Faithless (18 page)

Bebur was inscrutable. "Of course." He lit another cigarette. "Tell me, as you came from a working class background did you feel out of place at your school?"

John shrugged. "Every day. But you get used to it. I wasn't the same as them. Never could be. Some of them were ok."             

"It's not like that in the Soviet Union. We are all equal."

"But some can smoke Western cigarettes and get driven around in Zils."

Bebur looked at the cigarette between his fingers and regarded the curling smoke. "This? I could give this up tomorrow."

"But would you?"

"If I felt it was important for the Soviet State, yes."

"So you're a committed Communist?"

"Of course. I am a member o
f the Party."

"But isn't that just a career move?"

Bebur shook his head. "I hadn't wanted to talk about serious things today, just to get to know you."

"But if pressed?"

Bebur's gaze was steady. "Tell me - do you believe that all people are born equal and there should be no difference based on what your parents did for a living or the colour of your skin, whether you are a man or a woman, what language you speak?"

"Of course."

"And do you believe that your bourgeois democracy is the best way to achieve this fairness - to stop those who are born into privilege from cementing their position at the top from generation to generation?"

"Yes."

"Then tell me why the gap between the rich and the poor in your country is growing? Why the death rates of the poorest are ten times more than the richest? Why if you are born into poverty you are most likely to die into poverty and if you are born into wealth you will remain that way?"

"Statistics. In the West you can rise up from poverty."

" It doesn't happen for most people. Remember I am a British specialist. I know the figures. The few that do rise join the capital owning classes and then exploit the people they came from. Is that good? That one parasite succeeds another?"

"Parasite is a bit strong."

"Then what do you call someone who lives a life of leisure off income generated by people who dig for coal or who pick cabbages in the rain?"

John shrugged. He agreed, but was wary of showing it. Bebur continued. "Your capitalist masters present a myth via the newspapers that
they own. They want you to believe that they have become rich by their own intrinsic worth and merit. That if they had been born into the poorest family they would still rise up by their own talents and hard work. The counter side to that myth is that those who are without work and impoverished must be so because they are morally inferior - that they don't work because they are lazy - that they are undeserving. But that is not so. The poor remain poor. The rich remain rich. They give nothing away."

"Listen,
I'm not unsympathetic to what you say."

"If you look at your own United Kingdom. How were votes given to the working people? - after long and sometimes violent struggle, because the owners of capital were forced into it by organised labour. The rich did n
ot suddenly see the light! They were forced every step of the way and believe me they will claw it all back when they can. They plan to break the power of the working class and take away every right they have been forced to concede. You will see this."

Joh
n shrugged. "This is a rather heavy conversation."

Bebur laughed. "You started it. You asked if I was a Communist. The answer is yes. And so should you be. The true division is not between nations it is between classes. The fact you are a Scot and I am a R
ussian is irrelevant. The true issue is that you are the son of a coal miner and I am the son of a coal miner. We are the same."

"And all we were going to talk about was samovars."

Bebur laughed. "I am sorry if I became too passionate."

John was still caut
ious of Bebur. "Let's change the subject. Are you married?"

Bebur looked puzzled. "No. This is an unexpected question. Would you like another beer?"

After a few more beers and a delicious borscht soup Bebur started asking about the British Embassy.

"How often do you go there?"

"Once a week or so."

"So you know the staff there quite well?"

"I wouldn't say well. I suppose I know Philip the best. He's the assistant cultural attaché. He deals with the British Council sponsored students."

"Ah yes, Mr Neil
son. He is perhaps not what he seems."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I only say this to protect you. He is perhaps a little more than a diplomat." Bebur looked searchingly at John as if seeking some confirmation in his face.

"I don't know anything about that."

Bebur shrugged. "I know he is your countryman but British intelligence is notoriously treacherous. They will use you but not protect you. Be careful."

"Are you saying he is a spy?"

"I am not saying anything other than be careful. I mean it as a friend. I know they have used British students and businessmen for spying and when they are caught they leave them to their fate. MI6 works for its capitalist masters."

"Well I'm not spying."

"No of course."

They came to the end of the meal. Bebur said, "I would like to
meet again sometime. Let me know when you have the Samovar ready for collection."

"I will," said John but wished he hadn't. He felt like he had one holiday in the Highlands when he had been swimming in the shallow water of a loch and then suddenly seen im
possible inky darkness as the bottom fell away into the deep.

May 1973, Moscow:
John's time in Russia was drawing to a close. The winter had gone. The trees were green; the weather warm. John and Joe would walk in Gorky Park and down by the River Moskva. Joe chatted to all the girls who regarded him as an oddity in his afghan coat with his long hair and tie-dye t-shirt.
"Posmotrite na Amerikanskiy!"
they would laugh and he would talk back to them in Russian, "Hello darling? Care to come for a walk?" and then they would dissolve into hysterics and run away in case the KGB thought they had any interest in him and were thus subversives. John caught a light in their eyes as if they imagined a life far away in Californian orange groves drinking margaritas and having a maid. But the good Soviet girls always hurried away because such a life wasn't meant for them. A couple of times Joe tried telling them he wasn't American but either they didn't know what Canada was or it was still too thrillingly subversive a place to be entertained.

