. ‘There go my best intentions. Up in smoke.’ He glanced at his watch and wondered when he could politely extricate himself from this conversation. It wasn’t difficult to feel sympathy for Egorkin, a talent put at the mercy of the Soviet state, but the matter was hardly his concern. ‘In your case there would be a further complication because the host country in this case – Czechoslovakia – is not hostile to you, so it is difficult to see what danger you would be in if you were asked to leave the embassy. In Moscow you would clearly be in jeopardy, but here, as things are at the moment…’ He shrugged.
The man digested these unpleasant facts, smoking and looking out across the gardens. Suddenly he seemed very vulnerable, crushed by the situation. Sam thought of Russia and what it did to its children. The largest country in the world, yet as claustrophobic as a prison cell; lives trapped and stifled; genius smothered. And how the contagion spread to its neighbours. He thought of Lenka, orphaned and shamed by the state, trading her body for the hope of education. He thought of hope itself, the violinist’s name, Nadezhda, and how for the moment hope flourished here in Czechoslovakia, at least. Hope against hope.
‘I can have a word with people in the embassy but I can’t promise anything.’
Egorkin nodded, as though weasel words were only to be expected. ‘Tell me, Mr Wareham, how is it that you speak Russian so well?’
It was a relief to shift the conversation on to firmer ground. ‘Two years of intensive Russian during my national service, followed by a three-year degree.’
‘So you loved our language.’
Was it a question? ‘I still do. The poetry and the prose. But particularly the poetry.’
‘And you will know that our writers have had their creative lives crushed. Pasternak unpublished in his own country and forced to refuse the Nobel Prize. Mandelstam killed in the gulag. Akhmatova banned for decades. Soul-destroying, Mr Wareham. Surely you understand that. Surely you feel it.’
‘I don’t see how my feelings come into it.’
Egorkin gave a dry laugh. ‘That is because you are not yourself. You are just a representative of a government. A functionary. But I am an artist, representing no one but myself. I deal with the emotions and the soul. You heard us play yesterday evening. Didn’t that speak to your soul? And to the soul of the woman at your side?’
‘I’m sure it did.’
‘Are you in love with her?’
He thought of Lenka, waiting in the hotel room, and then of Stephanie in her parents’ house in England. He thought of loyalty and betrayal, of passion and affection, of desire and love, all those abstract nouns that were so difficult to pin down and were so inimical to diplomacy. The trouble with diplomats, Steffie had once told him, is that you never know what they’re thinking. He made to get up. ‘As I said, my feelings have nothing to do with it.’