Moscow: у$$. Петровка
Институт Паганини
It was the interval.
Miss Voytek had invited him to a recital at the Paganini Institute, a chamber venue that reminded him more than a bit of the Wigmore Hall—tasteless shades of brown more than compensated for by the acoustics.
He’d enjoyed the first half. Schubert’s “Arpeggione” Sonata. Voytek on piano and some young Russian bloke … Rostripov? Rostropich? … on cello. He wasn’t sure what an arpeggione was, but had vague memories of something that looked like a cross between a cello and a guitar. No matter, it had been a treat. The second half was new stuff. Prokofiev. He thought he might sit it out in the bar and then go through the motions of congratulation with Voytek and Rostripthing. All artists were readily flattered. As long as he smiled and enthused, he’d get away with it.
A big man, a fat man, fatter than he was getting, was looming up above.
“Mr. Burgess?”
Burgess just looked at him.
“Jack Dashoffy. US Embassy.”
“Come to see if I have horns and a tail?”
“May I?”
Dashoffy gestured at the chair opposite.
“I’d say it’s a free country, but you’d just laugh.”
Dashoffy grinned, sat, held out a hand Burgess did not shake.
“I suppose you’re a cultural attaché?”
“Correct. Culture, Information, and Arts.”
Burgess began to crack up.
“Ah … I was with the Baked Beans and Chips for a while.”
“That so? I did a spell in radio too.”
“Cheese, Burgers, and Sausage?”
“Nah—No Bum Cheques. How long can we keep this up?”
“I think we just shot our bolt. Tell me, how are things in Culture, Information, and Arts?”
“Well, we’re on the road to forgiveness.”
“For whom? The British? For what? Suez?”
“No—I was thinking of you.”
“I did nothing, you know. Nothing at all.”
“Really? All those unpaid speeding fines from your time in Washington?”
Burgess giggled.
“Uncle Sam sent you here to collect on my speeding tickets?”
“Of course not. In fact, Uncle Sam didn’t send me at all. This is just me. On my own.”
“You’re that curious?”
“I’d love to know.”
“I’d love to tell. A weight off my mind. But I won’t.”
“Aw. C’mon. Spinach In Seattle would never know.”
“I prefer to think of them as Shit In Sawdust.”
“Just so long as we know who we’re talking about.”
“We do. But I’ve no reason to trust you.”
“No. You haven’t. But maybe we could horse trade.”
“We could?”
“Depends entirely on what you want? I could get you things from England. Y’know, things you might be missing.”
“I have all my books. I even have my harmonium. My account at my tailor is still active—I get a new suit every so often. New ties in Eton stripes when I can’t scrape the congealed egg yolk off the old one any longer. And my mum writes twice a week. The only thing I really want I doubt you’d give me.”
“And what would that be?”
Burgess lowered his voice to a stage whisper.
“To go home.”
“Aw shit. Just when I thought we were getting somewhere.”
“All the same, there are things I miss.”
“OK. Such as?”
“I miss the little things. The trivia. The unimportant things. In England I missed the important things—ideas.”
And as he said it, he realised he had said it before. Yesterday? Last week? Last month? And that he would be saying it the day he died.
“Ideas might be the other thing I cannot give you.”
“No matter. I have an idea. The biggest idea there is.”
“Which is?”
“Russia.”
“Aw shit. I was afraid you’d say that.”
“On the other hand …”
“I’m listening.”
“A small tin … or perhaps two … of Patum Peperium …”
“What?”
“They call it the Gentleman’s Relish. Although they let rogues like me eat it. Can’t get it in Mother Russia for love or rubles.”
“Let me write that down … Pat … Pat …”
“Patum Peperium. They make it from anchovies. You might try Fortnum’s.”
“Gotcha. Consider it done. I’ll set my old pal Joe Wilderness on to it. He’s a regular at Fortnum’s. It’ll be in the bag from London next week. Then maybe we could talk again.”
“Of cabbages and kings?”
“Nah—let’s stick to Shit In Sawdust.”