For this week’s Translation Tuesday, we bring you a thrilling tale of international espionage and intrigue from Russian émigré writer Zinaida Shakhovskaya, deftly translated by Theo Barnett. Arriving in an unnamed country, veteran spy Loris feels completely secure—he speaks the language perfectly, can name every place of the town, knows exactly what he needs to do—that is, until he runs across an old friend. What follows lays bare the true conflict in Loris’s heart, a deep pessimism beneath the mask of a devoted professional. Yet even as Loris admits his despair, the world around him hums with activity: children at play, a girl meeting her partner in a restaurant, new foliage casts dappled shadows on the streets. Together, these moments paint a picture of the world in “its breathtaking benevolence and fixity,” which stands against Loris’s despair and finally empowers him to act. Read on!
Loris knew the town, where he was arriving for the first time, down to its last detail. He had undergone such extensive preparations before being sent there that he knew the place inside out: every bend in its labyrinthine streets, the name of every hotel and caffè, the address of every library, museum, tavern and concert hall in the town, of its every abattoir, square and monument. Any passer-by could ask him for any directions, and, with native fluency, Loris could supply them. He recognised all these things as he saw them for the first time.
On his way from the station, carrying a light holdall, he entered a hotel and requested a room (even his accent didn’t betray his identity). On a paper slip he wrote down his name (not his own), verifying this by making unsubtle glances at his passport (also not his own) … After a wash and a freshen-up, he left straight for the town.
Summer was just beginning. The avenues, which pointed out of the main square in the form of a star, were in flower; the foliage cast dappled green reflections on those walking below. Loris was in a holiday mood; however, there was also the mild thrill that would always fill him with the pleasures of action. In essence, compared with other missions, this was child’s play.
In the park children were yelling, or else showing great solemnity, as they rode ponies or carriages pulled by nanny goats. While swings soared in the air, the contents of the sand pit, which was equipped with a sand roller, were billowed about by the wind; from behind the hedgerows carried the local cockerel’s throaty call and peals of children’s laughter. By the fountain, old men with canes were sat on metal chairs, and young mothers kept watch over rosy-cheeked infants dozing in their prams; there were no lovers to speak of at that time of day, however. All was calm, exuding an almost bucolic simplicity.
Along the far side of the park, cyclists bore jauntily down the narrow streets of the town’s old quarters, which were off-limits to cars; here stood the church. Loris recognised it there and then: the church of Saint Cecilia. He withdrew into its cool marble interior, where everything shone a baroque gold: little angels tooting on their golden trumpets; saints, circled by the golden shafts of their haloes, knotted in contrived poses; altars glimmering by candlelight… Loris, a Protestant, felt strongly that he was not quite at home in this place, but rather in some beautiful foreign land. He sat there, glancing around in a state of rapture, like a visitor having unwittingly intruded on a holy feast. The organ thundered from on high, exalting the beatitude of Paradise, or the furies of the Last Judgment.
The church was empty, however; as though the gardens and parks had taken its place, and pop music that of the light of Heaven. The organ died down, and before long a man – most likely a priest, though not wearing his vestments – emerged from the vestibule and approached the rood screen. Loris then left, departing one golden world for another. It was starting to get hot. He sat in a caffè and decided to order a dish with an odd-sounding name, which he knew, more or less, to be veal blanquette. The moment the town clock struck twelve, the boulevards and caffès filled up with people, put at ease and in good cheer by so fine a day.
Like a leaf carried by the wind, a girl with dark hair came in and sat at the next table. The sight of her violet eyes flustered Loris. Her whole being was pretty: the bearing of her head, her lively upturned mouth; her deft hands, how gracefully and nimbly these moved the previous customer’s glass and picked up the menu card. The girl looked round and smiled at Loris, too, simply because she was unable not to smile. “Lovely day,” she said, addressing nobody in particular. In this throwaway line, Loris discerned a compatriot of his, yet to master the local dialect; perhaps a student, or an au pair girl. At this point a dashing young chap entered; taking the girl in his arms, he landed a smacking kiss above her ear and sat close beside her, still holding her hand in his. Her face now lit up for him alone.
