The Russia House by John le Carré Page A

his own. It was difficult not to think, ‘There, but for the grace of God, go I.’ And the more so since none of us knew where he was going.
    ‘We got drunk on Saturday night and on the Sunday we all drove out to Peredelkino in Jumbo’s car.’ Once again he seemed to have to remind himself that he had an audience. ‘Peredelkino is the Soviet writers’ village,’ he said as if none of us had heard of it. ‘They get dachas there for as long as they behave themselves. Writers’ Union runs it on a members-only basis – who gets a dacha, who writes best in prison, who doesn’t write at all.’
    ‘Who’s Jumbo?’ said Ned – a rare interjection.
    ‘Jumbo Oliphant. Peter Oliphant. Chairman of Lupus Books. Closet Scottish Fascist. Black belt Freemason. Thinks he’s got a special wavelength to the Sovs. Gold card.’ Remembering Bob, he tilted his head at him. ‘Not American Express, I’m afraid. A Moscow book fair gold card, dished out by the Russian organisers, saying what a big boy he is. Free car, free translator, free hotel, free caviar. Jumbo was born with a gold card in his mouth.’
    Bob grinned too broadly in order to show the joke was taken in good part. Yet he was a large-hearted man and Barley had spotted this. Barley, it occurred to me, was one of those people from whom good natures cannot hide, just as he could not disguise his own accessibility.
    ‘So off we all went,’ Barley resumed, returning to his reverie. ‘Oliphant from Lupus, Emery from the Bodley Head. And some girl from Penguin, can’t remember her name. Yes, I can. Magda. How the hell could I forget a Magda? And Blair from A & B.’
    Riding like nabobs in Jumbo’s stupid limo, said Barley, tossing out short sentences like old clothes from his memory box. Ordinary car not good enough for our Jumbo, had to be a damn great Chaika with curtains in the bedroom, no brakes and a gorilla with bad breath for a driver. The plan was to take a look at Pasternak’s dacha which rumour had it was about to be declared a museum, though another rumour insisted that the bastards were about to pull it down. Maybe his grave as well. Jumbo Oliphant didn’t know who Pasternak was at first but Magda murmured ‘ Zhivago ’ and Jumbo had seen the film, said Barley. There was no earthly hurry, all they wanted was a bit of a walk and a peck of country air. But Jumbo’s driver used the special lane reserved for official roadhogs in Chaikas, so they did the journey in about ten seconds flat instead of an hour, parked in a puddle and schlepped up to the cemetery still trembling with gratitude from the drive.
    ‘Cemetery on a hillside among a lot of trees. Driver stays in the car. Raining. Not much, but he’s worried about his awful suit.’ He paused in contemplation of the driver. ‘Mad ape,’ he muttered.
    But I had the feeling Barley was railing at himself and not the driver. I seemed to hear a whole self-accusing chorus in Barley, and I wondered whether the others were hearing it as well. He had people inside himself who really drove him mad.
    Point was, Barley explained, that as luck would have it they had hit a day when the liberated masses were out in force. In the past, he said, whenever he’d been there, the place had been deserted. Just the fenced-in tombs and the creepy trees. But on that September Sunday with the unfamiliar smells of freedom in the air, there were about two hundred fans crammed round the grave and more by the time they left, all shapes and sizes. Grave was knee-deep in flowers, Barley said. Offerings pouring in all the time. People passing bouquets over the heads to get them on the heap.
    Then the readings began. Little chap read poetry. Big girl read prose. Then a filthy little aeroplane flew so low overhead you couldn’t hear a thing. Then it flew back the other way. Then back the same way.
    ‘Wang, wang!’ Barley yelled, his long wrist whipping back and forth through the air. ‘Wee-ah, wee-ah,’ he whined through his