Tom sat with his back to the wall, following her eyes around the café, studying her every move. The place was buzzing. He overheard some English being spoken through the crescendo of chatter and jazz-fusion. A woman strolled by, babe in arms. Businessmen from a local office were gathered, huddled in blue clouds over an ashtray. Catching the attention of a sullen waitress, Tom and Ekaterina ordered borsch and sparkling water. Someone dropped a set of plates across the far side of the room. White chips of crockery splintered on the hard floor.
‘How long are you staying?’ she asked, as the waitress came back with their order. He waited for the tray to be set down and loosened the caps on green Evian bottles. Pouring for Ekaterina, they watched as the slices of lemon rose in the glug of water.
‘My return flight is scheduled for the 23rd.’
‘When does your visa end?’
‘One month.’
‘Multiple entry?’
‘No’, he said. ‘Your precious authorities have imposed new controls.’
‘Which hotel?’
‘Astoria.’
‘That is a good hotel.’
‘Close to the Hermitage and the embankment.’
‘Have you been out on the river?’
‘No.’
‘You should, it’s beautiful!’
‘Will you show me?’
There was a second’s hesitation. ‘Yes, I’d enjoy that very much.’ Unfolding cream napkins, they lifted curved spoons, making uneasy eye contact as they took steaming borsch.
Tom accompanied Ekaterina on a bone-shaking metro ride out to Ulitsa Dzybenko. Mounting cracked steps, they were greeted by jutting balconies, hanging slack like broken concrete jaws, looking down from Stalinist apartment blocks. Sliding between traffic, they entered a south-facing tenement, just as sunset threw a bloodshot eye over the Kurpatov tractor factory. She was moving quickly up the hallway, dying sunrays sending lasers through the prism of shattered glass. He watched the amber light play through her hair, glowing fingers caressing the nape of her neck.
‘Marina was a language student at Herzen University, like me’, she was saying. ‘A dear friend and good to meet. Many from my class will be here tonight. We talk, listen to music, exchange books and downloads by our favourite bands. X Terror, Wavex, and Trezvy Reikh.’
‘I’m glad to see the real Russia at last’, he confessed. ‘I was beginning to feel like a tourist.’
Ekaterina stopped in front of a blue metal shutter. Then, after a quick call on her mobile, the door clanked open, the corridor filling with Iron Order’s rhythmic drumming. As they entered, Tom estimated that the flat was hosting ten or twelve people. They were mainly journalists, teachers, and would-be artists. Marina emerged from the lounge, kissing his companion on each cheek, shaking Tom’s hand with a certain degree of formality, before ushering them into a small kitchen, where she uncorked a fresh bottle.
‘Chilean’, she smiled, ‘Very lovely taste. I prefer French, I think?’ They were soon joined by her partner, Nikita, a serious young man with a brooding intellect. He wore black shoes, black jeans, and a black turtleneck jersey. His crow-like eyes and pale skin were offset by the obligatory goatee worn by all the city’s intelligentsia. Thin fingers played with the metal frames of round spectacles.
‘Hi’, he said. ‘Your first time?’ Tom nodded, sipping his drink. ‘I went to London once when I was young. I stayed in Bermondsey by the river. My father did some work for a bank there. He told me I should come with him, chance of a lifetime.’
‘And was it?’ Nikki looked surprised by the question.
‘Yes, of course. London is a most fine cultural city. Much to do. Very much to see!’
‘Which was your favourite?’ By now a crowd had gathered, listening to their hero talking to the surprise guest. ‘Katja!’ people were calling, throwing their arms around her, looking with curiosity at the stranger. They smiled, giving each other knowing looks, whispering their opinions.
‘Is he looking for a Russian bride?’ someone asked. ‘He looks that way.’
‘No, he’s a spy!’
‘We’d better send for Lev Ovalov, he knows all about MI6.’
Nikki pulled a cork on another bottle and re-filled their glasses. Marina dragged Ekaterina into a corner where she was immediately surrounded by gushing girls, lighting cigarettes and flicking long hair.
‘They are joking’, he said. ‘Lev Orvalov is a hero from old Russian espionage stories. I am nothing like him. Anyway I prefer books by Ivan Shevtsov!’ Tom waved his apology aside. ‘You were asking about my favourite exhibit?’ For a moment the Russian looked perplexed. ‘Most certainly the National Portrait Gallery.’ The Professor signalled his approval. ‘I recall sailing down the river between Westminster and Greenwich. We drank black beer in a pub by the Cutty Sark.’
‘The Gypsy Moth.’
‘Named for another boat! Are all English people on the sea?’
‘We’re an island nation!’
‘Indeed. But it is being taken over by Brussels.’
‘You have fears for my country?’
‘England is also changing’, the young man asserted, throwing back a mouthful of wine, ‘and not for the best.’ Tom agreed. ‘We saw those riots and who was to blame. I saw the way your BBC tried to hide who was responsible for the sex trade of children in Rotherham, Manchester, and Sheffield. Our Russian media are less politically correct. We understand all.’
‘You do?’
‘We do, but we have our own problems from the East.’
‘Do you think Russia will implode?’
Nikki grimaced. ‘Russia is stuck in the old debate between the Westernisers and the Eurasianists. Look, we have hundreds of ethnic subgroups and regional languages in our territory, but whatever argument you make, people like the Kyrghyz and Ingush are still inorodtsy, aliens. For Vitaly Aveyanov, a former Director of the Institute of Dynamic Commemoration, the Russian Empire should expand, but to do so it must “recruit new and good people”. The point is the current ruling elite is always going to be split on ethnic lines, with members at different times seizing the assets of the Union of Republics for personal gain, ignoring the interests of the nation as a whole. For Aveyanov, “the myth of empire is needed as a so-called attracter to win support for achieving that goal”.’
‘Careful, you are beginning to sound like our old friend Zhirinovsky. Didn’t he say, “We should think about saving the White race because today the white race is the minority in the world. It is a minority that needs to be protected and saved. If we don’t fight against this danger—the Islamic danger, the Asian danger—then in the future we will have a religious danger and, finally, religious wars where we will be swamped by what is called the yellow peril”?’
‘Sometimes wise words come from the mouths of fools. He also predicted all those years ago that “Russia can play a historic role in saving the world from the spread of Islam, from the spread of international terrorism… Trust me there is a long tradition of Muslim caliphs taking Christian wives, or themselves being born of a white mother. You see they were our mothers, daughters and sisters, captives from Mongol, Arab or Persian raids. That is why we must fight these hordes of Tamerlane once more, resist them unto our last breath”.’
‘His assassination was a sad day.’
‘An inevitable day. Such voices must be silenced.’
‘But your voices are not being silenced, we hear your protests as far away as London.’ Nikki grew in confidence.
‘Yes, on the fourth of November, the Feast Day of our Lady of Kazan and the anniversary of Michael Romanovs’ expulsion of the Poles from Moscow, we gather under the black, white, and yellow pennants, not only here but also in Saratov, Perm, Ulyanovsk, Cheboksary, and Murmansk.’