Angels in the Snow

Nor could he understand why the authorities had decided to renovate the monastery. You were either a Christian country or you were not: the Soviet Union was not and yet here they were, this historic year, pandering to tourism and Western opinion. And doing it on the doorstep of his premises which made an invaluable contribution to the welfare of the State and had until recently had one of the best records of any station in the country. Now he was not so sure about the statistics: militiamen who rounded up the drunks were not enthusiastic about visiting the monastery in its new garb and the drunks themselves were said to be drinking in areas where they would be dumped in a rival station which was not haunted by a forsaken religion.

The suspicion that anyone could prefer to be sobered up elsewhere infuriated Nosov. ‘It just shows you,’ he said. ‘Religion. What good did it ever do anyone? Here I had the best sobering-up station in the Soviet Union. Then they start uncovering religion and what happens? Business starts to fall off.’

‘Perhaps people are drinking less,’ said Keres, one of Nosov’s assistants, a reformed alcoholic who had renounced liquor after a sustained bout of drinking in which he had believed that he was the reincarnation of Stalin.

‘Nonsense,’ Nosov said. ‘They’re drinking more than ever. That’s why we must work harder than ever this anniversary year of the great victory over capitalism.’

‘I sometimes think you approve of drunkenness. You’re like a policeman who would be out of a job if there was no crime.’

‘I look upon myself as a doctor curing sickness,’ Nosov said. ‘What would happen to these wretched people if it weren’t for us?’

‘They’d go home and sleep it off instead of being stuck under a cold shower and fined for the privilege.’

Nosov ran a finger over the enlarged pores on his nose and plucked a hair from a nostril. ‘You’re becoming cynical,’ he said. ‘There’s no place for cynicism in our scheme of things.’

‘Then there should be. Cynicism is necessary to maturity.’

‘Dangerous thinking,’ Nosov said. It was one of his favourite observations. ‘You don’t want to go around being too critical about things. You never know who might hear.’ He pointed to the room where tonight’s drunks had been laid out on shabby beds in various stages of stupefaction.

‘You’re not suggesting that drunks are sent in to spy on us?’

‘I’m not suggesting they’re sent as spies. But they might think it their duty to report back. And indeed it would be their duty.’

‘What, to report me for questioning our methods of sobering up boozers?’

‘We are a State organisation,’ Nosov said. ‘We are appointed to safeguard the welfare of our comrades. By fining them we provide funds for the State. If you criticise our sobering-up station then you are in effect criticising the State.’

‘I sometimes wish I was one of the customers again.’

‘I don’t think that would be a good idea,’ Nosov said. ‘You know what happened last time. There’s no knowing who you might think you are next time. Why, you might even think you’re …’ He paused, frightened of the name he had been about to utter.

Keres looked at him contemptuously. ‘And if I did I might try and purge you,’ he said.

‘There’s no need to be impertinent.’

A vehicle drew up outside.

‘More customers,’ Keres said.

The station comprised two ante-rooms of the chapel. They were bare and dirty. In one was a primitive shower, some lockers and half a dozen beds. In the other a desk, some straps with which to bind the livelier visitors and a cupboard full of medicines and bandages with which to dress the wounds of those who had injured themselves.

Harry Waterman saw the incomplete features of Christ floating in the falling snow and said: ‘This isn’t the airport.’

One of the militiamen said: ‘Shut up.’ And kicked him on the calf of his leg.

‘What’s the point of kicking a drunk?’ asked the other.

‘Why not? He can’t complain. We can always say he got all his bruises when he fell down. In fact there’s no better person to kick than a drunk when you think about it. It’s the only thing that makes this part of the job worth while. In any case it’s good for my boots. They’re brand new and they need breaking in.’ He kicked Harry’s other leg.

Harry said: ‘I thought you were taking me to the airport.’

‘Why, are you a pilot or something?’ the first militiaman asked.

‘I wanted to meet the plane from England.’

‘He’s English, I think,’ said the second militiaman. ‘There was something about it on his papers. English by birth but a naturalised subject of the Soviet Union.’

The first militiaman kicked Harry again. ‘That’s for being British,’ he said. ‘Drunk and British. What better combination could there be to earn a good kick?’ He massaged the leather on the instep of his boot. ‘Except of course drunk and American.’

Keres was waiting for them with the third member of the station staff, a bald, powerful man with a big, hard belly. He was nick-named Ivan the Terrible and he was there in case of trouble. Nosov had disappeared for a nap on one of the pews in the chapel.

‘Where did you find him?’ Keres asked.

‘Down by the river. Said he was trying to get to the airport.’

‘He seems very quiet. You didn’t soften him up, did you?’

‘Come now, comrade,’ said the militiaman who had been kicking Harry Waterman. ‘What do you take us for? You’ve been reading too much about police methods in the West.’

‘You forget I was once a drunk,’ Keres said. ‘The times I tripped and fell on the toe of a militiaman’s boot was astonishing.’

‘You should have been more careful where you fell. In any case you said you were Stalin. What more did you expect?’

Keres wrote down Harry Waterman’s particulars. ‘Anything to say for yourself?’ he asked.

‘What was that face outside?’

The second militiaman laughed. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he said. ‘That was Jesus Christ.’

Harry pointed a wavering finger at Keres. ‘And I suppose that’s Joseph Stalin,’ he said.

‘It was,’ said the first militiaman.

‘I want to go home,’ Harry said.

‘You should have gone home hours ago,’ Keres said.

‘You speak from experience,’ said the first militiaman.

‘It’s always sad to see a drunk,’ Keres said. ‘They’re all unhappy men.’

‘This is a bloody fine station,’ said the first militiaman. ‘The officer in charge has got the biggest boozer’s nose I’ve ever seen. The second in command is a reformed alcoholic—if they ever reform, that is. And the third member of the staff. Well, look at him. A peasant.’

‘I should watch your words,’ Keres said. ‘Nosov’s nose is nothing to do with drinking. It was a disease in his childhood.’

‘And so was my arsehole.’

‘And as for me, what better person is there to do this work?’