The translator, p.20
The Translator, page 20
The general made a telephone call and waited. Moments later he was speaking to the director of the theatre, who gave a detailed account of the whole episode, which he himself had witnessed from a box just above the stage. It was an accident. Varlamov didn’t believe in accidents, but since the perpetrator of the “crime” was a British actor, and since the play had resumed after fifteen minutes with no further incident, and since the English translator, Mr Clive Franklin, had personally assured the theatre and the British Council and Boris Kunko that he was not going to press charges, General Grigory Varlamov decided to let the matter drop.
17
Marina woke early on Saturday morning to a sunlit view of the Black Sea, as smooth as glass and a striking blue. She was rocking in a chair that came with the house, listening to the creaking sound of wood on wood, drinking her first coffee of the day, but not in peace, since Olga, the red-faced housekeeper, was asking if she didn’t wanted to try the figs, which were wonderful that year. Marina succumbed, tried a fig, and then asked for another. Olga beamed.
It was a charming house overlooking the sea, backing onto a vineyard laid out in terraces cut into the hillside. A small path led down to a beach thirty metres long, which was part of the property, with a jetty and a boathouse where Marina had a speedboat – another present from President Serov. Last summer, she had taken her boatman’s licence. Geographically speaking, Marina knew exactly where she was: beyond the hazy horizon lay Turkey; to the east was Russia; to the south-east, Georgia; to the west, Romania and Bulgaria.
This is Crimea, Marina thought, land of grapes and sun. In the nineteenth century, you came here to stave off tuberculosis, like Chekhov, or to while away unwanted exile, like Pushkin. Today, Russians come in their thousands to feel the sun on their backs. Not me. I have an entirely different objective: I’m here to plot perfidy. The Russian word, verolomstvo, rang in her ears: a combination of “trust” and “smash”. In English, Marina reflected, rocking herself back and forth, you can take your pick between treachery or perfidy. Somehow, perfidy sounds worse, she decided. Either way, it’s the sort of thing they kill you for.
Absolutely no presents, said the invitation from the president’s office, printed in elaborate script, with a gold border around the edge. Marina was about to disobey.
At half past nine, an official car drew up in front of Marina’s villa. The driver had a message: Marina Andreyevna was to bring a pair of rubber-soled shoes and to wear trousers. Marina hurried back to change.
On the eight-kilometre journey to the president’s villa, the driver did not draw breath, telling Marina that during the night a guided-missile cruiser called the Moskva had anchored a few kilometres out to sea, in front of the president’s villa. This was the president’s birthday… A red-letter day!
Marina heard her phone ping and saw a text from Lev: he would meet her on the lawn and brief her. She was on duty at ten-thirty.
Twenty minutes later, Marina was standing on a meticulously mown lawn in the warming light of the Crimean sun, facing a three-storey mansion that reminded her of the White House, except that it was a pale yellow. On the flight over, the president had told Marina that his spanking new Villa Nadezhda was an exact copy of the Yelagin Palace in Saint Petersburg, but, of course, on a much smaller scale. It’s a house, the president had told her, not a palace, and he had named it after his late wife, Nadezhda.
Marina was curious to see inside the huge lunch tent, which was draped in the white, blue and red of the Russian flag. Inside, she found an army of waiters laying tables for two hundred guests. As she wandered back across the lawn, she saw Lev waving by a fountain. No hurry, he explained. The Indian VIP she was to look after hadn’t yet arrived, so there was time for a quick tour of the garden.
They stopped at the ha-ha and stared out over the sparkling sea. On those dancing shards of light bobbed the president’s yacht, usually a most impressive sight, but not today, when it looked like a toy in a bath, dwarfed by the flagship of the Black Sea Fleet, the Moskva, which dominated the horizon. Through Lev’s binoculars, Marina could see the missiles, gunmetal and gleaming, neatly stacked and pointing upwards. Don’t go far, Lev said, before disappearing to find out where the Indian VIP had got to and leaving Marina alone on the greenest of grass. Everywhere Marina looked, she saw navy top brass in their distinctive white-and-gold dress uniforms. She was drawn irresistibly to where the president stood, holding court, besieged by admirals and fawning guests, all eager to convey their birthday wishes. Marina spotted the foreign minister and Boris Kunko on the steps of the villa, and sitting on the edge of a fountain, where water gushed from the mouths of dolphins, was the deputy prime minister, Viktor Romanovsky, who had spotted her and was fast approaching.
