'Six bottles of vodka, comrade.' The girl's smile seemed painted into place.
'Can I get you anything else?'
'Not right now, darling. Unless you
will accompany us to Madam Csank
'
The girl's mouth moved; the smile changed shape. It was impossible to decide the emotions behind the smile. Rosenblatt s
aluted, scooped four of the bottl
es into his arms. Galitsin took the other two, opened the door. The sun had disappeared, and it was a sombre October evening, with more than
a
hint of winter chill in the air. The officers waited in the doorway while a procession filed by, some fifty students, marching with bowed heads, carrying black drapes. One of them, who wore a beard, glanced
at
the liquor store, saw the two Russians, and spat on the pavement. Not at them, of course. He might have had
‘
T
.B.
'See what I mean?' Rosenblatt asked. 'Bloody fascist swine. There are too many of those left around,
’
'What are they doing?'
'They are preparing for tomorrow. Tomorrow, my dear Alexander, they are going to re-bury that fellow Rajk, and some of his associates, who were executed for plotting against the Rakosi regime, oh, three or four years ago. Rajk was the Beria of this country, you know. The natural enemy of students like those. Now he is to be re-buried as an heroic opponent of the cult of personality. It would be amusing were it not also dangerous. Once encourage these young hooligans on to the street and who knows what will follow. Come. Madam Csank's is the place for us.'
‘I
will get out here,' Tigran Dus said. 'You will go on driving, for fifteen minutes, and then you will return here. If I am not waiting for you, repeat the manoeuvre.'
'Yes, Comrade Colonel,' said the driver.
Dus closed the door, watched the car move up the street, waited while a tourist bus stopped and disembarked its passengers, all glancing curiously at the man in uniform. Tourists amused Dus. They were eager to criticise, to find fault, because they had been conditioned to find fault, and at the same time they were terrified, expecting to be tapped on the shoulder by some dark-visaged man in
a
trench-coat and a slouch hat. They smiled at soldiers. Red Army personnel were still regarded in the West as good fellows who had borne the brunt of the fighting against the Nazis. "He wondered how long that would last. But because he wore uniform they even smiled at Tigran Dus.
He walked across the stree
t, stood on the terrace, looked
down from the Lenin Hills on to the distant panorama of Moscow itself. A glance to his right revealed the towers of the university. Below him, the river wound its way in and out of the myriad blocks of flats, the blossoming skyscrapers which would be the luxury hotels of the next decade, the whole still insignificant when compared with the Kremlin. Dus had been born in an Armenian village, and goats had given milk at his father's door. Moscow had always been his goal. He had reached the city as a teenage veteran of Trotsky's army, and he had made it his home. But it had had to belong to him at least as much as he had been prepared to belong to it; perhaps the driving force which had carried him into Military Intelligence had arisen from nothing more than this ambition.
He stood by the bench, saluted. Helena Isbinska raised her head, flushed. It was early afternoon, and although the sun still shone brighdy, the heat had gone from the October noon. Helena wore a coat, and her hands were deep in her pockets. "You startled me, Comrade Colonel.'
'Then I apologise, Helena Petrovna. May I sit down?'
'Please do.'
He sat beside her, looked down the tumbling green slope at the two boys, rolling over and over, laughing and shouting. 'They are lovely children. Do you bring them up here often?'
'Always, on my afternoon off. In the winter they play at skiing. But you know all of that, Comrade Colonel.'
The grey eyes were so very cool. Far cooler than Alexander's. 'What makes you say that?'
'Because you are a colonel in the Fourth Bureau, because you knew where to find me, and that means you have had me followed. And, presumably, investigated.'
'You resent this?'
Helena shrugged.
'I am interested in you, Helena Petrovna. Because I am interested in your brother.'
She turned her head to gaze at him. 'Why?'
'He is a young man of unusual accomplishments, as you are a young woman of unusual accomplishments.'
She frowned. 'Alexander plays a fair
ly strong game of chess. And he
has been decorated for gallantry ten years ago. I suppose there cannot be more than a million men in the Soviet Union to whom that description would apply. But I do not even play chess very well.'
'I assume you speak English very well, Helena Petrovna,' Tigran Dus said, in English.
The frown deepened. 'Not so well as you, Comrade Colonel,' she replied, also in English.
Tigran Dus reverted to Russian. 'Now, how many Heroes of the Soviet Union would fall into
that
category, do you think?' He took out a packet of cigarettes, offered it.
Helena Isbinska inhaled. 'You are wasting your time, Comrade Colonel. Alexander would never consider intelligence work. He is . . . I'm not sure how to put it. Too open, perhaps. Too simple, perhaps. Uncomplicated. Besides
...'
She smiled. 'He despises the Fourth Bureau. You are not offended?'
'By you, Helena? Never. All line soldiers despise the Fourth Bureau. But they could not exist without us, and certainly they could never prosper without us looking after them. Just as the Party
could not prosper without the
K.G.B. You are a Party member?'
'Of course.'
‘
You have no doubts?'
'Would I confess them to you, Comrade Colonel?'
'I wish you would. Everyone is doubting nowadays. We are living in a new age of doubt. Possibly Russia's first age of doubt. The Romanovs never permitted anyone to doubt. It is even possible to doubt whether N. S. Kruschev is really a good thing, or whether in the years to come he will not be regarded as a mistake.'
Still Helena smiled. But
she would step into no traps. ‘
Who knows, Comrade Colonel.'