A police van wailed as it tore down the boulevard; this invited no undue attention. Everything was as usual, as uneventful, as any summer; yet, at the back of his mind, Loris felt something akin to the thrill of creation stirring within, held in check only by the self-discipline of his thoughts and emotions. His meeting was scheduled for four o’clock. At five minutes to four, Loris went into the natural history museum, secluded amongst some chestnut trees that were shedding their blossom. Its halls were rather empty. Crowding about the exit was some kind of school outing; although not a lively one, for the natural world of old was apparently of little interest to the children of the town. While already acquainted with the layout of the museum, at the counter Loris purchased a guidebook – as any inveterate tourist would – and, following the path towards the agreed room, took his time to look around the taxidermies of birds from overseas, in particular the superbly preserved specimens of an eagle, which, in that country, was practically extinct. This course led him to the painstakingly reconstructed skeleton of an Ichthyosaur. Not all the beast’s vertebrae and bones were likely original, for plastic duplicates visibly stood in for those that had been misplaced. A man, probably the one Loris was supposed to meet here, approached from the next room. I reckon this is him, Loris thought; just the type for an international agent, with a smooth, unprepossessing face, like that of a bachelor.
“Hardly what you’d call a household pet,” Loris remarked in hushed tones.
“The rooms must have the right dimensions,” was the stranger’s reply. There were no guards present in the hall, safe in the knowledge that no visitor was likely to make off with the ichthyosaur; or with the glass-encased mammoth, impossibly re-upholstered with a brand-new hide. As was foreseen, this was a convenient spot for the handover of the attaché case; it were as though it contained nothing remotely suspect – for instance, a small art monograph, a railway guide, or reproductions of the local natural wonders, annotated with marginalia that perhaps indicated some purchases to be made. After exchanging another two or three words pertaining to the antediluvian fauna, the two parties went their separate ways. Loris ambled along the arrows pointing towards the exit, as he had once done as a boy scout pursuing track marks.
Now that Loris was in the street again, his mood altered. He had a real disdain for the kind of people he had encountered just a moment ago: those who were awarded all kinds of exceptional security statuses, were exceptionally well paid, utterly indifferent to the task to which they have been assigned, and hence forever willing to bend whichever way the wind blows for their own gain, saving their own skin. The streets were now alive: offices were opening, cyclists wove in and out of traffic, and droves of pedestrians were filing into their respective buildings. Loris lit up listlessly. The local tobacco was not to his taste; he found it sour, like the local beer. By evening a light breeze had descended on the pristine, close-knit town, which was mercifully free of high-rises.
His return train ran only in the morning, and he did not feel like going back to his hotel room. Loris retreated into the cool shade of a cinema. He broke into a smile on recognising the film; as he had seen it twice before, under various titles and in various languages, he thought to himself: how about a nap? Spared the intermittent gunfire, shouting, or cooing from some large-breasted screen actress… His thoughts involuntarily turned to the bland functionary whom he had met by the Ichthyosaur.
Loris’ line of work was dangerous at present, and had been even more so in his early youth. Not all that he did turned out so well, but it was, nonetheless, justified. For his part, Loris believed that one had to combat evil, sacrificing oneself if necessary. The face of a woman flickered up and faded away on the screen; it reminded him of Elizabeth. Where was she now? In Cambodia, China, the USSR, with her camera, capturing the most masterful images; not of heads of state or distinguished generals, but of the trials and tribulations of ordinary folk, or wonders that others would fail to notice. She was light on her feet, bubbly, dedicated to her craft, and possessed a wit beneath which lay hidden the goodness of her heart… Judging from the rapt silence that had descended on the auditorium, matters had progressed to the love scene, the zenith of the film. It was rather dull, unless you happened to be an adolescent, impotent, or an old man. Loris yawned and, on his way out, trampled on somebody’s foot.
