Winter Garden (14 page)

‘What was all that about?’ said Enid, when Ashburner returned.

‘I thought I saw someone I knew,’ he said.

‘Who?’ she asked.

‘A woman colleague of mine from the office,’ he lied.

‘Funny,’ she said. ‘I would have thought you’d have run in the opposite direction.’

15

They arrived late at the Kirov Theatre. It was Mr Karlovitch’s fault; he’d been unavoidably delayed at an important function. The metal workers of Leningrad, he said, had given a luncheon in memory of a colleague volted into the grave by an incorrectly wired buffing machine.

In the car, Olga Fiodorovna had a word with him. She spoke in Russian, but it was obvious she was ticking him off. By the time they had deposited their coats in the cloakroom the curtain had already risen.

‘Let us be as inconspicuous as possible,’ suggested Olga Fiodorovna, hastening them along a corridor.

Ashburner wasn’t expecting to enjoy himself. He considered theatre-going an overrated pastime and dreadfully expensive. If there was anything on worth seeing, his wife usually left him at home and took her friend Caroline. He was acquainted with the story of Faust, having as a sixth-former marginally preferred Marlowe to Goethe, and it wasn’t his idea of a good night out, particularly if it was going to be sung aloud. But within moments of entering the opulent auditorium and hearing the thunderous accompaniment of the orchestra and the melancholy voices of the scholars soaring to the painted ceiling of the theatre, he was transported backwards in time to an occasion, until now totally forgotten, when as a child of six or seven he had been taken on a trolley bus by his grandmother to a pantomime at the Angel, Islington. Then, as now, the audience had overflowed into the aisles and even crouched on the steps on either side of the proscenium arch. How many other things had he forgotten, he thought worriedly, but then in spite of himself the recollection of that long ago outing was so pleasurable that he began to smile broadly.

Elbowing and shoving, exchanging angry repartee every step of the way, Olga Fiodorovna herded her charges down the centre aisle and along the edge of the orchestra pit, draped in scarlet plush and looped with golden ropes, and up the second gangway under the overhang of the rococo balconies, until, leaving a trail of disturbed patrons in their wake, she brought them to a large box overlooking the stage. Inside sat a party of young people, some studying the score, some peacefully waving opera glasses in time to the music. Olga Fiodorovna fetched an attendant and produced her documents. She whispered at the top of her voice. The rows of upturned faces watching the spectacle on the stage swivelled to watch the spectacle in the box. The original occupants, outmanoeuvred by superior permits, stumbled away into the darkness.

‘It had to be done,’ hissed Olga Fiodorovna. ‘We were within our rights.’

Ashburner, jostling unsuccessfully with Mr Karlovitch for possession of a seat next to Enid and as far away from the interpreter as possible, sank into a velvet-covered chair and leaned against the edge of the rail.

On stage a Good Angel, large and motherly-looking, was trying to persuade Faustus to think things over. Faustus, bent over his books, was listening half-heartedly. His mind was altogether made up. He was wearing high-heeled boots, the necessity for which became apparent when Mephistopheles materialised in a belch of sulphuric smoke and Faustus leapt to his feet; he was smaller than Enid and spherical in shape. The voice of Mephistopheles was deep and powerful, and he seemed to have the better tunes. Faustus’ voice was high and complaining, and he never got going long enough to break into a cadenza. At the end of every intonation he walked a few paces or swept round in a tottering circle, dragging his cloak behind him and staring haughtily at the audience through a haze of spiralling dust which, caught in the dazzle of the footlights sparkled like fireflies. In spite of the absurd convention of setting words to music and the comical appearance of Faustus, Ashburner was chilled by the scene. Though the libretto was in Russian, he knew that Mephistopheles, in answer to Faustus’ question as to the location of hell, was bound to reply:
Hell hath no limits. But where we are is Hell, and where Hell is there must we be. And to be short, when all the world dissolves, all places shall be Hell that is not Heaven
. Ashburner hadn’t been a religious schoolboy, any more than he was a religious man, but he had found it easy to memorise and retain that particular portion of the text. Perhaps, he thought, it had something to do with the repetitive use of the swear-word. His wife’s idea of hell was a wet day on the beach at Nevin. His concentration, already waning, entirely left him when Faustus, having completed his pact with Lucifer and now in a position to obtain anything in the universe, demanded a wife. It would have been more in the order of priorities, Ashburner thought, to have asked for an extra three inches in height. Glancing away from the stage and puzzling in his mind as to what for him constituted a hellish place, his gaze fell on a plaster cherub on the far side of the auditorium, holding aloft a torch. Directly beneath the cherub sat Nina.