             
"Pity," said Joe, "They'd feel totally at home with the snow and the ice. They might even join the ice hockey team."

Towards the end of May, John was at Sheremetyevo International Airport awaiting the flight from Glasgow that would b
ring his mother, stepfather and Karen to visit him for the first time. He was glad the weather was fine. He'd already arranged a taxi to take them to the Intourist Hotel and it was waiting outside, hooked by the bait of Western currency. Bribes were illegal but John had grown wise to Moscow ways and was prepared to take risks, not always looking over his shoulder as he used to when he first arrived.

             
The plane had arrived but there was a long delay while they transited immigration and customs. He thought of his own first entry into Russia and hoped Karen and his mother had an easier time. And then he saw them - Karen first - her long black hair framing her pale face making her look like a pre-Raphaelite angel. She suddenly saw him and beamed. He mouthed, "I love you," and she smiled even more deeply as she stopped her hurried walk. He wondered what she was doing. She indicated her left eye with the index finger of her left hand, put her right hand over her heart and then pointed to him.

             
His mother was there too fighting her way through the stream of people exiting the air side of the airport, looking befuddled but determined. He caught her eye and her face broke into a wide smile. William Gilroy was there beside them, looking stressed. John nodded and he nodded back.

             
They came through the barrier and he first hugged his mother and then Karen. He shook William's hand.

             
"Hello, son," said William.

             
"How was the journey?"

             
He knew that none of them had ever flown before. "Were you scared?" he smiled.

             
"Your father was a bit.  I was a lot." said his mother. "But it was ok."

             
William frowned. It was not his nature to admit weakness even in jest. Karen punched John's arm, "Not as much as I bet you were when you came, you wee jessie. Where's our hotel?"

             
"It's the evil Intourist Hotel - surly staff, bugged rooms, doors that don't shut. Paradise compared to where I live though."

             
"Does it have vodka?" asked Karen. "I've already had some on the flight."

             
"Karen!" exclaimed his mother in shame. "You're sounding like an alcoholic."

             
"Elizabeth!" shouted Karen jokingly, "you had some too!"

             
"I could do with a drink after the flight," said William. "Don't suppose they have any 80 shilling?"

             
John smiled. "No, but they have good dark beers. Zhiguvelskoye is good."

             
"I cannae even say it to order it."

             
"I can do that. Don't worry. You'll like it, I'm sure."

             
"I'm willing to give it a try," said William.

That night they all ate together in the Intourist Hotel. They had soup and meat and potatoes. The meat was stringy
. There were no greens.

             
"I like the bread best," said Karen, "with the beer it's almost edible. This meat is what?"

             
John shook his head. "Hard to say. Maybe a kind of pig?"

             
"Or a horse," said his mother. "I bet it's a horse."

             
"Could be a horse," said John. "Who knows?"

             
"I'm no eating a horse," said William and pushed his plate away.

             
"No wonder you've lost weight Johnnie. I'm surprised you've no starved to death."

             
"You get used to it. Did you bring me any Tudor crisps?"

             
Karen smiled. "I did."

Later, his mother and step-father left Karen and John together while they went to bed and the young ones went up to the modern bar at the top of the hotel. It was nearly empty. The bar staff and the doorman were sullen and unsmiling. They ordered lemon vodka and sat and looked out of the window at the lights of Moscow shining below.

             
"Did you miss me?" said Karen.

             
"Every day," said John.

             
"I missed you too."

             
"Good."

She leaned forward and kissed him. John, used by now to Russian ways, stiffened .

              "What's up?" said Karen.

             
"The Russians don't like public displays of affection. Just take a glance at the faces of the staff."

             
Sure enough their faces were sourer than before.

             
"It's only because we're in a tourist hotel that they are tolerating this at all. If we did this on the street, total strangers would stop to tell us desist in no uncertain terms."

             
"They sound rude."

             
"They're different. You get used to them. Russians have big souls and big hearts. They feel misunderstood and looked down on by the West which makes them angry."

             
"It's not just a feeling: they are looked down on - and probably misunderstood."

             
"I think so."

             
"So," said Karen, "how are we going to shag?"

             
John laughed. "I had given it some thought but it's a bit of a problem."

             
"I have my own room."

             
"Yes, bugged. Don't be surprised if they burst in."

             
"Seriously?"

             
"With cameras."

             
"They are a sick people."

             
"Much as I love the Russians, it's a sick regime. They've taken a great idea and twisted it."