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section7mfuRed gauze. Early days 6
Illya arrives in London. A tedious evening ends with something unexpected and irresistible, just for once.
London, autumn 1958
It was a relief to get away from Russia’s cold north and the always slightly disgusting smells of a submarine. The penance of the train journey at least had the reward of autumn in London, which should be warm and pleasant, even if winter smogs were on their way. He was looking forward to it.
He had heard of tensions in the city, however; recent race riots in Notting Hill had revealed an ugly side to British society. The British weren’t fond of foreigners at the best of times, and there was a Cold War. How was it going to be for a fluent English-speaking Russian, even one with a Cambridge degree? His country’s space programme was of huge political interest, and, as few people knew the language, Illya was again to be slotted into the organisation at interpreter level. For the moment his abilities as an active field agent were less immediately required.
On the surface the London office was quite friendly; polite in that peculiarly upper-class, distant, English way. There were a few faces he knew from his Cambridge days; most were amiable enough, some he avoided – and some avoided him. It wasn’t a completely lonely existence.
*************
He found himself a room in Soho above a Greek restaurant, where he could eat as much as he liked for a fairly small sum; it was also near all the jazz clubs, so it felt like heaven. The sleazy air of this part of the capital troubled him not at all. He observed its criminal activity with indifference. When occasionally someone called the police, they would arrive and make a lot of convincing noises, but nothing whatever changed; they were taking their cut, after all. Illya was used to this from his homeland, but was quite surprised to find such corruption in a country that liked to pride itself on its integrity and its position on the moral high ground. When he asked others about it, they either denied it ever happened, or told him it was just London, that’s how it was; the Metropolitan Police were notoriously corrupt, hand-in-glove with the gangs.
His colleagues, preferring the quiet delights of north London, Kensington, or Chelsea, were revolted by his choice of lodging. “Soho! Couldn’t you do better than that?” But this was sheer hypocrisy. There was an evening when some of them, intent on visiting the strip clubs, ran into him as he emerged from the side door of the Greek restaurant.
“You must come with us, Ivan,” (Ivan … Eye-van! Could none of them manage any part of his name?) “Do you good. We’ll make a man of you, yet.”
He very much doubted that; he saw the girls often enough after they had finished work – poor, sad, underfed creatures with sweat-streaked makeup and rats-tail hair. And as for making a man of him…
Nevertheless, despite his resistance, they took him along and he was obliged to endure a series of dreadful performances each of which ended in profoundly un-arousing semi-nudity. But then, they found a strip club he hadn’t seen before – in a basement as shabby as all the others, but lacking the usual crude notices. Outside, instead, there was a single photograph of a young woman, platinum blond, and beautiful. “One night only! The one and only Roxane,” it said, somewhat repetitively, underneath.
The rows of seats either side of a short catwalk were occupied just like everywhere else, by mostly middle-aged men in mostly grubby raincoats, with their hats carefully placed over their laps. Illya’s English colleagues settled themselves as close as possible to the stage and catwalk, while he sat on a stool at the bar, right at the back, and ordered a beer which he sat and looked at until the lights changed and the music started. Then he cast a glance at the stage.
She had very striking looks, stunning in fact, and a lithe, graceful figure. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. She had noticed him, too, almost immediately – an unusual punter, not apparently very interested, not wearing a dirty raincoat – a slender, youthful figure whose hair gleamed gold in the light and whose eyes were on her face not her body. Her eyes held his throughout her act, which left her not nude, or even semi-nude, but tantalisingly wrapped from head to foot in red gauze. Before sweeping offstage, she tossed an earring towards him, which he caught. She looked speculatively at him as he put the earring to his nose and breathed in her perfume – it wasn’t the cheap scent of the average stripper – and she smiled.
The others, noisily disappointed in the tame performance, and thankfully oblivious to this byplay, started to make their way out in search of more lurid fare, but this time he refused to go with them – I’ve got a beer to finish, and an early call, I’m going home, he told them. When they had gone, he turned to the barman and asked how he could get to see Roxane.
“No chance, son. She don’t want to see punters. She’s class. You go on home.” But he was speaking to thin air.
Illya ignored the barman’s injunction, went up to the stage, vaulted onto it before anyone noticed or could stop him, and disappeared off it in the direction Roxane had taken.
