Winter Garden by Beryl Bainbridge

how the man knew to which suitcase she was referring. He telephoned the airport in her presence, gave Ashburner’s correct name, nodded his head and putting down the phone confirmed that she could collect the baggage any time she wished. The second man, who was wearing horn-rimmed spectacles, didn’t say anything. Only when running excitedly down the corridor did she realise that she had seen him on another occasion; he was the aeroplane passenger who had been so preoccupied with his briefcase.
    Ashburner, delighted at the news, insisted they abandon their coffee drinking in favour of something stronger. He didn’t care why or how the man on the seventh floor had known about his luggage. ‘Everything here,’ he said, ‘is cloaked in intrigue. I don’t give a hoot as long as I have a change of underclothing.’
    He and Enid talked about whether it would be a courteous gesture to buy Tatiana’s husband a new shirt to replace the torn one. It would certainly be courteous, Enid said, but why on earth should he? After all, it had been their animal who had nearly ripped off his arm when he fell out of the bathroom window. And she didn’t suppose they were thinking of replacing his jacket.
    ‘Will you both come with me?’ Ashburner asked. ‘To that studio by the lake. There’s something bothering me about he place.’
    Enid agreed, but Bernard said wild horses wouldn’t drag him back.
    When Olga Fiodorovna returned, even before she had time to sit down, Enid cried out: ‘The suitcase – it’s been found.’
    ‘I regret not,’ said Olga Fiodorovna. ‘But we are doing our best.’ Having heard the whole story and the fact that at this moment the suitcase was waiting to be picked up from the airport, she gave the impression that they had been talking at cross purposes. Of course she was aware that the suitcase had been run to ground; she meant that as yet no one had gone to collect it. She urged them to finish their drinks, because otherwise they would be late for their next appointment.
    ‘Would it be convenient,’ asked Ashburner, ‘to return to that fellow’s studio in the suburbs? I was enormously impressed by his illustrations and I don’t think I did them justice. I suppose I was thinking more about seeing Nina.’
    ‘It will not be convenient,’ Olga Fiodorovna said. ‘Your luncheon with the Artists’ Union will go on for hours, and you must remember we are taking the night train to Leningrad.’
    ‘I see,’ said Ashburner. ‘Well, could I please have the telephone number of that Boris character? We would like to thank him for his kindness.’
    Olga intimated that it was part of Mr Shabelsky’s job to be kind to foreigners. There was no need to thank him. Unless they hurried they would be late for lunch.
    ‘There is every need,’ Ashburner said. He was careful not to look at her. ‘And I don’t think I can go anywhere until I have spoken to him.’
    It took Olga Fiodorovna almost three-quarters of an hour to contact Boris Shabelsky. In the interim Ashburner ordered more drinks, ate a quantity of peanuts and refrained from apologising to anyone. When he was finally summoned into the corridor of the hotel he thanked the interpreter politely, and making no attempt to pick up the receiver waited until she had reluctantly walked away from him into the bar.
    The luncheon given in honour of the English artists and held at the one time home of Prince Nevsky, began as a formal affair. They ate at a long table set beneath the overhang of a massive oak staircase which led up to a gallery hung with paintings. It was impossible for Ashburner to grasp with whom he was lunching. Remembering, let alone pronouncing, the names of the numerous persons introduced to him was out of the question. One face was very like another; only the two women stood out. Enid’s breasts rested on the cloth and sprigs of parsley spiked her blouse; round-shouldered from lack of sleep she slumped against the edge of the table. No