John Sweeney - The Useful Idiot

The suitcase held a man’s three piece worsted suit, shirt, red tie, vest, underpants and a pair of shoes. The shirt fitted perfectly, the suit too big – but Jones was no man of fashion. Only the shoes were a failure and Jones had to contend with going out on the town in a deckhand’s boots.

“Winnie introduced me to a ship’s officer from Copenhagen,” said Evgenia. “Their ship has been held for a week but they’re hoping it will finally be leaving for Constantinople on the early morning tide.”

“And?”

“The officer said he couldn’t promise anything. It was, it must be, the captain’s decision. The officer and the captain, they’re going to be at restaurant where Winnie sings tonight. If we past muster, they’ll hide us until we’re safely out to sea, then drop us in Turkey with no questions asked.”

“Will it work?”

A silvering of the sea: moonrise. She smiled, as much to herself as at him. “We’ve got this far. Who knows?”

Under the light of the moon, they devoured the cheese and drank the wine, listening to the soft roar of the shingle as it rolled in and out. For the first time since Haywood made his dying wish, Jones believed that they might just have a chance of a life together.

The restaurant was a riot of plush velvet, everything in red. At the back of the main dining area was a little stage, spotlit, and beneath that a gypsy band sawed its way through popular hits.

The Danish ship’s officer, Jens, arrived, a burly blond giant. Kissing Evgenia on both cheeks, he smiled formally at Jones in a way that suggested irritation, civilly masked. Shortly afterwards, the captain turned up, a thick-set older blond man. He was polite, punctiliously so, but guarded.

“You’re planning to leave port on the early morning tide, Captain?” asked Evgenia.

“We cannot leave without the express permission of the harbourmaster and that permission has been withheld for a week now. Never any answers. Only delay. This will be my last voyage to the Soviet Union.”

As he toyed with a glass of beer, a telegram arrived, delivered by a young deckhand. Flipping out some reading glasses, he began to peruse it.

“May I ask, what is your news captain?” asked Evgenia.

He shrugged and said, “I’m delighted to say that our ship is very honoured.” He seemed neither delighted nor honoured. “We’ve finally been given permission to leave on the four o’clock morning tide. The only proviso is that we have been asked to take three special guests dear to the Soviet Foreign Ministry.”

Jones beamed. “Who might they be, may I ask?”

“Ah,” said the captain, “here they are now.”

Professor Aubyn and Dr Limner walked into the restaurant, closely followed by Duranty.

“Jones, old cock, Evgenia!” exclaimed Duranty. “What a coincidence! May we join you? Make it all a bit of a party, eh? Heh, Jonesy, you’ll never guess who I got to see back in Moscow.”

“Stalin.”

“In one. He talked up a storm, about how it was necessary to forge good relations with the United States, blah blah blah. The New York Times are over the moon. Let’s get some champagne. The office has put me in for the Pulitzer and are paying for me to go on the razzle in Constantinople.”

“Congratulations old man,” said Jones, a smile frozen on his lips.

“As I was saying, Mr Duranty…” Aubyn had a sour expression on his face as if he had been sucking on a wasp. “I take a very dim view of how the Soviet authorities have been treating us. We have been wanting to take our leave for two weeks now and only today are we finally in Odessa. Please use your good offices with the Kremlin to ask for an explanation.”

“It’s always tricky, getting a response. New Soviet Man loves to play it close to the chest, Professor Aubyn.”

“You’ve met Stalin, Mr Duranty.”

“That doesn’t make me a travel agent, Professor.”

“Well, it’s not good enough. Our plans have been thrown awry and we should have been on our way back to Washington DC more than a week ago. I really didn’t expect this treatment…”

The professor became dimly aware that introductions were in order. He stopped in mid-sentence. “Erm…”

“Professor, Dr Limner, may I introduce – or probably reintroduce – Mr Gareth Jones of the Western Mail and his translator, Evgenia? You may remember them from Moscow?”

Aubyn offered a weak half-smile, Limner not even that.

“Captain, Sir, I believe that you will be taking Professor Aubyn, Dr Limner and I to Turkey first thing tomorrow morning. The professor has recommended that the United States recognise the Soviet Union. He’s written a report praising how things are done there,” Duranty’s eyes glittered with mischief.

The Captain and the officer bowed and soon the maitre d’ appeared, ordering for more chairs and places to be set at the table.

When the champagne, Duranty proposed the toast. “To a new era in America-Soviet relations! To us!”

Evgenia and Jones repeated the toast, all smiles, and drained their glasses.

Duranty’s easy grin clouded. “Champagne is warm. Bloody peasants.” Turning to the maitre d’, he barked, “Can you please bring us some ice to chill the bubbly?” Then, turning back to Jones, he said, “Nice suit you’ve got there, Jonesy. Pity about the boots. What have you been up to all this time? Moscow hasn’t been the same without you. We really missed you.”

“Researching a piece on Soviet culture, Duranty.”

“Good on you. Not much blood and gold in that. But,” his eyes were a-glitter as they turned to Evgenia, “but sex for sure.”

The party studied the menu and ordered caviar, oysters, foie gras, steak and salmon, all washed down by a good Bordeaux.

“Professor Aubyn’s report,” Duranty continued for the benefit of the Danish officers, “highlights the progress the Soviet Union has made with food production. Isn’t that the case, Professor?”

Aubyn nodded, acknowledging the tribute. The captain sipped his beer and then said, “You reported that the food situation for the people was good?”

“It is excellent,” said Aubyn, Limner nodding.

“Why on earth do you think that?” asked the Captain. “Do you not see the people starving?”

“Because it is the case,” said Limner, flatly. The Captain turned to Jones and Evgenia.

“Have you not seen the starving people, the beggars pitifully thin, the corpses?”

Evgenia tried to deflect. “It’s the Party’s…”

But Jones cut in.

“Yes, Captain,” he said. “I have.”

The captain stared into his beer.

“Captain,” said Jones, “may I have a private word?”

“If you’re asking about a berth in the ship for you and your translator, my officer has already broached the matter and the answer is yes.”

“That would not be appropriate,” said Limner.

“I beg your pardon,” said the Captain.

“That would not be appropriate,” Limner replied. “Mr Jones and his translator have eccentric views and Miss Miranova was unable to suppress her hostility to Professor Aubyn when she was supposedly translating for him.”

“She fainted is what you’re trying to say,” said Jones.

Duranty cut in. “Hey, let’s not all fall out boys and girls.”

Limner gestured at Jones and Evgenia. “You see, it would be impossible for Professor Aubyn’s party to travel in the same ship as these two.”

“It’s my ship, sir,” said the Captain to Limner. “If you want to stay in Odessa, so be it.”

Limner stood up, bowed and said, “I shall make the necessary representations to the authorities,” then left the room.

The meal continued, more miserably than before, Duranty making small talk about his time with Stalin, the professor moaning about his travel delays, Jones and Evgenia replying as economically as possible. In the background, above the noise from the band, they could occasionally make out Limner talking heatedly down a telephone. Limner returned but said nothing.