Derek Lambert - Angels in the Snow

‘Very impressive,’ Mortimer said.

‘Not really. He always parks there and he lives at number seven. I knew he wouldn’t bother too much with the fire. He’s a Norwegian, not very imaginative.’

‘There’s certainly a lot of nationalities here.’

‘The lot. The East Europeans are in that new block over there. We don’t mix except for cocktails. You’ll be having a lot of cocktails. Are you married?’

‘No. Are you?’

‘In a manner of speaking. My wife is in America.’ He poured himself another drink. ‘We’re separated if you must know,’ he said; and wondered why the green young Englishman was the first person in whom he had confided.

‘I’m sorry. Have you any children?’

‘Two.’ Randall didn’t want to discuss it any more. ‘A diplomat hanged himself here this morning,’ he said.

‘So I heard.’

The stylised understatement irritated Randall. ‘You Goddam Englishmen,’ he said, is that all you can say—so I heard?’

‘It’s terrible. I’m sorry but I’m a bit overwhelmed. The fire, a hanging, my first day in Moscow …’

‘You’ll soon settle down. When the real snow comes. It sort of cossets you the first time round. It’s how you always imagined Russia. Come February and March you never want to see another snowflake. It’s on your second or third winter that you start to crack up.’

‘It is my experience,’ said Mortimer, selecting his words carefully, ‘that wherever you arrive there’s always someone around who wants to frighten you. I don’t believe that it’s such a bad place. It can’t be that bad.’

‘It isn’t,’ Randall said. ‘It’s me. Have another drink.’

‘No thanks. I’ll have to go now. Thanks for your hospitality.’

‘Don’t mention it. Drop in any time.’

He watched the marionette Mortimer, lit by the lamps round the playground, walking towards his entrance. Soiled overcoat flapping, gloves in hand, staring at the ground. Prim and proud and gullible. The affection which Randall felt surprised him. He retained it, examined it and put it aside. And guided Mortimer into his entrance.

Then he tore up the cocktail party invitation and walked around smoking and drinking whisky. The flat seemed more empty than ever before, resonant, washed with restless shadows. The children’s room was now the lumber room. In one corner stood a pile of broken toys. In a drawer of a filing cabinet he found last year’s Christmas cards. One of them was a Russian New Year card from his wife, a gold bust of Lenin on a blue background scattered with stars. ‘A happy Christmas, darling, and a happy New Year.’ But it had all been over even then. And two more Russian cards, bright, beaming dolls linking arms, from the children. There was a film of dust over the cards.

More whisky and ice from the freezer. He switched on the record player and listened to ‘The Sleeping Beauty’ played by the Bolshoi orchestra, a present from his wife. He opened the window and smelled the night, cold and cruel. Lights glittered in the hotel opposite but they had no warmth.

He went to bed and dreamed that it was the last day on earth. He and his family were trying to climb a slope to escape a wave of radioactive gas sweeping towards them They ran but they were on rollers. The smaller boy fell and the gas engulfed them. He tried to speak to his wife, to apologise for what he had done. She laughed.

The big man lying on the bed whimpered and tried to embrace the emptiness beside him.

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