He was so certain that it was she that he seized hold of Olga Fiodorovna’s arm and cried out ‘Quick’. He took his eyes off Nina for perhaps a fraction of a second and yet, when he looked again she had gone and in her place sat a man wearing horn-rimmed spectacles.

‘Are you unwell?’ asked Olga Fiodorovna. She peered into his face and, fearing he might faint, fanned him with her documents.

‘What’s wrong?’ whispered Enid, bending forward intimately across the lap of Mr Karlovitch.

‘A slight touch of cramp,’ said Ashburner, and after massaging his calf in a realistic manner he pretended to be engrossed in the singing.

He daren’t look into the body of the auditorium. She was there somewhere, of that he was sure, but he would lose her if he turned round. Like Lot’s wife she would be transformed into a pillar of salt. Cunning was essential. He couldn’t attempt to understand why she was carrying on in this mysterious fashion, but he was certain that she wasn’t hiding from him of her own volition. Had this been England he might have dismissed her behaviour as nothing out of the ordinary – and anyway he’d have been far too busy rushing home to feed the dog to dwell on it, beyond feeling irritated. He had once telephoned her at her studio and she’d impersonated a Japanese. He’d known it was she but Nina wouldn’t give in; she’d kept saying she was velly solly but Mrs St Clair was away. But it was quite another thing to act the fool abroad. In many ways they were alike – that was why he’d been drawn to her in the first place. Except when dealing with him she had very good manners and was something of a coward. He feared she was being manipulated by others and was in serious danger. He had learnt in the last three days that death itself wasn’t a problem. He would never again torture himself with images of his wife’s funeral. It was waiting for death that was unbearable. He was so agitated that he trembled all over and had to bite his lip to stop his teeth from chattering.

During the interval they went down into the foyer.

Olga Fiodorovna insisted on fetching him a cup of water. She was gone for ten minutes and when she returned and handed him the cup her gesture was so reminiscent of his own at the airport, when Nina had complained of feeling rotten, that he spilled most of the water down the front of his suit. Mr Karlovitch asked them to excuse him; he was leaving early to accept an important telephone call from Georgia. He took the cloakroom tickets from his pocket and gave them to the interpreter. They began to discuss something in Russian.

‘You don’t look well, Douglas,’ said Enid. ‘Why don’t you go home in the cab with Vladimir?’

‘I’m enjoying myself enormously,’ Ashburner said. He couldn’t think who Vladimir was. He told Enid that he had come here once with his grandmother. He realised he was talking nonsense, but there was so much noise all around them that he didn’t think she had heard. He was saying anything that came into his head because he was actually concentrating on a man and a woman who were standing behind Bernard. They kept glancing in his direction, though perhaps they were only interested in his clothes.

‘Why don’t
you
go home with Vladimir,’ said Bernard, nudging Enid. ‘From where I was sitting you were watching damn all on stage.’ He was so hemmed in by the crowd that he was forced, between puffs, to hold his cigarette straight up in the air like an umbrella.

Ashburner was waiting for Nina to approach him, either directly or through an emissary. Several people pressed against him, men and women, but it was accidental and on account of the crush. Nobody slipped anything into his palm. ‘They know we’re foreigners,’ he said. ‘How d’you suppose they call tell?’

‘It could have something to do with us speaking a foreign language,’ said Bernard. He agreed with Enid. Ashburner’s behaviour was a bit rum, rambling on about his grandma, scrutinising faces, rubbing up against women. If he wasn’t careful someone would come over and thump him. Perhaps he was running a fever.

Returning to the auditorium, Ashburner followed Enid down the centre aisle. He gazed upwards at the balconies curving in a semi-circle to meet the ornate boxes that climbed in tiers to the painted ceiling, and feigned an interest in the architecture. He hoped that by moving his head about he would be more visible to Nina if she were watching him. He had reached the orchestra pit and was just about to turn away when out of the corner of his eye he saw her, seated in the circle box between two men. She was laughing and pushing the hair back from her forehead.

