Once in the car (Pavel drove, I sat beside him), we exchanged brief observations about the weather and the first draft of our calendar. It was a tricky one, as Hewlett himself didn't know who exactly was to see him. I didn't ask him questions about the reason of his coming. Technically speaking it was none of my business. There was, however, an official list of his contacts, too. It had to do with the ex minister for the medium machinery equipment. We all, recent customers of the Soviet regime, knew it was related to armaments, the only branch of the Russian economy that was in a relatively good health. They had there a lot to sell. But there was also a sound (but rather dirty) competition on the part of the newly born private sector that tried to grab from the public sector all that remained to grab and to sell it at triple price to the Western companies. That was a general picture of the situation.
"Who is Sidorov?" asked Hewlett looking at the sheet of paper before his eyes. "There's no indication of his official rank here".
I answered with a lightly sneering sigh:
"That is the point. He's nobody for the government, but may be the boss of the local mob who put his money in a key sector of the national economy, in order to privatize the government, in the long run, of course."
It was a bit too strong, I knew it, but it was important to give Hewlett the right key of the present situation right from the beginning. Having to deal with the new Russia was like running on a minefield to reach a large treasure just across the field; the risk, already great in itself, was made greater by the fact that there were a large number of runners and some of them were trying to kill you while running shooting at you at close range from aside.
I couldn't tell it to him in these terms, but he was smart enough to grasp it.
I was seated in front and turned to him as I spoke. I could see his knowing grin, as he turned his head slightly to Mary who watched keenly the woods and patches of fields out of the window.
"What do you think, Mary?"
"What?". She gave a swift negligent look to the paper and said casually:
"I wouldn't give it much importance. Is there anything we can do about it right now? I don't think so. So let it follow its natural course."
Hewlett raised his eyebrows, then twisted his lips in a grimace of incredulous astonishment and exchanged a glance with me as if he wanted me as a mute witness of the woman's wisdom.
"Perhaps you're right, as always."
"Only there's one thing", I said. "Your private meetings will take place at the UK embassy, for security reasons, as those of the embassy say. I don't know..."
Mary gave me a sharp look:
"What's wrong about that? I think they're right."
"Of course," I reacted promptly. "The trouble is that the persons that you want to meet might not be willing to come to the embassy."
"Why shouldn't they?"
"For the same security reasons, perhaps wrongly interpreted."
"Are there such meetings today?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"First things first, then. What are those things there?", she asked pointing to the monument in the shape of chevaux de frise which signed the last line of the German advance in the Second World War.
I told her.
She said slightly annoyed:
"But of course! I knew it."
Her tone was matter-of-fact, non rude, but somehow I felt she had authority over Hewlett. After all, he was only a businessman, not even a politician. There ought to be somebody who pulls the strings. Anyhow, he didn't mind.
"Is it your first time in Russia?" I tried small talk.
"I came here two times when it was still Soviet Union," said Hewlett. "Five years ago".
"Six, to be precise," said Mary without turning her head from the window where there was the same scenery of raving autumn with its furious red leaves glowing on birches.
"Ah, yes, already six years it is," said Hewlett as if remembering. "Do you know who I saw then?"
Mary gave him a quick glance with her brows a little arched:
"They are still here, but I doubt they have the same authority. I'm not even sure they're working for the government."
"For whom then?" I said with feigned astonishment.
"For themselves, I think."
"Well," said Hewlett, "I don't think we should care about that. Money doesn't stink, after all."
Mary had the same look she had on the picture where I saw her for the first time, but now I knew that those small pig eyes could shoot piercing intelligent glances which seemed coming through you like bullets, and that idea somehow reconciled me with the rest of her appearance. Well, let's try probing.
"Mary, and you, are you here for the first time?"
"Yes, physically yes."
"What do you mean, physically? Are there other ways of being in a country, not metaphorically I mean?"
She gave me an enigmatic smile:
"I think I know your country well, at least I'm well-read in Russian culture and history. I know what your people are capable of, for better or worse. I'm impressed by your past. I'm not sure I shall be equally impressed by your present. You know what to do for your country, I doubt you know what to do for yourselves, apart from cheating the authorities like all normal persons in the world do."
"Wow, what a speech, Mary!" Hewlett cast her an ironic glance.
I sat silent, puzzled. I didn't know what to say. And still worse, I didn't know what that speech of Mary was due to.
She grinned and turned away.
She was unattractive.
She had small eyes, but made no visible effort to make them appear bigger than they were – operation that any modern woman with the same defect can successfully carry out every morning with simple devices. They were smart and changeable, I admit, but what can do a male with smart and changeable eyes? More, their often grinning expression could repel even surer than the rest. As I tried to mentally undress her I detected rolls of bulging flabby flesh under the bra, very old-fashioned, perhaps inherited from her granny, which desperately struggled to sustain the sagging breast, of the same origin were the long drawers that stopped short of the round fat knees and did not conceal their bad shape, the buttocks which could have been a winning area of her female assets were, instead, a pendulous deposit of soft tissue of no instant attraction for an appreciative eye. There were, to crown it all, bushes of brown hair under her armpits and on her thick legs. I admit, there are lovers of all that stuff, but I'm not one of them.
From a biological point of view the mating was possible, I don't think the animals, which live in all of us, are interested in the good looks of a female, like long shapely legs, a slim figure or big eyes. But in order to forget my human nature I should make an extraordinary effort, amounting practically to a heroic deed, overcome my cultured male instinct. I had to do it. After all, I'm a pro.