The Spy Who Shoved Me.....Part IV
The driver was having trouble getting the bus into gear, but, finally, after a series of crunches we moved slowly forward, sweeping round in a wide arc to head back towards the city. The mood on the bus was palpable. Like me, the rest of them were probably thinking about what they had just been a part of and wondering how they managed to emerge from the trenches without serious injury. Even, Irina, was quiet, perhaps conscious of our mood and the reasons why. We had come to play football, but had come away bashed and robbed, at least that's how it felt. It wasn't the losing, that was of little importance, but it was the manner in which we had lost. I knew that most of us loved the game and for us it was the playing that really mattered. This afternoon a small group of people from opposing cultures had been given the chance to put their nation's differences to one side, just for once. A chance to share a common love had been destroyed by a crude, brutal, need to dominate. As an 'International Relations' exercise it had been an abject failure and I blamed the Russians for that. Sod 'em, I thought.
Their belief that winning was more important than the game itself said much about their sense of fellowship. I felt sorry for them.
Looking through the window of the bus I became aware of just how many giant posters and banners adorned the walls of buildings. There seemed to be more than I remembered. Many depicted images of industry. Powerfully built men with strong faces, wearing flat caps, and women in shawls working in factories and harvesting the corn. Posters of Lenin, long dead, were everywhere. As the rest of the civilised world moved forward, Mother Russia had been marking time. Yes, they had ventured into space, but at what great cost to their economy and their people. It was all madness.
The mood had changed. The lads were starting to laugh and joke again and there were even
references to incidents during the game. The magnificence of my own crushing by a Russian tank had started them off and I was laughing with them. Far better that we saw the humour in it and we did. Irina, too, seemed more animated than before. I saw her stand, move towards the driver and speak to him. She came back and looked down at me. "Rowja, now don't forget, you must be there no later than 7.30pm".
"Be where?", I said, my interest aroused. " We are having a small party to honour your team, I told you, don't you remember?" She hadn't told me, but it didn't matter. For reasons best known to herself I had become her go-between as far as the team were concerned. It appeared that there would be a small reception in the Dockworker's cafe/bar with food and drinks supplied. When I relayed the news to the others their reaction was positive. Perhaps it would make up for the afternoon's disaster?, perhaps not.
As she stood there, holding onto the strap above her, the bus swayed slightly and for one, all too brief, moment, her thigh brushed the top of my arm. I had now been intimate with Mata Hari twice, it's got to stop, I thought sarcastically, tongues will wag. The bus slowed to a stop and Irina said, " I'll leave you now, the driver will take you back. I'll see you later. It will be fun, you'll see". I wasn't elated at the news, if this afternoon was Irina's idea of fun. With a wave to everybody, she stepped off the bus. As we moved off, I watched as she merged with the other pedestrians until she was gone from sight.
At 7.15pm., we left the ship. There were nine of us. Mr.Forsythe had cried off and Des had one of his migraines coming on, which wasn't surprising. We were dressed casual but still looked neat and tidy, as most seamen did in those days when they went ashore at night. Earlier, when we returned to the ship, the cook had, thoughtfully, put some food in the hot press for us, so we'd eaten. Might be a good thing too, I thought, if they start hitting us with the vodka. The cafe/bar was only a few minutes walk from the ship. I'd been over there the trip before and had found it a cold, soulless place, but I didn't tell the others that, what was the point.?
We arrived shortly before 7.30pm. There were about thirty or so people gathered there, mostly men who had obvoiously taken some care with their appearance for the evening. Seated at tables of four or five, everyone seemed to have started drinking. The KGB was standing just inside the door as if she'd been waiting for us. She had changed into a dark blue sheath dress of some velvety material, the quality of which suggested it wasn't made in the U.S.S.R. With a black pair of heels she looked as striking as she had earlier in the day. She indicated two tables which had been set aside for us. Both were covered in white tablecloths. There was a large jug of water, three bottles of vodka and several glasses on each table. "Now I want you to sit down and help yourselves to the vodka. If you prefer, there is Russian and Czechoslovakian beer on that table over there and also trays of food, please help yourself. I'll be back shortly", she said, before gliding away to speak with people at other tables. With lowered eyebrows and barely suppressed grins on our faces we looked round at each other, then sat down and started pouring drinks. With some of the others I walked over to a long table and grabbed a bottle of Czech beer and a glass. I'd had it before, it wasn't too bad, far better than the Russian beer which I found watery and almost tasteless. When I looked around the room, I became aware of the apparent interest we were causing and occasionally I caught some of the other guests quickly glancing at us with grins on their faces. I wish they'd let us in on the joke, I thought, it's unnerving. Over on the far wall I saw our friend Genghis Khan in conversation with other men. He seemed to be holding the floor and only stopped talking to laugh. At least I couldn't see any of his