One rather foggy morning, before service had begun, Aristarkh Aleksandrovich assembled the waiting staff and instructed them to invent three stories about their time fighting the Reds during the Civil War. Even the youngest lad, who was only sixteen years old, was expected to come up with something. They were told to emphasise the cruelty of the communists and the bravery of the Whites. In truth, not a single one of them had been anywhere near the front, least of all Aristarkh Aleksandrovich himself, and nobody was very happy at having to pretend, but they didn’t dare to object.

  In the meantime, Efim Moisevitch had hired a small band of gypsies to sing traditional Russian songs every night. There was a Russian wine list, too, though, in fact, the wine came from obscure vineyards in Languedoc, with Russian labels pasted onto the bottles.

  The Americans lapped it up, especially when the main lights were dimmed, leaving just the candles guttering on the tables, and the gypsies started to hum softly, the melody of the violin in the background plummeting suddenly from major to minor in an effort to conjure up the promised ‘authentic Russian atmosphere.’

  Money poured into the till like water from a pump, and nothing filled Aristarkh Aleksandrovich with more pleasure than the moment when he pulled down the shutters, locked the door, and sat down with Efim Moisevitch and half a bottle of vodka to count the takings. The staff were warned, on pain of losing their jobs, not to breathe a word outside the restaurant about the telling of the war stories, so that their competitors, of which there were several, didn’t get wind of it and copy them. The hair-raising stories the staff told their customers become more and more embellished and extreme the more they were retold. They told of men being buried alive, of women raped, tortured and burnt to death before their eyes, of despairing mothers cutting their own children’s throats rather than let the Bolsheviks get their filthy hands on them.

  But the other Russian restaurants had plenty of tricks of their own, such as bringing in troupes of supposed Cossacks, to plait their arms across their chests, kick their legs, and yell ‘Whoa!’ Aristarkh Aleksandrovich decided they needed a new gimmick to stay ahead, so he found a retired circus performer to throw twelve inch knives around the head of the sixteen-year-old, who stood shaking, chalk-white with fear, against the wall. But one evening, a clumsy throw took a sizeable slice off the poor boy’s ear. Bleeding like a pig, and howling with fear and pain, he was bundled quickly into the kitchen, where the Serpent calmly stitched him up and told him not to be such a girl.

  22.

  Dirty, melting snow slushed underfoot as the procession of hats, scarves and black coats made its way to the top of the mausoleum where Bukharin, Vorosilov, Kalinin, Molotov, Stalin, Rykov, Tomskii and the rest stood in a row. On the far left of the mausoleum, but slightly lower down, Stanislav Markovich sat with the journalists, bundled up against the cold like the rest of them.

  The Internationale boomed over the loudspeakers to signal the beginning of the procession. First, seemingly endless columns of infantry marched by, turning their heads smartly towards the Central Committee of the Communist Party as they passed them. Then came the cavalry, the sound of hundreds of hooves clattering against the cobbles filling the air. Then, the roar of tanks and the throbbing of the heavy lorries pulling the artillery, gun barrels glinting with a dull shine. In their wake came the factory workers, each group proud to have been picked to represent their region of the Soviet Union, followed by hundreds upon hundreds of socialist columns – young men and women of the Komsomol, in their white shirts and red kerchiefs, their banners held high, shouting slogans at the top of their voices.

  Every inch of the square was one enormous stage, and hanging down over the façade of the G.U.M shops were huge red banners of Engels, Marx, Lenin and Stalin.

  Margarita had never seen Paul with such a smile on his face. He was in his seventh heaven, though every now and again he took his vodka bottle from the breast pocket of his coat and took a quick swig, to ward off the cold, he told her. Alongside them in the audience were workers from the factories and mills, as well as officials from various government departments and other institutions who, for whatever reason, had been granted the privilege of being invited to attend. The delegation from Berlin had been seated with the other foreign delegations in a privileged position, but it was freezing cold, and after two hours, Margarita’s toes were numb, no matter how much she stamped her feet.