He continued to pursue Enid, neither faltering in his stride nor altering the expression on his face. Knowing that at any moment the second act would begin, he loitered in the aisle as if held back by the crowd until, the lights dimming and the orchestra striking up, he shouldered his way into the passage and sprinting like a madman round the back of the auditorium leapt up the stairs to the circle. All sense of caution had left him. Panting, he blundered through the velvet curtains. A blast of trumpets heralded the entrance of the Pope on stage, escorted by cardinals.

Bernard was thinking about Sickert – all those studies he’d done of the interiors of theatres. In the right hands, pastels were better than oils. He looked up, distracted by figures swaying in the box on the opposite side of the proscenium arch. He was amazed to see Ashburner, bald head catching the light, grappling with two men.

Olga Fiodorovna treated Ashburner sympathetically. In the car she patted his hand and refrained from uttering a word of reproach. Nor did she ask him for an explanation. At the hotel she suggested he go straight to bed; she would have a glass of hot milk sent up to him.

As soon as he reached his room, Ashburner telephoned Bernard. There was no reply. He waited for his milk, poured it down the lavatory and rang Bernard again. Thinking he might be in the bar, he went downstairs and was just in time to see him going out of the front door of the hotel. Collecting his coat from the cloakroom, he hurried in pursuit. The lamps had been torn out of the ground and but for a fitful moon he might have come to grief traversing the battlefield of the street. From a distant thoroughfare he heard the occasional rumble of traffic. When he turned the corner Bernard was already crossing the deserted square, limping purposefully towards the ornamental gates of the Summer Gardens. Breaking into a run, Ashburner caught up with him.

‘I do apologise,’ he said, ‘but I must talk to you.’ But he couldn’t, not immediately; he didn’t know where to begin or how to express himself.

They entered the Gardens and strolled in silence along a moonlit avenue between linden trees.

‘It’s difficult to put into words,’ said Ashburner at last. ‘It’s this worry about Nina, and there’s something else—’

‘What were you doing in that box with those men?’ asked Bernard.

‘I thought I saw Nina,’ Ashburner said. ‘I keep seeing her. She was in the cemetery this afternoon. I recognised her hair. I saw her at the hospital too. I imagined she was on the operating table. Her head was shaved.’

‘She’s got a remarkable rate of recovery then,’ said Bernard. ‘Not to mention hair growth.’

‘I’ve become peculiarly sensitive,’ Ashburner said. ‘It’s most unlike me. But you know on the bridge – when we went to look at the place where that fellow Pushkin died – I distinctly heard the sound of clashing swords. Isn’t that ridiculous?’

‘Yes,’ said Bernard. ‘Considering they fought with pistols.’

‘I know it’s absurd,’ Ashburner said. ‘I don’t know what’s come over me.’ He was about to add that he wasn’t much good at travelling alone – that his wife usually handled things, held their passports while he dealt with the luggage, spoke the odd word of French if called upon – when he thought better of it. Though it was true that if his wife had been travelling with him he wouldn’t have landed in his present predicament, he sensed that Bernard would find such an excuse pathetic. He peered through the trees at something bulky on a pedestal, encased in wood. ‘Is that a gun installation?’ he asked.

‘It’s a statue,’ Bernard said. ‘They board them up in winter so the cold doesn’t crack them.’

‘Don’t you find it sinister?’ blurted Ashburner. ‘I mean, sending me off to watch that operation? They know perfectly well I’m not Nina’s husband. They may have been confused at the beginning, but they must have worked it out by now.’

‘You forget where you are,’ Bernard said. ‘This is the most bureaucracy-ridden country in the world. They issued a permit for a visiting Englishman to go to a hospital. It didn’t matter if it was the wrong Englishman. They couldn’t cancel the original bit of paper – it would have buggered up the computer.’ He flung his cigarette into the darkness.

‘There’s more to it,’ persisted Ashburner. ‘I’ve been giving a lot of thought to it. It began that day we went to the illustrator’s studio. Olga kept running off and leaving us stranded in the car. For no reason she disappeared into a block of flats. You weren’t there. You’d been awkward, if you remember, about going shopping. Enid and I were chatting about mothers. Shortly afterwards a car drove up and some men got out and followed Olga into the same building. One of them was carrying a suitcase. My point is, it could have been Nina’s.’