thugs in the room which made me feel a little easier. Every happy Russian must be in this room tonight I thought. True to her word, Irina returned. "In a minute boys we've got a little surprise for you?". She had sat down opposite me and was smiling broadly as if hardly able to keep her little secret any longer. Not best practice for a KGB agent. Above the bar someone had switched on a television, big enough for us to see the screen clearly. Someone shouted out something. The conversation in the room was hushed and the television volume was raised slightly. "Watch carefully", Irina said, pointing to the television. Like the rest of us, I think I knew what was coming. Sure enough, it was the cherry on our cake of humiliation. There it all was in glorious black and white, part of a television local news programme being beamed out to a million or more happy little Soviets as they sat in front of their T.V. sets. There we were getting off the bus with the darling Irina, our den mother......now we were seen trotting onto the dust, we looked excruciatingly funny, ridiculous even, I wanted to laugh, but for heaven's sake that was me up there. I sensed the laughter bubbling up from others in the room.....Now after showing the presentation of the banner, they showed a series of grabs taken during the match. The goals scored by the dockworker's were all shown in some detail, as was our first goal. The goal in which I had played a part was not shown for some reason known only to the Russians. I shouldn't complain because they were good enough to show me being flattened in the 2nd half, clouds of dust, the whole shebang. What a bunch of bastards, and we're supposed to be enjoying this. The room was rocking, people's shoulders were shaking, tears streaming down their faces, looking at our stunned response. Irina sat there looking round at each of us, losing the battle to contain her own mirth in an explosion of laughter. For a minute I felt like standing up, giving them the Royal salute and getting out of the place as quick as I could.....then I thought, who can blame them, we did look funny, bl--dy funny. We were looking at one another when suddenly one of us started to laugh, that triggered it. Next minute we were all laughing as loud as the rest. Seeing our reaction, the Russians, still laughing, started to applaud us and came over slapping us on the back and in their own way trying to make us feel welcome. They succeeded. Funny people the Russians.
Before long I'd joined the others drinking the vodka, but found myself on a one-way ticket to Oblivia. My advice to anyone, never get in a vodka drinking contest with a Russian, you won't win.
I have a vague recollection of talking with Irina that evening but about what, I really don't know. I have no memory of her leaving the party, I have no memory of me leaving the party. I do know that we all ended up legless and it's a mystery how we managed to get back aboard without serious injury. Seamen seem to have a 'knack' for that sort of thing. Perhaps they have a special guardian angel somewhere.
Reflecting upon that day I see the irony of it all. By her contrivance she had done to me what, once, I had so desperately wanted to do to her, but in another sense. The manner of her victory was far more spectacular than anything I could have dreamed. I like to think it wasn't born of malice, but you can never tell with the KGB. What I'd once had in mind for Irina would have been far more pleasurable, hopefully for both of us - but certainly for me!.
At the close of that long day I had run the gamut of emotions, feelings of affection, frustration, anger, and humiliation, but I learned that humour can sometimes open the door to friendship and understanding when all else fails.
It was the afternoon before we sailed. I went in search of Irina. For some reason I felt the need to say goodbye to her as my return to Leningrad was unlikely. I found her on the after-deck talking to some Russian official. I stood some distance away not wishing to intrude upon their conversation, but hoping that I might catch her eye. After a while she noticed me staring at her. She said something further to the man and he walked away. She had a quizzical look on her face. I approached her smiling and said, " As we're leaving tomorrow I just wanted to take the opportunity to say goodbye and wish you well, Irina" She was smiling too but her eyes had a look of puzzlement. " You see I'm leaving the ship when we get back to England and I don't think we'll meet again". The smile on her face seemed to fade a little and she looked away for a few seconds as if finding sudden interest in the water of the River Neva. When she turned back to face me her Baltic blue eyes seemed glazed and watery. She held out her hand to shake mine. I shook it gently and said, " Goodbye Irina". " Goodbye Rowja and good luck " she replied softly, a fragile smile on her face. She turned and walked slowly for'ard, her head bent down slightly. She never looked back.
The next day we sailed for Hull and never again would I see her secret agent smile or her well rounded bottom.
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Some six months later, in January, 1964, I rejoined the 'Baltic Merchant' and returned to Leningrad for reasons of economy and nothing else. Mata Hari had moved on, her place taken by another woman of totally different appearance, not my idea of a secret agent at all. I was disappointed.
Sometimes I still think of Irina and that last time we said goodbye. Perhaps the watery eyes were due to a sudden attack of hay fever, or if not that, maybe she was just faking emotion - the KGB were very good at that sort of thing, you know!
THE ABOVE ACCOUNT RELATES TO FACTUAL EVENTS WHICH OCCURRED IN LENINGRAD IN 1960 & 1963.
IT WILL SEEM THAT I HAVE USED SOME LICENCE IN THE TELLING, I HAVE, BUT FAR, FAR LESS THAN MIGHT BE IMAGINED.............Roger.
