Stroika Read online

  Ignoring the faulty lift, Misha climbed the five flights to his doorway. The key and a hard shove and he almost fell into the room. He switched on the unshaded light that hung above the kitchen table, walked over to the fridge and extracted a plateful of cold sausage and cooked cabbage. Grabbing a fork from the sink, he rinsed it under the tap, sat down and began to eat. He was hungrier than he thought.

  The sound of a key turning in the lock and the door being forced behind him scarcely gave him pause.

  ‘It’s security,’ Misha said without turning around. Misha felt a large hand grab his shoulder. He lifted the plate of sausage and offered it to his flatmate. Ivan took one and swallowed it in two bites.

  ‘Have another; you need to keep your strength up.’

  Chapter 7

  The tricoloured flag, hanging limply in its wall mount, identified the elegant three-storey house as the Italian consulate. Could Italian bureaucracy, Misha wondered, be any worse than Russian? That morning, their answer machine giving opening times had cut off its announcer midstream.

  Ivan touched his shoulder and pointed in the direction of a man in a car parked across the street.

  ‘See, now they make their lists, later they arrest us… Perestroika is just a ploy to flush out dissidents.’

  Misha knew Ivan was only half joking.

  Reception was a large tiled area on the ground floor with sofas and the occasional chair scattered around. Misha approached the reception desk and took a number.

  They only had to wait a couple of hours, a record by Soviet standards. Misha threw down the copy of Vogue he had been studying and the two of them made their way to the door marked VISAS. He was glad now he had put on his best and only suit, even if it was slightly frayed around the buttonholes.

  A dark-haired woman in her mid-forties, smartly dressed, bid them to be seated. The nameplate on her desk displayed the name ‘Valeria Gambetti’. He awkwardly straightened his jacket and caught her staring at him over her glasses as a headmistress might a delinquent pupil. The two of them must look very different to the apparatchiks he had seen in reception.

  ‘And what kind of visa is it you are after?’ she said in heavily accented Russian.

  ‘Business,’ Misha shot back confidently. He knew if he stumbled here it would all be over. ‘Clothing… fashion,’ he said, before she jumped to another conclusion, ‘importing from Italy.’

  Misha sensed her reappraising him. Her voice softened. ‘You’ll need an invitation.’

  From a used and scribbled-on white envelope, Misha pulled out a fax from Venti Settembre signed by Luigi Crisi, their sales director.

  ‘Perfetto! What else do you have? Passports, photos?’

  Misha emptied the contents of the envelope on her desk: birth certificates, passports, proof of residence.

  ‘Bene.’ She sifted through them, made copies of what she needed and placed them in a file. She filled out an application form and had him and Ivan sign it in black ink.

  ‘How do you want to pay? Roubles?’

  Misha nodded.

  ‘You’ll be pleased to know you don’t have to queue again. Just call again in a week.’ She gave him a slip with a number.

  Misha and Ivan stood up.

  She held out her hand. ‘Buona fortuna! Good luck!’

  Misha reached for hers. He would need all the luck he could get.

  Chapter 8

  ‘I don’t know why you don’t just take his money. He’d lend it to you if you asked,’ Viktoriya said with some frustration. She could not understand why Misha was so stubborn sometimes. She fanned herself with Misha’s procurement wish list. The summer heat was sweltering, the city airless. Even sitting at an open-air café on the Moyka made no difference.

  ‘You know where he gets his money from. There would be strings attached.’

  She shrugged. ‘Hasn’t the system made criminals of all of us?’

  Surreally, a barge drifted by with a peacock on its deck in full iridescent display, its blue-and-green plumage cupped behind it like a shell. The waterman at the tiller waved at her.

  ‘You don’t seriously believe Konstantin makes his money through some small black market operation?’ he said, more of a statement than a question. ‘He’s thick with the military here in Leningrad, ever since he got back from Afghanistan.’

  ‘Moneylending, debt collecting…’

  ‘And the rest… prostitution, drugs. No, I’d rather make it on my own… start small.’

  Viktoriya looked at her old friend and narrowed her eyes exaggeratedly.