There was very little space in the basement so she couldn’t be far away. He was lucky at the second door he tried. She was sitting in front of a mirror in a satin robe, removing her makeup. Seeing him in the mirror, she turned delightedly. “I wondered if you’d come,” she said. Her voice was soft; her accent that of Hampstead, not Soho. “I was watching you. You’re not the usual kind of punter.”
He smiled slightly, “I was brought here against my will.”
She laughed and said, “Have you still got my earring?” He looked seriously at her and, holding out the earring, said, “Why are you doing this? You’re different, too, and your perfume is… quite expensive.”
She came to him, and took the earring. “You think it’s not quite the thing for girls like me? How do you know I’m not an expensive call girl?”
“You’re not,” he said, putting his hands on her slim shoulders.
“No, I’m not, actually – and the perfume was a present. How did you know?”
“I can tell,” he said. “You don’t have that hard look in your eyes,” and slipped his arms round her back to draw her close.
“But, sir, this is so sudden,” she said, teasingly, “we haven’t been introduced. Who are you – what do you do?”
“My name’s Illya. I’m a civil servant, an interpreter. Is Roxane your real name?”
“No, of course not. I’m Liz,” she said, slipping her free arm round his neck. “Is that your real name? You don’t look like a civil servant – you sound foreign – what are you really?” She put her head back to look at him. “I know, a Russian spy!”
“Ah, you guessed. I’m a trained killer, too.”
She smiled, “I believe you, thousands wouldn’t – those innocent blue eyes must be quite an asset,” and touched his lips with her fingers.
“Is this a request?” he whispered.
“Oh, it is…”
“So, why are you doing this extraordinary job?” he asked, briefly coming up for air, and returning to his original question.
“Just for fun… It was a bet – my friends said I couldn’t do it... Mm. You do kiss nicely… Do all Russian spies kiss like that? ...”
“I don’t know… I haven’t kissed many.”
“We’d better go,” she said, after a while. “It’s awfully dangerous out there for people who aren’t trained killers – it’s not far, will you see me home?”
“Certainly, if you insist…”
=================================
Illya arrives in London. A tedious evening ends with something unexpected and irresistible, just for once.
London, autumn 1958
It was a relief to get away from Russia’s cold north and the always slightly disgusting smells of a submarine. The penance of the train journey at least had the reward of autumn in London, which should be warm and pleasant, even if winter smogs were on their way. He was looking forward to it.
He had heard of tensions in the city, however; recent race riots in Notting Hill had revealed an ugly side to British society. The British weren’t fond of foreigners at the best of times, and there was a Cold War. How was it going to be for a fluent English-speaking Russian, even one with a Cambridge degree? His country’s space programme was of huge political interest, and, as few people knew the language, Illya was again to be slotted into the organisation at interpreter level. For the moment his abilities as an active field agent were less immediately required.
On the surface the London office was quite friendly; polite in that peculiarly upper-class, distant, English way. There were a few faces he knew from his Cambridge days; most were amiable enough, some he avoided – and some avoided him. It wasn’t a completely lonely existence.
*************
He found himself a room in Soho above a Greek restaurant, where he could eat as much as he liked for a fairly small sum; it was also near all the jazz clubs, so it felt like heaven. The sleazy air of this part of the capital troubled him not at all. He observed its criminal activity with indifference. When occasionally someone called the police, they would arrive and make a lot of convincing noises, but nothing whatever changed; they were taking their cut, after all. Illya was used to this from his homeland, but was quite surprised to find such corruption in a country that liked to pride itself on its integrity and its position on the moral high ground. When he asked others about it, they either denied it ever happened, or told him it was just London, that’s how it was; the Metropolitan Police were notoriously corrupt, hand-in-glove with the gangs.
His colleagues, preferring the quiet delights of north London, Kensington, or Chelsea, were revolted by his choice of lodging. “Soho! Couldn’t you do better than that?” But this was sheer hypocrisy. There was an evening when some of them, intent on visiting the strip clubs, ran into him as he emerged from the side door of the Greek restaurant.
“You must come with us, Ivan,” (Ivan … Eye-van! Could none of them manage any part of his name?) “Do you good. We’ll make a man of you, yet.”
