Authors: Jonathan Coe
Pastorale d’Eté
Early in the afternoon of Saturday, 9 August 1958, Andrey and Emily
came to collect Thomas from the gateway of the Motel Expo Wemmel. As he might have predicted, they were travelling in some style. Andrey was driving a 1956 ZiS 110 convertible sedan, in pale blue: the very pinnacle of Soviet car production. The weather promised to be perfect and Andrey had folded the roof of the car all the
way back to allow maximum exposure to the sunshine. His eyes were
shielded by cobalt-blue polarized sunglasses and he was wearing a light-cream sports blazer, with a silk neckerchief tucked into the open collar of his white shirt. Emily, for her part, wore a white linen shirt, navy-blue slacks, a navy-blue patterned paisley headscarf, and cat-eye sunglasses. They looked like a pair of movie stars. Climbing into his allotted space on the back seat, Thomas felt scruffy and self-conscious by comparison.
It took little more than half an hour to drive the thirty-five kilometres to Wijgmaal, where the arrival of the Russian car caused something of a sensation. It was a sleepy, suburban town, split in two by the narrow strip of green water that was the river Dijle. Half a dozen children were playing on the grassy recreation ground near to the bridge, but they abandoned their game and came running when the visitors appeared. ‘
Kom kijken! Kom kijken!
’ they shouted to all their friends, trotting along in
the wake of the car and running their hands along its bodywork,
treating it as though it were a cat that did not particularly want to be stroked. Andrey waved back at them and maintained the fixed, white-toothed grin that, to Thomas at least, was beginning to look more and more calculated and sinister. Look at him, he thought: he’s loving this attention, even though he would probably run these kids over at the drop of a hat if it suited his purposes.
‘Beautiful car,’ was all he said, however, as they unloaded the picnic things from the boot.
‘Not bad, is it?’ Andrey agreed. ‘You see, even we Russians know something about design.’
‘And yet, I would have thought,’ Thomas said, lifting up one of the two heavy wicker baskets, ‘that the use of cars like this would be restricted. To people high up in the Party, I mean.’
Was it just his imagination, or did Andrey seem to bridle for a moment, before resuming his usual air of slightly menacing
bonhomie
?
‘You have a very inaccurate idea of how things work in my country,’ he said. ‘This car belongs to the Soviet Embassy in Brussels. All I had to do was ask.’
‘I had no idea that magazine editors were granted such privileges.’
‘We are a nation that loves literature.’
‘And is that why they give you so much freedom of movement?’
‘Freedom of movement?’
‘It’s just that somebody told me most of the Soviet pavilion staff were confined to a hotel when they weren’t working. And they were taken to and from the pavilion every day by bus. They’ve not seen anything of Brussels itself at all. Whereas you seem to have more or less the run of the place.’
‘The “somebody” who told you these things was misinformed,’ said Andrey, shortly. ‘Now – which way shall we go? I think we are sure to find a pleasant spot in that direction.’
He pointed roughly south, upstream along the Dijle, back towards Leuven. But Thomas shook his head.
‘No, we have to go this way,’ he said, and gestured northwards from the bridge. ‘It doesn’t look as nice, but once we’ve followed the curve of the river for a few minutes, you’ll see. It will be much prettier.’
Emily could sense the tension between the two men and did her best to defuse it, by saying: ‘Thomas has very definite ideas about where we should be having this picnic. He seems to be quite the expert on this part of Belgium.’
‘Very well,’ said Andrey, grimly. ‘Let’s follow the expert.’
The river, as Thomas’s mother had told him, was not very wide at this point, and the bridge they were standing on crossed it without rising or falling at all. Although there was no clear path to be seen, it was easy enough to scramble down to the water’s edge, and from there they started to pick their way through the long grass, Thomas and Andrey carrying a basket each, Emily a rolled-up picnic rug under each arm.
The sky was deep-blue, almost azure, and there was a wonderful stillness all around them. To their left, the river meandered, a pale, mysterious green, opaque and cloudy in the afternoon sunlight; to their right, after two minutes’ walk from the bridge, a broad meadow opened out, dotted here and there with thistles, its grass bleached to grey-brown by weeks of dry weather. Thomas carried his mother’s map with him and led the way, looking back occasionally at Emily and Andrey, who were walking too close together for his liking, and talking in a way which seemed to be far too murmuringly familiar.
