From Short Stories Series by Tom Bryson - Book 1

Copyright © Tom Bryson - 2023

Contents

Kyiv Room 401

Shopping in the Medina

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________      

Kyiv Room 401

by

Tom Bryson

Mid 1990's - Post USSR collapse

Jacques Pierre said the man looked like he was from the Mafia, Henry claimed more probably one of the new breed of Ukrainian business owner. I shrugged my shoulders. I never much saw the point in this kind of game. You invariably got it wrong. They tried a few more guesses, and I rose to order another round of beers. That was when Aleksandr Feshchenko declared the man was from the new Ukrainian secret police - the SBU - Ukraine's KGB successor. One of the new men, Alexandr added. Apparently, the Old Guard was out of favour - and old scores were being settled.

The four of us sat around a table on the sheltered patio of a small restaurant in Kyiv’s Marinsky Park. The Frenchman, Jacques Pierre representing The World Bank, Henry from the Manchester Business school and myself, a boring economist from one of the lesser international banks - and just getting over a messy divorce. We three were the invited western speakers at the international conference, which started tomorrow, Monday. And of course, Alexandr would be there too.

After breakfast back at the hotel - bread, jam and thick black coffee - we had finished putting the final touches to the presentations we were to make the following day at the Academy. Alexandr, a Ukrainian national, was our liaison man. He worked for the Taras Shevchenko University in Kyiv, spoke fluent English and had ‘been volunteered’ to act as host and social interpreter during our stay. We were part of a team drawn from European Union countries advising about business enterprise and privatisation in the immediate post-communist era of the former USSR. Our project in Ukraine was being repeated throughout the whole of the former Communist Bloc countries. Helping the transition from totalitarianism to a market economy and democracy. A tall order!

Across the way from the restaurant, four old men wrapped in heavy overcoats sat under the watery autumn sunshine and carefully moved pieces on stone chessboards. Brittle leaves danced around their feet. They grumbled, shouted and chuckled a lot.

We were whiling away a few hours during the quiet Sunday afternoon, a visit to the aquarium followed by a slow lunch with a couple of beers. At least it was better than sitting in the cold, unheated Academy hotel room where the only luxury was a tinny speaker churning out dirge-like Slavic music. Some rooms did have television - if you were prepared to grease many palms with a few million coupons. Not that expensive, mind you, a million was worth about five US dollars - it was simply a pain. Thankfully, they've since changed the currency to the hryvnia. You no longer make purchases using telephone numbers. Besides the music, cold showers were the other hotel luxury. And if you thought you might complain to the battleaxe of a concierge - well, forget it.

Jacque Pierre and Henry had flown in together from Schiphol Airport in Amsterdam, arriving in Kyiv on Saturday. I had flown in a few days earlier as I needed to spend some time with my bank agent in the Dnipropetrovsk Oblast and had travelled to Kyiv on the overnight sleeper train on Saturday night.

Our visit earlier to the aquarium had turned into a fiasco. We stared into tanks of dank, murky water but no fish. Apparently, the local council had run out of money to feed the fish, then they ran out of money to pay the aquarium staff. So the aquarium staff had cooked and eaten the exhibits. At least the restaurant had food; we didn't order the fish.

I studied the man again. He was short, about five feet six. Clean shaven, in his late thirties or early forties with salt and pepper coloured crew cut hair. The round face and high cheekbones were classically Slavic. His eyes were a deep brown, almost black. He read a newspaper, sipped vodka and dipped a fork now and then into a plate of salad and cold meats.

Alexandr laughed gutturally, "Yes, he almost certainly was a user of Room 401."

"Room 401?" Henry asked.

Alexandr chuckled again. "Yes, Room 401 at the Academy. They called it the Research Room." He grinned and popped a piece of grey bread into his mouth and sipped his beer. "Sometimes you would find whole fingernails there, caked in dry blood." He shook his head. "They were never tidy people, the secret police." He glanced around the table at the three of us. ‘You don't know, of course. Before perestroika, the Academy was the regional headquarters of the Communist Party - Brehnez was top dog there before he went to the Kremlin." Henry went a shade paler and Jacques Pierre uneasily replaced the forkful of meat he was about to swallow back on his plate.

I stared again at the expressionless features of the man at the table a few metres away and thought about what Alexandr had said. You never knew with Ukrainians, though. They liked to tell a tale, to embellish a story; likeable - but wind-up merchants. I watched the man read his newspaper intently. Then I gasped and my heart pounded when the woman came from the Ladies and walked towards the man's table. My entire attention focused on her. She stopped and saw me staring. The others concentrated on Alexandr as he cut up the salo and placed a portion on each of our plates.