  ‘I’ll just have to work harder, faster.’

  He would have to, no doubt, she thought. But Misha was not entirely wrong. She had stopped asking Konstantin how he made his money. He would tell her nightclubs, debt collecting, unofficial pawnshops around the city. The reality was that she didn’t want to know. While Misha ran around on public transport and borrowed the odd vehicle, Kostya ran a fleet of Volgas, had his own large apartment close to Nevsky Prospect and a coterie of bodyguards. By comparison, she had only once ever visited Misha and Ivan’s depressing flat share and vowed long ago not to repeat the experience.

  ‘And how are you and Kostya getting along?’

  ‘Good,’ she answered ambiguously.

  Viktoriya had never told Misha what had happened that night four years ago. Antyuhin washed up in the spring thaw as Kostya had predicted. The newspapers reported a random mugging. Kostya had never demanded anything in return, not put her under pressure; he had been attentive, considerate. It had been a good six months before she slept with him. He had just been assigned to an army intelligence unit and was about to fly out to Afghanistan. She had no idea when she would see him again or even if she would. They had gone to a party together, and while everyone else brought beer and vodka, Konstantin brought cocaine. She had snorted back a line and had sex with him in the cramped apartment bathroom, while people banged impatiently on the door.

  ‘When do you think you can get me those items?’ Misha interrupted her thoughts, pointing at the piece of paper flapping in her hand.

  She looked down the list: one hundred pairs of jeans, fifty winter coats, three refrigerators, a single and three double mattresses. The list went on.

  ‘A week… maybe two.’

  She had her uses too, of course, she thought. Both Misha and Konstantin had recognised an opportunity when she had been appointed as a logistics manager to the main freight haulage business out of Leningrad. It provided Misha access to a whole new network of suppliers, and Kostya the perfect delivery mechanism for his regular shipments from Afghanistan. She was good at her job too. Bit by bit, her director, Maxim, had relinquished day-to-day control to Viktoriya, content with extracting his cut, assured that his private customers received a better procurement and delivery service than the state could provide its own citizens.

  Viktoriya felt a nudge in her back. At first she thought the waiter had bumped into her, until she saw the bear-like figure of Ivan waving an envelope at her and Misha.

  ‘The papers…’ said Misha, a broad smile on his face.

  Viktoriya suddenly remembered the small cylinder in her pocket and padded her jacket to check it was still there. It was a relief to be actually returning it after so many years. For nearly ten years it had lain buried under her mother’s floorboards in a plastic bag, almost forgotten. Misha had never asked where she had concealed it, only if it were safe. She wondered why he wanted it now and what had prompted him to bring it out of hiding.

  ‘I have to be going,’ said Viktoriya, standing up.

  She gave him a hug and slipped the palm-sized object surreptitiously into his hand before turning to Ivan and kissing him farewell on both cheeks.

  ‘When are you off?’ asked Viktoriya.

  ‘As soon as I buy the tickets and confirm a time with Venti… I’ll need a small v
an when we arrive back at Pulkova.’

  Viktoriya rolled her eyes. ‘Let me know your flight details. I’ll have someone meet you.’

  Misha lent forward and gave her kiss on the cheek. ‘I knew I could count on you, Vika.’

  ‘So does everyone.’

  Chapter 9

  Milan

  From his window seat, Misha traced the Neva east to the Gulf of Finland as pasture gave way to conifer and the city disappeared from view. Looking around the inside of the Ilyushin, he hoped its critical parts were in better shape than its visible internal workings. He tried again to fasten his seat belt and gave up. Ivan sat across the aisle in a seat that failed to recline, reading a copy of Soviet Sport. Still, he thought, its comfort compared favourably with the last time the two of them were in a plane together somewhere over Afghanistan, not long after their column had been decimated by a mujahideen ambush in some godforsaken valley. He wasn’t so sure, though, that it was any less dangerous.

  In leather jacket and jeans, Misha considered what an incongruous pair they made in a sea of dark suits. He checked for his shoulder bag tucked under the seat in front. Just about all he had in the world was zipped into the inside pocket.

