As Zara made her way along the courtyard garden path behind the Kremlin Palace, she approached an old man sat on a bench, feeding the birds from a bag of breadcrumbs. He looked up at her and flashed a brief, but warm, smile. ‘Hello Zara.’
Zara frowned then smiled back politely, but with curiosity. ‘Hello. Do I know you?’
‘No.’ The old man sighed. ‘You should. But you don’t. That is how things are here.’ He shrugged with a dismissive smile. ‘I’m glad you finally came. I often wondered if you would. It seems history is repeating itself. You are as torn between two worlds as his father once was. I wonder how this time things will end?’ He looked at her with a saddened face. ‘Without tragedy. I hope.’
Zara’s curiosity was now fully piqued. She walked over and gestured at the bench next to the old man. ‘May I?’
‘Yes, please sit. But I don’t advise to sit for long, the cold catches you unawares then you find you can never stand again. More than one person has frozen to death because they stayed in one place too long. Maybe that has some meaning, for you.’ He flashed a smile and returned his attention to the birds. ‘He used to like to feed the birds, the ducks mainly. I have often wondered at the English love of feeding ducks, yet ignoring other birds. I like to feed all the birds. I don’t discriminate in favour of a specific breed.’
‘I suppose they look cute. The way they waddle along and quack.’
‘Yes. The superficial love of cuteness. It is a western trait to love only that which is beautiful, like the swan. People have no time for these nondescript masses of little birds. They are unremarkable in so many ways, yet when you watch them fly in unison they are a magnificent display of the wonders of nature. Instead you say, pity the ugly duckling until it turns into a beautiful swan.’ He shrugged. ‘Swans can be beautiful, but dangerous. These little fellows, they threaten nobody. They merely want to exist.’
‘Is that symbolic of the plight of the Russian people?’
‘It is symbolic of the plight of all the peoples. I don’t know why people assume peasantry is the exclusive preserve of the Slavs. America has her poor, as does England. They are made to feel superficially rich because they have a slate roof and not tin, brick walls and not wood, perhaps their dinner comes wrapped in plastic and doesn’t run around a mud yard. But they are peasants none the less, they just don’t realise it because they have a flushing toilet, colour T.V, and feel wealthy from it. Material things are not wealth. They are impoverished in other ways. So where is Aleksandr? Busy with The New Boss I imagine. I know this role too well. I was a loyal servant of Stalin, and I survived beyond everyone else, but now, here I am. Loyal comrade only to the birds.’
‘I’m sure they appreciate it.’
‘Food is hard to find in the winter. I help them survive until spring. This reminds us of the past, when our people’s only hope was to survive to the spring. Now we have burgers, and pizzas, and German cars.’
‘The world changes.’
‘They say for the better. But what is better? Who is to say what is better for me, or for you? It is not better, just different.’ He finished feeding the birds. ‘So, tell me Zara, why did you really come here?’
Zara shrugged. ‘Curiosity. I wanted to understand the place that made my husband who he is.’
‘This place did not make Aleksandr who he is. The boy The Kremlin sired is long gone, I think he is more a product of your country’s brutality than ours.’
‘Brutality?’
‘He ran away from here because he felt we were too strict, but he didn’t understand our discipline, the walls he considered imprisoned him were all to protect him. He sought sanctuary in the place that meant to do him the most harm. I could not stop him.’ Zara frowned. ‘I’m Alex’s grandfather Zara. I raised him. If you have come looking for answers about him, I can answer what I know, but I fear he is as much a stranger to me now as you are, so whatever I can tell you is simply from the past. But to understand the present we should know where everything begins. Yes?’
‘Yes.’
Alex’s grandfather smiled. ‘I have photos of Alex, as a boy. At our dacha. You would like to see them, if you have time?’
‘Of course, but leaving...’
‘Don’t worry. They don’t care that much any more. They are more worried you are here to smuggle sex tapes of them with their mistresses to their wives than state secrets to your friends in The River House.’
‘Seems we’re not so different these days after all.’
‘Globalisation. Men are now the same everywhere. Help an old man up. I’m sure someone will drive us. It is not far.’