"Pure pig fat," he said with relish.

The woman shook her head fractionally at me, then continued walking towards the man with the crew cut, still immersed in his newspaper. She sat opposite him, her face and body in profile to our table. She remained the most beautiful woman I had ever seen in my life. She picked up a knife and fork and became absorbed in eating her food. Occasionally she looked up at the crew cut man as he silently read the paper. Neither spoke. I knew how beautiful she was. I also knew her name. Natasha.

Last night Natasha and I had met for the first time in the people-spilling railway station in Dnipropetrovsk, as martial music boomed from overhead loudspeakers. We literally fell into each other's arms. We apologised profusely, me in halting Ukrainian, she, realising I was English-speaking, quickly changing to fluent English. We established we were travelling to the same conference. She was an interpreter. The train was delayed, so, as they say, one thing led to another. We had a coffee together, time being on our hands, a light meal with a bottle of red wine. We talked a lot and easily. Yes, we would meet at the Academy.

Later, Natasha and I slept together on the overnight train from Dnipropetrovsk to Kyiv. I was in love again, and how?

*

The couple left the restaurant before us. As Natasha passed me, walking behind the man, she threw a quick glance. I am sure the others didn't notice. The look was rapid, but long enough for me to see that it carried an eternity of pain.

I slept uneasily that night. Partially because the bedroom was so cold and there weren't enough bedclothes. I threw my overcoat across the blankets and the extra weight helped. Eventually I dozed off, but a recurring dream disturbed me. I dreamt I was on a sleeper train travelling at an ever-increasing speed, recklessly taking bends and twists, hurtling forward faster and faster, a helter-skelter in a blur of landscape. And, like a metronome in the background, increasing in tempo as the visual images got faster, came a repetitive chant; a mantra, in harmony with the clickety click of wheels on track, with the rap-a-tap of creaking bogies, over and over, unceasing, unstoppable - "Room four hundred and one, room four hundred and one, room four hundred and one..." I awoke on a damp Monday morning in a sweat, wringing wet but still cold.

In the first-floor corridor of the Stalinist architecture styled Academy, I met Henry. He sat on a straight-backed chair, reading his notes. “Prepared?” I asked him. 

"As much as I'll ever be." He looked curiously at me. "Have you been told about the group seminars?"

"Yes, Alexandr mentioned it over breakfast."

"Rather short notice, don't you think?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "Does anything about this country surprise you?"

"Dreamed up by Mashenko, I suppose?"

"So I understand, but then he is the Academy Director."

Henry laughed, "He's as academically qualified as a bus driver with a level two NVQ."

"He was the regional Party chief, Henry. Old habits die hard."

Henry sighed heavily and folded away his papers into a battered briefcase. "I suppose we had better let them have our pearls of wisdom."

We entered the conference hall, shown to a side table and seated. The platform dignitaries then traipsed into the hall, led by the florid, beaming Mashenko, his thick grey hair slicked back. A couple of heavies remained by the door. You could tell that the bulges under their jackets were not Academy text books. They looked to have a combined reading age of fourteen.

After interminable introductions, during which everyone who was anyone in the City and Oblast administrations and the Academy made a speech, we each gave our presentations; Henry first, then Jacques Pierre followed by me. The audience listened to us with great courtesy. The questions asked by the delegates at the end of each session we easily fielded; my impression was that they had all been scripted and planted beforehand. Nothing controversial, no embarrassments for the "Western experts", no politics. The interest of the delegates picked up for the final speaker, a young Belgian from the European Commission who handled grant allocations and empowered to authorise further projects and financial assistance.

At the end of the presentations, the delegates split into three seminar groups, to be led by Jacques Pierre, Henry and myself. The platform speakers elected to join different seminar groups. We were given individual interpreters; They allocated me Natasha. My group was told to proceed to Room 401.

I walked alongside Natasha. "Dobray deng," I said.

She smiled and repeated, "Good morning". I asked her how she was. It seemed an inane question after what had happened between us two nights ago. She replied politely that she was well. Then I told her I was glad to see her again, that I had thought a lot about our conversation, our train journey. A small smile flickered across her face; she stopped and looked quickly back along the corridor. Several groups of conference delegates talked and laughed together, lighting their ubiquitous Marlborough cigarettes but out of earshot. We entered the lift and she pressed for the fourth floor.

"It was good, Andrew." She hesitated and nearly used the Ukrainian pronunciation of my name. "But I think it is better you say nothing of meeting - of knowing me." A trace of alarm shadowed her face, "You haven't said anything..?" I shook my head and her relief was manifest.

