The Red House

‘You mean as a reward for your social activities?’

‘I thought it would be a wonderful experience for her …’

‘Anything is possible,’ Brodsky said thoughtfully. ‘It could be arranged.’

‘And now, why were you going to mention her?’

‘It seems that she has been keeping bad company in Alma Ata …’ And with relish Mikhail Brodsky recounted the arrest of Natasha’s lover with the true narrator’s relish of detail. Down to the shirt and underpants.

Vladimir Zhukov sweated with self-consciousness and the effort to be suave, like a teenager dancing with a haughty girl. All the subjects in the universe available for discussion and all original comment—any comment for that matter—eluded him. He hated the setting, hated the people. He suspected that they regarded him as a curiosity, a peasant: he, the representative of the most powerful nation on earth; he an intellectual and a man of cultivated habits; he a man of forty-four staring at his drink and digging his nails into the palms of his hands like a kid of eighteen.

The diplomat sent from the cultural section presumably to keep an eye on Zhukov was getting drunk and belligerent at the bar at the end of the ballroom. He didn’t seem to be a very cultured man despite his job, and when Zhukov noticed him through the heads and drinks and diamonds he was prodding a Czech in the chest with a karate forefinger.

A baptism by fire, Brodsky had said. And it certainly was. Champagne among the Matisse still-lifes, the Sèvres nymphs and the Gobelin tapestries on French territory in Washington, followed by more drinks and dancing at the after-dinner reception on Iberian soil. He stroked the watered silk on the lapel of his tuxedo; very decadent, soft—like stroking a seal.

‘What do you think?’ The earnest and boring Rumanian with the crinkled forehead waited with anticipation.

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Zhukov said.

‘Really? That is very surprising. Very surprising indeed.’

Zhukov wondered if he’d contradicted Soviet policy on Rumania which had become a little recalcitrant of late. Tomorrow the contradiction would be relayed and worried over all day at the Rumanian Embassy. Had Zhukov made a deliberate leak? they would ponder. Was the Kremlin going soft on Rumania—fearful of the Chinese menace, perhaps?

At that moment Zhukov didn’t care what interpretation they decided on. In the first place, he had no idea what the question had been; in the second his job was to fraternize with Westerners, not Kremlin lackeys; and in the third place his mind was slurred with the champagne and vodka he had drunk in abundance to oil his conversation. And he was desperately worried about Natasha. The message hadn’t been subtle: co-operate and produce results and Natasha can visit you; behave obstinately and she’ll be arrested like her lover.

Zhukov looked down miserably at his intense companion. How did you circulate at these functions? If you managed to dispatch a bore then you stood the risk of being isolated—an inarticulate peasant stranded among the sophisticated and effete. So he endured the Rumanian’s pleas for enlightenment a little longer; hardly listening, checking on the clip behind his black tie, wishing he’d bought patent leather shoes.

Across the room Zhukov’s watchdog, whose name was Dmitri Kalmykov, was becoming louder in his attack on the Czech; but the Czech, sustained by the new liberalism flowering like spring blossom in his country, was not cowering. He prodded back, answered with quiet contempt and infuriated the bulging, pudding-faced Russian. Interest and tension shivered in the air. A fine watchdog and instructor, Zhukov sighed to himself.

To the Rumanian he said, ‘Get me another drink.’ He was not normally a curt man but such grinding platitudes could not be endured for too long. He thrust his empty glass at the Rumanian who crinkled a little more at the injustice of it.

In the ballroom, with its walls draped with red silk and its splendid tapestries, Peter Duchin and his orchestra swung sibilantly into ‘Strangers in the Night.’ Above the music Zhukov heard Kalmykov’s voice, like an angry vocalist singing a different song.

He gazed into the crevice of two plump breasts and revived somewhat. Their owner said, ‘You’re Russian, aren’t you?’

Zhukov said he was, searching for supporting words like a badly-rehearsed actor.

She was in her mid-thirties, English, faded, but still fruity—like a pear just beginning to go soft, Zhukov decided, taking the vodka from the Rumanian and dismissing him. He tried to typecast her; but, unlike the wives of most British diplomats, she didn’t fit into any preconceived slot. The usual stifling sense of decorum and protocol hadn’t affected her, unless it had accelerated the premature bruising of vitality, removed some of the bloom from the skin.

‘I could tell,’ she said, her voice blurred by drink.

‘Is it so obvious?’

She leaned forward as if pulled by her breasts. They were firm but traced with delicate veins. ‘Of course,’ she said, ‘you are so masculine.’

Vladimir wished valiantly for the presence of Valentina; but he had been told to operate alone as much as possible—‘you appear more attractive and more vulnerable that way.’

The woman had fashionably pink lips—Zhukov preferred a scarlet cupid mouth—and dyed, straw-coloured hair, its lacquered height collapsing. Zhukov had seen photographs of the Duchess of Kent and this woman reminded him of the Duchess as she would be in a decade or so.

‘And you,’ he said, ‘you are English?’

