she was smart, they were both safe.
Leo pushed forward and opened the door. The delegation followed, the entrance filling up with officials, the school’s director with Jesse Austin at the front. The students stood up, amazed, their eyes flicking from Leo’s uniform to their director’s anxious face to Austin’s wide smile.
Raisa turned to Leo, holding a stub of chalk, her fingers dusty white. She was the only person in the room, aside from Austin, who seemed calm. Her composure was remarkable and Leo was reminded why he found her so attractive. Using her real name, as if he’d known no other, Leo said:
– Raisa, I’m sorry for arriving unexpectedly but our guest, Jesse Austin, wanted to visit a secondary school and I naturally thought of you.
Austin stepped forward, offering his hand.
– Don’t be mad at him. It’s my fault. I wanted it to be a surprise.
Raisa nodded, assessing the situation with agility.
– It certainly is a surprise.
She noted Leo’s uniform, before remarking to Austin:
– Mr Austin, I enjoy your music very much.
Austin smiled, asking coyly:
– You’ve heard it?
– You’re one of the few Western…
Raisa’s eyes darted towards the crowd of party officials. She checked herself:
– Western singers any Russian would want to listen to.
Austin was elated.
– That’s kind of you.
Raisa glanced at Leo.
– I’m flattered my lessons were considered worthy for such important visitors.
– Would it be OK if I watched you teach?
– Take my seat.
– No, I’ll stand. We’ll be no trouble, I promise! You just go ahead. Do your normal thing.
It was a comical notion that this lesson would be normal. Leo felt faintly hysterical and light-headed. The sense of gratitude was so intense it was a struggle not to take hold of Raisa’s hands and kiss them. She taught the lesson, managing to ignore the fact that none of the children were listening, all of them fascinated by the guests.
After twenty minutes a delighted Austin thanked Raisa.
– You have a real gift. The way you speak, the things you say about Communism, thank you for letting me listen in.
– It was my pleasure.
Jesse Austin was smitten with her too. It was hard not to be.
– Are you busy tonight, Raisa? Because I’d like it very much if you’d come to my concert. I’m sure Leo has told you about it?
She glanced at Leo.
– He has.
She lied with consummate skill.
– Then you’ll come? Please?
She smiled, expressing a razor-sharp sense of self-preservation.
Moscow Serp I Molot Factory Magnitogorsk
Planners for tonight’s event had toyed with the idea of staging the concert within the factory itself, capturing footage of Jesse Austin singing, surrounded by machinery and workers, creating the impression of a concert that had sprung up spontaneously, as though Austin had burst into song while touring the premises. It had proved impractical. There was no clear stretch of floor space to act as an auditorium. The heavy machinery would block the view for many and there were questions about whether the machinery was suitable for international scrutiny. For these reasons the concert would take place in an adjacent warehouse emptied of stock and more traditionally arranged. A temporary stage had been set up at the north end, in front of which were a thousand wooden chairs. In order to preserve the notion that this was a concert in contrast to those performed in the West, the workers were being ushered directly from the factory floor, given no time to go home and change. The organizers not only wanted an audience of workers, they wanted an audience that looked like workers, with oil on their hands, sweat on their brows and lines of dirt under their nails. The event would offer a stark contrast to the elitism that typified concerts in capitalist countries with tiered ticket prices resulting in a stratification of the audience, where the poor were so far away they could hardly see the show while the truly impoverished lingered backstage, in the service corridors, waiting for the concert to finish so they could sweep the floor.
Leo supervised the movement of workers from the factory to the warehouse, his thoughts on Raisa. He’d cut a particularly unimpressive figure today at her school, desperate and dishonest. However, he was in a position of power and Raisa had proved herself to be astute: it was possible she would weigh up the offer to attend the concert purely in practical terms and those were favourable to him. He wondered what she thought of his occupation. Mulling over the possibilities, he urged the people around him to hurry up and fill whatever seats were available. There were no tickets. The concert was free. The men and women dutifully occupied any remaining places, some of them shivering as they sat down. The warehouse was little more than a steel shell. The roof was too high and the space too large for the gas heaters to warm the entire area. Workers seated at midway points between heaters were discreetly handed gloves and jackets. Leo rubbed his hands together, searching the crowd – there was not long to go and Raisa had still not arrived.
The programme had been arranged in advance although it was hard to know if Austin would change those plans too. The proposal was for him to take to the stage with a number of songs interspersed with short polemical speeches. His speeches would be in Russian; with a couple of exceptions, the songs would be in English. Leo glanced across the sweep of the audience, picturing how the scene would appear on the propaganda film intended for distribution across the Union and Eastern Europe. Leo snapped at a man seated a couple of rows back:
– Take off your hat.
Gloves wouldn’t be seen in the film. Hats would be. They didn’t want to give away that the auditorium was bitterly cold. As Leo was making the final checks for anything that might appear out of place he saw a worker rub some of the dirty grease from his boot across his face, blackening it. Leo didn’t need to hear what was being said as several men seated nearby began to laugh. He pushed into the auditorium, reaching the man and whispering:
– You want this to be the last joke you ever make?
Leo stood over him as he wiped the grease from his face. He looked at the men who’d laughed. They hated him but not as much as they feared him. He sidestepped out of the row, returning to the front of the stage. After thirty minutes of shuffling, the seats were filled. There were workers standing, crowded at the back. The orchestra was onstage. The concert was ready to start.
It was then that Leo saw Raisa, being escorted into the auditorium by an officer. He’d only ever seen her dressed in her work clothes, practical and sturdy outfits, her features hidden beneath a warm hat, her hair tied back – her skin pale and without makeup. Misunderstanding the nature of the concert, she’d dressed smartly. She was wearing a dress. Though her clothes were hardly extravagant, they were dazzling when contrasted with the workers. Among the dirty shirts and ragged trousers worn by most of the audience, she walked nervously. She felt exposed, out of place and overdressed. The eyes of the workers followed her, and for good reason. Tonight she seemed more beautiful than ever before. Arriving in front of him, Leo dismissed the other officer.
– I’ll take our guest from here.
Leo guided her to the front, his throat dry.
– I’ve saved you a seat, the best in the house.
