‘Evening,’ said one of the men, nodding at me, a fellow of about my own age with a pale complexion and rotten teeth.
‘Good evening,’ I replied, in a tone that I hoped would discourage further dialogue.
‘Heard you at the bar, ordering your drink,’ he said. ‘Not from round here, are you?’
I looked up at him and sighed, wondering whether it would be in my best interests to simply stand up and leave, but decided not to allow myself to be intimidated by them.
‘Actually, I am,’ I replied. ‘I live only a few streets away.’
‘You might
live
only a few streets away,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘but you’re not
from
here, are you?’
I stared at him and then towards his companion, who was a little younger, and rather simple looking, and nodded slowly. ‘Yes, I am,’ I replied calmly. ‘I’ve lived here for nearly twenty years.’
‘But you must be my age if you’re a day,’ said the man. ‘Where were you for the twenty years before that, eh?’
‘Do you really care?’ I asked.
‘Do I care?’ he repeated with a laugh. ‘Of course I bloody care, mate, or I wouldn’t be asking you, would I? Do I care, he asks me,’ he added, shaking his head and looking around as if the entire bar was his audience.
‘It just seems like a rather dull question, that’s all.’
‘Listen, friend,’ said the man, more forcefully now, ‘I’m only trying to make conversation with you, that’s all. I’m just being friendly, like. That’s how we are here in England, you see. Friendly.
Maybe you’re not familiar with our ways, is that how it is?’
‘Look,’ I said, putting my glass down and staring him directly in the eye, ‘if you don’t mind, I’d prefer to be left in peace. I just want to enjoy my drink and read this newspaper, that’s all.’
‘Peace?’ he said, crossing his arms in front of his chest and looking at his friend, as if he had never heard anything so extraordinary in all his life. ‘Did you hear that, Frankie? This gentleman here says he wants to be left in peace. I daresay we’d all like to be left in peace, now wouldn’t we?’
‘Aye,’ said Frankie, his head nodding up and down like a braying donkey. ‘I know I would.’
‘Only we none of us have any peace any more, do we?’ he continued. ‘What with all the trouble your lot have caused.’
‘My lot?’ I asked, frowning. ‘And what lot would that be, exactly?’
‘Well, you tell me. All I know is you’re not an Englishman. You sound half-German to me.’
Now it was my turn to laugh. ‘Do you really think that if I was German I would be sitting here, in a public house in the middle of London? Don’t you think I would have been taken away and interned a long time ago?’
‘Well, I don’t know,’ he replied with a shrug. ‘They might have missed you out. You’re a crafty lot, you Germans.’
‘I’m not German,’ I said.
‘Well, that voice of yours tells me different. You didn’t grow up in Holborn, I know that much for sure.’
‘No,’ I admitted. ‘No, I didn’t.’
‘So what’s all the secrecy about, then? Got something to be ashamed of, have you? Worried you might be caught?’
I looked around and hesitated before answering; there was a hum of chatter in the room, but I could tell that most ears were tuned to our conversation nevertheless.
‘I’m not worried about anything,’ I said eventually. ‘And I’d rather not continue with this discussion, if it’s all the same to you.’
‘Then answer my question, that’s all I want,’ he said, his tone growing less patient with me now, more aggressive. ‘Come on then, Mister, if it’s not some big secret, then why can’t you tell me where that accent of yours comes from?’
‘Russia,’ I said. ‘I was born in Russia. Is that enough for you?’
He sat back for a moment and seemed almost impressed by this. ‘Russia,’ he repeated beneath his breath. ‘Where do we stand on the Russians then, Frankie?’
‘On their necks,’ said the younger man, leaning forward and attempting to look threatening, which was difficult for him as he had an innocent, childlike expression, rather like a newborn lamb struggling to find its feet; I got the impression that when he was not being called upon to speak he was lost in a world of his own thoughts.
‘Gentlemen, I think it’s time for me to leave,’ I said, standing up and walking away from them. They called after me that they were only being friendly, that all they wanted was to pass the time of day with me, but I ignored them and left the bar, aware that more than one set of eyes was focussed on me. I kept looking straight ahead, however, and turned on to the street which led towards my home. A few moments later, I heard footsteps behind me and my heart sunk. For twenty, thirty seconds I tried desperately not to turn around, but they were getting closer and closer. Finally, unable to stop myself, I looked back, just as the two men from the pub caught up with me.