"I would like to see you again," I said.

For several seconds, she stared blankly ahead. Then her face brightened abruptly as if we decided, a direction determined. "Maybe it is possible. We'll talk about it later - perhaps." We got out of the lift and she looked along the corridor towards the seminar room, towards Room 401.

"Maybe, perhaps? I suppose that'll have to do for now."

"Come, we must get to the seminar room." A note of determination entered her voice. "We have unfinished business."

About thirty delegates were in attendance. Mashenko, the Academy director, had joined my group. The heavies were not with him. I introduced myself and outlined how we might proceed, suggesting that those who wished commented on what they saw as the key themes, the big issues, leading to conclusions and recommendations for reporting back in the afternoon plenary session. Natasha explained this and heads nodded in agreement. That was when I noticed the short man, the "crewcut" from the Sunday. I hadn't noticed him earlier in the conference. But he wore a conference identity badge. That puzzled me.

The meeting flowed for about twenty minutes until suddenly Natasha used her handkerchief, then broke into a sneezing attack. I could see she was in some discomfort. She spoke to the group, and they all laughed at what she said, then she explained to me. "I've told them I must go to the toilet to blow my nose properly. They will talk among themselves until I return. I'll only be two minutes." She collected her bag and left the room, still sneezing. I grinned at a delegate and felt a little foolish, unable to share their humour. However, they showed no interest and babbled away.

That was when the short man left his seat. He stepped across quickly to the grey-haired Mashenko who was animatedly making a point to colleagues either side of him. As "crewcut" approached, Mashenko suddenly went quiet. His face became ashen. "Crew cut" snatched a handgun from his inside pocket, held it against the front of Mashenko's head and in an instant there was a sharp crack and a large hole opened between Mashenko's eyes as he slumped from his chair. Bedlam broke out. They charged me to the floor as people overpowered the crew cut man; some tried to administer aid to Mashenko - a head transplant was about all that would help him. I staggered into the corridor and braced myself against the wall. My stomach churned, and I fought to rid my legs of their jelly. Natasha was at my shoulder. She held my arm.

"Now, do you still want to know me?" she said softly.

"Who was he? The shooter."

"My brother - he has just killed our father's torturer."

"Your father was tortured here - in Room 401?"

"Yes," she said, "tortured to death. We have tried before with Mashenko - always too well protected. But not this time."

"No, not this time." I slowly nodded my head. I felt my strength return as I pulled away from the wall.

"I still want to see you again, Natasha." 

The pain no longer showed in her eyes.

______________________________________________________________________________________________

Shopping in the Medina

by

Tom Bryson

Margaret Meadows lowers herself into the swimming pool. Her body is still firm, her legs smooth and long. Not too bad for fifty, she thinks and smiles. The hot African sun beats down, sparkling the water, creating liquid diamonds that ripple about Margaret’s arms, hands and fingers. She swims a length, turns and floats on her back, moving her arms and legs in small flutters - just enough to keep her gently bobbing in the water. She draws a deep breath and relaxes, allowing herself to think about her life, about herself. The grief was past now.

I was fifty last month; she thinks. Nearly six months after Ken died from his heart attack. He was only fifty-five. Friends and relatives told me that I remained composed in grief, strong. My only daughter Julie said, “You’re bearing up well, Mom.” And I bore up well. But do you know, I feel guilty about that very show of strength?

I grieved after Ken’s death - but it didn’t last long. Perhaps because... yes, it is true, for most of our marriage we lived a lie.

Anyway, I’m trying to put it all behind me. Julie said a break would do me good. So here we are together in Tunisia, in the sunshine. But my mind still drifts back to Ken’s death. He died as he lived - without fuss, peacefully in his chair, quiet to the very end.

My guilt over feeling so little remorse is made worse when I think that Ken always remained faithful during our twenty-five years of marriage. One thing I know - I had betrayed him - more than once. A true woman of the post sixties era, liberated. Like my peers, I had discovered the pill - well, most of the time.

You see, Ken lacked, or lost - how can I put it? Passion? Libido? Whatever - we stopped having sex years ago. But thinking about it, perhaps he was unfaithful. Yes, he took a mistress: her name was Miss Opt-Out - he hated responsibility, shunned ambition. And yet...in the end, what really matters? Ken was a kind man, gentle, safe, caring - God, he bored me to tears‌.