  It started to snow. Gymnasts tumbled through the flakes, ghostly figures smiling gamely, though their lips were turning blue, and the spectators all yelled their appreciation of the artistry of their intricate human pyramids before they passed by. Paul pointed at something excitedly and Margarita turned her head in time to see Stalin throwing a snowball at somebody beneath him, and that person throwing a snowball back, and some of the Politburo laughing.

  Music blared through the loudspeakers constantly, and every now and then the spectators would spontaneously sing along, Margarita among them. She felt part of a fraternity, one which encompassed not only the communists within the square, but all those millions beyond who were also singing from the same song sheet.

  Kai-Olaf didn’t take his seat until mid-afternoon, and when he did, he looked sombre.

  ‘Is everything alright?’ Margarita asked.

  ‘I’ve found out why your friend Masha was imprisoned,’ he said in her ear.

  There was so much noise around them, she didn’t catch his words properly.

  He sat at her side, his cap pulled low over his ears, his hands deep in his coat pockets, watching the procession. He’d never said a single word about Baku. What did he feel towards her? Did he feel anything? Margarita didn’t know what to think or what to do, and kept hoping he would say something, but so far he was acting as though nothing had passed between them at all.

  The celebrations carried on for another hour. A dozen aeroplanes flew past the Kremlin in strict formation, followed by four slower aeroplanes flying in circles. Everybody looked up at the grey sky and watched as four dozen men fell from the undercarriage of each machine, like graceful red confetti. But one of the parachutes failed to open, and the entire square watched in horror as the man hurtled downwards, head-over-heels, his arms flailing wildly. Even the Central Committee were like a clutch of open-mouthed chicks as they craned upwards. Then the man plummeted from sight, and the celebrations continued as though nothing had happened.

  ‘Did you see that…?’ asked Margarita, shaken.

  Kai-Olaf nodded, tight-lipped, without looking at her.

  As the procession came to an end, and the square gradually emptied, it was already getting dark, but the lights were on and the militia had lit huge bonfires to keep the pilgrims warm.

  Outside, silence reigned, but there was the usual feasting and dancing and singing at the Hotel Moskva that night, the magnificent chandeliers burning as brightly as ever. Paul, Max and Moritz danced in a tight circle, their heads bent as though in prayer, their arms yoked across each other’s shoulders. Margarita swept her eyes across the alcoves, where the tables were placed around the room. She had just spoken to Kai-Olaf and was in no mood to socialise. Kai-Olaf had told her that her friend Masha had been sent by ship from Vladivostok to Magadan, after being sentenced to ten years in a Siberian jail. Her crime was spying for the Germans, and her visit to Berlin had been the perfect opportunity to pass on secret information about the industrial potential of the Donbas to the enemies of the Soviet Union. Her two brothers were also part of the plot, and they too were under lock and key.

  Although Kai Olaf told her his source was impeccable, Margarita found it almost impossible to believe that this could be true of Masha. Masha Ivanovna? The same Masha who had spoken to her so passionately about the future of her motherland, about the communist ideals she upheld so staunchly? But she had been accused, and a court of law had found her guilty of betraying the cause that was so sacred to millions. Every word that came from her lips must have been a lie.

  If Margarita harboured doubts, Kai-Olaf had none.

  ‘But if you’d only met her…’ she began.

  ‘What difference would that have made?’ he asked.

  ‘Heard her speak as she spoke that night in the Mozart-Saal. I can’t believe she’d have done something like this.’

  ‘Double agents like Masha can be very clever.’

  ‘What if they have made a mistake?’

  ‘In a case as serious as this? I doubt it.’

  ‘It’s possible surely?’

  ‘They know what they’re doing.’

  Masha Ivanovna’s treachery left Margarita doubting herself, and she felt that she must have been completely politically naïve. Had Masha seen her coming from a mile away? Had she used her as some sort of cover for what she was really doing in Berlin? How had she been so stupid as to be taken in? Kai-Olaf comforted her. ‘We all have to learn from our mistakes.’