‘Where do you think you’re going then?’ asked the older one, pushing me against the wall and holding me there, his hand pressed around my throat. ‘Going off to spill secrets to your Russian friends, are you?’
‘Let go of me,’ I hissed, breaking free of him for a moment. ‘You’ve both been drinking. You’re well advised to go back to it and leave me be.’
‘Well advised, are we?’ he asked, laughing as he looked at the
younger man, before pulling his arm back and clenching his fist, ready to attack me. ‘I’ll give you well advised.’
That hand never made contact with my face. My left arm grabbed his right and, old habits, snapped it immediately as my own right fist pulled back, before sweeping forward with a low blow to the side of his jaw, sending him sprawling backwards on the pavement, uttering an oath as he clutched his broken arm, which would not yet be hurting him, but growing numb and offering the sensation of great pain to come.
‘He’s broken my arm, Frankie,’ he cried, the words dribbling down his chin like spilt beer. ‘Frankie, he’s only gone and broken my arm. Get him, Frankie. Sort him out.’
The younger man looked at me in astonishment – he had not expected such violence; nor had I – and I stared at him with a cold expression, holding his gaze for a moment before shaking my head, as if to tell him that any move on his part would be an ill-conceived idea. He swallowed nervously and I turned and walked away, maintaining a steady pace as I turned the corner, trying to ignore the sounds and threats that were following in my wake.
It had been years since I had been called upon to defend myself in such a way, but I had been trained well by Count Charnetsky and the movements came back to me quickly. But still, for all that, I felt a degree of shame for my actions and told Zoya nothing of the events of the evening when I returned home, talking to her instead of Mr Trevors’ tragedy and the sympathy that Miss Simpson had offered him in his time of need.
My working hours remained unaltered. I arrived at the library at eight o’clock in the morning and left at precisely six. I spent much of my time behind the main desk, entering titles in the card system, as I had always done. When the tables became particularly messy, I assisted Miss Simpson with clearing them. When there were difficult reference books which readers needed to source, I found them and delivered them into their hands as efficiently as possible.
But this was now a cover for my real responsibilities, which lay elsewhere.
If it was just an envelope which was to be delivered to me, a note would be placed in my jacket pocket as I walked to work, without my even noticing it, with a sentence scrawled on it. A phrase that meant nothing.
Don’t forget we need milk, love Zoya
, written in a hand which was obviously not her own.
At the library, ensuring that no one was observing me, I would take a pencil and paper and look again at the words.
D for 4. F for 6. W is 23, which equals 5. N is 14, another 5. M, 13, which sums to 4. L, 12, therefore a 3. And finally Z, 26, 8.
Don’t forget we need milk, love Zoya
.
4655438
465-5438.
The book reference. Find the book, find the letter.
Read the letter.
Translate the letter.
Destroy the letter.
Deliver the meaning.
If there was more than a simple envelope, if it was a series of documents that needed to be examined, a man would pass me by as I left our flat in the morning, a different man every time, and he would bump into me and apologize, saying that he should have been looking where he was going. When this happened, I would stop to buy a newspaper and some fruit at a corner shop near the museum. As I examined the fruit, searching for the least bruised apple, I would leave my briefcase on the floor beside me. When I lifted it again, it would be slightly heavier than it was before. Then I would buy the fruit and leave.
On occasion, the telephone would ring at the museum at precisely four twenty-two in the afternoon and I would answer it.
‘Is that Mr Samuels?’ a voice would say on the other end.
‘There’s no Mr Samuels here, I’m afraid,’ I would reply, those
exact words. No divergences. ‘This is the library at the British Museum. Who are you looking for?’
‘I’m so sorry,’ was the reply. ‘I think I must have the wrong number. It was the Natural History Museum I was after.’
‘That’s perfectly all right,’ I would say, hanging up, and then, when I left work later, rather than walking directly home to my wife and child, I would take a bus towards Clapham and a car would be waiting for me on the corner of Lavender Hill and Altenburg Gardens to take me to see Mr Jones.
