nose in disgust.
But the plane couldn’t damp the enthusiasm of the crowd any more than the rain could. Someone began singing, the punters took up the refrain and it became a knees-up. Finally the plane pushed off, presumably because it was low on fuel. But that wasn’t what you felt, said Barley. Not a bit. You felt the singing had shot the little swine out of the sky.
The singing grew stronger and deeper and more mystical. Barley knew three words of Russian, and the others none. Didn’t stop them joining in. Didn’t stop the girl Magda from crying her eyes out. Or Jumbo Oliphant from swearing to God, through lumps in his throat, as they walked away down the hill that he was going to publish every word Pasternak had written, not just the film but the other stuff, so help me, and subsidise it out of his very own personal pocket as soon as he got back to his damask castle in the docklands.
‘Jumbo has these hot flushes of enthusiasm,’ Barley explained with a disarming grin, returning to his audience, but principally to Ned. ‘Sometimes they don’t die down for minutes on end.’ Then he paused and frowned again and pulled off his strange round spectacles that seemed to be more an infliction than a help, and peered at everybody in turn as if to remind himself of his situation.
They were still walking down the hill, he said, and still having a good cry when this same little Russian chap came darting up to them holding his cigarette to one side of his face like a candle, asking in English whether they were Americans.
Once again Clive was ahead of all of us. His head slowly lifted. There was a knife-edge to his managerial drawl. ‘Same? What same little Russian chap? We haven’t had one.’
Unpleasantly reminded of Clive’s presence, Barley screwed up his face in a renewal of distaste. ‘He was the reader, for goodness’ sake,’ he said. ‘Chap who’d read Pasternak’s poetry at the graveside. He asked if we were American. I said no, thank God, British.’
And I noticed, as I supposed we all did, that it was Barley himself, not Oliphant or Emery or the girl Magda, who had become the appointed spokesman of their group.
Barley had fallen into direct dialogue. He had the mynah bird’s ear. He had a Russian accent for the little chap and a Scottish woof-woof voice for Oliphant. The mimicry slipped out of him as if he were unaware of it.
‘You are writers?’ the little chap asked, in Barley’s voice for him.
‘No, alas. Just publishers,’ said Barley, in his own.
‘English publishers?’
‘Here for the Moscow book fair. I run a corner shop called Abercrombie & Blair and this is the Chairman Himself of Lupus Books. Very rich bloke. Be a knight one day. Gold card and bar. Right, Jumbo?’
Oliphant protested that Barley was saying far too much. But the little chap wanted more.
‘May I ask then what were you doing at Pasternak’s grave?’ said the little chap.
‘Chance visit,’ Oliphant said, barging in again. ‘Total chance. We saw a crowd, we came up to see what was going on. Pure chance. Let’s go.’
But Barley had no intention of going. He was annoyed by Oliphant’s manners, he said, and he wasn’t going to stand by while a fat Scottish millionaire gave the brush-off to an undernourished Russian stranger.
‘We’re doing what everyone else here’s doing,’ Barley replied. ‘We’re paying our respects to a great writer. We liked your reading too. Very moving. Great stuff. Ace.’
‘You respect Boris Pasternak?’ the little chap asked.
Oliphant again, the great civil rights activist, rendered by a gruff voice and a twisted jaw. ‘We have no position on the matter of Boris Pasternak or any other Soviet writer,’ he said. ‘We’re here as guests. Solely as guests. We have no opinions on internal Soviet affairs.’
‘We think he’s marvellous,’ Barley said. ‘World class. A star.’
‘But why?’ asked the little chap, provoking the conflict.
Barley needed no urging.
But the plane couldn’t damp the enthusiasm of the crowd any more than the rain could. Someone began singing, the punters took up the refrain and it became a knees-up. Finally the plane pushed off, presumably because it was low on fuel. But that wasn’t what you felt, said Barley. Not a bit. You felt the singing had shot the little swine out of the sky.
The singing grew stronger and deeper and more mystical. Barley knew three words of Russian, and the others none. Didn’t stop them joining in. Didn’t stop the girl Magda from crying her eyes out. Or Jumbo Oliphant from swearing to God, through lumps in his throat, as they walked away down the hill that he was going to publish every word Pasternak had written, not just the film but the other stuff, so help me, and subsidise it out of his very own personal pocket as soon as he got back to his damask castle in the docklands.
‘Jumbo has these hot flushes of enthusiasm,’ Barley explained with a disarming grin, returning to his audience, but principally to Ned. ‘Sometimes they don’t die down for minutes on end.’ Then he paused and frowned again and pulled off his strange round spectacles that seemed to be more an infliction than a help, and peered at everybody in turn as if to remind himself of his situation.
They were still walking down the hill, he said, and still having a good cry when this same little Russian chap came darting up to them holding his cigarette to one side of his face like a candle, asking in English whether they were Americans.
Once again Clive was ahead of all of us. His head slowly lifted. There was a knife-edge to his managerial drawl. ‘Same? What same little Russian chap? We haven’t had one.’
Unpleasantly reminded of Clive’s presence, Barley screwed up his face in a renewal of distaste. ‘He was the reader, for goodness’ sake,’ he said. ‘Chap who’d read Pasternak’s poetry at the graveside. He asked if we were American. I said no, thank God, British.’
And I noticed, as I supposed we all did, that it was Barley himself, not Oliphant or Emery or the girl Magda, who had become the appointed spokesman of their group.
Barley had fallen into direct dialogue. He had the mynah bird’s ear. He had a Russian accent for the little chap and a Scottish woof-woof voice for Oliphant. The mimicry slipped out of him as if he were unaware of it.
‘You are writers?’ the little chap asked, in Barley’s voice for him.
‘No, alas. Just publishers,’ said Barley, in his own.
‘English publishers?’
‘Here for the Moscow book fair. I run a corner shop called Abercrombie & Blair and this is the Chairman Himself of Lupus Books. Very rich bloke. Be a knight one day. Gold card and bar. Right, Jumbo?’
Oliphant protested that Barley was saying far too much. But the little chap wanted more.
‘May I ask then what were you doing at Pasternak’s grave?’ said the little chap.
‘Chance visit,’ Oliphant said, barging in again. ‘Total chance. We saw a crowd, we came up to see what was going on. Pure chance. Let’s go.’
But Barley had no intention of going. He was annoyed by Oliphant’s manners, he said, and he wasn’t going to stand by while a fat Scottish millionaire gave the brush-off to an undernourished Russian stranger.
‘We’re doing what everyone else here’s doing,’ Barley replied. ‘We’re paying our respects to a great writer. We liked your reading too. Very moving. Great stuff. Ace.’
‘You respect Boris Pasternak?’ the little chap asked.
Oliphant again, the great civil rights activist, rendered by a gruff voice and a twisted jaw. ‘We have no position on the matter of Boris Pasternak or any other Soviet writer,’ he said. ‘We’re here as guests. Solely as guests. We have no opinions on internal Soviet affairs.’
‘We think he’s marvellous,’ Barley said. ‘World class. A star.’
‘But why?’ asked the little chap, provoking the conflict.
Barley needed no urging.
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