Part 21 (1/2)

'I mean I was running to catch the phone. To get the phone.'

'Are you busy this afternoon?'

'Yes. No. Maybe. Why?'

'I'm lonely. I was wondering if we could meet and I could buy you a coffee, or if you'd like to come to visit my shoe-box and I could cook you authentic Warsaw Vorsch.'

Tatyana? I heard myself saying 'yes'. When was I going to make it up with Rudi? But there again, why should he find me here pining for him when he gets back? Maybe it would do him good just to pretend that I don't need him as much as I do. Teach him a little lesson.

'Great. You know the coffee shop behind the Pushkin Theatre?'

'Yes-'

'Excellent. I'll meet you there in an hour.'

That was that. Nemya padded in and jumped onto my lap for some adoration. I told Nemya about Rudi's tantrum, and about what Switzerland was going to be like, and I wondered why I'd just agreed to give the rest of my day off to a supercilious rival from Poland.

The empty cafe smelt of dark wood and coffee. Dust motes eddied through slats of sunlight as I barged open the door. A bell jangled and a radio was playing in the back room. Tatyana hadn't arrived yet, even though I was late.

'h.e.l.lo, Margarita.'

Tatyana s.h.i.+fted slightly and came into the light. Her hair shone gold. She was dressed in a smart black velvet suit and her body was lean and tucked in. I had to admit, I could see the appeal. To men like Rogorshev.

'I didn't see you.'

'Here I am. Well, won't you sit down? Thank you very much for coming. What would you like to drink? The Colombian blend is excellent.'

Was she trying to impress me? 'Then I'll have the Colombian blend, when the waitress wakes up.'

A man appeared from the back. 'The Colombian?' A strong Ukrainian accent.

'Yes.'

He sucked in his cheeks, and disappeared again.

Tatyana smiled. 'Were you surprised when I called you?' A psychotherapist's tone.

'Mildly. Should I have been?'

She offered me a cigarette. I offered her a Benson and Hedges. She took one but didn't admire it, like any Russian would have done. Benson and Hedges must be commonplace in Poland. I let her light mine.

'How long have you been working at the Hermitage, Margarita?'

'About a year, now.'

'You must have some cosy contacts there.' Despite myself I liked her smile. She was being nosy, but only because she wanted to be friendly.

Margarita Latunsky can take girls like Tatyana in her stride. 'You mean the Head Curator? Oh dear, have the Gutbucket herd been gossiping again?'

'I get the impression they'd gossip about gra.s.s growing in a ditch.'

'My relations.h.i.+p with the Head Curator is an open secret. But it started after I came. I got the job through some connections my I have, in the city hall. There's no harm. I'm single, and his marriage is not my problem.'

'I quite agree. We have a lot in common in our att.i.tudes.'

'You said you were Mrs Mrs Makuch?' Makuch?'

Tatyana made a whirlpool of cream in her coffee. 'Can you keep a secret?'

'I can keep secrets very safe indeed...'

'I tell people like Rogorshev that just to keep them off my back. The situation's more complicated than that...' I waited for her to go on, but she didn't. 'So then, Margarita. Tell me about your life. I want to know everything.'

Eight hours later we were very drunk, at least I knew that I was, hunched over a back table at The Shamrock Pub on Dekabristov Street. A trio of Cubans were playing jazz snaky and slow, and there were man-high plants with rubbery leaves everywhere. The place was lit by candles, which is one of the scrimpiest ways to save money while pretending to be chic known to the entertainment business, and it occurred to me that whenever I was with Tatyana the light was bad. Tatyana knew a lot about jazz, and a lot about wine, which made me believe there was more money in her background than she was letting on. She was also insisting on paying for everything. I refused three times, but Tatyana insisted four times, which came as something of a relief, I admit. I hate asking Rudi for money.

She knew a lot about a lot of things. A black man stood up on stage, and played a trumpet with a mute. Tatyana glowed, and I saw how beautiful she was. I imagined a deep tragedy in her past. I know from my own life, severe beauty can be a handicap. 'More like Miles Davis than Miles Davis,' she murmured.

'Wasn't he the first man to fly across the Atlantic?'

She hadn't heard me. 'The bra.s.sy sun lost behind the clouds.'

We were attracting a lot of attention from the men. As well we might. Tatyana was undoubtedly a rare creature in these climes, and for my part, well, you already know the calibre of man Margarita Latunsky draws. .h.i.ther. Even the trumpeter was giving me the eye over his s.h.i.+ny horn, I swear it. I wondered what it would be like to do it with a black man. Arabs and Orientals and Americans I've had dalliances with, yes, but never a black.

Three young couples came in and sat down near the front. They must have still been in their teens. The boys in borrowed suits, trying to look sophisticated. The girls, trying to look at ease. All of them looking awkward.

Tatyana nodded at the six. 'Young love.' Her voice had a serrated edge.

'Wouldn't you change places with them, if you could?'

'Why on earth would I want to do that?'

'They look so fine, and young, and wrapped up in each other. Love is so fresh and clean at that age. Don't you think?'

'Margarita! I'm surprised at you! We both know there's no such thing as love.'

'What do you call it?'

Tatyana snuffed out her cigarette. That sly smile. 'Mutations of wanting.'

'You're not serious.'

'I am quite serious. Look at those kids. The boys want to get the girls to bed so they can have the corks popped off their bottles, and gush forth. When a man blows his nose you don't call it love. Why get all misty-eyed when a man blows another part of his anatomy? As for the girls, they're either going along for the ride because they can get things they want from their boys, or else maybe they enjoy being in bed too. Though I doubt it. I never knew an eighteen-year-old boy who didn't drop the egg off his spoon at the first fence.'

'But that's l.u.s.t! You're talking about l.u.s.t, not love.'

'l.u.s.t is the hard sell. Love is the soft sell. The profit margin is exactly the same.'

'But love's the opposite of self-interest. True, tender, love is pure and selfless.'

'No. True, tender love is self-interest so sinewy that it only looks selfless.'