Mrs Harris Goes to Moscow (10 page)

The said occupants now marched down the corridor to the floor reception desk where the spider woman now firmly entrenched as Mrs 'Orrible in Ada's mind sat silently and stolidly with only the glitter of her eyes to show she was alive.

Mrs Harris, her dander still up from the episode with the maid, said, ‘Do you understand any English?'

Mrs 'Orrible made no reply but sat regarding them immovably. Only her stinger of a mouth twitched slightly as though preparing for a meal.

‘Loo paper,' said Mrs Harris and exhibited her core, ‘we want loo paper. Do you understand? 'Ere, this. What you find in any harfway decent run 'otel.'

Mrs 'Orrible's mouth turned from stinger to orifice for speech from which emerged one chilly word, ‘None.'

Contemptuous rudeness was not calculated to
cool Ada's wrath. ‘What do you mean, none? Don't you 'ave any?'

Mrs 'Orrible said, ‘No more,' and then switched to Russian again, ‘Nyet bumaga.'

Mrs Harris was not going to be put off. ‘No more where? No more in the 'otel? Then why don't you bleedin' well send out and buy some? Plenty is being paid for our room.'

Mrs 'Orrible repeated once more in English, ‘No more, no more. Go away.'

Mrs Harris now went into full spate. ‘Go away, me arse. Where's yer manners? We're strangers 'ere, visitors. No more where? Moscow? The 'ole bloody country? Get me the Manager.'

For as so often happens when a member of the human species is frustrated in his or her desire to acquire something essentially inconsequential, the acquisition of a roll of toilet tissue had suddenly become the most important thing at least for that moment in Mrs Harris's life and nothing and no one was going to stop her.

Mrs 'Orrible shook her head, her spider's eyes glittered and she said, ‘Nyet Manager.'

‘Oh, you think so,' shouted Mrs Harris now completely in a fury. ‘You get 'im or I'll 'ave yer 'otel down around your ears.'

At this point there occurred an unexpected diversion. The door directly opposite Mrs 'Orrible's desk, numbered 701, opened partly to let the most
extraordinary head, which at first glance resembled an interested beaver, pop forth. It examined the pair for a moment and then said, ‘It won't do you any good. There ain't any in the whole country.' Keen amused eyes stared through spectacled lenses. ‘Hullo,' said the head, ‘someone from home. How would you two ladies like to join me in a little drink?' The head then introduced itself, ‘Sol Rubin, Rubin's Consolidated Paper Co. Ltd.'

While a few more seconds ticked away into eternity the tableau in the corridor remained static like a stopped film except that an inviting smile had spread over the features of Mr Rubin. His face was a conglomeration of contradictions, much too small for the enormous swatch of dark, bushy hair. His mouth with the protruding front teeth gave it its beaver aspect plus the inevitable businessman's moustache that wandered above it. His nose was sufficiently prominent to hold up the outsize pair of hornrimmed glasses. The thing about Mr Rubin was that overall the impression he made was one of infectious gaiety, humour and an almost childlike eagerness to please. His effect upon Ada was a calming one; she always regretted it when she lost her temper. Also with the sun long descended
behind the yardarm it was officially drink time. The fact that somehow he seemed to know something about this paper situation had got itself stuck in her mind. She said, ‘I'm sure that's very kind of you, sir. Harris is the name, Ada Harris, and this is me friend, Violet Butterfield. If we wouldn't be putting you out …'

‘Not at all, ladies, not at all. An unexpected pleasure.' His speech was that of the re-educated ex-cockney. He opened the door to show that attached to the unusual head was a spry little body snappily clad in the latest Savile Row style. He didn't click his heels together but it seemed almost that he might have done so as he invited them to enter with a wave of his arm half theatrically and grandiose, half rather charmingly enticing.

The grating voice of Mrs 'Orrible spoke from the pulpit. ‘Is not allowed for ladies to visit gentlemen's rooms.'

This brought back a momentary flash of Ada's dander as she turned upon her. ‘Oh, come orf it,' she said. ‘At our age what do you fink's going to 'appen? The gentleman's invited us for a drink and sucks to you.'

