(1978) Trial Run by Francis Dick

Author:Francis, Dick [Dick, Francis,]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2010-06-30T14:53:12.828000+00:00

We arrived outside the Aragvi restaurant ten minutes late because of an absence of taxis in the far-flung suburb, and a scarcity of buses. The metro, we had discovered, came to an end three miles short of the flat. Misha travelled towards the city centre with us, but apart, not looking at us, not speaking. He left us on the train, when he reached his interchange station, without a flicker of farewell, his face as stolid as the others ranged about.

“Don’t tell Malcolm Herrick what Misha has just told us,” I said, as we hurried the last hundred yards on foot. “He’s a newspaperman. My brief is to hush up what I can, not get it printed in The Watch; and we’d get Misha into trouble.”

“Silent as the sepulchre,” Stephen promised, in a voice which spoke of teaching grandmothers something about eggs.

The Aragvi turned out to be less than half a mile from the Intourist Hotel: up Gorky Street, and turn right at the traffic lights. Malcolm and Ian were waiting a short distance short of it and Malcolm grumbled, quietly for him, that we had kept them waiting in the cold.

There was a short queue outside the restaurant, shivering.

“Follow me, and don’t talk until we are inside,” Malcolm said. He by-passed the queue and opened the firmly-shut door. The by now familiar argument took place, and finally, grudgingly, we were let in.

“I booked,” Malcolm said as we peeled off our coats. “I come here often. You’d never think it.”

The place was full, and somewhere there was some music. We were led to the one vacant table and a bottle of vodka materialised within five seconds.

“Of the two decent restaurants in Moscow,” Malcolm said, “I like this the better.”

“Two?” I said.

“That’s right. What do you want to eat?” He peered into the large menu. “The food is Georgian. It is a Georgian restaurant. Most of the customers are from Georgia.”

“For Georgia, USSR, read Texas, USA,” Ian said.

The menu was written exclusively in Russian, and while the other three chose from it, I used my eyes instead on the customers. There were three men at the next table, and beyond them, sitting with their backs to the wall, two more. Very few women. The faces, I realised, were livelier, and varied. The two men over by the wall, for instance, were not Moscow types: they had sallower skins, fierce dark eyes, black curling hair. They ate with concentration, intent on their food.

The three men at the table next to ours were on the other hand intent on their drink. Not much tablecloth showed between full bottles, empty bottles, full and empty glasses. The men, one huge, one medium, one small, were diving into vast tulip-shaped glasses of champagne.

Malcolm looked up from the menu and followed my gaze. “Georgians,” he said. “Born with hollow legs.” I watched with fascination while the gold liquid disappeared like beer. The eyes of the smallest were faintly glazed. The huge one looked as sober as his grey flannel suit; and there were three empty vodka bottles on the table.

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