  A tall air hostess with long red hair stretched effortlessly across two empty seats and served him stewed tea from a heavy-looking ornate metal pot. Ivan winked at him. Misha was glad he had brought him. He could not remember a time when Ivan had not been around: fishing expeditions with Ivan’s father on a Sunday morning, school, and Afghanistan where his own talent for trading had come to the fore. It was always Ivan who watched his back and kept an eye out for unwanted elements – Russians as well as Afghani.

  Malpensa was packed, the lack of Cyrillic confusing. In the baggage collection hall, men in close-fitting impeccably tailored suits, deconstructed tweed check jackets and beautifully cut jeans, milled around conveyors. Women modelled stylish haircuts, trouser suits, short, close-fitting leather jackets, high heels and denim. The contrast with the Leningrad flight could not have been more startling. Russians in poorly fitting, uniform, black wool suits and heavy shoes dragged worn-out suitcases, reinforced with leather and canvas belts, onto airport trolleys. Misha cast a look at Ivan, who he could see was contemplating the same scene.

  Luigi had told them to take the shuttle. Three came and went before they were able to get on.

  ‘Well at least they have air conditioning,’ commented Ivan once they had found their seats. The June heat was searing. As the shuttle made its way in heavy traffic along the Milano–Varese highway, Misha counted Mercedes, BMWs, top-down Porsches, Fiats and a dozen other makes tailgating bumper to bumper, cars he had never seen before. It was a far cry from back home: antiquated Ladas, punctuated with the occasional ZiL limousine or Chaika parade car.

  After forty minutes, the shuttle began to weave its way through Milan’s suburbs. Hoardings and billboards boasted breakfast cereals, coffee, electrical goods, and beautiful women with big smiles, hair products and perfume. Ivan pointed at a grocery store with fresh produce on display under a brightly coloured awning. They passed a supermarket and shoppers pushing trolleys laden with food and household shopping.

  ‘Maybe we should stay here,’ Ivan said across the aisle.

  They had entered a fantastic world, a cornucopia, one which his countrymen were simply unaware existed. And yet, staggeringly, it was only a three and a half hour flight from Leningrad and Moscow. It was as if they had landed on an alien planet.

  Ten minutes later, the shuttle pulled up at Stazione Centrale. The driver directed them to a bus stop. They caught the number forty-six, missed the stop, and walked the last two hundred metres to the two-star hotel recommended by Luigi.

  Misha’s room was small but the bed seemed comfortable enough. He threw his bag on the floor and walked into the bathroom… shower, basin, bidet… he slid open the shower’s door and turned the thermostat to hot. Steaming hot water gushed from an adjustable-height showerhead. Impressed, Misha tried to imagine how a four star might compare, and thought of the understated opulence of the Hotel Grand in Leningrad.

  They had the afternoon to explore; their meeting was not until the next morning. The receptionist recommended they start with the cathedral. They took the metro to Piazza del Duomo and walked to the vast gothic cathedral. Stained-glass windows cast brilliant blues and reds into its gloomy interior as people prayed openly at altars. They took the stairs to the roof and walked around the terrazzo, taking in the city below and the Alps to the north. Misha unfolded his map and took his bearings from various landmarks.

  ‘This is where we want to head next.’ He pointed at an area about a quarter of a mile from where they stood. ‘The Quadrilatero, Via Monte Napoleone. It’s the fashion district,’ he added in response to Ivan’s questioning frown.

  The fabulous boutiques of the Via Monte Napoleone were a kaleidoscope of plenty and excess, dresses of every style: micro, mini, empire, shirt… in silk, chiffon, linen, tweed, suede and leather; shoes: pumps, flats, sandals and high heels; boots: ankle, over the knee, patent leather and alligator; the catalogue went on. Misha remembered a few names from the magazines he had thumbed at the Italian consulate, but most he didn’t recognise: Alberta Ferretti, Pucci, Fratelli Rosetti, Salvatore Ferragamo, Cartier and Bulgari.

  Shoppers explored narrow alleyways holding distinctive carrier bags, stopping occasionally to look into beautifully dressed windows.