A friend once told me I was strong-willed, well, pig-headed was what she actually said. But no matter how strong you are, that doesn’t help a jot when a man you fancy sets your juices running. I mean, twenty years ago, on holiday in this very place - Hotel L’Albatross in Tunis, I had a fling with a waiter. Hotel L’Albatross. I never knew how sweet eucalyptus could smell or how rustling palms breathed in the softest of winds.

My waiter was younger than me - twenty five while I had reached that first desperate milestone - the Big Three Oh. Ken had met another guest and they played some golf during our stay - I didn’t like the man’s wife and refused to go on coach trips with her. I said I’d laze around the poolside, work on my tan - or better still go shopping in the Medina. In fact, I spent those golf widow days in a locked bedroom of the L’Albatross hotel. Yes, I quite enjoyed that kind of shopping in the Medina. Julie arrived nine months later.

How do I look so trim for a woman of fifty? Well, I’ve always watched my weight and still work out. My hair is naturally salt and pepper these days - but to the outside world it’s still jet black - and that’s how it’s blooming well staying. Julie suggested I get it cut shorter, and that took ten years off me. Put it this way, men still turn their heads and look.

This holiday is a kind of catharsis - for us both. But I think Julie will miss Ken more than me. Now there’s a thought I must hide from the world.

Anyway, I’ve decided to sell the business. But I’ll start up something new. I couldn’t bear not having a reason to get out of bed in the morning. Maybe I might even move here. I’ve always loved North Africa, its people. I do like people with a bit of go in them.

Strangely enough, as time passes - although there’s no pain now - I miss Ken more and more. I suppose without realising it we had changed from lovers to friends - to companions - we had just done it sooner than most.

So here we are in Tunis, Julie and myself, and we have another week left. L’Albatross hotel - God, what memories it brings back. I wonder what my beautiful waiter of twenty years ago is doing now. Anyway, I think I’ll get out of the pool, see how Julie’s doing. I fancy a cold drink.

Might have known. Look at her, totally sparked out on the sun lounger. What do you dream of, Julie, as you lie still, your young eyes closed? Sometimes I wish I was your age again - but knowing what I do now. Who was it who said youth is wasted on the young? I won’t wake her. I’ll lie down here too for a while.

*

Strange how voices travel when you lie still. But just listen to them, complaining about the facilities, the food, the service. That remark about dumb insolence is just crazy. They trained the staff not to become over familiar - well, not unless they’re invited to do otherwise. Perhaps there are people who get their kicks from life by moaning. Of course, Julie has told me more than once that I like a good moan. I told her I set high standards. But I have no complaints about this hotel, well, perhaps one - but that’s not the hotel’s fault.

Julie doesn’t speak much about Jeremy recently. I don’t think all is well between them. But I hesitate to ask outright. She clams up even more if she feels under pressure. But then again, she always was independent, single-minded. Not a bit like her dad there. But no problems between us now, Ken. Dear Ken, dear dead Ken. I know Julie misses you so much. I’ve seen her eyes flood in quiet moments.

You had looked forward so much to spending more time fishing, Ken. Fishing - Julie often joined you. For hours, the two of you would sit together on the banks of the Severn at Bewdley or Bridgnorth, shrouded in contentment. I came a few times, but became bored out of my mind. Even as a teenager, you went fishing with your dad, Julie. Your friends thought you were crazy. Maybe I stopped coming because in a way I envied you - envied your love of solitude. Rivers - like mountains - only left me feeling sad and lonely.

I think she’s waking up now - as a little girl that was how she woke up - a small frown passing over her forehead - or are you thinking of Jeremy again; I wonder.

“Would you like a swim, Julie? The water’s beautifully warm.”

“Later, Mom.”

“Darling, you sleep too much.”

“I know. I think I’ll go inside shortly.”

Ken used to sleep a lot too. Don’t disturb me, give me some peace. That was all you ever wanted from life, Ken, peace and quiet. Now Julie is like you there - no hassle, please.

I found that business in the market yesterday buying a new swimsuit for Julie quite funny. Julie had said her old bikini was getting tight around the bum. But as soon as I started haggling over the price - the look of horror that passed over her face, her eyes pleading, please Mom, no hassle. She bled embarrassment, but I sensed the fight, the challenge. The trader really enjoyed it too, his eyes came alight. And then she said it might be a little flimsy, perhaps transparent. I agreed like a shot, said it ‌wouldn’t be up to M and S standards. I wanted to throw a jug of water over the swimsuit there and then to test it. But that would have destroyed Julie. That would have meant tears and at least one day’s sullen silence. So I backed off, settled for a good discount. You used to give me those sullen silences from time to time, Ken, remember? Ah, deserved, I suppose, but I do like a little fight now and again.

