any such plan. The condition had been so long with him that he was beyond that kind of hope, more an animal longing he ought not to need anymore, but necessary for him to go on living.
You could always hope, because sunspots altered by the hour. A special radio station devoted to news of them morsed out periodical bulletins from a place called Boulder:
‘FORECAST SUN ACT LOW TO MODERATE. MAG FIELD ACTIVE TO WEAK STORM. HF CONDITIONS NORMAL TO MODERATE,’ followed by a long dash from the beacon.
Atmospheric conditions varied with the equinox, yet he doubted this was the reason for Moscow’s demise, because certain random whistles and occasional taps at the key were beginning to come back, or the tuning-up of transmitters (that fizzled to nothing) or muffled voices too far out to identify.
Either there was no work for Vanya, or no planes were flying because of bad weather, or everyone was on holiday, or the system had been discontinued for lack of use, or the frequency had been changed for security reasons, or the transmitter had broken down and Vanya had gone back to his village till a telegram arrived by landline saying the equipment had been mended.
Whatever the reason, Moscow came back, and Vanya was his unmistakable, competent, idiosyncratic self. Howard’s typed log soon filled with latitudes and longitudes, and the serial numbers of Russian aircraft grew into a column on his typewriter. He recalled kids on street corners before the war writing on penny jotters the number of each car that passed, a futile pastime he’d laughed at, but which he now seemed to be following with his collection of Russian plane numbers.
Last year at the end of the tourist season Laura had taken him to Paris, and he resisted the temptation at both airports of asking her to note the numbers of any Aeroflot planes she might see on the tarmac. At London Heathrow, going through the security screen, the man took the morse key and oscillator from Howard’s bag and asked what it was for.
‘Looks like one of them little tap-tap things,’ the girl assistant said.
Howard explained that indeed it was, and gave a demonstration to prove it was no part of a secret terrorist weapon.
‘I’ve always admired blokes who can use one of them,’ the man said. ‘It must be wonderful to send messages like that.’
Howard was gratified at being wished a good journey.
‘He’s blind, as well,’ he heard the girl say. ‘Did you notice?’ as Laura led him away for coffee.
At evening in the hotel he took out his key to send an item or two to himself. Rich days of different air and unusual food, and going around galleries with a hired commentary plugged into his ear – perfect for a blind man – demanded some therapy before going to bed, a few paragraphs of impressions:
‘Light comes out of darkness as I see the paintings, according to colours conjured up by myself. The shapes, too, face and bodies, seascapes, buildings and sunsets and harvest fields. I smelled petrol but we leaned over the bridge and caught an odour of water. I touched the stones of Notre Dame, their surface like the sides of a well-used matchbox. Inside, the world of peace expanded in all directions.’
Sitting in a tearoom on the rue de Rivoli, after a couple of exhausting hours in the Jeu de Paume, he heard the German Numbers Woman counting in her precise and authoritarian voice. He flushed red and felt a thudding beat of the heart. How could she be in Paris? Her employers were so happy with her year-in and year-out duty at the microphone that she had been awarded a special excursion to France. They even paid a woman to look after the children while she was away.
Laura was frightened when he half stood for no reason, clattering his cup, a spoon falling. ‘Oh, it’s her!’ he cried, then sat, because the recitation of numbers had stopped, the bell of the till rang her off. ‘Does she have children?’
She couldn’t think what he meant. ‘Who?’
‘The woman going out.’
‘She’s only a German tourist.’
‘What was she like? Tell me.’
‘There was a man with her. They were deciding what tip to leave. I hardly saw her. Tall and blonde, I think.’
His hands shook. Something had upset him, the heart pounding through his shirt. Her happiness was in knowing he couldn’t see her tears, surreptitiously dabbed with the napkin. ‘What was she wearing?’
‘I’m not sure. I only saw her in the mirror. A red see-through mac.’
‘Did she have a hat on?’
Such holidays were difficult, but she wouldn’t give them up. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Weren’t you sure?’ He turned his head in the direction of the door, hard to stop himself blundering out to follow her. Perhaps she was in Paris with the American boyfriend he had given her, and someone in her small German town was taking care of the children as a favour, without payment. From then on he imagined her a few paces behind, or one room in front of them in a museum. Where had she gone? Useless and hopeless. He would never catch her in the crowds. The darkness grew more sombre than it had for weeks.
Laura noted that for the rest of the holiday he was edgy, moody, and apologetic about his behaviour, which upset her even more. Back home he couldn’t find the German Numbers Woman on the airwaves for a week, proof if he needed any that she was still in Paris.
Hearing Vanya again was like resuming touch with an old friend. Maybe he hadn’t been off the air at all, simply that his services were so infrequently needed that Howard hadn’t tuned in at the right time. As simple as that. He often lost patience while waiting for transmissions, moving from atmospheric emptiness to a search for equally interesting items, of which there were still many. But here was Vanya, bouncing out his wares with the usual alacrity.
Astute due to his aircrew training, Howard made guesses as to where planes were going to and coming from. If a plane received two positions within a certain time he could, with Laura’s help (though he called for it as little as possible) calculate the airspeed and work out the plane’s direction, and speculate on what was being carried if it was not travelling on a usual airline route. One vector suggested a flight to Tripoli in Libya, taking God knew what, then Vienna, to bring back vintage bottles of the Blue Danube maybe, another to China for chopsticks and tinned dog, one over the Himalayas to India for tea, and one to a place in Afghanistan, no doubt a bit of private enterprise for drugs.
He plotted one to Archangel, and one to Spitzbergen, while still another was on its way to Yakutsk for a cargo of smoked reindeer meat. The speed of one plane was calculated as so fast, at 1175 miles per hour, that it must have been the Konkordski, going from Rostov to Samarkand. Another plane trundled along so slowly it could only be piston engined – or the wind was so strong it almost stood still. Or was it going in circles? Or it had landed somewhere and taken off again between the two calls. Or Vanya’s mechanism had got the second position wrong, which sometimes happened.
He went into the wireless room instead of waiting for Laura to read him the newspaper he had just brought back, and picked up stations so far west they were still belting out good mornings. With others it was good afternoon, so by knowing the time zone of their messages he could guess the longitude. The radio officer of a ship coming up Channel fixed his oscillators to tinkle out the first bars of ‘My Darling Clementine’, a ruse to wake the coast stations. Another ship’s operator was sending ‘Three Blind Mice’ to get himself into a social mood. Howard decided to concentrate on the eight-megacycle band. Let
