The Squire Quartet. Brian Aldiss

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      ‘Of course you checked up on me through the KGB.’

      ‘I don’t deny. You also checked up on me – you know I am in trouble again now. That’s how the world situation is – we must check up on each other. We didn’t make that situation, you and I.’

      ‘The charges in Leningrad – they’re serious?’

      The Russian pulled a stalk of grass and bit it. ‘All things are serious, you see. Unfortunately, such is the state of morals that we all get involved with some form of graft as we progress upwards. There is no other way. Perhaps you will remember the case of Madame Furtseva, Minister of Culture and the late Khrushchev’s lady-friend. I knew her slightly – she was disgraced for such things. But that’s another tale … When I arrive at Moscow, I shall probably be tried, sentenced, and returned to the camps. My poor wife … I will never survive. I’m old, my kidney is weak. It will not be like living in a civilized English prison. Even if I could survive – even if the miracle happens and I am cleared at my trial – but that is not how they conduct trials in Moscow – I shall never again see the pleasant places of the West.’

      ‘Let’s get back to the square. I’ll buy you a drink.’ He got cautiously to his feet. This time, he extended a hand to Rugorsky, who took it and struggled up. They edged their way back along the narrow path.

      Addressing Squire’s back, Rugorsky said, laughing slightly, ‘You see, Thomas, we two are not such bad fellows, after all. We have managed some communication. There is always division between East and West, and always has been. So much mistrust. But just this afternoon we spoke like men.’

      As they rounded the base of one of the towers, Nontreale again materialized; the shadowy abyss lay behind them. Squire found his legs trembling as he stood on firm ground, staring up the narrow side street, where life was lived among overhead balconies, drooping telephone wires, eaves that almost met overhead, and stalls selling portraits of Christ and the Virgin with luminous eyeballs which glowed at night.

      They pushed their way into a bar in the main square, opposite the ice-cream parlour where they had sat earlier. Men in rough clothes were crowding the counter. Squire almost spilt the beers as he carried them to a small table.

      ‘Quite a scrum,’ he said.

      ‘No. It’s not so at all, you see. Here, nobody pushes at all. Everyone is decent and polite.’

      As they sat down, Squire said, ‘Whatever you have been up to in Leningrad, you are short of money when you come abroad.’

      Rugorsky looked searchingly over his glass at Squire. ‘It’s a privilege for you to buy me this beer. We shall think of it many years ahead. What little money I have, I keep. It’s possible a little bribe may help me at Moscow airport, because if I can fly on to Leningrad, then there’s a chance for me. In Moscow, none.’

      ‘I’m sorry. I am glad to buy you a beer. Is Kchevov keeping an eye on you?’

      ‘Of course. I’m sure you know it. But we will speak of such things no more. Instead, tell me about your Pop Expo. We are being watched by a friend of yours.’

      Turning, Squire saw that Parker-Smith was toying with a glass of wine and reading an Italian newspaper behind them.

      They caught the bus back to Ermalpa. Neither Squire nor Rugorsky spoke much on the way. Squire watched the Russian drinking in the outside world, storing away what he saw, possibly reflecting that even the dirtiest vulcanizers, carrying on their trade and their private life in two rooms, enjoyed a freedom they had no way of evaluating. And he thought, ‘The impulse to push me over the cliff in order to gain some small political advantage in Russia was in his heart. I’m sure of it, even if he denies it. Otherwise, why should I have felt threatened as I did?’

      They climbed out of the bus at last, only two blocks from the Grand Hotel Marittimo. The vehicle disappeared in a snort of grey exhaust fumes. Outside the swing doors, they paused.

      ‘I thought I might get to England from here,’ Rugorsky said abruptly. ‘But something tells me that I would not be welcome at Pippet Hall. You have a mistrust. Perhaps you still think in your mind that I had an intention to do something a little serious on the cliff at Nontreale … Well, really we are stuck with the nation we are born into, you see, and must play out its game of consequences.’

      ‘I’m sorry I can’t help, Vasili. And I didn’t lob that grenade at you in Istra.’

      ‘That’s a small cause for celebration. If you’re not feeling too unfriendly, perhaps you would like to buy us a bottle of champagne, or at least a beer.’

      He smoothed down his white lock of hair and smiled ingratiatingly, showing broken teeth. Scratch a Russian …

      ‘I’m going to my room to have a shower, Vasili. I’m sure you’ll find friends in the bar.’ They stood scrutinizing each other.

      Rugorsky shrugged. ‘Well, I understand your meaning.’ As they pushed through the swing doors into the cool of the foyer, he gave Squire one of his sly looks. ‘You do still think partly that I would be wicked enough to push you over the cliff, don’t you?’

      Looking him in the eye, Squire said, ‘If you were once one of Slatko’s men – yes.’

      Rugorsky nodded and rubbed his chin. ‘I see, Thomas. It’s because you’re not sentimental enough.’

      14

      An Ideological Decision

      Paddington, London, September 1978

      The taxi-driver talked all the way from the airport. He was eloquent on the subject of immigrants, for which he did not care. Immigrants made London dirty and refused to work. They bred like rabbits and ruined the country. Squire made little response; he did not wish to be turned out of the taxi as had happened to him once when he tried to persuade the driver that ‘the blacks’ actually contributed something to Britain’s tottering economy.

      ‘You look tired, squire,’ said the taxi-driver, familiarly, as he pulled up in Bouverie Square.

      Cheered by being thus addressed, Squire agreed he was tired.

      ‘What, been abroad then?’

      ‘That’s it.’

      ‘It is tiring abroad, innit? Dunno what people go there for.’

      Squire stood on the pavement. The taxi-driver reluctantly lifted his two cases out of the vehicle and set them on the pavement, while glancing up at the building suspiciously. ‘Can you manage them cases, squire? They look a bit posh for round here, don’t they? That’ll be twenty-five pounds, thanks.’

      It was, if not nice, recognizable to be back in England.

      As the taxi moved off in a cloud of exhaust, and Squire bent to pick up his luggage, a pudgy man, dragging a wheeled suitcase, came along the street and cried Squire’s name.

      Squire responded to the man’s smile and shook his outstretched hand. The pudgy man wore a tight pair of faded jeans, a worn leather jacket, and a light blue silk sweater marked with beer or coffee stains. His long straggling grey hair surrounded a brown bald patch on the top of his head. He was perhaps sixty years old, and panted СКАЧАТЬ