Oumansky, puzzled at Jones’ confusion, explained, “Seats are extremely rare at this trial so this is a sign that you’ve got off to an excellent start in building fruitful relations with us.”
Again Duranty jabbed him with his elbow. Jones said, “Thank you very much, Mr Oumansky. That’s very civil of you.”
Oumansky toddled off and Jones turned to Duranty. “What have I written?” he demanded.
Duranty chuckled. “Listen, kid, it takes a while to get used to Soviet ways, especially the censors at the Foreign Ministry. They have their own rhythms of working. They like us to write exactly what they say and woe betide anyone who strays too far from the party line. Over the years, I’ve got used to how it works over here. You’re the new kid on the block and I didn’t want you to get off on the wrong footing.”
“So you wrote a piece using my name and sent it? Without, that is, my say-so?”
There was ice in Jones’ question.
“It was Evgenia’s idea. She’s worked with young reporters before and seen them fall foul with the censors so quickly that they have to leave Russia under a cloud.”
“Is that true, Evgenia?” asked Jones.
“Yes, it was all my idea,” she said. “It’s best to stay the right side of them, especially when you first come here. After a time, once they’ve got to know you, you can do your own thing. But to begin with, it’s best to please them. I think you owe Walter a thank you.”
Jones started to stammer, “I… I… I…” and then, finally, found his fluency. “I’m so sorry I’m forgetting everything. Duranty, you saved my bacon at the station – and now you’ve got me into the Kremlin’s good books.”
“Not the Kremlin, that’s much, much harder. The Foreign Ministry’s good books.”
“I’m very grateful. Have you got a copy of this piece I’ve written so I can paste it into my scrapbook?”
Duranty handed him a carbon copy of the piece he’d knocked out. Jones read it in silence and then said, “This is rather good. I think I might have a future in journalism.”
Duranty and Evgenia laughed long and loud and Natasha tickled Jones’ knee underneath the table.
Shortly, the man he’d guessed was the Italian consul approached. Duranty made the introductions. “Gareth Jones of the Western Mail, may I introduce His Excellency Andreas Corazza, The Most High Plenipotentiary for the Fascist Kingdom of Italy.”
The tickling continued, moving slowly up his thigh.
“Cut the crap Duranty,” replied Corazza in a New Jersey accent that could angle-grind Manhattan granite if the money was right. Corazza was stolid, not tall, absurd in his fancy dress regalia – but wearing a smile that told the world he knew it and didn’t care. He turned to Jones. “So you’re the cub reporter who’s training for the high jump? All your rivals are as mad as hell at you and that, in this revolution, isn’t a good place to be. Welcome to Russia, Mr Jones.”
Jones, not knowing what to say, gulped and offered his slow sweet smile.
On stage, Lyushkov called in English for some songs from “our international friends”. Underneath the table Jones caught hold of Natasha’s hand and gently moved it away from his thigh. Lyushkov gestured to Verbling who stood up, bowed, then said something quietly in Russian.
Corazza leaned into Jones’ ear and said, “The Crucco’s running scared. Says his voice has packed in.”
“Crucco?” asked Jones.
“Italian for Hun,” snapped Corazza.
The MC next pointed to Corazza, who bowed and whispered low into Jones’ ear. “Once you’ve played Hoboken, then Dnipropetrovsk holds no fear.”
The Italian walked up to the stage with the self-confident swagger of Il Duce marching on Rome and launched into “O sole mio”. He had a fine baritone and left the stage to hurrahs.
After he was finished, Lyushkov regained the spotlight. “Is there any other international friend who would like to perform?”
To his left, Jones made out Natasha jab Duranty with her elbows. The American stood up and said in his deep, rich voice, “Just one song from the United States?”
Duranty limped through the tables, the crowd sympathetic, hushed, expectant. There was an extraordinary animal magnetism about this man, Jones reflected, that he could make people hold their breath while he just walked through a room. Clambering up the side-steps to the stage awkwardly, he got to the microphone stand and smiled beatifically before singing “Say It Isn’t So”, a mawkish melody of a lover’s fear that she is being cheated. The applause was rapturous, louder and wilder than that for the Italian.
Evgenia turned to Jones and challenged him. “So, Mr Jones, can you sing?”
“I’m Welsh, Evgenia. Everyone from Wales can sing.”
As Lyushkov asked the audience for any more international contributions, Jones cried out, “One more!”
Jones hurried through the tables and, shunning the steps, vaulted onto the stage to ribald cheers from his fellow reporters. Standing in front of the microphone, he caught his breath and made that slow sweet smile of his. Then he sang Myfanwy in Welsh, his eyes closed, his voice throbbing with passion.
At the end of the song, the crowd roared and clapped and stamped their approval. It took a while for Jones to return to his seat, such was the acclaim from the audience. When he got back, he found both Evgenia and Duranty had left. They didn’t come back so he drank and drank and drank some more. Natasha tried to kiss him but, when he turned away, she walked off into the arms of Max Borodin, who danced with her a while. After the next song finished, Borodin returned and sat with Jones while Natasha wandered off again.
“So, the grand opening of the Lenin Dam, Mr Jones? What did you make of it?”
Borodin’s question lifted him out of his gloom, a little.
“Very impressive,” said Jones.
Borodin laughed out loud. “Here, under that guy,” he nodded towards a picture of Stalin on the wall, smiling benignly at all and sundry, “it’s not quite the case that the cat has got Russia’s tongue. People still talk. But meaning has been hollowed out. I think we can trust each other, Mr Jones. I’m not going to betray your confidences as I am sure you will not mine.”
“Where was Stalin today?” asked Jones, bluntly.
Borodin smiled, weakly. Jones pursed his lips, mockingly.
“The convention in polite society is that, if you praise him,” Borodin’s eyes flicked to the portrait on the wall, “you mention his name with all the honorifics. If praise doesn’t flow naturally, it’s best to make a veiled allusion. Gorky says, in Russia, even the stones sing.”
“Aha,” replied Jones and the two men clinked their vodka glasses and drank.
At the far edge of the room Natasha had found Lyushkov’s lap. She wriggled on it while staring intensely in Jones’ direction. Zakovsky was smiling over a bottle of vodka.
“This dam wasn’t…” Borodin’s eyes flicked to the portrait “…his idea.” “Then whose was it?”
“Another name. Not one to be mentioned in polite or, in fact, any kind of society.”
“Trotsky?”
“Sssh! Not even as a joke, Mr Acrobat. So no-one’s too surprised that…” His eyes flicked once more towards the portrait “…found something else to do today.”
“I see.”
“Internationally, the Lenin Dam is still a very big deal for the Soviet Union. Hence all of this.” Borodin waved at the room with his vodka glass, taking in the band, the banquet, the foreign dignitaries and journalists and, in the corner, the two Chekist officers. “But within the walls of the Kremlin, our new dam is a bad victory.”
“I heard that you are half-Russian, half-German, Mr Borodin. How is that these days?”