I SAW Tania from about 100 yards away, staggering in huge swoops from one side
of the road to the other, avoiding the passing cars in a way that showed the
gods loved her. It was raining hard and what pedestrians there were had
their heads down. It was dark, too, and the lights of Gorky Street seemed
far away. All I wanted was a taxi, the hotel and a drink.
I'd been walking all day; only 36 hours in Moscow and I'd wanted to see
everything. My first task had been to escape from Ludmilla, the tour guide;
a 40-year-old woman with sharp bones, eyes like industrial diamonds and a
voice like a hacksaw. Once on my own, I'd worked hard: the Armoury, the
Pushkin Museum of Art and the mosaics in the metro. I'd even got down to the
White House and, ten days after the coup, I'd visited the barricades,
climbing over twisted metal, paving stones and oil drums, and I'd stood on
the fringe of small groups and listened to them argue; old and young, staid
and hippy, right and left.
I was now on the point of overtaking Tania, and still her staggering was
Homeric. As I approached her, I could see she was no bag-lady. She was
well-dressed in a smart coat, her hair was clean and neatly piled above her
face. She'd been to an office party, perhaps, or a wedding. A couple of
sailors laughed at her; some children pointed.
I accelerated to pass her but Tania swooped once too often, and walked into a
wall. She swayed and I took her arm. Her face swivelled on her neck and she
stared up at me. She was about 55, a good solid tram of a woman with bright
blue eyes and rosy cheeks like Cox's Orange Pippins, not a wrinkle to be
seen. A wisp of hair fell across her face.
"Taxi?'' I suggested and waved a few roubles under her nose, thinking she
might be broke. Tania's eyes brightened and she seized my arm with both
hands and staggered closer to me. She was twice my weight and now when she
staggered I staggered, mimicking her dangerous long swoops. She pushed the
money back at me. ``Come,'' she said, ``come.'' And with her head bumping
against my shoulder we fox-trotted into Gorky Street, where the tarmac shone
in the headlights.
In Russia nearly every car is a taxi. Often the private owner can only pay off
the heavy cost of his motor by moonlighting. All he does is pick up fares on
his way home and negotiate a price. So, half-way into the stream of
home-going traffic, arm in arm with Tania, I held my left arm in the air and
waited, unsteadily, for my destiny to work itself out.
A Lada saloon zipped to a halt in front of us. The driver, a man about Tania's
age and looking a bit the worse for wear himself, leant over and opened the
rear door. I pushed Tania inside and followed. I knew then, or thought I
knew, that Tania lived a kilometre or two beyond my hotel. ``Hotel,'' I said
slowly, giving the name, ``hotel.'' I held up ten fingers. ``Desyat roubles;
ten roubles.''
Tania patted my hand and shifted her buttocks on the seat, being grateful to a
kindly foreigner. I smiled and patted her in return. It was then that I
noticed a spark of lust beginning to kindle deep down in the clinker of her
soul. Before I could protect myself, Tania had thrown her iron arms around
my neck and delivered a rough kiss full on my mouth. And such a kiss heavy
with halitosis, laced with vodka and tobacco and God knows what else she had
lurking in the crevices of her teeth. Tania breathed desire at me. ``No
hotel, you come ... me, sleep.''
I panicked at this, especially as the driver took Tania's words as a command,
turned away from the bright lights and drove off into the dark.
"Hotel, hotel.'' I was almost whimpering.
"Home, sleep,'' said Tania.
I shook the driver's shoulder. "Hotel, hotel,'' I repeated and began shouting,
keeping it up until the car was back on the main road.