Soon they had reached a place where the river curved languidly to the west, and at the point of the curve there was a wide expanse of long grass – partly shaded by a nearby cluster of sycamores – which positively insisted that passers-by throw down their picnic rugs and linger there. So that was what they did. And after only a few minutes they heard voices, and the sound of approaching bicycles: Thomas looked back towards the bridge and saw that the others had arrived. After Andrey had derailed his plans for a quiet afternoon with Emily
à deux
, he had admitted defeat and, falling in with her original suggestion, given her free rein to invite as many people as she liked. So now Anneke was here, along with her friend Clara and a dark-haired young man he didn’t recognize. The three of them dismounted from their bicycles and began to push them along the riverbank towards the picnic spot. Thomas and Emily went to meet them halfway; Andrey stayed where he was.
‘My, my!’ said Emily to Anneke, admiringly. ‘Now that’s a sensible mode of transport, if ever I saw one. Did you ride them all the way from Brussels?’
‘It wasn’t so far,’ said Anneke. ‘About an hour and a half. And as you know, there are no hills in Belgium.’
She looked flushed and healthy from her morning’s exercise: her skin, which had already been sporting an even tan for the last few weeks, glowed with new vitality, and her eyes were shining brightly. Clara was sweating and gave off a faint, not displeasing animal smell. But Thomas was more interested in the third member of their party. He was tall and thickset and carried himself well. He looked to be roughly in his mid-twenties. He had a neatly trimmed black moustache and dark, enquiring brown eyes which returned Thomas’s stare with challenging but friendly curiosity.
‘Oh – this is my friend,’ Anneke explained. ‘His name is Federico. I hope you don’t mind that I brought him along.’
‘Of course not, my dear,’ said Emily. ‘An Italian gentleman – how exotic! Could this little gathering
be
any more cosmopolitan?’
Federico nodded at her and smiled.
‘Federico is a waiter at the Italian pavilion,’ said Anneke. ‘We met for the first time a few days ago. I’m afraid he doesn’t speak much English.’
‘Well, never mind that, dear. He’s awfully ornamental, at least. Now come along and spread yourselves out. We were just about to dive into the food. We worked up an appetite just driving here, so Lord knows what you must be feeling like.’
Andrey stood up when the ladies approached and offered Anneke and Clara each a gracious kiss on the hand. He shook hands briefly and formally with Federico, and then poured glasses of wine for everyone. When they were all seated, with their glasses poised, he said: ‘Allow me, if I may, to propose a short toast. We live in a world in which political barriers are constantly being erected between people of the different nations. Many of these barriers, in my view, are needless. The fact that we can sit down together like this – six people, from five different countries – proves that they are needless. Expo 58 proves that they are needless. So let us raise a glass to our generous and forward-thinking hosts, the people of Belgium, and to Expo 58!’
‘To Expo 58!’ everyone echoed.
‘I would also like to thank Mr Foley,’ Andrey continued, ‘for bringing us to this truly delightful spot. Tell me, Thomas, how did you hear of it? Where did you obtain your information?’
‘It was my mother’s suggestion,’ said Thomas.
‘Your mother?’
‘Yes. My mother is Belgian.’
‘Really? You’ve kept that a very closely guarded secret from the rest of us.’
‘We’re all entitled to our secrets, Mr Chersky,’ said Thomas. Andrey gazed back at him coolly. ‘And as for my mother, she used to live near here. Very close to where we’re sitting right now.’ But he realized, at that moment, that he would very much rather keep the rest of his mother’s story to himself. There were at least two people present with whom he preferred not to share it. ‘She told me about this river. She used to come here herself, I believe, when she was a young girl. Perhaps even on days like this.’
Breaking the reflective pause that followed, Emily said: ‘Well, who could blame her? It’s quite heavenly here.’ She rested her wine glass carefully on the grass and sat back, reclining on her elbows, tilting her face towards the sun. ‘Look at that sky. Listen to that stillness. This is one of those places – one of those days – that just makes you wish time could stand still. Don’t you agree?’