He went without a taxi; taking the walk to Liberation square (where, on all five continents, was there not a ‘Liberation square’!), Loris got on a bus, which swiftly took him to the river, its banks already aglow with the multicoloured lamps of little restaurants. There were many to choose from: Loris opted for one called ‘The Fisherman’s Inn’. With a professional’s eye, he scanned everyone sat at their tables as he sauntered between them; assured, though he was, of having covered his tracks. All of a sudden, he caught sight of Vogt.
Vogt was sat beneath the sweet-smelling bloom of a lime tree.
They had not seen one another for three years. Formerly, they had happened to be on the very same missions, whether they were in Asia, Africa, or Europe. But, as it was, he couldn’t simply go up to him; he might be expecting company. Loris stood around, feigning to pick a table, and walked past Vogt before finally taking a seat facing him. It was at this point that Vogt caught sight of him; he, likewise, did not betray their acquaintance, merely taking his glass of white wine and drawing circles with it in the tablecloth. This indicated that he was free. Only then did Loris go up to sit closer to Vogt, without shaking his hand: an unnecessary formality.
“Are you off-duty?”
“Yes.”
“So am I. What’s new in your world?”
“Like you wouldn’t know! It’s the same the world over: mayhem and lunacy. But a little something has come up for me.” Vogt clapped his hands and a pink-faced waiter, wearing a velvet waistcoat over a pink shirt, hastened towards them.
“May we have a bite to eat?”
“Of course you may,” the waiter smiled, obligingly. “For example, the battered fish coddle, our speciality. But while it will be prepared, I recommend mushroom omelette starter.” His English, though poor, was comprehensible.
“Let’s have that. If it’s bad, you’re in for it!”
The waiter scampered towards the cottage, which was decorated like something out of a fairytale.
“So, what’s come up for you, then?”
“Well, I’m setting up a sort of agency, exclusively seeking out people with whom I’m already on close terms, such as yourself. You know full well, everything’s gone a-cropper; even at twenty years of age I already understood that, after our counterintelligence failed to take out the big three, Chamberlain, Daladier and Hitler, on the balcony in Munich. Those three were spared, but millions of others were not. Everyone’s lost their heads since then… Politics is playing out in public squares, it’s being dictated by the shouts of the masses and by the poll ratings of future electorates. Diplomats are prancing around at buffet lunches, heads of state are flying over to play guest and host, to pay mutual lip-service. Everybody is afraid of something, but nobody is doing anything about it – while the secret work is overseen by any old rabble of senators, or by parliaments, as though it could remain secret in such places.”
“One could quit, I know that as well as you do. Chickens and vultures are all that’s left of the official bodies; as for this thing you’ve come up with, that’s news to me.”
They both lit a cigarette while the waiter laid the table. They ordered more wine.
“Don’t laugh,” said Vogt. “Indulge me in a little philosophising. A philosophy of activism: how does that sound to you? To put it simply: world affairs can be arranged single-handedly by the actions of determined and brave individuals. They alone can give form and meaning to fate – not only their own, but that of whole peoples and states.”
“Interesting,” said Loris. “Do go on. See, I’m not laughing.”
“Here’s the thing: why not set up an organisation independent from governments? Fear not, though, for governments will have to resort to it. The deed will be done, but they – the governments – will not take responsibility for whether it succeeds or fails. I hasten to add that we do not have to take on all commissions: only those we consider to be beneficial.”
“It’s rather ingenious,” said Loris. “I’ll drink to your health.”
“I already have fifteen men on board – first-rate talents, many of whom you know; former military counter-intelligence from so-called “civilised” countries. There are headquarters wherever we need them, and clients have already come knocking… all we’re missing, is you. I was beginning to wonder, indeed, had no idea, where you had got to.”
“Here, you see; to meet you.”
“Are you available?”
“Not for the moment,” Loris said, “but I will be at your disposal inside three months.”
“Marvelous. Memorise this address,” – Vogt ran through the coordinates a few times. “Got it?”
Loris smiled: he had played Kim’s game since he was a child.
The starter arrived: it looked splendid, glistening in the lamplight of the garden. Someone at another table struck up a song in the local tongue, to the dissonant accompaniment of other voices.