Looking around for an escape route, Marina caught sight of the newlyweds, Nastya and Igor, and threw herself into Igor’s bear hug, thanking first him and then Nastya for the most beautiful wedding reception.
“I was hoping you’d be here,” Igor said with genuine warmth. “This is some place, don’t you think? They finished it in record time. The paint is hardly dry.” He looked approvingly at the yellow mansion gleaming in the sun. “I met the project manager in Moscow. He told me he’d been given an impossible deadline by the president… But when Nikolai Nikolayevich wants something, he gets it. Just like that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, we must go and congratulate the birthday boy…”
“Just like that,” echoed Marina, taking another cup of coffee from a passing tray and discreetly moving away to sit down on the edge of a fountain and wait for Lev.
A voice from behind startled her.
“Hello.”
Marina looked up to see a ravishing young woman in a white summer dress with blue forget-me-nots.
“Sorry if I startled you. It’s Marina, isn’t it?”
“And you’re Katya,” said Marina with a smile.
“What do you think of this place… Impressive, no? I mean, look at the size of it! I’m here with Igor and Nastya… I don’t know anyone here… I feel a bit lost…”
“You should meet Lev…” Marina began, but to her dismay she spotted Viktor Romanovsky striding purposefully towards her. This time there was no escape. Standing inches away from Marina, the deputy prime minister launched into his usual obsequious patter.
“Marina Andreyevna… What a vision you are this morning! Dazzling… Quite dazzling. Have I told you that I’m putty in your hands? Just putty…”
Then Romanovsky’s lascivious eye fell on Katya.
“My, oh my, who do we have here? Am I speaking to the new government adviser on quantitative easing?”
Katya looked puzzled.
“It was a joke,” said Viktor, taking Katya’s arm. “Shall we have some ice cream?”
Is it going to be like this all weekend? Marina wondered. Nothing but social chit-chat and idiotic banter? And shall I come away empty-handed, my tail between my legs?
She glanced around at the dozens of smiling faces; everyone was in a holiday mood, except for General Varlamov, who stood alone in a corner, eating a peach, the juice dribbling down his chin, which he wiped away, most carefully, with a red silk handkerchief. Marina was thinking that she, too, might like a peach, when the general noticed her and walked over.
“The Englishman was stabbed last night,” he said with casual indifference, keeping his eye trained on Marina’s face.
“Stabbed?”
Marina’s face gave nothing away.
“In the hand. He’ll be fine. It really is an extraordinary story.”
Varlamov had just finished telling it, when Lev sauntered over and told Marina that the boss was looking for her.
Serov was in an exceptionally good mood, and soon Marina understood why. The head of the Indian navy, Admiral Mahrendra Singh, had just signed a contract that morning for five Russian submarines.
“Now that’s what I call a birthday present,” said Serov, taking Marina by the arm and strolling across the lawn with Lev just behind. “He’s here somewhere, the navy chief. That’s what he’s called in India. Going home today, but I’ve invited him to tour the Moskva. You’re coming too. I need you to translate… Lyova, where is our Indian friend? Go and find him!”
Lev hurried off while Marina slipped her arm free.
“Nikolai Nikolayevich, speaking of birthday presents…”
From her blue handbag she pulled out her prettily wrapped gift and presented it to the president with a speech she had prepared, wishing him a long and healthy life, and hoping that he would be guided by integrity and common sense in his most difficult job. Serov scolded her for bringing a present, but she could see that he was pleased when he held up a framed photograph of the young KGB officer Nikolai Nikolayevich Serov standing next to her father, Andrei Borisovich Volin, in his Soviet general’s uniform. Between them stood a little girl.
“Look at you! Marinochka, you come from great stock. He was a great patriot, your father, and a great soldier. A hero of the Soviet Union and my friend and mentor. Marinochka, you must be very proud.”
