Faithless Page 12

  "Right."

  "Hey Johnnie, we need to hit the road. More snow has fallen. We have to get to our humble accommodation, unlike these diplos who can drop into nearby beds of goose down and crisp Irish linen."

  Bebur said, "I can give you a lift."

  John shook his head. "We'll be ok."

  Joe shook his head harder. "No we won't. We'll take the lift. Get your coat."

  Bebur still had a full glass of whisky. John apologised. "He's Canadian. Colonial roughness you know."

  Bebur said. "No it is fine. Let us go." He downed the glass in one. They went to get their coats. Yelena was sitting on a windowsill near the exit door. It looked like she had been crying some more.

  Bebur got her coat for her and the four of them were about to leave when Philip turned up at the door. "I see you're leaving chaps. Thanks for giving the boys a lift on this cold snowy night Mr Gelashvili."

  "It is not a problem Mr Neilson. Anything in the interests of Anglo-Soviet relations."

  "Just so," said Philip.

  "I'm Canadian," said Joe, tipsy from the whisky.

  Philip winked. "I know, and I'm glad that we continue to stand shoulder to shoulder. By the way, John, I wonder if you'll call and see me this week?"

  John was puzzled. "Anything important?"

  Philip shook his head. "No, no. Just when you get time." He paused. "And you know you can talk to me any time. Even about personal things."

  John shook his hand. "Thanks Philip. I appreciate it."

  "The car is at the front," said Bebur. "We mustn't hold up traffic."

  The car, a black Foreign Ministry Zil, was waiting outside the Embassy, its headlights cutting beams through the swirling snow. Bebur got in the front passenger seat. Joe, Yelena and John got in the back. Yelena was in the middle. John tried to keep some space between them so their thighs didn't touch but it was difficult. She moved away. As they drove their way through the deserted Moscow Streets she turned to him and said, "Don't worry. I won't touch you again."

  He sighed. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

  In the light of the streetlamps they passed he could see her shadowy face had turned away.

  "I don't mean to hurt you," he said. " I'm flattered. You're beautiful."

  "But I'm not Karen."

  Shortly afterwards Joe shouted, "Drop us here!" The car pulled up. They thanked Bebur and the driver. Yelena didn't speak. Bebur turned round and gave John his card. "John, I'd like to meet up so you can help me with my knowledge."

  "Of course. Thanks for the lift."

  "I will ring," he said then closed the door behind them.

  They stood in the ankle deep snow and watched the Zil pull away.

  "Are you really going to meet him?" said Joe.

  "You must be fucking joking," said John. "Come on, it's freezing out here."

  Later, he closed his bedroom door and went to sit at the small desk by his bed. He turned the anglepoise lamp so that he could better see the letter in his father's unfamiliar handwriting – the black ink now slightly brown, the paper yellowing. His hand was shaking. His father had written:

  To my son John, whom I have never seen, nor will. I'm leaving this letter to you in a sealed envelope for my mother to find and send after I do what I have to. Firstly, I ask your forgiveness. Every son deserves a father to guide him as he grows to be a man. I am sorry I was not that to you. Despite that we will never know each other in life, I want you to believe that I love you. You are always in my thoughts and I have tried many times to contact your mother.

  I loved your mother. I don't understand why she sent me such a letter accusing me of not caring, which was so far from the truth. I could love no one else and I wish I could tell her that, but her ears are turned from me.

  You will hear what I have done, but perhaps not understand it until you are older, if ever. I have done something unforgivable and I can see no other exit. I have betrayed a loyalty to what I am.

  I will tell you about myself. I was born here in Edinburgh but my parents came from County Monaghan in Ireland. They left because they had no food and no hope. They thought things would be better here. My father found work in the coalmines in Lothian. I followed him into the pit aged 15. There, I who sound as Scots as anyone else, was hated and cursed from being Irish and a Roman Catholic. But I rose above nationalism, which is something encouraged by the rich to set worker against worker. I joined the Communist Party as a young man and have been committed to its work since then.

  John, I don't know what life will give you and what path you will follow but in this world of injustice I hope that your heart will lead you to do what is right and to stick by it whatever the temptation, whatever the cost. Though we will never meet, remember that I love you.

  James Fee, your father.

  And when he had read the letter, John wept.

  February, 1973, Moscow: John went to all of his lectures, unlike some of the Western students who lay in bed the morning after a night's vodka in the communal kitchen. He went to lectures on Gorky and Ostrovsky and Socialist Realism but he preferred Classical Russian literature.

  He wanted to buy his family a Samovar as a present for when he went home so he caught the Metro into town and took a trip to the GUM store. There wasn't one there that he liked, but still he had plenty of time before the end of the year. As he was out and about in the city he thought he would go and see Philip Neilson at the Embassy to find out what he had wanted.

  Philip was in a good mood. He offered tea and Mars Bars as usual.

  "So, what did you want to see me about?" said John.

  "I noticed that Bebur Gelashvili was taking an interest in you."

  John shrugged. "He's asked me to meet up with him to help him with his cultural knowledge of Britain." John laughed and took a sip of tea. Unexpectedly Philip seemed not to share the joke. He leaned forward. "That sounds like something you could do."

  "I beg your pardon? Why would I? I don't want to be photographed with a sailor."

  Philip laughed. "No, Gelashvili is a lot smoother than that. He's a diplomat. No sailors for him I should think." He paused then said, "But of course if he did like sailors, that would be interesting too."

  John unwrapped his Mars Bar and took a bite.

