Heads You Win

“Any one of us would be proud to drive you to your hotel,” said a young man standing at the front of the crowd. “My name is Fyodor,” he said, “and we wondered if you’d be willing to address a meeting this evening. That seems to be the only time you’ll be free before the conference opens tomorrow.”

“I’d be honored,” said Sasha, wondering if he would draw a bigger crowd in Moscow than he managed at the Roxton Working Men’s Club.

During the journey into the city in a car that neither looked nor sounded as if it could possibly reach its destination, Fyodor told Sasha that his speeches were often reported in Pravda, and he even occasionally appeared on Soviet television, all part of the new regime’s outreach policy.

Sasha was surprised, although he knew only too well that if the authorities thought there was the slightest chance of him returning to Russia to contest an election, the tap would be quickly turned off. In any case, Gorbachev didn’t seem to be doing a bad job. While Sasha remained a novelty that the Communist Party could use as a propaganda tool to show how their philosophy was spreading across the globe, he was in no danger. He could hear them saying, Don’t forget Karpenko came from the docks of Leningrad, won a scholarship to Cambridge University, and became an English Member of Parliament—isn’t that proof enough that our system works?

When they arrived at the hotel there was another group standing outside waiting in the bitter cold. Sasha shook many more outstretched hands, and answered several questions. He finally checked in, and took the lift to his room. It may not have been the Savoy, but it was clear that his countrymen had finally embraced the concept that if foreigners were going to come to Moscow they would have to be provided with at least some of the facilities they took for granted in the West. He showered and changed into his other suit, a fresh shirt, and a red tie before going downstairs, where the same car and driver were waiting for him.

Sasha climbed into the front seat, once again wondering if they would make it. He gazed out of the window as they passed the Kremlin.

“You’ll live there one day,” said Fyodor as they left Red Square behind them and drove on through the empty streets.

“How many people are you expecting this evening?” Sasha asked.

“We have no way of knowing, because we’ve never done anything like this before.”

Sasha couldn’t help wondering if the Russian Alf would be able to muster more than a dozen men and a sleeping dog. He turned his thoughts to what he might say to his audience. If the gathering was small, he decided, after a few opening remarks he’d just take questions, and be back at the hotel in time for dinner.

By the time the car drew up outside the workers’ hall, he had a few remarks prepared in his mind. He stepped out onto the pavement to be greeted by a woman dressed in Russian national costume, who presented him with a basket of bread and salt. He thanked her and bowed low, before following Fyodor down a narrow alley and through a back door. When he entered the building he could hear cries of “Kar-pen-ko, Kar-pen-ko!” As he was led up onto a stage, over three thousand people rose as one and continued to chant, “Kar-pen-ko, Kar-pen-ko!”

Sasha stared down at the packed gathering and realized that his youthful boast, meant only for the ears of his friend Vladimir, had become a rallying cry for countless people he had never met, who, for generations, had remained silent about how they really felt.

His speech lasted for over an hour, though because it was interrupted so often by chanting and applause he only actually spoke for about fifteen minutes. When he finally left the stage, the building echoed to the repeated cries of “Kar-pen-ko! Kar-pen-ko!”

Out on the street, his car was mobbed, and it was almost a mile before Fyodor was able to shift into second gear. Sasha suspected that if he tried to describe what had just taken place to Charlie or Elena, neither would believe him.

Sasha had always hoped that he might be able to play some part, however small, in bringing down Communism and ushering in perestroika, but now, for the first time, he believed that he might live to see that day. Would he regret not remaining in his homeland and standing for the Duma? He was still preoccupied by these thoughts when he entered the hotel lobby, and quickly returned to his old world. The first person he saw in the lobby was Fiona.

“Have you had an interesting evening?” he asked.

“The embassy got us tickets for the Bolshoi,” she replied. “We called your room, but you were nowhere to be found. Where were you?”

Someone else who wouldn’t have believed him if he’d told her, and perhaps more important, wouldn’t have wanted to.

“Visiting old friends,” he said, picking up his key and joining Fiona as she walked toward the lift.

“Which floor?” he asked as they stepped inside.

“Top.”

He thought about telling her that was always the worst floor in the Soviet Union, but decided she wouldn’t have understood. He pressed two buttons, and neither of them spoke again until they reached the fourth floor when he said good night.

“Don’t be late for the bus in the morning. Nine fifteen sharp,” said Fiona as the doors opened. Sasha smiled. Once a head girl, always a head girl.

“The Russians are famous for keeping you waiting,” he said as he stepped out into the corridor.

He placed his key in the door of a room that was probably half the size of Fiona’s. The only compensation was that it would have half as many bugs. Suddenly he realized he hadn’t eaten, and for a moment he thought about room service, but only for a moment. He put on his pajamas and climbed into bed, still hearing the chants of Kar-pen-ko as he placed his head on the pillow, pulled the blankets over himself, and almost immediately fell into a deep sleep.

Was the persistent banging all part of his dream, he wondered, but when it didn’t stop, he finally woke. He glanced at his watch: 3:07. Surely it couldn’t be Fiona? He dragged himself out of bed, put on his dressing gown, and reluctantly padded across to the door.

“Who is it?”

“Room service,” said a sultry voice.

“I didn’t order room service,” said Sasha as he opened the door.

“I wasn’t on the menu, darling,” said a long-legged redhead, who was also dressed in pajamas and a dressing gown, but hers were in shimmering black silk, and unbuttoned. “I’m tonight’s special,” she said, holding up a bottle of vodka in one hand, and two glasses in the other. “I did come to the right room, didn’t I, darling?” she purred in perfect English.