'Tell me about your mother.'
The smile faded. 'She died in the war.'
‘
You watched her die.'
Helena Isbihska gazed at Tigran Dus. "Yes, Comrade Colonel. I watched her die.' 'And you see her still.'
He watched the hands curl, the nostrils flare. The cool eyes were only masks, after all.
‘
Yes, Comrade Colonel,' she said.
‘I
see her still.'
‘
One should never forget,' Tigran Dus said. 'As for the other matter, the fact that Alexander is, as you put it, too open, too simple, is to his advantage. The best intelligence agents are men of the best character. It only requires one or two devious brains to tell
them what to do’
'Like you, Comrade Colonel?'
Tigran Dus smiled. 'Of course, Helena. You do not mind my calling you Helena?'
'I am flattered. But I do not understand you. I have no influence with Alexander. We are almost strangers nowadays. He is too lonely. This disturbs me. He has no friends, not even in the regiment. I wish he would get married. Chess is a game, not a way of life.'
'That is a very good analysis, Helena. But it is not carried to a logical conclusion. Alexander has no friends amongst, his brother officers because he is not truly intended by nature to be a soldier. Do not misunderstand me. He is regarded by his superiors as an excellent officer. But this is because he is intelligent and conscientious. He takes his duty very seriously. But he is
too
intelligent, too serious-minded, for the routine of soldiering, and he is too introspective for the brutality which is so often a necessary part of being a successful soldier. So if you did have any influence over him, Helena, would you not suggest that intelligence work might suit his talents? And I might add it is a better career than line soldiering, at least in time of peace.'
Helena Isbinska stood up. 'I would not wish Alexander to go in for intelligence work. It covers too wide a field. It uses people. It is not an admirable profession. Now I must take my boys home.' She walked to the edge of the terrace, clapped her hands.
Tigran Dus l
it a cigarette. He thought that, for a Ukrainian, Helena Isbinska had nice legs.
III
The woman sat in a straight chair, her legs crossed, twined round' one another. She was naked, like all the other women, and the thin legs were stretched into lines of muscle and sinew and bone, fading gently into wide thighs, smooth rounded buttocks into which a man could sink his hands. Her skin was a clear, gentle brown, and her red toenails gleamed. Her belly was more wrinkled than it need have been, because of the arch of her back, but the wrinkles were there, losing themselves in the soft down of her groin, the stretch marks of
at
least one, and perhaps two, large babies. Her breasts were small, but sagged attractively. She cupped her right breast in her left hand, forcing the nipple and surrounding aureole forward, and lipsticked it with sensuous care; the left nipple already glowed to match her toenails. Engrossed as she was, her head was bowed, and Galitsin saw only the top of her hair, brown, parted up the centre, and worn long. It was thin hair, for a Magyar, and flopped on her shoulders and forward across her face; when a strand of it got in the way of the lipstick she shrugged it away with a hint of impatience. ' Galitsin ran his fingers into the lawn of his own head. He felt no surprise; he had never doubted he would find her in
a
brothel. That she still commanded a place in Buda's best was a bonus. He was glad he had come upon her last; he had been startled to discover that none of the girls at Madam Csank's wore clothes when working. 'No finesse here,' Rosenblatt had said happily. 'You can see right away just what you want, what you can have.'
There had been
a
great deal that a man might want, that
a
man could have, right away. Rosenblatt had disappeared in a matter of seconds. But Rosenblatt was regular customer. Galitsin was
a
new boy. Madam
C
sank had herself taken him by the arm, introduced him to a well-covered, black-haired miss. But he had wanted to wander, to look them all over, drawn by his instincts, as he had been drawn by his instincts for eleven years, as he had worked with great patience for this transfer back to Budapest.
She gazed
at
his boots, raised her head, slowly, looked at his pants for several seconds before reaching his face. Her features were sharper than he remembered them, had taken on
a
certain confidence; her mouth was still slack, but her eyes had more life. Could it be possible that she enjoyed her work?
She smiled, and said, 'Good evening, Comrade Captain,' in Russian.
Of course, she would have learned to speak the language. When, he wondered? For how long had she, necessarily, been speaking Russian? 'Good evening.'
She looked down at her nipple again, added a last stroke. She was a perfectionist.
'Why do you make up your breasts?'
She closed the tube. 'It is attractive. And sweet-tasting. Do you not like to kiss a girl's breasts?' She got up, stepped in front of him, reached behind her for his hand. Her fingers were dry and firm. He liked the feel of them. He gave her the bottle of vodka.
He watched her shoulder blades, moving to and fro as she walked. Her buttocks moved even more attractively. She walked well. She was too poised to earn a living at Madam Csank's. Or perhaps only those who earned their livings at Madam Csank's could walk like that,
She opened a door, waited for him to pass her. 'I am the oldest of die girls here, Comrade Captain. Did you not know that? I am a veteran. When Madam Csank started, back in 'forty-five, I was her first girl.'
'Then you will also be the best' He sat on the bed. There was one chair, a dressing table, and a washbasin.
'Oh, yes,' she agreed with simple pride. 'I am also the most expensive. Did Madam not tell you that, either? Colonels and majors are more in my line. Sometimes even a general. It is over a year since I had a captain. This will cost you a month's pay.' She took two glasses from the dressing-table drawer, opened the bottle of vodka, poured. 'Would you like to change your mind?'
'Is it your business to change my mind?'