‘How clever of you.’ She was more drunk than he had supposed. ‘My husband is over there somewhere trying to be an arrogant aristocrat and a sycophant at the same time. It’s very difficult for him, poor darling, because at heart he is a pure sycophant. I thought you should know,’ she confided, ‘that my husband is present because it’s always best that people should be absolutely honest with each other at this stage.’

‘What stage?’ There was no difficulty in making conversation with this one, Zhukov thought.

‘Where is your wife?’ she demanded.

‘At home. She doesn’t like parties very much.’

‘A sensible woman. Is she a sensible woman? A sensible Russian woman?’

Zhukov didn’t want to talk too much about Valentina. She was a sensible woman, and he loved her. He smiled: it was strange that, by chatting with this middle-aged bedworthy flirt, he was carrying out the orders issued him that morning.

Peter Duchin slid into ‘More.’ Kalmykov and the Czech shouted frenziedly above the music. Anticipation gathered joyfully around them.

Zhukov asked curiously, ‘What made you come and talk to me?’ With this woman you could ask anything; you could even confess insecurity or fear because, with all the hypocrisy around, confession would emerge as a strength.

‘You’re not very sure of yourself, are you, comrade?’

He shrugged.

‘I don’t mean in your life, your work. I mean here—among all these performers … I don’t blame you, Mister …?’

‘Zhukov. Vladimir Zhukov.’

‘I don’t blame you, Vladimir. But don’t forget—they’re all just as unsure of themselves as you. In fact they’re pretty scared of you. They don’t know what to make of someone like you. The Russian bear in their midst. They try to kid themselves that you’re boorish because of your blunt manners and your clip-on tie’—she reached out and touched the black propeller—‘but they’re really worried. For one thing you represent Russia—missiles, strength, the Iron Curtain, all that. For another you challenge all their standards.’

Zhukov began to relax. ‘What standards, Mrs …?’

‘Massingham. Mrs Massingham. But you can call me Helen.’

‘What standards, Mrs Massingham?’

She spread her arms. ‘All this talk, all this posturing, all this rehearsed wit. You make a mockery of it, Mr Zhukov, and they know it. Have you ever paused to think how much insecurity a wisecrack covers up? Probably not. And, of course, you even challenge their attitudes, the whole premise of their society, and this they do not like at all.’

He nodded appreciatively. ‘Do you know something, Mrs Massingham?’

‘What’s that, Mr Zhukov?’

‘You are a very competent person. You know how to give a man strength when he most needs it. In that respect you are the complete …’ He searched for the right word.

‘The complete bitch?’

‘Far from it.’ He put down his glass on a passing tray.

‘Vladimir,’ she said, ‘would you like to dance?’

‘I would be charmed,’ said Vladimir Zhukov, soldier, diplomat, agent provocateur, spy, perfect gentleman.

Wallace Walden, accompanied by his patient wife, Sophie, looked around him with contempt. He disliked career diplomats and opportunist politicians because he believed that all their conniving was directed towards personal rather than patriotic ends: this he had long ago decided, was the cardinal difference between himself and the other Washington players.

The dinner jacket made his body look very squat and powerful. He was drinking Scotch-on-the-rocks and smoking a thick cigar—from Tampa not Havana, he explained. He jerked the cigar towards a group of laughing men in their thirties accompanied by healthy shiny-haired girls with Florida tans carefully maintained. ‘Someone important’s made a joke,’ he said. ‘A dirty one, most likely.’ He dismissed them with his cigar. ‘Court sycophants.’

Henry Massingham from the British Embassy said, ‘Don’t be too hard on them, Wallace. After all it is election year.’

‘They make me sick,’ Walden said.

‘I don’t see why. It’s all part of democracy, merely human nature applied to politics. No better, no worse than business or commerce or sport. Out of it all emerges one of the best governmental systems in the world.’

‘Maybe,’ Walden conceded. ‘But that doesn’t mean I have to like them.’ Or you, he thought, squashing out his cigar in the Waterford glass ashtray.

Massingham’s business was political assessment. An elegant and professional eavesdropper. Almost a caricature of the British diplomat because he had discovered that American ridicule of the typical Englishman disguises considerable reverence. At first he had been self-conscious about his deep and decent voice; then he had found that his American companions (and antagonists) were just as self-conscious about their accents in his presence; so he ladled it on with the result that he was often complimented by Washington women on his divine diction. Massingham also worked on the accompaniments to his accent: suits of striped and slightly crumpled elegance, regimental tie askew, wavy hair a little too long. When he overheard a White House aide describe him as ‘that limey pansy’ he managed to interpret the insult as an inverted compliment.

Henry Massingham had also established a reputation for erudition and artistic appreciation and it was rumoured that he wrote poetry. ‘A real culture vulture,’ the Americans said, unaware of his rather mediocre degree at Trinity College, Dublin. Which was one of the reasons that Henry Massingham, in his late forties and beginning to accept that he would never become an ambassador, or even a minister, adored the Washington scene: unlike his own kind they hadn’t unmasked him.

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