“I’m proud, of course… but… well, my father was a bully. You remember how I hated the early-morning swimming? He forced me… he literally dragged me out of bed, sometimes kicking and screaming!”
“Andrei Pavlovich was stubborn, I grant you that,” the president conceded. “But he had real focus, real determination… And all that swimming, all those early starts, look what it did for you! It taught you discipline and commitment. It made you the woman you are today, Marinochka.”
Serov took Marina by the arm and wandered across the lawn, telling her that turning seventy-one was more fun than turning seventy. They were joined, moments later, by the commander-in-chief of the Russian navy, Admiral of the Fleet Vyacheslav Konstantinovich Fyodorov, an imposing figure with a round and very red face who was dressed in a spotless white uniform with four rows of medals. He came to wish the president a very happy birthday and ended up telling a joke that brought tears to Serov’s eyes. It was then that Marina remembered what Lev had once told her: Admiral Fyodorov made the president laugh.
Marina was introduced to the admiral and also to his good-looking aide-de-camp with white-blond hair, Artyom Smirnov. She thanked Admiral Fyodorov for inviting her aboard the Moskva.
“Delighted,” said the admiral.
“Cars will be leaving from the house in exactly one hour,” murmured the ADC.
“I’ve never been on a guided-missile cruiser,” Marina remarked to the president, staring at the Moskva spread across the glittering surface of the Black Sea and feeling in her bones that something important was about to happen. Whatever that was, it would take place on board this gigantic floating arsenal. “I just hope I don’t let you down. I don’t know the first thing about ships, even in Russian… the terminology…”
“You’ll manage,” said Serov, dismissing her comment with a wave of his hand. “Ah!” he said, spotting Lev, who was leading the Indian VIP across the lawn. “At last. The man himself.”
The Indian admiral’s uniform was the best of the lot, Marina decided as she took in the swathe of gold braid that hung across the chest of the navy chief. Mahrendra Singh was a handsome and austere man with black bushy eyebrows, who spoke English with a cut-glass accent that put Marina to shame. As they shook hands, and Marina looked Admiral Singh directly in the eye, she thought: You are my passport to the missile cruiser, and I am all yours.
There was majesty in the sheer size of the warship. The navy cutter that brought the president and his party alongside the Moskva felt like a dinghy next to the huge grey bulk of the warship. How do you board such a monster? she asked Lev. Easy, he whispered. Just watch. An accommodation ladder was lowered down the side of the ship, and the president, eager to show off his rude health, briskly climbed the steps, followed by Admiral Fyodorov, who puffed a little, and Admiral Singh, who was as nimble as a twenty-year-old. At the top of the steps, standing to attention was the captain of the Moskva and the commander-in-chief of the Black Sea Fleet, a big-chested man with orange hair. Serov savoured the moment. He was smiling from ear to ear as he was piped aboard. This was his birthday, and this was his ship. A guided tour followed, led by the captain.
Marina could not believe how clean the ship was, how shiny and slick, with so much high-tech equipment: the masts, the revolving dishes, the long-range radar and the missiles – gunmetal, so sleek and smooth and deadly. As they moved from one deck to another, she found herself disorientated and a little queasy. The red-haired captain of the Moskva had a deep, sonorous voice, and he waxed lyrical about the wonders of the warship, which Marina translated into English for Admiral Singh, who now and then corrected her technical terminology with an indulgent smile. It was a relief when the tour ended and the president’s party of twelve was shown into the captain’s large cabin, where the wood-panelled walls were covered in prints of victorious Russian sea battles and where a dining table stood heaped with refreshments. The captain urged everyone to get stuck in, but Marina held back, taking in the details of the room. At one end of the cabin, a naval officer stood to attention in front of a closed door. Why? she wondered as she made a beeline for Admiral Fyodorov’s good-looking ADC, Captain First Rank Artyom Smirnov, who was helping himself to a blini with caviar. Marina asked if he ever got seasick. This broke the ice. It turned out Captain Smirnov had spent six months on the Moskva, knew every inch of it and loved it with a passion. Marina felt with a sudden rush of adrenalin: here was the man who could tell her what she needed to know. But suddenly the president summoned her over.