  They stopped at a small elegant café just off the main street and took a table on the pavement out of the sun. A waiter brought them a menu. Misha counted ten types of coffee: espresso, macchiato, cappuccino, caffe mocha… and a dozen combinations of ciabatta, focaccia, and panini. His eyes lighted on the desserts: panna cotta, lemon polenta cake, tiramisu, and cheesecake. He ordered an espresso doppio and Ivan a cappuccino. They both decided on the strawberry cheesecake.

  ‘Makes a change from Stefan’s,’ said Ivan, scraping the last of the froth from his cup with a spoon.

  ‘No queues either, except outside that store.’ Misha pointed to a line of Japanese girls waiting patiently outside Salvatore Ferragamo.

  ***

  That night, Misha slept fitfully with his canvas bag tucked under his feet. In the corridor, people came and went. A couple made love noisily in the adjacent room.

  In the morning, a shower and breakfast quickly restored him. From the buffet, Misha selected cereal, fruit, ham, cheese and crusty panini rolls. Not bad, Misha thought, for somewhere Luigi described as basic.

  Not risking the underground system this time, they took a taxi to San Babila. Venti was easy to find. A young receptionist in a sleeveless, patterned silk top and pencil skirt brought them coffees.

  A shout of ‘Benvenuti’ echoing down the marble corridor announced the arrival of their host.

  Luigi shook them warmly by the hand and asked them in broken English how they were finding Milan so far. Misha could have spent the next hour telling him but simply said ‘Good’. Luigi flashed him a sympathetic smile.

  ‘Bene, Bene,’ was all he said and guided them down the corridor to the lift and first-floor showroom.

  A tall olive-skinned model wearing a T-shirt, jeans and pumps greeted Misha in perfect Russian and introduced herself as Ilaria Agneli. This would make life a lot easier, he thought

  Misha took out his camera – an old Zenith – and a notebook.

  ‘Do you mind?’ he asked Luigi.

  ‘No, no, please,’ said Luigi. ‘Ilaria…?’ He looked in her direction and she nodded.

  She was a perfect fit for the collection. Disappearing and reappearing from the changing room, Misha simply voiced a no or yes. A no and she would quickly try on something else. A yes and she would stand there while he took pictures and chose fabrics. The more he saw, the more he thought the collection perfect for the Russian market. Venti expressed the latest catwalk styles at a price even the av
erage Russian woman could afford. He tried his best to contain his excitement. And this was only one label. With more research he was sure he could find others. Ivan sat next to him sipping coffee, taking it all in silently.

  At one point he caught Ilaria studying him as he made a note. Self-consciously Misha remembered how his fellow passengers had struck him at Malpensa, how poorly dressed they seemed in every sense of the word. He looked down at his ill-fitting jeans and clumpy matt leather shoes and felt embarrassed, humiliated. The Soviet system had at best failed its citizens and at worst deceived them, him included. He had had some inkling; after all, he was a street trader dealing in shortages. It was the scale of the lie that hit him now. The past two days had been a revelation. He no longer wanted to be a member of the great deceived. He wanted to experience the everyday, like these Italians. More than that even, wasn’t he only scratching the surface? There was so much more to learn.

  He was suddenly aware that the room had fallen silent and they were waiting for him.

  ‘May I comment?’ said Ilaria in Russian.

  ‘Please,’ he said. Luigi looked from one to the other, no doubt wondering what his visitors were saying.

  ‘The colours you are choosing are very bright. I know we have Roberto Cavali, but Italian style is mostly about neutrals.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that, but my guess is Russia has had enough of neutrals for a lifetime. Grey is the Soviet’s favourite colour – almost everything is painted one shade or another: apartments, offices, factories… tanks. Russians love vibrant colours, ornate churches, and gold cupolas, pink and blue houses. They just haven’t experienced them for a while. No, I think it’s time for a change. Russian women are going to express themselves, like they haven’t for generations, show off… we Russians are not a subtle people.’

  And saying it out loud, he knew it was true. The new general secretary had opened the door… just a fraction… and if one had the courage to venture out, you would see the world as it is, not as you had been told.