Tom could not shake the feeling that people were standing on the upper floors of the Italianate facades, dark glass eyes spying on the vast squares filled with mounted bronze horsemen and wrought-iron railings. Cafés and bars were full to bursting. People’s faces contorted with laughter, cigarettes fencing in gesticulating fingers. He was witnessing a nation in denial, his imagination chilled by the thought of the Mongol hordes gathering once again, ready to overwhelm Holy Russia.
Lines of pedestrians crossing the Voznesenskiy caused the traffic to stack. Teenage carousers with armfuls of liquor sang and danced on both sides of the road. Two young blondes clip-clopped by on chestnut horses, linear bodies projecting elongated silhouettes from the bulbous streetlights onto the front of the Mariinskiy Palace. Tom could just make out the great golden dome of St Isaac’s Cathedral looming like a dirty iceberg, all marble and grimy granite, filling the night sky ahead.
‘Hotel?’ he asked hopefully.
‘Astoria’, Roman replied, pulling up sharp in front of a gang of drunken students criss-crossing the road, falling about, making general nuisances of themselves.
‘They seem to be having fun’, the Englishman muttered irritatedly to himself. Fingers tapped the roof of the car. Nervously he opened the window, only to be confronted by what he took to be the beaming face of God’s most favoured angel, passing him a bottle of Altai vodka. He hesitated. She threw back her long brown hair and said something Tom assumed was encouragement. Roman nodded.
‘Blue label is good’, the driver confirmed. In a bid to seem hospitable, the reluctant Professor had a long swig, almost immediately suffering the hot needle stab of pure alcohol as it thrust its poisonous blade deep into his liver. Eyes watering, he coughed uncontrollably, tongue swelling like an aroused penis, its hard, red tip throbbing inside his throat, causing him to gag.
‘Welcome to Russia’, his beautiful benefactor laughed in perfect American-English.
The Astoria squatted like a fat brown bullfrog on the corner of the square, red awnings jutting like giant eyelids. It had once been the most fashionable hotel in pre-revolutionary St Petersburg. It was the location from where M15 had plotted to assassinate Rasputin, and was the scene of a famous last stand by the White Cadets against the Reds. After the Bolshevik Revolution, Lenin hosted the Second Communist International there. Later, the British Fabian writer and Slavophile H G Wells was a regular visitor.
Roman helped Tom carry his luggage into the plush lobby. Once there, he stepped aside, making a call on his mobile to confirm his passenger’s safe arrival. The driver talked quickly, while Tom checked in, only halting to receive further instructions. After completing registration Tom, handed over his passport. Then Roman passed him the Nokia so he could speak to his host.
‘It’s Grigori from the International Forum’, croaked a fractured voice down an intermittent line.
‘Privet, Grigori! It’s Tom. Yes, a good flight… Roman got me here on time, no problem… Yes, one hour will be fine. I just need to shower and shave… The Sakura… A car will pick me up, where? At the door, horosho… See you there…’
Tom slipped Roman thirty crisp US dollars, and there was a moment of male discomfort before they hugged. Professor Hunter pointed to the Gromoviti Znaci badge. ‘Tovarich’, he insisted.
‘Dobre’, Roman announced loudly, ‘Russki way!’ With a slap on the shoulder they parted as friends. Roman returned to his familiar routine on the dirty streets of the congested city, while his new comrade went to a third-floor suite to freshen up before an urgent appointment with Russia’s political opposition.
Tom had a clear view over St Isaac’s Square. The city centre was aglow with honking cars, flashing headlights, and constant foot traffic. He dropped his case and pulled off his shirt and tie. Swallowing the complementary chocolates decorating his pillow, he sat on the corner of the bed, removing his Loake handmade shoes and cashmere socks. The carpet’s luxurious thickness felt reassuring after his long flight. Opening the suitcase, he lifted a copy of Alexander Dugin’s The Eurasian Mission: An Introduction to Neo-Eurasianism, which had been printed by Arktos, as well as a well-fingered copy of American socialist John Reed’s 1919 classic about the October Revolution, Ten Days That Shook the World. Placing the opposing texts at juxtapositions on the bedside table, he reached for his washbag, peeled off his sticky underwear, and wandered into the ensuite.
The plastic shower curtain slid easily on its rail, luke-warm water sputtering from the groaning nozzle. He felt his age as the spray cascaded over stiff shoulders, soapy bubbles trickling down pale thighs. Travelling economy did that to him. Aches and pains, real or imaginary, shot though his body. Running gel between his fingers, he washed his hair, memories of the cramped plane melting away with the citrus tang wafting from the open bottle.
Stepping out onto marble tiles, wrapped in Egyptian cotton, he lathered his face and reached for a cut-throat razor. His slate-grey eyes looked tired as he drew the blade over a stubbled chin. He stood for a few seconds admiring his chest in the mirror, steamy droplets running over chrome, posing self-consciously, picking the most favourable angle. Swimming and bench-pressing kept his stomach wall tight and firm. Middle age was a battle he could rightfully claim to be winning. But some days were better than others, and he knew he was reaching the tipping point.
Tom always laid out his toiletries with a military precision that would have made von Clausewitz proud. Vitamin tablets and cod liver oil were set at a thirty degree angle from his hand cream. The blue body lotion was like a rook in a Bobby Fischer chess match, ready to sweep down the channel between the taps. A half-empty bottle of Terre D’Hermes glinted in the mirror light. His fingers smelled of fresh eau de cologne. His cheeks were stinging as he slapped the tincture onto smarting skin.
Standing in his bathrobe, twisting the top off a bottle of Perrier, he bent and sniffed at the bouquet of seasonal flowers. The message from Grigori read, ‘Welcome to Piter’. The room was a generous double. Pulling the red velvet curtains over his view of the Cathedral, he began combing his fair hair in the large mirror, noting the first threads of grey, reflecting philosophically that they offered the potential for a distinguished look. The sort of academic gravitas he longed for. Climbing into a Hugo Boss suit, fresh white shirt and claret tie, he was like a chevalier putting on his armour. Black cufflinks engraved with silver hagal runes gleamed in the half-light. Shiny Italian shoes and an Omega co-axial chronometer wristwatch completed the ensemble. Tom felt like a Nietzschean Overman in designer suits. Adrenalin levels began to rise. Moving to the door, checking the time with an elegant twist of his wrist, he caught himself saying to the empty room, ‘Five minutes early, perfect!’
In the hallway, he caught the sound of multilingual matrimonial arguments through half-closed doorways. The familiar hum of domestic discord narrated his journey to the top of the grand stairwell. For a moment he thought of his own failed marriage. Cecilia had never understood him, what had really moved and motivated him. And what moved and motivated her, disgusted him. The product of a middle-class military family and an exclusive boarding school, she was geared to sibling rivalry, the bigger house, better car, and the executive career in marketing. When his studies into group evolutionary theory began to make his lectures controversial amongst the faculty, she worried more about his promotional prospects, rather than the validity of his theory. Tom’s favourable critiques of Vladimir Avdeyev’s Rasologia and the Biblioteka Rasovoy Mysli made him about as popular as Arthur Jensen and Glade Whitney amongst the politically correct crowd at the academy. ‘Why doesn’t Dean Meyer like you?’ she hissed, harridan style. ‘We never get invited to his soirees!’ For months she had lacerated him with her box-cutter tongue. Then, one morning, while he was giving a class on Hans Eysenk, Cecilia had slipped away, leaving her solicitor’s business card and some scorch marks from a spilled coffee on the dining room table.