‘Today, I suppose, we might allow ourselves the luxury of thinking like that,’ said Andrey. ‘Although it strikes me as a somewhat decadent viewpoint. We are not typical people, after all, and the situation in which we find ourselves this afternoon is not typical. To be sitting here as we are, in these circumstances, marks us out as privileged. None of us lives in extreme poverty, or want. Yet there are workers all around the world whose lives are a daily fight for survival. They would not want time to stand still, even on a day like this. They are hungry for progress. Which reminds me . . .’ (he reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out the latest issue of
Sputnik
, carefully folded) ‘. . . have you seen this yet, Thomas? It contains the essay I was telling you about.’
‘Ah! The famous essay,’ said Thomas, taking the paper from him.
‘Thanks for the lecture on workers’ living conditions,’ said Emily, allowing Andrey a smile which was at once fond and challenging. ‘And what essay is this, exactly?’
‘I have commissioned one of our most eminent scientists to gaze into a crystal ball, as it were, and tell us what life will be like for us all in one hundred years from now. I think the results will impress you.’
Thomas had found the relevant page and was scanning the opening paragraphs of the article with interest.
‘Well, come on, then,’ said Emily. ‘Read it out loud. I’m sure everybody here would like to know what it says.’
‘Very well.’ Thomas folded the paper in half for easier reading, cleared his throat, and announced: “ ‘
The Man of the Twenty-first Century
.
“ ‘The science which deals with man’s life, his development and nutrition is progressing year after year.
“ ‘
What will man be like 100 years hence?
“ ‘This was the question put by our correspondent” – Mr Chersky, in other words – “to Honoured Worker of Science” – very impressive! – “Prof. Yuri Frolov. The substance of the answer is as follows.
“ ‘Imagine that we are living in the year 2058. The boundaries between manual and mental labour have been obliterated throughout the century. All the necessary conditions exist for the normal and harmonious physical and psychological development of man. Although people are already using atomic energy in every sphere of the national economy, and have tamed the forces of nature, they have not grown weaker; on the contrary, they look stronger than 100 years ago. They are always cheerful, they feel at ease everywhere and . . . pray, let this not trouble you, they eat and drink comparatively little.’ ”
‘That doesn’t trouble me at all,’ said Emily. ‘But do carry on.’
“ ‘Biochemists of the 21st century have succeeded in synthesising carbohydrates and even proteins, with the result that new foods have been produced; although their nutritive value is good and they taste as nice as bread or meat for instance, they are not as bulky. The internal organs are performing entirely new functions connected with the special qualities of deuterium. Taken in minute quantities instead of ordinary water, this isotope of hydrogen is performing a formerly unknown function; it is inhibiting the processes of dissimilation, i.e. decomposition of substances in the organism.’ ”
‘Hmm. So what is he saying, exactly? That a hundred years from now, we’re all going to be spared the embarrassment of having to queue for the ladies’ room?’
‘Possibly. But more importantly – listen: “That is why the height of people in the 21st century will be much above average. They will all be healthy, irrespective of their age, though some of them will be over 100. Together with fruit juices they will drink heavy water in prescribed doses.
“ ‘Physical culture and sport are popular among the young and old. All the cities have been converted into garden cities, and every city has stadiums, swimming pools and other athletic facilities. And most interesting of all, one does not meet any grey-haired or senile people in these cities. They all walk proudly erect, with a springy step, their complexion is healthy and their eyes shine with vigour and happiness.’ ”
‘It sounds wonderful,’ said Anneke. ‘What a shame that none of us will be alive to see it.’
‘Well,’ said Emily, ‘if we all manage to stagger on until, say, 130 or 140, then there’s hope for us yet . . .’
“ ‘This rejuvenation has not come at once,’ ” Thomas continued. “ ‘It was a gradual process, and it is the result of the measures taken by the state” – ah yes, I was wondering when we were going to get around to that – “to improve the health of the people, with special stress on the investigation and elimination of the causes of ageing.