is.’
‘Water?’ Gorki was asking. ‘You want water?’
‘Water,’ said Charlie through Troy’s interpretation. ‘We don’t want fucking water.’
‘Yes you do,’ Gorki said. And he winked hammily at Troy.
‘Yes,’ Troy replied. ‘Two large waters will be fine. Doubles.’
Gorki set two far from spotless tumblers on the bar, splashed vodka generously, but without any sense of measure, into them and shoved them over. He did not ask for money. It looked to be the
kind of place that did most of its business on the slate, and Gorki looked to be the kind of man who would never forget your face or what you owed him down to the last kopeck.
Charlie was staring at the disparity in their glasses. Troy swapped his huge one for Charlie’s lesser and they touched glass together.
‘About bloody time,’ said Charlie. ‘Cheers.’
He knocked back half the glass in a single swallow. Troy sipped at his.
‘Jesus, that’s strong. Bloody hell, they certainly mean you to get pissed, don’t they?’
‘Sole purpose of visit,’ said Troy. ‘It’s probably about 120 degrees proof. You could run a car on the stuff.’
‘Good,’ said Charlie. ‘I can die happy.’
Troy doubted this very much. All the same, he wondered at the shred of truth buried in the statement. That death was the only thing left to look forward to. It did not need to be said that
Charlie had no idea what he was getting into, little idea of what kind of a country he had come to. But he felt sure it would be said, and equally sure of its finality. Charlie might live ten or
twenty or thirty years, but Russia, the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, would be home for the rest of his days. And die happy he would not.
Charlie dragged him to a newly vacated table by the window. They sat with two bowls of gruel and two large ‘waters’ between them. Condensation ran down the glass and the walls to
mingle with the sawdust on the floor. He could see nothing out, only the muddied reflection of the room within. As they crossed the room he picked up snatches of the dozen or more conversations
taking place within the hubbub.
‘So I says to him, I says, you want it doing you can bloody well do it . . .’
‘Meat and potater pie? Meat and potater fuckin’ pie? I said to ’er. Where’s the fuckin’ meat? I spend all day in a fuckin’ foundry and you serve me meat
an’ potater fuckin’ pie with no fuckin’ meat? I clouted the silly mare, didn’t I?’
‘. . . Commissar or no bloody commissar. If he comes that one with me again I’ll do the sod. I don’t care if I spend the rest of me life in a fuckin’ gulag. It’d be
worth it.’
‘. . . Women? Women? They’re just cunts, aren’t they? I never met a one that was anything more than a cunt and that includes the bitch I married.’
A place to drink and a place to curse. It struck Troy that there was not a woman in the room, and that there could not be a conversation taking place – ‘the fuckin’ wife, the
fuckin’ boss’ – that, with slight variation, could not be heard in the pubs of Liverpool or Newcastle or Glasgow. He hoped Charlie did not mean to stay long, but knew that if he
once got a taste for vodka he might stay for ever.
‘Where have they put you?’ he asked.
‘In the Moskva Hotel. The same one Burgess was in. Poor bugger. Nothing permanent. They’re being completely coy about that. Not even guaranteeing that I get to serve out my days in
Moscow. Bastards. They’ve had me in a couple of times for debriefing. I think they’re as surprised by the speed of all this as I am.’
‘Not as surprised as I was.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry about that. You slogged it all the way to Beirut for nothing. When I wired you I knew things were getting pretty final. Mr Smith did not usually turn upin January. He
came for a summer outing. The linen suit, the panama hat and the chance of getting his knees brown. I sort of had the feeling they were going to pull something
‘Water?’ Gorki was asking. ‘You want water?’
‘Water,’ said Charlie through Troy’s interpretation. ‘We don’t want fucking water.’
‘Yes you do,’ Gorki said. And he winked hammily at Troy.
‘Yes,’ Troy replied. ‘Two large waters will be fine. Doubles.’
Gorki set two far from spotless tumblers on the bar, splashed vodka generously, but without any sense of measure, into them and shoved them over. He did not ask for money. It looked to be the
kind of place that did most of its business on the slate, and Gorki looked to be the kind of man who would never forget your face or what you owed him down to the last kopeck.
Charlie was staring at the disparity in their glasses. Troy swapped his huge one for Charlie’s lesser and they touched glass together.
‘About bloody time,’ said Charlie. ‘Cheers.’
He knocked back half the glass in a single swallow. Troy sipped at his.
‘Jesus, that’s strong. Bloody hell, they certainly mean you to get pissed, don’t they?’
‘Sole purpose of visit,’ said Troy. ‘It’s probably about 120 degrees proof. You could run a car on the stuff.’
‘Good,’ said Charlie. ‘I can die happy.’
Troy doubted this very much. All the same, he wondered at the shred of truth buried in the statement. That death was the only thing left to look forward to. It did not need to be said that
Charlie had no idea what he was getting into, little idea of what kind of a country he had come to. But he felt sure it would be said, and equally sure of its finality. Charlie might live ten or
twenty or thirty years, but Russia, the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, would be home for the rest of his days. And die happy he would not.
Charlie dragged him to a newly vacated table by the window. They sat with two bowls of gruel and two large ‘waters’ between them. Condensation ran down the glass and the walls to
mingle with the sawdust on the floor. He could see nothing out, only the muddied reflection of the room within. As they crossed the room he picked up snatches of the dozen or more conversations
taking place within the hubbub.
‘So I says to him, I says, you want it doing you can bloody well do it . . .’
‘Meat and potater pie? Meat and potater fuckin’ pie? I said to ’er. Where’s the fuckin’ meat? I spend all day in a fuckin’ foundry and you serve me meat
an’ potater fuckin’ pie with no fuckin’ meat? I clouted the silly mare, didn’t I?’
‘. . . Commissar or no bloody commissar. If he comes that one with me again I’ll do the sod. I don’t care if I spend the rest of me life in a fuckin’ gulag. It’d be
worth it.’
‘. . . Women? Women? They’re just cunts, aren’t they? I never met a one that was anything more than a cunt and that includes the bitch I married.’
A place to drink and a place to curse. It struck Troy that there was not a woman in the room, and that there could not be a conversation taking place – ‘the fuckin’ wife, the
fuckin’ boss’ – that, with slight variation, could not be heard in the pubs of Liverpool or Newcastle or Glasgow. He hoped Charlie did not mean to stay long, but knew that if he
once got a taste for vodka he might stay for ever.
‘Where have they put you?’ he asked.
‘In the Moskva Hotel. The same one Burgess was in. Poor bugger. Nothing permanent. They’re being completely coy about that. Not even guaranteeing that I get to serve out my days in
Moscow. Bastards. They’ve had me in a couple of times for debriefing. I think they’re as surprised by the speed of all this as I am.’
‘Not as surprised as I was.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry about that. You slogged it all the way to Beirut for nothing. When I wired you I knew things were getting pretty final. Mr Smith did not usually turn upin January. He
came for a summer outing. The linen suit, the panama hat and the chance of getting his knees brown. I sort of had the feeling they were going to pull something
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