Soon they were past security, out through the gates into the city, making their way across a footbridge adorned with four gold-winged griffins. The Nevsky Prospekt, long, straight and uncompromising, beckoned. She was walking with purpose, stepping off the bridge, favouring the canal bank. The protests were dissipating, and only small groups hovered in distant doorways, shut off behind a police cordon, yelling profanities through the smoke and rain. He was about thirty metres behind, long moleskin coat flapping open as a carpet of crisp red leaves swept the bridge’s woodwork.
The canal was cut with military precision. Black water slapped mouldy slabs, brickwork crowned with ornate railings. Above, shuttered windows were locked tight against acrid air. A thick Baltic mist rolled towards the Neva, where the golden spire of the Admiralty spiked the skyline like a heroin syringe.
Swelling crowds greeted them at Gostiny Dvor, clusters of commuters waiting for streetcars that ran on webbed wires. Oily tracks curled over bridges, crossing Nevsky’s canals at irregular intervals. He found himself pushing through herds of women, men smoking foul black cigarettes, lining up for trams. The grizzle of gasoline filled his lungs. Chemical rat-bites had nibbled at the nearby Mikeshin monument of Catherine the Great. People came from far and wide, spilling out of cafés, bars, and boutiques onto the wet boulevard. It was a forest of dripping umbrellas and flickering neon.
He wondered what the Russian word for stalker was? Whether she had even noticed him? A band of Roma with swarthy arms, tattoos, and outsize hoods swaggered by, giving him the eye. He buttoned his coat and turned up the collar. Raindrops were running down his neck. The street kids moved on, distracted by easier pickings coming out of a gift shop, speaking like Elvis Presley.
She was gliding gracefully past the scaffolding surrounding the town hall tower, still smoke-stained following a recent incendiary attack. A dog barked furiously. Sharp, yellow teeth snapped at his knees, until a flat face wrapped in a ragged shawl yanked its chain. He sidestepped the beast, his gaze fixed on the girl, who was now looking for a point to cross the Griboedova. A Russian Little Red Riding Hood lost in the wintry colonnades of the Kazan Cathedral.
Tracking her to a sports café, he pushed on the swing door, hung his coat, then walked across the polished wood floor. ‘May I join you?’
Big, grey-blue eyes travelled over him, evaluating this stranger for threat and opportunity. He estimated she was in her mid-20s. Her elegant white throat was wrapped in a roll-neck jersey, lilac fingernails tightly curled under a porcelain chin. He thought for a second that her glance was tinged by a sense of distance, that remote demeanour which attractive young women often affect for the purpose of self-preservation. But instead, she slid aside textbooks by Gumilev and Panarin, gesturing for him to sit. Doctor Hunter took the green light and took the empty chair.
A finger travelled to her lips, tossing back her hair as she spoke. ‘You are from London, yes?’
‘You speak very good English.’
‘Also German, French, and some Italian.’
‘I’m afraid I speak very little Russian!’
‘That is because English is the world language.’
‘Well, that’s my excuse, truth is I’m lazy!’
She let out a bubble of laughter. ‘I thought that was the Americans?’
‘We blame them for everything else. Sure, why not?’
‘I’m Ekaterina.’ She held out a demur hand, which he accepted, thinking how soft it was in his. No wedding ring.
‘I’m Tom’, he replied. ‘Glad to meet you.’
‘And are you enjoying your stay in Piter?’
‘Yes, I am on a lecture tour, speaking at the conference.’ His head moved sideways, indicating the way back towards the Cathedral. Tom reached out, lifting her books. ‘May I?’
‘Gumilev taught in the history faculty at Leningrad before being denounced and sent to Norilisk. This book, Ethnogenesis of the Biosphere of the Earth, is seminal.’
‘And the son of the Silver Age poets Nikolai Gumilev and Anna Akhmatova!’
The girl’s lip curled with surprise. He winked.
‘And Panarin’s work Strategic Instability in the 21st Century is a critical analysis of globalisation.’
‘I prefer his demolition of Fukuyama’s thesis in The Revenge of History.’
‘Or perhaps Orthodox Civilisation in a Globalised World?’
‘Indeed, I think that won awards?’
‘The Solzhenitsyn Prize of 2002!’
‘Ah, the great Alexander Isayevich. I am very fond of his novels.’
‘“Should someone ask me whether I would indicate the West such as it is today as a model to my country, frankly I would have to answer negatively. No, I could not recommend your society in its present state as an ideal for the transformation of ours”’, she quoted from Solzhenitsyn’s 1978 Harvard speech. Tom smirked and made the mistake of engaging in a contest. Scratching his head, he replied: ‘“A decline in courage may be the most striking feature that an outside observer notices in the West today. The Western world has lost its civic courage… such a decline in courage is particularly noticeable among the ruling and intellectual elites… from ancient times decline in courage has been considered the beginning of the end.”’
Ekaterina was already one step ahead. ‘“Without any censorship, in the West fashionable trends of thought and ideas are carefully separated from those which are not fashionable; nothing is forbidden, but what is not fashionable will hardly find its way into periodicals or books or be heard in colleges. Legally your researchers are free, but they are conditioned by the fashion of the day. There is no open violence such as in the East; however, a selection dictated by fashion and the need to match mass standards frequently prevents independent-minded people from giving their contribution to public life. There is a dangerous tendency to form a herd, shutting off successful development.”’
‘Bravo, I see you are a real scholar!’
‘My grandfather has a big library. Lots of books by Nikolay Danilevsky and his thoughts on civilisation, even more on Lev Alexandrovich Tikhomirov and the Slavic Commune.’
‘His selection is eclectic.’
‘It tends to challenge the cultural hegemony of the current dominant sect!’
‘A true disciple.’
‘I am a discerning student. I see the smoke and mirrors.’
‘You mean people like Max Horkheimer, Leo Lowenthal, and Franz Neumann?’
‘I see you critique the Frankfurt School of thought.’
‘Nothing but politically correct social saboteurs!’
‘Shush’, a sharp finger went to her lips. ‘Lenin would have had you shot!’
‘Isn’t he lying in a vat of embalming fluid in the Kremlin?’
‘Please, your respect, my mother was a young Pioneer’, she said in mock anger. ‘I’ll have you sent on the Vladimirka to Siberia.’
He leaned forward to whisper, ‘Would you take the trip with me?’ Another bubble of nervous laughter. Then Tom added more realistically, ‘Would you like to attend the conference?’
‘No, I’m visiting my grandfather. He’s not been well.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. I’m speaking there and was trying to impress you.’ Ekaterina reached into the bag slung over the back of her chair and took out a flyer printed in Russian.
‘Everyone knows about what’s going on at the university.’ He looked at the material she handed him and pointed out his name on the list of dignitaries. It was her turn to smile. ‘I hope the Reds don’t get you!’