Саймон Моуэр - Prague Spring

The man digested these unpleasant facts, smoking and looking out across the gardens. Suddenly he seemed very vulnerable, crushed by the situation. Sam thought of Russia and what it did to its children. The largest country in the world, yet as claustrophobic as a prison cell; lives trapped and stifled; genius smothered. And how the contagion spread to its neighbours. He thought of Lenka, orphaned and shamed by the state, trading her body for the hope of education. He thought of hope itself, the violinist’s name, Nadezhda , and how for the moment hope flourished here in Czechoslovakia, at least. Hope against hope.

‘I can have a word with people in the embassy but I can’t promise anything.’

Egorkin nodded, as though weasel words were only to be expected. ‘Tell me, Mr Wareham, how is it that you speak Russian so well?’

It was a relief to shift the conversation on to firmer ground. ‘Two years of intensive Russian during my national service, followed by a three-year degree.’

‘So you loved our language.’

Was it a question? ‘I still do. The poetry and the prose. But particularly the poetry.’

‘And you will know that our writers have had their creative lives crushed. Pasternak unpublished in his own country and forced to refuse the Nobel Prize. Mandelstam killed in the gulag. Akhmatova banned for decades. Soul-destroying, Mr Wareham. Surely you understand that. Surely you feel it.’

‘I don’t see how my feelings come into it.’

Egorkin gave a dry laugh. ‘That is because you are not yourself. You are just a representative of a government. A functionary. But I am an artist, representing no one but myself. I deal with the emotions and the soul. You heard us play yesterday evening. Didn’t that speak to your soul? And to the soul of the woman at your side?’

‘I’m sure it did.’

‘Are you in love with her?’

He thought of Lenka, waiting in the hotel room, and then of Stephanie in her parents’ house in England. He thought of loyalty and betrayal, of passion and affection, of desire and love, all those abstract nouns that were so difficult to pin down and were so inimical to diplomacy. The trouble with diplomats, Steffie had once told him, is that you never know what they’re thinking. He made to get up. ‘As I said, my feelings have nothing to do with it.’

Egorkin put out a hand to restrain him. ‘Listen to your soul and help us, Mr Wareham. I am begging you.’

Sam stood, trying not to give the impression that he was abandoning the man. ‘I will do what I can, Mr Egorkin, but I cannot promise anything. You have my phone number if you need it. Where are you staying in Prague?’

‘At the International Hotel.’

‘If I have anything positive to tell you, I’ll contact you there.’

‘We are watched. All the time, we are watched.’

‘Then maybe you can phone me. At the embassy. Give me until Wednesday next week. But as I said, I really cannot promise anything.’ He smiled, sympathetically he hoped, and walked away. Lenka would be wondering where he had got to.

A reception at the ministry of foreign affairs, to celebrate the fraternal visit to Prague of Nicolae Ceaușescu. Tito had paid a flying visit a few days ago and been greeted by ecstatic crowds. Now it was the turn of the enigmatic leader of Romania.

The British ambassador had been invited and so had Eric, but the Whittakers were away in Austria for the weekend and Eric was damned if he was going to ruin his break for some tiresome duty bash. Sam would stand in for him, wouldn’t he? Wave the flag alongside His Excellency?

Sam rang a contact at the protocol section of the ministry and got Lenka’s name added to the guest list in place of Madeleine Whittaker. ‘You can write a piece about it for one of your journals,’ he told Lenka, and she appeared delighted at the possibility. These days anything seemed possible, even someone like her, with her family history, being admitted to the purlieus of power. They shunned driving and instead walked up the long slope of the Castle Hill. Lenka was once again wearing the dress and shoes they’d bought in Munich. She appeared excited at the prospect of even being in the same room as Dubček. ‘I might even get a chance to talk to him,’ she said with childlike enthusiasm.

In Hradčany soldiers were on duty at government buildings and policemen were marshalling the traffic. Sam and Lenka joined a queue shuffling forward to be admitted to the portals of the Černín Palace. Sam could feel Lenka tense beside him as their names were checked against the guest list, but then they were in, wandering past gilded columns and Flemish tapestries with the other milling guests. There was no receiving line – apparently their hosts were still in private discussions in the Hrad, but the ambassador was already there, in conversation with a South American counterpart. He detached himself and came over to be introduced to Sam’s guest. His bright, beady eyes didn’t miss a trick, either at bridge, which he and his wife played mercilessly, or in the complex social intercourse of the diplomatic world. He was, he claimed as he smiled on her, delighted to make her acquaintance.

‘Lenka’s a student,’ Sam explained.

The ambassador’s smile was benign. ‘Everyone seems to be these days. Surprised there’s anyone left to do any work. How’s Stephanie? Sorry she had to leave us.’

‘I haven’t heard from her for a while. I believe she’s fine.’

‘Belief is a great comfort, Samuel. I think it is what is sustaining our hosts at this very moment. One wonders’ – glancing round pointedly – ‘where they might be.’

‘I believe they are still locked away in talks.’

‘There you are again. Belief. What would we do without it?’ He laid a hand on Sam’s shoulder. ‘But please don’t let me bore you with my prattle. Go and circulate. Show Miss Konečková what fun we in the diplomatic corps have.’

‘I don’t think I like that man,’ Lenka said as the ambassador moved away.

‘He’s all right. He’s just a Wykehamist, that’s all.’

‘A Wykehamist?’

‘It really doesn’t matter.’

‘Anyway, whatever he is, he did not have to mention Stephanie.’

Sam laughed. ‘Oh yes, he did.’

They moved through the crowd, nodding greetings here and there. An American diplomat whom Sam knew came over. He was part Czech in origin, part Czech, wholly Jewish and every bit American, his family surname Růžička translating into Rose when his grandfather passed through Ellis Island in 1888. Harry Rose. He looked approvingly at Lenka. ‘A real live Czech? As rare as hen’s teeth at an event like this. Where did Sam find you?’

‘ I found him .’

‘Touché. You know what?’ That was how he always started his stories. You know what? ‘Believe me, this is true. East German intelligence just reported American tanks crossing the border from Austria. Yesterday or the day before, this was. Invasion! Outrage! Claimed it was NATO belligerence, for Christ’s sake. Tried to get the Soviets interested in starting World War Three. The reality? They were old World War Two relics, props for some damn war film they’re making at Barrandov, can you believe it?’ He basked in their laughter. ‘It’s true, it’s true. We’ve got the whole lot here – Ben Gazzara, Bradford Dillman, Robert Vaughn. Half of Hollywood. You know these guys?’

‘I know the man from U.N.C.L.E.’

‘That’s him.’

‘What is uncle?’ Lenka asked.

‘It’s some James Bond-type TV show.’

‘United Network Command for Law Enforcement,’ Harry said with glee.

‘There is such a thing?’

Harry laughed, entranced by Lenka’s credulity. ‘You mustn’t believe everything you see on TV.’