“It’s no use,” Serov said to Marina, helping himself to a sturgeon sandwich. “I cannot persuade my friend Admiral Singh to stay to lunch. Not even on my birthday!”
The Indian admiral smiled and said that he was needed urgently back in New Delhi, but what a pleasure it had been to tour such a great ship in the company of such an accomplished interpreter. Marina thanked him for the compliment, translating from English into Russian as she went along, but said that Admiral Singh had been too kind; she had struggled, especially with “fire-control radar”. When Admiral Fyodorov heard this, he burst out laughing and clapped Admiral Singh on the back, repeating, “Good man, excellent man.” Then the blow fell. The president asked Marina to accompany Admiral Singh back to shore. “Of course,” said Marina, feeling a stab of disappointment. The intelligence was here, under her nose. She could feel it. “Delighted to accompany Admiral Singh,” Marina said, forcing a smile. Here she was, on board the Moskva, with nothing to show for it. All she could hope for now was luck ashore, under the tent, maybe over lunch, or tea, or dinner. But luck came her way earlier than she expected. She hardly noticed when Admiral Singh discreetly asked if he could use the men’s room and was ushered into the captain’s private bathroom. That was when she overheard the president murmur to Admiral Fyodorov: “It’s just as well our Indian friend has to go back to India… We need to have our meeting…”
“We certainly do,” Fyodorov replied. “Not a moment to lose, as I’ve said more than once.”
So, the final briefing is happening here and now, Marina thought, and it will all take place while I’m ashore. I won’t pick up even a crumb of intelligence. Resign yourself to your fate, she told herself, and approached her new friend, the good-looking ADC, asking if she, too, might use the facilities. Perhaps there was another lavatory? Captain Smirnov consulted the ADC to the captain of the Moskva, then, to Marina’s surprise, he asked her to hand over her mobile, explaining that devices were forbidden in the “confidential compartment”, even though she was only passing through. Smirnov led Marina over to the naval officer standing to attention in front of the closed door and whispered something in his ear. The officer nodded, opened the door and led Marina across a windowless room filled with electronic humming from a bank of flickering computer screens. Passing a central table covered with sea charts, he escorted her to a lavatory on the far side. Marina locked the lavatory door and stood quite still, breathing heavily as she realized exactly where she was: inside the lion’s den. Lady Luck was smiling down.
Marina emerged from the lavatory and looked for the naval officer, who was waiting for her at the far end of the room, holding open the door, his head turned towards the president and his guests. For a few seconds, Marina understood she had the room to herself. She glanced down at the chart which had some markings in black, but all she had time to read was the title: LAND’S END TO FALMOUTH. The guard turned his head. Marina met his eyes with a smile and walked back into the captain’s cabin to retrieve her mobile and meet the penetrating stare of Grigory Varlamov.
It seemed an age since Marina had waved goodbye to Admiral Singh. The hours dragged by. She managed to get a glimpse of the birthday cake in a special kitchen at the back of the tent and even met the French pastry chef from Paris who had been working on it for three days. “C’est magnifique,” she said, as she watched the Frenchman in his starched white coat and hat sprinkle gold dust over a one-metre-high replica of the Villa Nadezhda, before spelling out the exact ingredients needed to make the strawberry, raspberry and blackcurrant cream filling and the yellow fondant icing. Marina barely listened. She was thinking of the naval chart in the airless “confidential compartment”. She had something to offer Hyde, but not enough.
Thanks to Lev, Marina found herself at Admiral Fyodorov’s table, but every time she leant across to talk to him, his big-boned wife, who had a huge emerald on her finger, glowered and demanded his full attention. When Mrs Fyodorov went to the ladies, Marina slipped into the vacant seat.
“Good meeting?” Marina asked with a dazzling smile.
The commander-in-chief let out a deep sigh.
“Still no decision… Oh, these politicians! But I’m a seasoned servant of the state, my dear, and over the years I’ve learnt to be patient.”
“Patience,” Marina sighed. “Ah, yes. I’m afraid I have very little.”
