they love arresting people for the strangest things here.
As you wish, Ma’m, said Natalie. I’m sure the law doesn’t apply inside the hotel.
This is the best suite in New York, isn’t it? said the Queen, raising her voice.
Yes Ma’m.
Well, get about it.
Ma’m, your press attaché wishes to see you.
Tell him to wait. Get Kiev on the phone. I want to speak to the SBU.
Natalie went out. As she opened the door to the reception room the press attaché, Vasily Hrynyuk, slithered in through the gap. The Queen looked at him and as he opened his mouth put her fingers to her lips. She pointed to a chair in the corner. He sat down. The room was filling with white smoke. Hrynyuk began to cough and the smoke detectors went off with an eardrum-drilling wheee wheee wheee . The Queen took one ofthe phones and went out onto the balcony, closing the door behind her. Turning up the collar of her Prada jacket she sat down in a lounger as the phone rang.
I’ll tell you what time it is, she said. It’s not Kiev Time, it’s not Eastern Standard Time, it’s Royal Time. Which just now is seven pm. Time for a snack and a drink before changing. Not Kiev, New York, New York, if I was in Kiev I’d tell the general to come to the palace. Yes, I’ll wait.
She lay back in the lounger, laid the phone on her heart and closed her eyes. She heard tapping on the glass of the window. She opened her eyes. Swirls of smoke and spurts of foam could be seen, and faces, swimming up to the glass with wide eyes and strangely working mouths like fish.
Good evening, General.
Your Majesty.
Say it again.
Your Majesty .
Oh, it was better the first time. Are you in full dress uniform?
Your Majesty, I regret … I’m naked, apart from the bedsheet.
You spies! You know why I’m calling.
The missing one.
Mykola.
We’re trying new approaches. We contacted ZAGS and the residence registration bureaux and we’ve drawn up a list of men in Ukraine named Mykola aged between 25 and 45. We could fit them all inside the Republican Stadium.
Then what?
Well, they could file past you. It would take a few days.
It’s very sweet of you. I can’t allow it. The humiliation would be intolerable.
They’d have to put up with it.
Don’t be a fool. For me! It can’t be known that there’s such an emptiness in the Queen’s life. You’ll just have to find him.
The general said: We had another idea. There was a KGB research department in Bukovina where they experimented with trying to synthesize the dreams of dissidents and western leaders. The operatives would be supplied with hypnotically introduced false memories to correspond with their targets and dressed and fed accordingly. In the morning they would report on the dreams of Ronald Reagan and Andrei Sakharov. The data wasn’t reliable and most of the researchers have gone into advertising now but perhaps we could try it with you.
What did Reagan dream of?
The Lone Ranger was queuing for sausage and there was a college football quarterback played by James Stewart who started reciting Pushkin in a Georgian accent every time he made a touchdown. As I say, it wasn’t reliable.
Why did you never get married, General?
I did, your Majesty. Don’t you remember? We live in separate parts of the flat now. I still love her, but she won’t sleep with me. Our children carry messages between us.
Stay on the line. But lie back. Put your head on the pillow, said the Queen. Here’s what I remember. Perhaps it was a vision. Mykola’s in Independence Square, in black jeans, teeshirt and an open black cardigan. He’s tall and thin, not muscular but not flabby. He’s in his late thirties, early forties. He’s standing there by himself, listening to a soldier just demobbed who’s sitting on the edge of the fountain, playing a guitar and singing. It’s May, there’s that long, slow, bright twilight that never seems to end. The first thing you notice about him is how he can stand alone and not look alone,
As you wish, Ma’m, said Natalie. I’m sure the law doesn’t apply inside the hotel.
This is the best suite in New York, isn’t it? said the Queen, raising her voice.
Yes Ma’m.
Well, get about it.
Ma’m, your press attaché wishes to see you.
Tell him to wait. Get Kiev on the phone. I want to speak to the SBU.
Natalie went out. As she opened the door to the reception room the press attaché, Vasily Hrynyuk, slithered in through the gap. The Queen looked at him and as he opened his mouth put her fingers to her lips. She pointed to a chair in the corner. He sat down. The room was filling with white smoke. Hrynyuk began to cough and the smoke detectors went off with an eardrum-drilling wheee wheee wheee . The Queen took one ofthe phones and went out onto the balcony, closing the door behind her. Turning up the collar of her Prada jacket she sat down in a lounger as the phone rang.
I’ll tell you what time it is, she said. It’s not Kiev Time, it’s not Eastern Standard Time, it’s Royal Time. Which just now is seven pm. Time for a snack and a drink before changing. Not Kiev, New York, New York, if I was in Kiev I’d tell the general to come to the palace. Yes, I’ll wait.
She lay back in the lounger, laid the phone on her heart and closed her eyes. She heard tapping on the glass of the window. She opened her eyes. Swirls of smoke and spurts of foam could be seen, and faces, swimming up to the glass with wide eyes and strangely working mouths like fish.
Good evening, General.
Your Majesty.
Say it again.
Your Majesty .
Oh, it was better the first time. Are you in full dress uniform?
Your Majesty, I regret … I’m naked, apart from the bedsheet.
You spies! You know why I’m calling.
The missing one.
Mykola.
We’re trying new approaches. We contacted ZAGS and the residence registration bureaux and we’ve drawn up a list of men in Ukraine named Mykola aged between 25 and 45. We could fit them all inside the Republican Stadium.
Then what?
Well, they could file past you. It would take a few days.
It’s very sweet of you. I can’t allow it. The humiliation would be intolerable.
They’d have to put up with it.
Don’t be a fool. For me! It can’t be known that there’s such an emptiness in the Queen’s life. You’ll just have to find him.
The general said: We had another idea. There was a KGB research department in Bukovina where they experimented with trying to synthesize the dreams of dissidents and western leaders. The operatives would be supplied with hypnotically introduced false memories to correspond with their targets and dressed and fed accordingly. In the morning they would report on the dreams of Ronald Reagan and Andrei Sakharov. The data wasn’t reliable and most of the researchers have gone into advertising now but perhaps we could try it with you.
What did Reagan dream of?
The Lone Ranger was queuing for sausage and there was a college football quarterback played by James Stewart who started reciting Pushkin in a Georgian accent every time he made a touchdown. As I say, it wasn’t reliable.
Why did you never get married, General?
I did, your Majesty. Don’t you remember? We live in separate parts of the flat now. I still love her, but she won’t sleep with me. Our children carry messages between us.
Stay on the line. But lie back. Put your head on the pillow, said the Queen. Here’s what I remember. Perhaps it was a vision. Mykola’s in Independence Square, in black jeans, teeshirt and an open black cardigan. He’s tall and thin, not muscular but not flabby. He’s in his late thirties, early forties. He’s standing there by himself, listening to a soldier just demobbed who’s sitting on the edge of the fountain, playing a guitar and singing. It’s May, there’s that long, slow, bright twilight that never seems to end. The first thing you notice about him is how he can stand alone and not look alone,
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