“Can you catch what they’re singing?” Vogt asked.
“I can: something about a fisherman and his trawl.”
The lamps swayed gently in the riverside wind, casting specks of red, blue and green light on the trees.
“You know what,” said Loris, “I’ll say it again. I was wondering just now, just what the devil has brought me here, and now I know: it was to meet you here.”
Vogt laughed, the way his circle of people laughed: in a low baritone, tempered with a hysterical vibrato. By this stage, the entire garden was singing something very bawdy.
“If you get into the usual mess, mark my words: I’m not offering you a place in cabinet, rather – as Churchill said – blood, sweat and tears; but also, potentially, victory.”
“Let’s not get carried away with such lofty sentiments. – Well, well, what have we here?”
The chap in the pink shirt – which turned mauve in the green light – placed before them a mountain of fish, and a strong-smelling sauce of some kind.
“Not bad, not bad at all,” was Vogt’s verdict. “I’m really quite famished.”
“This dish needs to be eaten like so,” Loris explained. “Look: you take the fish (no need for a fork), dip it in the sauce, and eat it together with the head,” – the sauce scalded Loris’ tongue, sending him into a fit of coughing.
“That’s academia for you!” Vogt laughed. “The conclusion being, you’re new to this game. Like at university: you’ve acquired knowledge, but lack experience.”
They sat there for a while, revelling in their camaraderie. Gradually the garden thinned out; the lamps began to flicker. Loris went to reach into his inside jacket pocket, in search of his wallet.
“Don’t worry about that,” said Vogt, “today you’re my guest, and as such you may leave first.”
“Thank you; this has all gone swimmingly. Next time we meet, dinner will be on me.”
Loris rose, when something rustled in the bushes behind Vogt; most likely a cat prowling between the tables.
Loris edged hesitantly towards the now dimming light of the exit, when some other, new sound rung out from the corner where Vogt was sitting – quite faint, somewhat recalling a cork popping from a foaming champagne bottle, or a loud clack of the tongue; Loris immediately sobered up on realising it was the gunshot from a silencer. That split second, he withdrew into the shadows, and looked about. The lamp was still swaying above the table, but there was no sight of Vogt, nor of his chair; there was only the white of the tablecloth, which had partially slipped under, as though it had been pulled down by someone.
He was unable, and had no right, to help. Loris quickly slipped away from the fence and, short of running, made haste for the riverbank; there, thankfully, ramblers were still roaming in groups. He merged with one group, meanwhile staggering and mouthing obscenities in the local tongue to this end, until he reached the bus stop. Luckily for him, a bus was pulling up that very moment. He went on board, paid his fare, and sat in the rear of the bus, hiccupping with a handkerchief pressed to his mouth; so convincing was his portrayal of a drunkard that two nearby passengers moved further back.
Who had taken the shot? What was Vogt doing in that town? They had clearly wished to dispose of Vogt himself, and had been waiting for him, Loris, to make his exit.
The bus trundled into the slumbering town. It was completely lifeless, seemingly abandoned, with row upon row of dead-eyed houses. Dropping his drunk act so soon, Loris entered his hotel, occasionally glancing around, whereupon he was already confident of nobody having followed him. There, the hotel’s night porter – an affable old man, rather hard of hearing – was on duty.
“I have to leave right this minute,” Loris said; “mine’s room twelve.”
“Well, so it is; I’ve got it written here that you’re checking out tomorrow?”
“That was the plan, but the thing is, I phoned home from the restaurant: my wife’s going into labour, but the baby wasn’t due for another two weeks.”
“Stranger things happen in life,” the old man concurred. “Well, not to worry: we’re all mortal, so we have to be born at some point… Whereabouts are you from?”
“From Naas. Well, I’ll go up and collect my things.”
When Loris came back downstairs, the old man was leafing through a travel guide.
“There’s only the small steam train that goes to Naas, leaving in ten minutes.”