  Philip said, "Listen, why don't you meet up with Mr Gelashvili and help him with his research? It would probably help you with your Russian too."

  "My Russian's fine thank you."

  "No offence. It is rather good."

  "None taken. I can't believe that you want me to cosy up to the Soviets. I thought your job was protecting me from them."

  "I'm only asking you to be friendly.

  John narrowed his eyes. "I see. Friendly."

  "We're quite interested in him."

  "Who's we?"

  Philip smiled. "Oh you know - us."

  John saw he wasn't going to get a straight answer. "What sort of things do you want to know about him?"

  "Oh, what he likes. Does he have expensive tastes? Does he like boys - or girls? What are his politics? Is he religious?"

  "Hmm. Hard to fit all of that in over coffee. I can try. And without wishing to sound mercenary, what's in it for me?"

  "A lot of Mars Bars?" said Philip tentatively. "Seriously, I'm sure we could help out with smoothing arrangements for family visits and suchlike. Plus I would be indebted to you."

  "And what makes you think, I'm on your side?"

  Philip looked serious. "Because you've seen the choice. Here they lock you up if you murmur a protest. Here they have democratic centralism that isn't democratic at all. Here if you step out of line you and your family go on an extended holiday to Siberia, if they don't shoot you. Did you know that not believing in communism is a mental illness in the Soviet Union?"

  "As is being homosexual in England and America."

  Philip smiled. "Touché. But I'd still rather live there than here. And so would you and so would most of the population of the Soviet Bloc. Bu
t seriously, if you have ideological concerns, then I won't hold that against you."

  John shook his head. "It's no big deal. Just a chat that's all. Nothing more than that is it?"

  "No, old bean. Care for another Mars Bar?"

  About a week after seeing Philip in the Embassy, John telephoned Bebur Gelashvili from the pay telephone in the student hall of residence. Gelashvili seemed surprised, but pleased, to hear from him. After the initial pleasantries, John said, "Mr Gelashvili..."

  "John, I want you to call me Bebur." John realised that the Georgian was using the ТЫ familiar pronoun, as if he were a friend.

  "Of course, Bebur. I have a slight problem that I hoped you could help me with."

  "Of course John. What is it?"

  "It's a silly small thing, but I am buying my mother a samovar as a gift from Russia. It took me a while to find the right one."

  "Very nice. It is a typical Russian item. You have chosen well."

  "The trouble is that the paperwork for shipping it is complicated and I'm having trouble navigating through the process."

  "I can certainly help you with that."

  "Thank you."

  Bebur said, "Listen, it is difficult to talk on the phone. Why don't we meet up?"

  "When?"

  "Today, at around 3pm? At the Gorky Restaurant. I'll pick you up."

  "Shouldn't you be working?"

  "I will make time to help you."

  They met outside the front of the Moscow State University. Bebur was driving his own car - not the official Zil. But still that fact that he had his own car showed his prestigious position within Soviet Society. It was a Moskvitch 412 Sedan in black. It looked a little boxy to John and certainly wasn't as comfortable as the Ford Capri his uncle Seth owned. However he made impressed noises. Traffic was light as Bebur drove to the Gorky Restaurant on Gorky Street. They parked up, easily finding a parking spot. Bebur lit up a Sobranie cigarette.

  "I thought those weren't available in the Soviet Union?"

  "They are a historical Russian cigarette established in 1879."

  "Produced for aristocrats."

  Bebur laughed. "We have privileges. I get them from friends abroad. Do you want one?"

  "No, I don't smoke."

  "Unusual. Anyway, here is the Gorky."

  They walked through the heavy gilt doors, held open by two doormen. John was taken aback by the opulence of the place. It was huge, with a vaulted ceiling broken by blue stained glass skylights. There was lots of gilt and bright lights. Bebur told the waiter he wanted a side alcove where they could talk privately. The waiter did what he said.

  They sat down, consulted the menu and ordered a drink.

  "Don't worry, John. I will pay."

  "Good," said John. "Because I can't!"

  The waiter was obsequious and fawning. This wasn't what John was used to from Soviet service industry workers.

  "So, I can help you with the samovar. Give me the address and give me the item and I will arrange for it to be shipped for you."

  "As simple as that?"

  "As simple as that."

  "I am very grateful."

  Bebur brushed his thanks away with a gesture. "Don't worry about this. I am sure we will be friends. I will always help my friends."

  "I don't know if I can do much to pay you back."

  Bebur smiled. "You need to do nothing. Now tell me about yourself. Tell me about your life in Scotland."

  John told him about his childhood. He told him about his father, the Irish Communist. He told him about his father's suicide. He told him about his mother and grandparents. Finally, he told him about his time at the Heriot School and about going to Durham.

  "Your mother sounds a good woman."

  "She is. She has always been there when I needed her."

  "My mother was the same for me. Your mother seemed very keen to push you forward in the world."

  " People want the best for their children."

  "Of course. And this school is a very good private school?"

  "Yes, but we didn't pay. We couldn't have paid."

  "What about the State schools?"

  "They're fine. My girlfriend went to one. She's very clever."

  "And you miss her. I'm sure."

  "I do. I want to marry her."

  "Does she know? Have you asked her?"

  "Not yet."

  They both laughed.

  "Maybe when I come back from Russia. Maybe when I get a job."

  "Have you any idea what you want to do?"

  "I could be a teacher. I could work for the Government as a linguist I suppose."

  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 of 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 not 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."

  John 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 Russian 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 cautious 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 Neilson. 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 impossible inky darkness as the bottom fell away into the deep.