‘[It is perfectly all right.]’
‘[I’m so sorry! God, embarrassing! God how embarrassing! I’m such a fool!]’
‘[Please Mrs Norman, think nothing of it,]’ I said.
‘[Oh God!]‘
[‘Really, I insist.’] I was starting to become embarrassed at her embarrassment.
‘[No — how ridiculously stupid of me. I’m the world’s biggest fool.]’
‘[Believe me,]’ I said, forcing the least convincing smile imaginable from my tight face, ‘[you are very far from being the first person to make that particular mistake. It is after all an unusual place to have scar tissue.]’
‘What are you two saying?’ said Polenski in a suspicious voice. ‘Don’t exclude me. Why is she stroking your face? Are you two flirting, Konsty, you goat?’
‘She mistook the scar on my nose for a piece of tissue paper.’
‘Ha,’ grunted Polenski. ‘Ha!’ He went on in his intermittent, bolting manner of laugher. ‘Haha! Ha! Did she? Ha!’
Polenski’s reaction deepened Norman’s blush. ‘[I apologise, I can’t apologise enough,]’ she said, looking from him to me. ‘[I really am the world’s biggest fool.]’
‘What’s she saying now?’ Polenski wanted to know.
‘She says she’s the world’s biggest fool,’ I reported.
‘She’s certainly got the world’s biggest arse. How do these Americans get so fat?’
‘It certainly contrasts severely with the universal slimness of our Russian women,’ I said.
Polenski decided to take offence at this. ‘Are you really going to compare Russian woman and American?’
‘[Amerikanski,]’ said Coyne, brightly, in English. ‘[I know that much Russian, at any rate.]’
Polenski beamed at him. ‘That’s right, I said American, you fucking little sewer-rat,’ he said, in a warm voice. ‘You’d like to be awarded the Soviet Order of the Turd for your linguistic expertise, is it?’
Coyne looked expectantly to me. ‘[Comrade Polenski,]’ I said, ‘[is saying how important it is for the Soviet people that good relations are maintained with the American people.]’
‘[I couldn’t agree more,]’ said Coyne. ‘[That’s precisely why we’re both here.]’
‘I will concede,’ said Polenski, to me. ‘Maybe some of our babushkas get a little plump. I like plump. You ever fucked a really skinny woman, Skvorecky? Your hipbones bang together like a spoon on a pan. No, no, no, plump is one thing. But this?’ And he angled his smile again towards Dora Norman. ‘It’s ridiculous. It’s like a — tent. A tent pumped full of jelly.’
‘[Is he asking me a question?]’ Dora Norman asked me. ‘[He’s looking at me. Is there something he wants to ask me?]’
‘Tell her I wouldn’t stick my stubby little prick in her mouth for fear she’d swallow me whole,’ said Polenski, still smiling broadly and nodding.
‘[Comrade Polenski is saying how rare it is for a man in his position to have official dealings with a beautiful woman,]’ I said.
Her blush went from ros’ wine to burgundy. ‘[Gracious! Hardly! I hardly think — I am certainly no beauty!]’
‘[Russian men,]’ I said, ‘[appreciate the fuller-figured woman, Mrs Norman.]’
She fixed her gaze upon me. ‘[Miss,]’ she said.
‘[I apologise,]’ I said.
‘[Oh,]’ she said, eagerly. ‘[I’m not rebuking you, Mr Svoreshy! Not at all! Only I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea.]’
‘[I shall strive,]’ I said, bowing my head a little, ‘[not to get the wrong idea.]’
‘Can we get on?’ growled Polenski. ‘I have work to do. And judging by the way you’re eyeing her up, you presumably wish to take Madame Tub here to a hotel room and give her some private lessons in the Russian tongue.’ He laughed at his own joke. ‘Ha! Haha! Ah.’
‘[Comrade Polenski,]’ I translated, ‘[is eager to press on.]’
‘[As are we,]’ said Coyne.
‘Tell him to make his pitch,’ growled Polenski.
‘[Mr Coyne?]’ I said.
‘[That’s my cue, is it? Well, I represent an American religious institution, the Church of Scientology. We are interested in establishing a Scientological centre here in Moscow.]’
I translated for Polenski. ‘A church?’ he returned. ‘Does he want me to quote to him what Marx said about religion? I will, you know. Marx said you can stick religion up your arse. Tell him that.’
‘[It is not official Soviet policy to invite in missionaries from religious organisations,]’ I told Coyne.
‘Marx said it was the opium of the people,’ Polenski growled.
‘He also said it was the heart of a heartless world,’ I put in.
‘Fuck off, Konsty.’
‘[We appreciate that. Please relay to Mr Polenski that the Church of Scientology is not an ordinary religious organisation. As you can tell from its name, it is based on the laws of science. Our interest is not in converting Soviet citizens to our belief-system, but rather in undertaking mutually beneficial and officially-sanctioned research.]’
‘[What sort of research?]’ I asked.
‘[We have a number of ideas, and of course would need to discuss possibilities with the authorities. But for example, we in the Church of Scientology are very interested in the science of human personality. In trauma, and the effect trauma has upon the healthy development of the human mind. We have, by the same token, grave reservations about the so-called science of psychiatry, as it is practised in its post-Freudian mode; reservations we believe largely shared by the Soviet authorities. There are,]’ he concluded, ‘[a number of areas in which we could work; and with your sanction we would like to purchase a Moscow site to function as our Russian base in order to continue this work.]’
I began the process of translating all this for Polenski’s benefit, but he interrupted me after a few moments. ‘Wait, wait. Scientific research?’
‘[Scientology] from [science], science,’ I said.
‘Then it’s not my problem!’ He beamed enormously at the two Americans. ‘Fantastic! They can go bother the Office of International Scientific Coordination instead! I need never see their ugly faces ever again!’
Both Coyne and Norman seemed delighted at Polenski’s big smile. ‘[Comrade Polenski,]’ I told them, ‘[is genuinely delighted by what you say. The Soviet Union is always interested in legitimate scientific exchange and research.]’
‘[Well that’s really excellent news,]’ said Dora Norman.
‘Tell them both to fuck off,’ said Polenksi.
‘[Comrade Polenski,]’ I said, ‘[will forward your request to the Office of International Scientific Coordination.]’
‘Tell them, I hope I never see their grotesque faces again as long as I live.’
‘[He will be in touch soon,]’ I said.
And that was that. We all stood up; Dora Norman apologised once again for trying to flick away the scar tissue from my nose, and I left the room, not expecting to see either of the Americans again.
CHAPTER 4
In the lift going down I buttoned my coat and settled my hat over the worn carpet-texture of my hair, preparatory to making a dash through the entrance hall under the severe, disapproving gaze of the massy worker in the heroic mosaic on the far wall. I ducked past the doorman’s booth, scurried along and out through the main doors, and into a flurry of wind.
Collision awaited me on the open street. I was keeping my head down to avoid the breezy debris, and ducking round the corner in that posture I didn’t at first see whom it was I bumped.