  But she was overwhelmed with shame. ‘I’ve been such a fool,’ she told him sadly.

  ‘You mustn’t take it to heart,’ urged Kai-Olaf. ‘Masha can’t do any more damage where she is now. Who knows, this might even be her salvation. But think of it this way. Even, if by some strange fluke, she has been wronged, it’s a wrong within a proletarian system which is just. The aim of the Soviet Republic is to stop man’s exploitation of his fellow man through the creation of a classless society. That’s why we can excuse any individual injustice without having to condemn the system. Always remember that communism is underpinned by a completely different attitude from the so-called justice of the capitalist countries, where there’s one law for the poor and another for the rich. The bourgeoisie believes that whatever promotes capitalism is good, and whatever puts a stop to it is bad. That’s why their praise of freedom and justice is just an empty hosanna.’

  Having it all framed like this made Margarita feel slightly happier, and she resolved to follow Kai-Olaf’s advice to be less ready to take people at face value without first learning more about them, and even then, he told her, she should remain alert. The enemies of socialism were extremely cunning. There were many who were more determined than ever to see the first workers’ republic fail, and would use whatever methods they could to bring about its overthrow.

  It had been a long and exhausting day. Margarita had been raised to the rafters by the celebrations in Red Square, and dashed to the ground with the savage disillusionment of realising that she had possibly been used by a spy. Later, she experienced an even greater disillusionment. On the dance floor were Kai-Olaf and Hella Wuolijoka. She was wearing a pretty blue dress with a pleated skirt, and her dark hair was loose and flying around her face as he twirled her round. Margarita felt the sharp sting of disappointment, but when Kai-Olaf caught her eye, she held his gaze levelly for a moment before turning her head away.

  More furtively she continued to watch him. He had such a well-chiselled, strong chin, and his blue eyes were as bright as ever. Hella was very beautiful, but as she felt another stab of jealousy, Margarita berated herself. Jealously was a bourgeois emotion. What right did she have to claim another individual as hers alone? He was challenging her to challenge herself. Yes, that’s what Kai-Olaf was doing, it was quite clear to her now, and Margarita realised that she still had a long way to go before she could truly call herself a communist.

  But she still felt bereft, and without an understanding of anything – least of all herself – she was lost. She wanted to make him happy, but he clearly didn’t feel the same. He seemed to have rejected her, so now what? She had her friends in the KPD, her sister, her health, all important things. And yet, they weren’t enough – she needed more. At least she was honest enough to admit that to herself. She needed somebody in her life, someone to fall asleep next to every night and wake up with every morning. Was that likely to ever happen? Was somebody going to love her? It was important not to start feeling hopeless, there was enough sadness in the world already without sinking into that trough. She must stay hopeful. If there was a clear meaning to history, there had to be a meaning to her life, too. Though, from her own point of view, the future seemed very unclear.

  She turned and saw Stanislav Markovich talking to one of the hotel staff. She waited until the young man scuttled off, no doubt to do his bidding, then went over to greet him.

  ‘You’re looking tired,’ he told her directly.

  ‘I feel tired. It’s been a long day.’

  ‘So it has. I’m not staying long. I’ve promised to meet Panait Istrati. Have you heard of him?’

  ‘No…’

  ‘A writer from Romania, who’s very keen for me to introduce him to Mayakovskii. Which I’ve promised to do, so I’d better not break my word.’

  They chatted for a while, and then Stanislav said, ‘I’ve found out what happened to your father.’ Margarita waited impatiently while he lit his pipe. ‘I don’t have good news, I’m afraid.’

  She had been fearing the worst in any event. ‘He’s dead?’ she asked.

  ‘About eight years ago. He was leading a special force – a small army within the Red Army – outside Lvov, against the Poles. The exact circumstances aren’t clear, but he was shot and buried there.’ He coughed a dry cough. ‘All praise to him. He was a committed officer, held in high regard. He did his best for the cause.’