‘A devil of a problem for you today, Mr Jachmenev,’ he might say as I arrived. ‘Think you can handle it?’
‘I can but try,’ I would reply with a smile, and he would lead me to a quiet room and lay a series of documents or photographs before me. Or perhaps he might introduce me to a roomful of stern men, none of whom would offer their names to me, but each of whom would pepper me with questions the moment I walked through the door, and I would do my best to answer them with clarity and confidence.
On one occasion, I spent an entire night reading more than three hundred pages of telegrams and letters. Having imparted everything I had understood from them to Mr Jones, he appeared surprised by my reasoning and asked me to talk him through the logic of my translation once again. I did so, he thought about it a little more, and then summoned a car. Within the hour I was standing before Mr Churchill, who sucked on a cigar as I repeated to him what I had told Mr Jones earlier. He looked entirely displeased throughout my discourse, as if the whole direction of the war was changing and it was entirely my fault.
‘And you’re sure of this, are you?’ he asked, stomping out the words at me with a heavy scowl.
‘Yes, sir,’ I said. ‘Quite sure.’
‘Well, it’s very interesting,’ he replied, drumming his chubby fingers on the table before him for a few moments before standing up. ‘Very interesting and very surprising.’
‘Indeed, sir,’ I replied.
‘Well done, Mr Jones,’ he said then to my deliverer, checking his pocket-watch. ‘But I must go now. Keep up the good work, there’s a good fellow. Sound chap you have here, too. What’s his name, anyway?’
‘Jachmenev,’ I said, even though the question hadn’t been addressed to me. ‘Georgy Daniilovich Jachmenev.’
He turned to stare at me, as if I had been entirely impudent to answer him when the question had been directed elsewhere, but finally he nodded and went on his way.
‘A car will take you back to Clapham,’ said Mr Jones then. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to make your own way home from there.’
And so I did. Walking back in the moonlight, tired after a long day, I was nervous that at any moment the sirens would sound and Zoya, Arina and I would be separated.
Zoya smiled at me when I came through the door and prepared breakfast, placing it before me with a large pot of tea. She never once asked me where I had been.
The White Nights
T
HE WAR WAS NOT
going to our advantage.
As the riots in the streets evolved into attacks on the grain stores and municipal warehouses, the atmosphere surrounding the Imperial Family and its entourage began to change from arrogant confidence to frustration and concern. Through it all, however, the Tsar and Tsaritsa continued to divide their time between the palaces at St Petersburg, Livadia and Tsarskoe Selo and their leisure trips on board the
Standart
, as if the world was as it had ever been, and we poor disciples packed our belongings and followed them wherever they travelled.
At times it seemed as if they were entirely unaware of the mood among the people over whom they ruled, but as more news arrived from the Front regarding the number of Russian casualties, the Tsar resolved to quit the Winter Palace entirely and replace his cousin, the Grand Duke Nicholas Nicolaievich, as head of the armed forces. To my surprise, the Tsaritsa offered little opposition to his decision, but then on this occasion he did not plan on permitting their son to accompany him.
‘But is it entirely necessary?’ she asked as the family gathered for a typically sumptuous meal; I stood alongside the butlers and servants in an unobtrusive line against the walls of the dining room, none of us allowing ourselves to breathe too loudly lest it upset the Imperial digestion. Naturally, I had positioned myself opposite Anastasia so that I could watch her as she ate; when she dared, she would glance in my direction and offer a tender smile that made me forget my tired legs. ‘You mustn’t put yourself in danger, Nicky. After all, you bear too many great responsibilities for that.’
‘I understand that, but it’s important that changes are made,’ replied the Tsar, reaching for an elaborate samovar that stood on the table and refilling his cup slowly, narrowing his eyes as he watched the tea pour as if it might hypnotize him and spirit him away to a happier place. A moment later, he was using the tips of his fingers to massage his temples in a gesture of exhaustion. He had lost a great deal of weight in recent months, I noticed, and his thick, dark hair was advancing quickly towards grey. He seemed to be a man afflicted with a great and terrible burden, one that he might not be able to endure for much longer. ‘England fears that we will pull our troops away from the action,’ he continued in a tired voice. ‘Cousin Georgie has said as much to me in a letter. And as for France—’