‘That's it,' said Mr Rubin enlarging his gesture of welcome so that he now struck the attitude of a dancing master. ‘Don't pay no attention to her. She's new anyway. I don't know what happened to Annie. That's the other one used to be on this floor.
Annie was a little bit of all right. Knew how to close an eye. Probably having a day off. Come in, come in.'

The two sailed in beneath the malevolent glare of Mrs 'Orrible and as soon as the door had closed behind them she reached for the telephone and dialled the number of the superior directing her activities.

‘Pavel? Tashka.'

‘Yes, what is it?'

‘They have made contact.'

‘With whom?'

‘With the Jew, Rubin, in 701. They went into his room.'

‘Ah!' Pavel's voice grew heavy with sarcasm, ‘Right under your nose? And you did not try to prevent it?'

‘I have no orders to resort to violence, Comrade.'

‘That is true. Besides, the orders are to be very careful with the foreigner, Rubin. It is a sensitive area. There are two Ministries involved.'

The obese woman breathed a slight sigh of relief that apparently she had managed to keep out of the middle of something. She said, ‘Then perhaps it is all for the best for you will be able to monitor everything that is said in the room where they will surely disclose the nature of the contact.'

There was rather too long a pause from the other end of the telephone and then the sound of a throat
being cleared, followed by, ‘There have been some temporary complications. The necessary repairs have not yet been made. That department has never been co-operative. Install, yes. Repair, no. Not interested.' He said a fine Russian swear word and then asked, ‘Where is their guide, Praxevna Lelechka?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Find her. She must assume control over them again.'

‘Boris and Anoutchka are on the floor. Boris has a listening device. Do you want him to attach it to the door?' Boris was the KGB man concealed with the chambermaid and quarrelling with her behind the service door.

Pavel's voice spoke sharply, ‘Don't be a fool, Tashka. I told you the Rubin area is highly sensitive. If it ever comes out why he is here we will be taking residence in Siberia. Find Praxevna Lelechka and get those two out of there.' This was followed by another expressive oath after which the phone at the other end was hung up.

Within the confines of Room 701, which was in the same state of crumbling Victorian glory as that of Violet and Ada's, Mr Rubin was saying, ‘How do you like yours?' holding in his hand a glass and a bottle of Gordon's Gin.

‘With just a drop of water,' replied Mrs Harris, ‘and me friend 'ere likes it neat. Ain't that right, Vi?'

Mrs Butterfield said, ‘If the gentleman doesn't mind.' She was not wholly at ease for she could not adapt herself as quickly as Mrs Harris and any and every unusual situation in which she found herself was always fraught with possible doom.

While Mr Rubin was pouring, Ada's bright, mischievous eyes were exploring the room to see if she could guess who and what this attractive little man might be. Salesman, was the answer she rang up from a pile of sample books she saw upon a table though she could not see as to samples of what, and to her amusement scattered on a sofa she caught sight of several porno magazines. There was also a dish of apples and oranges on the table.

Mr Rubin raised his own glass of clear liquid and said, ‘To you ladies,' and then half under his breath added, ‘and Ivan.'

The two women raised theirs and Mrs Harris replied to the toast, ‘Your very good 'ealth, sir, and we're very much obliged to you for your kindness,' and then her curiosity getting the better of her she asked, ‘ 'Oo's Ivan?'

‘Ah, Ivan,' repeated Mr Rubin and the gay expression upon his mixture of features changed to one combining a kind of introspective reverie and love. ‘Ivan, the Ripoff King of the Hotel Tolstoi. Master of the hot ruble. He's the hotel porter. You want it, he'll get it for you if you've got the lolly. But the hard stuff – you know – foreign currency.'
He held up the gin bottle. ‘Where do you think this came from? I can't stand that vodka.' He pointed to the table. ‘Have you seen any oranges anywhere else in this rotten city? Or maybe you ain't been here long enough yet.' At the use of the word ‘rotten' Mrs Butterfield began to show signs of agitation. ‘Or them,' and he pointed to the porno magazines. ‘You can borrow some if you like. It's all illegal but Ivan's the boy and like I said, Annie – Annie's what I call her but her name is Anoutchka – knew when not to look. I don't know how this new bag is going to work if she stays on permanent.'