“That’ll do!” Loris settled his bill and paid a tip. He crossed the deadened square, at the end of which glowed the dim lights of the station. The drowsy cashier handed him a ticket for the train; going not to Naas, but in the opposite direction, stopping just short of the border. All the carriages were second class, boarded by workers on the night shift. In the compartment Loris entered were a woman and child. “You can’t smoke in here,” said the former when Loris took out his cigarette packet. He migrated to another compartment, and straightaway the train moved off. The steady stream of the dull railside landscape, its signal posts, windlasses, and the black masses of freight wagons, gave way to the darkness of the fields at night.
Was Vogt dead, or alive? Perhaps he would read in tomorrow’s papers about an incomprehensible murder, or assassination attempt; and while the victim would not go by the name of Vogt, but by some other name unfamiliar to him, he would have no trouble guessing who it was. He may well survive, that would be good. What a splendid chap that man was! Loris knew that if he had been in Vogt’s shoes, either killed or injured, Vogt would have done the same as he had, leaving without coming to his aid: such was the law of their trade. Having memorised the coordinates Vogt gave him, Loris would report there at the first opportunity.
The train rattled slowly along, halting at every stopping point, and nobody came on board to inspect. Loris was overcome by an icy calm; but also, beneath this carapace, by pity for Vogt. He disembarked at the terminus, along with a dozen or so other passengers. Here was a settlement, if not quite a town, through which lorries, transporting all manner of goods to the neighbouring state, would pass from dusk till dawn. Loris made his way to a petrol station, brightly lit with neon signs. Over some coffee he chatted with a rather empty-headed office worker, who had “got on the wrong train, and ended up in the wrong place – what a farce!” He asked the driver of the first truck, which was loaded with crates of vegetables, if he could drop him off on the other side: the driver complied.
“I’m absolutely shattered,” Loris muttered through a yawn, as he sat beside the driver; I’m glad that you’re driving, and not me. I’m in the lap of the Gods now, so I’d better keep my mouth shut.
On the border, the driver’s customs papers were checked, while nobody took any interest in the sleeping passenger… Having crossed over, Loris slipped the driver a banknote and went into a caffè, where he had a wash and a shave. In the lavatory, he tore up his passport (not his own) and produced his real one, which he had shrewdly concealed. Now he was just an eccentric tourist. Somewhere around here, as far as Loris recalled, stood the ruins of a mediaeval monastery. He decided he would have a look around, after renting a bicycle. It was still a while before the next train. Amongst those ruins he’d be able to get some proper rest.
A flock of pigeons flew over the village; a bakery opened; a black dog diligently sniffed the ground as it ran. The primordial virtue of the world, its breathtaking benevolence and fixity, shone through.
Translated from the Russian by Theo Barnett
Princess Zinaida Alekseyevna Shakhovskaya (1906–2001) was a Russian-born writer of the post-revolutionary emigration, writing in both Russian and French. Shakhovskaya was raised in the Russian nobility, but left Russia in 1920, eventually marrying a Belgian diplomat and settling between Brussels and Paris. A founder of the Union of Young Poets and Writers, Shakhovskaya became an active participant of the Russian literary diaspora of the Paris of the ’30s, alongside her work as a foreign correspondent for Belgian newspaper Le soir. Between 1949 and 1969 she wrote exclusively in French, under the pseudonym of Jacques Croisé, before returning to her native language of Russian from 1970 onwards. Shakhovskaya’s prolific, bilingual career spanned collections of poetry, novels and short stories, as well as memoirs, literary criticism and studies in Russian cultural history. Although Shakhovskaya lived most of her life in emigration, she would return to the Soviet Union a number of times, most notably settling in Moscow during the period 1956-57, when her husband worked there as a Belgian ambassador.
Theo Barnett is a graduate in Russian and French literature at the University of Cambridge (2019), currently working as a freelance translator of Russian texts, including poems, short stories and film scripts. Predominant among his academic interests are the interplay of aesthetics and politics in Russian émigré literature, the interaction of the Russian literary diaspora with its adopted contexts, as well as forms of cultural and political history in Soviet cinema.
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