He very much doubted that; he saw the girls often enough after they had finished work – poor, sad, underfed creatures with sweat-streaked makeup and rats-tail hair. And as for making a man of him…
Nevertheless, despite his resistance, they took him along and he was obliged to endure a series of dreadful performances each of which ended in profoundly un-arousing semi-nudity. But then, they found a strip club he hadn’t seen before – in a basement as shabby as all the others, but lacking the usual crude notices. Outside, instead, there was a single photograph of a young woman, platinum blond, and beautiful. “One night only! The one and only Roxane,” it said, somewhat repetitively, underneath.
The rows of seats either side of a short catwalk were occupied just like everywhere else, by mostly middle-aged men in mostly grubby raincoats, with their hats carefully placed over their laps. Illya’s English colleagues settled themselves as close as possible to the stage and catwalk, while he sat on a stool at the bar, right at the back, and ordered a beer which he sat and looked at until the lights changed and the music started. Then he cast a glance at the stage.
She had very striking looks, stunning in fact, and a lithe, graceful figure. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. She had noticed him, too, almost immediately – an unusual punter, not apparently very interested, not wearing a dirty raincoat – a slender, youthful figure whose hair gleamed gold in the light and whose eyes were on her face not her body. Her eyes held his throughout her act, which left her not nude, or even semi-nude, but tantalisingly wrapped from head to foot in red gauze. Before sweeping offstage, she tossed an earring towards him, which he caught. She looked speculatively at him as he put the earring to his nose and breathed in her perfume – it wasn’t the cheap scent of the average stripper – and she smiled.
The others, noisily disappointed in the tame performance, and thankfully oblivious to this byplay, started to make their way out in search of more lurid fare, but this time he refused to go with them – I’ve got a beer to finish, and an early call, I’m going home, he told them. When they had gone, he turned to the barman and asked how he could get to see Roxane.
“No chance, son. She don’t want to see punters. She’s class. You go on home.” But he was speaking to thin air.
Illya ignored the barman’s injunction, went up to the stage, vaulted onto it before anyone noticed or could stop him, and disappeared off it in the direction Roxane had taken.
There was very little space in the basement so she couldn’t be far away. He was lucky at the second door he tried. She was sitting in front of a mirror in a satin robe, removing her makeup. Seeing him in the mirror, she turned delightedly. “I wondered if you’d come,” she said. Her voice was soft; her accent that of Hampstead, not Soho. “I was watching you. You’re not the usual kind of punter.”
He smiled slightly, “I was brought here against my will.”
She laughed and said, “Have you still got my earring?” He looked seriously at her and, holding out the earring, said, “Why are you doing this? You’re different, too, and your perfume is… quite expensive.”
She came to him, and took the earring. “You think it’s not quite the thing for girls like me? How do you know I’m not an expensive call girl?”
“You’re not,” he said, putting his hands on her slim shoulders.
“No, I’m not, actually – and the perfume was a present. How did you know?”
“I can tell,” he said. “You don’t have that hard look in your eyes,” and slipped his arms round her back to draw her close.
“But, sir, this is so sudden,” she said, teasingly, “we haven’t been introduced. Who are you – what do you do?”
“My name’s Illya. I’m a civil servant, an interpreter. Is Roxane your real name?”
“No, of course not. I’m Liz,” she said, slipping her free arm round his neck. “Is that your real name? You don’t look like a civil servant – you sound foreign – what are you really?” She put her head back to look at him. “I know, a Russian spy!”
“Ah, you guessed. I’m a trained killer, too.”
She smiled, “I believe you, thousands wouldn’t – those innocent blue eyes must be quite an asset,” and touched his lips with her fingers.
“Is this a request?” he whispered.
“Oh, it is…”
“So, why are you doing this extraordinary job?” he asked, briefly coming up for air, and returning to his original question.
“Just for fun… It was a bet – my friends said I couldn’t do it... Mm. You do kiss nicely… Do all Russian spies kiss like that? ...”
“I don’t know… I haven’t kissed many.”
“We’d better go,” she said, after a while. “It’s awfully dangerous out there for people who aren’t trained killers – it’s not far, will you see me home?”
“Certainly, if you insist…”
=================================
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Date: 2017-10-20 08:33 am (UTC)Thanks for commenting - and for picking up that line. Channelling Illya is a joy.