Mr Rubin needn't have worried for the new bag had been briefed to let anything except shooting irons or people go through into 701 for not only was Ivan, the hotel porter, a pillar of the thriving black market but he was also a trusted connection of the KGB which had ordered him to see that Mr Rubin was supplied with anything he wanted to keep him in good temper and quiet until a situation should have resolved itself. The fact that Ivan was compelled to split half of his hard currency take from Room 701 with his KGB contact was neither here nor there, but of none of this was Mr Rubin aware.

‘Cheers,' he said and raised his glass once again. ‘And what are you two ladies doing in this Godforsaken town?'

This last phrase increased Mrs Butterfield's
agitation to the point where she took a big gulp of straight gin and went into a splutter.

‘We won it in a raffle,' replied Mrs Harris. ‘I mean the trip. We wouldn't be able to afford it otherwise. I work as a daily in London and me friend 'ere looks after the ladies in the Paradise Club.'

Again Mr Rubin raised his glass, the sweet smile once more returned to his face and he toasted, ‘The salt of the earth. Britain's bulwark. I love you both.'

Mrs Butterfield's perturbations now took on a similarity to the ones she had shown in her own apartment down the hall.

Mrs Harris didn't quite know how to take Mr Rubin's last affectionate declaration but put it down to the gin which he was also having straight. She said, ‘And nice of you to say so, Mr Rubin.' Her glance travelled to the sample books and she inquired, ‘Just what is it you travel in, Mr Rubin?'

‘Aha!' he said. ‘So you've guessed. By the way, you can call me Sol. Sol, Violet and Ada and 'ere's to the three of us,' and he took another solid slug. As the gin took effect it tended to eliminate his ‘h's, and then he said, ‘Paper. I'm the biggest bloody paper concern in the whole United Kingdom.'

‘Oh,' said Ada Harris as her cunning little mind made a lightning calculation. ‘Paper,' she repeated. ‘And what they ain't got any of is …'

‘Exactly,' concluded Rubin. ‘And if they knew
that I was admitting to you or anybody else that such was the case they'd be 'aving seven different kinds of fits or maybe put me away. They got a lot of stinkers running this country and you never know.'

Here Mrs Butterfield exploded into her pantomimic dance of the bug.

Rubin threw back his bushy head and laughed uproariously. ‘Oh, them,' he said. ‘I've got 'em all. Nothing else to do to amuse myself. Do you know how long I've been 'ere? Eight weeks! While they're trying to make up their mind. I could give you a guided tour of Moscow off the top of me head. The Kremlin, St Basil's Cathedral, all that junk in the museums,' and he went into a guide's voice, ‘And here on the right you see the beautiful old painted carriage presented to Ivan the Terrible by our gryte Queen Elizabeth the First and after lunch we will visit the glorious Pushkin Gallery of Fine Arts. I've seen the old boy Lenin they've got laid out in that marble blockhouse over there five times. And let me tell you 'e don't improve with age.' The gin by now had taken a firm grip and Mr Rubin's speech was back amongst the Bow bells, which rather comforted the two women. ‘They're gonna have to take 'im out and freshen 'im up again pretty soon. When I go out alone there's this KGB bloke on my tail all the time. Occasionally we sit down and 'ave a drink together but since he don't speak English what's the good of that? So
mostly I stick to me room and try to amuse myself. This last lot they don't even seem to have tried to repair. Here, I'll show you.' He took the two women on an electronic tour of the premises and showed them a number of interesting places where minute microphones and other listening devices had been installed and each one with the wires carefully snipped.

Mrs Harris was fascinated. ‘ 'Oo'd have believed it? But are you sure you got them all?'

‘Oh, yes,' replied Rubin, ‘you get used to it. It's a little like the
Evening Standard
crossword puzzle. After a while you get to know their minds. They must be 'aving a fit downstairs what with the old bag trying to keep you out of the room.'

‘But what's the big secret?' Mrs Harris asked trying to equate all that was being revealed in this strange manner. ‘I would 'ave thought …'

‘Ha!' interrupted Rubin, ‘“Nekulturni”. That's a word I picked up here. Not cultured. The Russ is trying to impress everyone with 'is culture. It's not cultured to be caught with your pants down without a single … begging your pardon, ladies, I wasn't meaning to …' He interrupted himself here momentarily as Mrs Butterfield was showing signs of becoming somewhat coyly embarrassed notwithstanding the nature of her own place of business. But then there were no gentlemen present there.