  Margarita tried to take in the significance of what she’d just been told. She asked when her father had joined the Red Army. Had he become a member of the Communist Party? Had he joined the Red Army voluntarily? Or had he been forced against his will? He had always been so hostile towards the Bolsheviks. Stanislav replied that Kozma had realised that the Bolsheviks were Russia’s only possible saviours, and that without them, the empire would be destroyed under the feet of the capitalists. He hadn’t wanted to see foreign companies and banks – American, French, British, German or, worse yet, Japanese – fleece the land of all its natural resources, its coal, oil, gold and silver. There were enough forests in the taiga to feed the insatiable appetites of the capitalist world for generations.

  ‘It seems Kozma Mikhailovich realised that it was more important to keep these raw materials in the service of the people, rather than fill the pockets of a small band of greedy men.’

  Was that really how her father thought by the end of his life? As she did now? What a shame she couldn’t have talked to him about it. She’d never find out now what his reasons had been for changing his mind. But it seemed they had both seen the worth of the cause, and had stepped over to the communists in order to contribute to creating a better society than the old one.

  Margarita wondered why she felt so calm. She felt no sorrow or sense of loss, but rather an inner release. Stanislav pulled on his gloves, pushing his fingers right to the end, as though he was reproaching the leather for not yielding more space.

  ‘I understand you’ll be working for Aznefttrust once you’re back in Berlin.’

  There was something presumptuous about him. What had she ever seen in him?

  ‘How did you hear that?’

  ‘Somebody in the Kremlin told me.’

  ‘Have you been asking about me?’

  Instead of replying, he squeezed her elbow – the first time he’d touched her in Moscow – and declared that they needed first-class people in key places, to prepare for the fight ahead of them in Europe.

  ‘You have an important contribution to make. He squeezed her arm once again. ‘And we have every faith in you.’ His skin was ashy.

  Next day’s greatest thrill was seeing the pictures of the Red Square procession in Pravda, with Stalin centre stage. Paul insisted that a tiny figure in the crowd was himself. Then Max and Moritz decided they could see themselves too, in among the grey faces and black fur hats. Margarita translated the newspaper reports for them, but, although she scoured all the columns, there wasn’t a single word in Pravda, nor Izvestia, or any of the other newspapers, about the parachutist who had been killed.

  23.

  They kept trying to persuade Alyosha to pretend to be a prince who was related to the late Tsar, perhaps even going so far as to claim he had been one of those who had disposed of Rasputin’s body by pushing his corpse through a hole in the ice into the black river Neva. But he flatly refused, unwilling to have anything to do with such a stupid charade.

  His refusal did him no favours with Aristarkh Aleksandrovich, who was still preoccupied with preserving the restaurant’s popularity. Alyosha didn’t mind coming out with a load of old rubbish about fighting the communists on the battlefield, but claiming to be one of Rasputin’s murderers was a different matter. That was not a claim to be made lightly.

  But neither was Aristarkh Aleksandrovich a man to cross. He didn’t sack Alyosha for his refusal, but he did demote him from waiting on the customers to being a plongeur, the lowest of the low. Less money in his pay-packet, and no tips: he was significantly out of pocket.

  But Alyosha now spent his days in the company of Marya, Aristarkh Aleksandrovich’s wife. She was an unassuming woman, a gentle, plump little thing, with round cheeks, small and pink and appetising as ripe apples. She wore the same black frock with a green trim whatever the time of year. In spite of being the proprietor’s wife, he rarely saw her go in to the restaurant. She seemed to prefer to spend her time in the kitchen with the Serpent, working her fingers to the bone morning, noon and night, cleaning and scouring as though she were trying to wash away some terrible, unbearable sadness. Amidst the dishonest kitsch of the restaurant, there was an authentic simplicity belonging to her, like something sieved pure and clean. One dark night, in the quiet hour at the end of his shift, she confided in Alyosha about the daughter she had lost as she fled Russia, though in her heart she was still convinced that the child was alive.