one thing; she smiled as she remembered him stuffing the sugared redcurrants into his mouth, like a guilty schoolboy. And there was strength in his face that hadn’t quite gone out to grass.
Why had a man like Calder deserted his country?
It bothered her.
It also bothered her that she had come to work in this futile place. She had only been here for a month but already it depressed her. The legion of lost souls sifting foreign journals for insights into their country’s policies. Eyewash. The KGB grabbed shifts in policies before the policy-makers shifted them.
So why had she applied for the job? Come clean, Katerina Ilyina, blat, the influence that accompanies position. Bottom-of-the-scale blat, perhaps, but already she had a few perks – tip-offs about consignments of luxury goods in the stores, the promise of a one-roomed apartment of her own, the passbook that asserted she was someone to be reckoned with, a hint that one day she might be allowed to travel abroad.
With her gift for languages, English, French and German, she had romped through the academic interviews. What occasionally bothered her was the way she had weathered all the other interrogations. Why hadn’t her involvement with the feminist movement damned her? Could they possibly understand that her belief in the rights of women was not a contradiction of patriotism? She doubted it.
The knock on the door startled her. It was probably Sonya returning from one of her furtive perusals of Western magazines, eyes shining behind her spectacles at the discovery of some new and wonderful decadence. Presumably she had knocked in case Koslov was seeking his rewards.
Katerina called out: ‘Come in,’ and Calder walked in.
He seemed to fill the room.
He said: ‘I wanted to make sure you got the flowers.’
She touched the saffron blossoms. ‘I got them, thank you, they’re beautiful. But ….’ She had only spoken to Calder twice since the funeral.
‘I’m glad you like them.’
‘I love all flowers. Muscovites are like that – they see too few of them. Soon we’ll see snow flowers.’
‘Snow flowers?’
‘In the winter people fall and die from exposure. The snow covers them and they are lost until the thaw. When the snow melts they’re found perfectly preserved …. Is anything the matter Comrade Calder?’
‘No, nothing.’ Calder smoothed the frown from his forehead with his fingertips. ‘I think I prefer mimosa. I suppose it comes from Georgia.’
‘Probably. Somewhere in the south, anyway. Have you seen much of the Soviet Union, Comrade Calder?’
‘Don’t you know?’ His smile tightened.
She skated over that one. ‘Do you feel you’ve been accepted?’
‘People have been very kind.’
What sort of an answer was that?
‘Why don’t you come to a party this evening?’ she said.
Spandarian was a Georgian and therefore a schemer and on the afternoon of Women’s Day he was scheming busily in his office on 25th October Street.
On his desk were eight buff dossiers, dog-eared and stained from frequent perusals, and one eggshell blue folder, relatively unscathed.
Thoughtfully, stroking his luxuriant moustache and pulling on a yellow, tube-tipped cigarette, he picked up the dossiers in turn and scanned the latest computer print-outs inside them.
He didn’t touch the blue folder.
A knock on the door and his secretary, Yelena, cheeks as bright as a wooden doll’s, came in carrying a glass of lemon tea brewed in an electric samovar in the outer office. Spandarian slugged it with Armenian brandy.
He gestured out of the window at the grey sky drooping over Red Square. ‘A typical Moscow day.’ He sipped his fortified tea.
‘Spring is just around the corner,’ she said brightly. ‘March the eighteenth, Maslennitsa.’
Madame, he thought, you delude yourself. There was no way winter in Moscow would be locked away that early; in any case Maslennitsa was a country festival. But all Muscovites were the same: they couldn’t accept the slightest criticism of their capital city.
That was because they were Russians and still believed that the Russian republic was the Soviet Union. Didn’t they ever pause to consider the other fourteen republics? The hundred or so ethnic groups speaking different languages? Moldavians, Uzbeks, Armenians, Georgians …. Didn’t they ever cast their eyes to the sun-drenched south, peer down the Golden Road to Samarkand?
But soon they would have to face reality. Admittedly Russians accounted for more than half the 260 million or so inhabitants of the Soviet Union but the combined populations of the other republics were overhauling them, particularly with virile Georgians multiplying like rabbits. Then the Slavs in the Kremlin would have to tread warily.
‘You’re looking very smart today, ‘he told Yelena. He couldn’t quite muster ‘attractive’ even though it was Women’s Day. But he had bought her half a dozen pink carnations flown in from Tbilisi – at a knockdown price because he was Georgian.
‘Thank you, Comrade Spandarian,’ bright cheeks bunching. She was severely built and the rouge gave her a clownish air.
Spandarian finished his tea and dismissed her. ‘Adlobt.’ He spoke Georgian whenever he could. ‘That will be all.’
When she had gone he lit another yellow cigarette and stared through the window at the clustered cupolas and spires of the Kremlin. The Politburo was meeting there tomorrow; thirteen strong and not a Georgian among them. It was enough to make Stalin turn in his grave. Nine Russians, two Ukrainians – the Russians had to pay lip service to the fifty million restless souls in the south-west – and a couple of minority republics.
But with the appointment of Mikhail Gorbachev as Party Leader, the old order was changing. Out with the aged roosters, in with the young hawks. And who better placed to lead them one day than an up-and-coming Georgian KGB department chief?
Spandarian, head of the department responsible, within the Second Chief Directorate, for the defectors in Moscow, smiled crookedly at the gilded baubles across the square.
He closed his eyes and the baubles became a bunch of purple grapes freshly washed and glistening in a bowl in the restaurant at the top of the funicular climbing Holy Mountain in Tbilisi. He was eating lobio, beans in walnut sauce – his mouth watered – and drinking red Khvanchkara, the wine that Stalin, the most wily Georgian of them all, drank. Beneath him sprawled the city, cobblestone streets teeming with gangsters and girls with beckoning eyes, cafés filled with conspirators, perfumed air rustling with money and intrigue.
No, there was no one better equipped to scheme his way to the secretaryship of the Communist Party than a devious Georgian. Why in Tbilisi the name of Otari Lazishvili, Godfather of the ‘sixties who had swindled the State out
