Part 26 (1/2)
”But the Russian royal family's long gone” English royals she likes. Prince Charles she likes very much.
”When Princess Diana was killed she felt vary sad.” During our conversation Lyudmila had been bringing dishes of food out of the kitchen and setting them on the table. Now she murmured something to Sasha, who jumped up announcing, ”Please! Dinner is ready.”
He went to the head of the table, and indicated that we should sit either side of him. But his mother continued to hover in the doorway, and it soon became clear that she didn't intend to join us.
”Isn't your mother going to eat?” I asked ”Later. She prefers to serve us. Now, please, we have teepical Russian meal. First, zakuski.” He gestured lavishly over the spread of dishes.
”Such kinds of smoked fish, fish eggs, smoked meats, cheeses, cuc.u.mbers help yourselves.”
I would have felt bad had I not known about the Mafia dollars which had obviously financed this banquet. As it was, I started eating fast, to provide some bedding for the vodka which Sasha kept pouring freely from a litre bottle. The food was delicious, and the vodka made a perfect foil for the sharp, salty, smoky tastes, especially of red fish roe. Whenever one of us paused for breath Sasha exclaimed, ”Please, eat! Dreenk!” and waved us on.
”Take it easy,” I muttered to Rick.
”I'm sure this is only the start.”
Sure enough, the next course was bortsch thick soup, not full of beetroot as it usually is in England, but more subtle, with a meaty stock for background, small slices of various vegetables floating in it, and a good, peppery overall taste. Next came bitochki meat b.a.l.l.s in a rich tomato sauce, with mashed potatoes and after that a special cake full of nuts, made by our hostess, with which Sasha served sweet Georgian champagne.
Throughout the feast his mother waited on us with embarra.s.sing anxiety to please, bringing new dishes, removing empty ones, watching us, fussing around, gently urging us: ”Yest! Yest! Eat! Eat!” Sasha, though clearly devoted to her, did nothing to help, but ate and drank to keep up with Rick and me.
By the later stages of the meal, the vodka had got to all three of us. Sasha was gabbling away about how his brother, a taxi driver, had made millions of roubles from illegal sales of booze in the period when Gorbachev tried to bring alcoholism under control.
”It was a kind of prahibeetion,” he kept saying.
”Everyone was crazy for vodka.”
”You mean booze was banned altogether?” said Rick incredulously.
”Not absolutely. But rationed. One half-litre of vodka a week that was all.”
”Why, though?”
”Russian people were drinking all day, all night. They were falling down in street, running over by cars. They couldn't work.
Very many died. Alcohol was our national disease.”
”And did the prohibition have any effect?”
”Konechno nyet! Black market was immense.”
Rick began to converse freely with Lyudmila in Russian. I sat listening, smiling genially at everyone, but my spirits were sinking. Once again guilt was clawing at me.
After many entreaties, we finally persuaded Lyudmila to join us for tea, and she sat at the other end of the table, obviously pleased that we had enjoyed ourselves, but still watching anxiously for any possible deficiency in her arrangements.
Suddenly Sasha raised his gla.s.s and shouted, ”Your Queen!”
”The Queen!” we echoed, slurping champagne.
”My mother, she say your Queen is beautiful woman.
”Thank you!”
”My mother is big monarchic.”
”Monarchist.”
”Yes big monarknik. She make beautiful book of royal peoples.” He switched into Russian, asking Lyudrnila to fetch her prize tome. With a show of simulated reluctance she got up, opened a drawer and produced a large, cheap sc.r.a.pbook carefully jacketed in tissue paper, which she laid on the table for our inspection. The pages contained dozens of photographs cut from newspapers and magazines, almost all to do with England, but including a few of Tsar Nicholas II and his family, taken in the last few months of their lives before they were executed by the Bolsheviks in 1918. Towards the end, the cuttings went fast forwards and pride of place inevitably was accorded to Diana, Princess of Wales.
”Such kind of tragedy,” Sasha kept saying, repeatedly translating a remark of his mother's.
”I know,” I said.
”But she'd become a bit of a loose cannon.
”Excuse me?”
I explained that the phrase was used about people whose actions tended to be unpredictable.
”Yes, yes,” said Sasha impatiently.
”But British people loved her. When she died, they came in millions.”
Lyudmila had gone off on another tack.
”Something about the Second World War,” Rick said.
”Can't quite get it' ”Heetler!” cried Sasha.
”My mother would like to say thank you to British and American soldiers for help in beating n.a.z.is.
She thanks you and your fathers. Her father was killed at Stalingrad, famous battle. She does not like Germans. British and American armies very brave.”
”I'm glad to hear that,” I told them.
”I've read in Communist history books that it was the heroic Soviet army who defeated Fascism single-handed.”
”Kommunizm!” shouted Sasha derisively.
”Kommunizm is s.h.i.+t.
My mother does not say that, of course, but it is what she believes. Kommunizm all lies and rubbish.” He turned and in Russian loudly sought confirmation from Lyudmila, who nodded and went, ”Da, da.”
The next thing we knew, Sasha had brought out a bottle of Georgian brandy and was pouring huge slugs. His mother did not touch the spirit.
The conversation became ever wilder, with stories of army brutality.
”You know how they treat prisoners in Russian army? This soldier in Murmansk ..
”Murmansk?” yelled Rick.
”Where the f-' He stopped himself just in time and and finished up, ”Where's that?”