Moscow Blue. Philip Kurland
I think.’
But Crocker had experience of Russian ‘half-hours’ and suspected it would take a good deal longer.
He was right.
The journey took them past endless rows of apartment blocks; all seemingly built from the same plan, and differentiated only by the numbers on illuminated blue and white plastic boxes fixed to each corner. Side roads were marked by breaks in otherwise endless rows of parked cars, transformed into one colour by sodium-yellow streetlights. Groups of locals chatted outside illuminated shop windows with nothing on display but origami patterns.
‘See those old people queuing?’ Oleg pointed. ‘I tell you something interesting.’
‘Go on,’ encouraged Crocker.’
‘These old people have nothing to do. So their families put them in any queue they see and they wait; all day they wait to buy anything that is being sold. Anything! It is very simple idea. Yes, Mr Lee?’
‘Why would they do that?’ asked Crocker, scanning the groups he could now see were standing in line in the snow.
‘Let me tell you. In this way the family will have something they don’t want now, to sell or change later. Another day. Not complicated and a good idea. Yes, Mr Lee?’
‘Very, Oleg. Very enterprising.’
‘What is “enterprising” please?’
‘Being clever, I suppose.’
Crocker quickly understood the concept and saw the need for people to live like that. He screwed up his eyes to help see better in the fading light and continued to stare out of the window.
- o -
Building 23, Sokhalinskaya Street, was one of a ring of sombre concrete apartment blocks rising out of the ground like gargantuan ogres, frozen for eternity around a football field of mud and snow.
Oleg stopped the car, got out and pointed through the twilight with a bony finger.
‘That is where Slava lives,’ he said, letting Crocker out. ‘Seventh floor, number 27. Remember; green door. I will wait for you here.’
Crocker stretched his spine and waited for his body to acclimatise to the cold wind as he took his bearings. Even in this open space there was the unmistakable smell of Russian cigarettes.
‘You’ve got enough smokes to keep you warm, Oleg?’
‘Many, many, Mr Lee, thank you.’
Hard snow crunched under Crocker’s feet as he walked. He knew there were eyes watching his every move from behind the drawn curtains in the buildings around him. Curiosity was a basic instinct with some Russians, but it could mean survival for others. He pulled up his collar to hide his face and protect against the wind.
The front of the building bore a poorly lit sign, ‘Block B’. The doors were reinforced with sheets of rusting steel, and when he noticed the lock had been broken off, Crocker smiled to himself.
The doors creaked as he pulled hard on the ice-cold handles. Having stepped through, he found himself in a long passageway with the only illumination coming from a low-wattage bulb suspended by two wires protruding through the wall. Strong springs quickly closed the doors behind him with a rush of freezing Siberian air that made him shiver. He wished he had brought a torch.
Strong smells of damp and disinfectant soon hit him, and the poor light took his eyes some seconds to be able to see clearly. Stepping over a broken pushchair, he kicked to one side what looked like the discarded parts of a motorcycle, and further along, where the shadows darkened, he saw communal dustbins and long banks of electricity meters set on either side of the widening passageway. At the far end he could make out the box-like shape of a lift.
With his limited Russian he tried to guess the meaning of the graffiti-covered notices on the walls, while his footsteps echoed along the concrete floor.
At the lift, he couldn’t see much until he flicked on his cigarette lighter. He pressed the single unmarked button on the side, and then again a few seconds later when there was no response. In the silence, it occurred to him that he was being either brave or foolish, standing alone in this poor light in such a godforsaken place. He sensed his heart rate increase.
There was no sound of mechanical gear slotting into place, only an eerie silence. Looking up, Crocker could see nothing moving, and rather than stand in the dark hallway any longer, he decided to take the concrete stairs winding up around the lift shaft like a flattened snake.
To his gratification, the floors came and went without too much effort, proving those hours spent in the gym had not been wasted. The light improved marginally as he got nearer the glass-domed roof that let in a glimmer of street lighting through a heavy patina of grime.
The seventh floor had the smell he associated with lavatory disinfectant. Even though the lighting was minimal he had no difficulty in finding Flat 27 from Oleg’s description, its front door being the only one covered in buttoned green imitation leather. The rest of the corridor was dark-brown wood and dark-brown paint.
Although he had neither seen nor heard another soul, he sensed others knew he was there. At that moment he didn’t care.
He rang the bell, and for several seconds listened to the muffled sounds of movement inside. Bolts were drawn and the door opened.
Slava extended his hand, but with the bright light behind him, it was difficult to make out his features immediately. ‘Nice to meet you, Mr Lee.’
‘You too, Slava.’
In contrast to his brother, Slava was short and hefty with two glittering gold teeth fitted in the centre of his upper jaw. After a furtive glance both ways along the corridor, he ushered his guest inside.
‘If you had wished,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘I would gladly have come to you and saved you the long journey. It is not very safe around here, I’m afraid, and not very pretty either.’
Crocker thought for a second and decided not to respond.
Slava shuffled to the centre of the room on his slippered feet.
Looking around him, Crocker was struck by the tidiness of the apartment. Not a thing out of place. Slava was clearly a man with pride in his possessions.
Is he married? considered Crocker. He isn’t wearing a ring. No photographs of a happy couple.
Slava took the American’s hat and coat, whisked them away into a curtained alcove, and directed Crocker to the most comfortable-looking chair in the room.
‘Please,’ he indicated with an open hand. ‘Take a seat.’ He looked pleased to have a guest, and while he busied himself in a corner, Crocker took in the paraphernalia around him. The glass-fronted, highly polished cabinets were crowded with old photographs, knickknacks and memorabilia, and he spotted some large cut crystals, and wondered whether they were real, or local fakes. The highly polished wooden floor reflected the bright lights of the chandelier hanging in the centre of the room, and in one corner, on a colourful Moldavian rug, stood a large, black-screen Sony television set which dominated the room. A video recorder was tucked in beneath it.
Crocker had never ceased to be amazed at how Muscovites could afford these expensive appurtenances while continually cursing their impoverished circumstances. A thought crossed Crocker’s mind. With all this, he must be successful in whatever he does for a living.
Slava brought over two short glasses and a new bottle of vodka.
‘Please! Drink! It will keep you warm.’
Crocker noted the small beads of nervous perspiration on Slava’s brow.
‘Just one. Thanks.’ Holding out his glass, he detected a slight tremor in Slava’s hand as he poured. There was a fragrance in the room that he recognised