I wonder what you really think of me, Julie. I appreciate this chance to be together - but why? Are you, like me, feeling some kind of guilt? Mine was over not grieving enough. Are you feeling that you must support Mom, be the dutiful daughter? I hope not. I hope it’s simply because you love me. I love you enough. I’ve shown it over the years, a little too much at times. I could be over demonstrative. Public hugs and shows of affection embarrassed you. I learnt that and also pulled back there. But I kept my hardheadedness for the business. I had to take charge. Ken never would in a million years. But then Ken complemented my organising ability. He had the mine host skills, I couldn’t have the patience he showed, eternally courteous with the grumpiest of guests, meticulous in dealing with customers’ complaints, offending nobody and then drifting off into his little dreams. Yes, he looked forward so much to his time off on the Severn, patiently attaching handmade flies to hooks, casting a line far into the river. You once said the line sang across the water, Ken. I think that was the nearest I ever came to understanding what it meant to you. You were much closer to nature than I could ever be, but I loved life. I needed more than anything strong human love - you loved the water, Ken. I needed fire.

Ah, Julie’s stirring, yes, it is a little cooler. I think I’ll cover up.

“Mom, I’m going for a drink now. Can I get you something?”

“Yes, please, white wine and soda. I’ll put something warmer on and join you in the bar.”

*

Julie Meadows sips her Celtia beer as she sits alone on a bar stool, waiting for her mother. She thinks about the swimsuit she bought yesterday. When she put it under the tap, it became transparent. She now worries about taking it back, having to argue over getting her money returned. Such a bore, she thinks, so much hassle.

Julie feels a vague thrill sitting there by herself. She and Jeremy were nearly always together when they went out. What was he likely to be doing now, she wonders? She asks herself if she cares. Julie gives the slightest shake of her head. She crosses her slim legs and her wrap falls away, revealing a long, tanned thigh. She leaves it uncovered and looks about her, aware of her solitariness at the bar, sensing a kind of independence, a mood of power.

Jean Phillippe LeSaux steps into the bar of the L’Albatross hotel. His flight from Birmingham International airport touched down at Monastir airport exactly on schedule. His meeting in Tunis is at ten o’clock in the morning, and he has arranged for a hired car to be brought to the hotel at nine. Today is a free day so Jean Phillipe has decided to live like a tourist and have a relaxing day. He is fully prepared for tomorrow’s business, which is largely a matter of finalising details and exchanging contract documents. Contract documents - that brings a cloud to his face. His decree nisi comes through next week. It has been a difficult year - for them both. He pushes away the memory. He must decide on a name for the new hotel. He quite likes the idea of repeating the name of his hotels in England. The London operation is called Babylon, while the Birmingham based business is called Le Kilyos - but perhaps something totally new would be more appropriate. He pats his lightweight cream jacket to check that he has his wallet on him - he feels a stiff card inside the pocket. Puzzled, he reaches into his jacket and pulls out the stub of his flight ticket. Standing at the hotel bar entrance, he idly glances at the flight number which reads - Monastir M-I-R A-I-H 517 - that would do, he thinks - that has a certain ring to it. It amuses him. MIR AIH - Mir Aih Hotel. Tomorrow, he would suggest that name to his Tunisian partners in the joint venture. Smiling to himself, he walks to the bar and calls for a coke. He only realises he is grinning broadly when the attractive young woman siting alone on a bar stool smiles back at him. He feels the warmth of her smile and instinctively holds her eyes.

“How are you enjoying your holiday?” he asks. He sits on a stool, leaving an empty stool between them.

“Very much, thank you. It’s glorious here.” 

She waits, almost shyly, he thinks, waiting for him to say something. He realises she is extremely attractive, English from her accent, but with Mediterranean colour.

“I wish I were on holiday, but I regret it’s business that brings me here,” he says. His French accent shows when he pronounces words with an ‘r’ in them - like regret, a kind of gargle. She continues to show interest. After some minutes of conversation, he looks quickly at her hands. Her fingers are long and well manicured. He notices she does not wear a ring. He tries not to stare at her exposed, bronzed thigh. He waits - but she is shy, uncertain.

“By the way, my name’s Julie,” she says too quickly. “Julie Meadows.”

“How do you do? Jean Phillippe, Jean Phillippe LeSaux.” He shrugs. “In England, people insist on calling me John. That’s okay with me.”

Julie smiles, her mouth twists a fraction. “I think I prefer Jean Phillippe.”

He is puzzled. Her smile - demeanour - are oddly familiar.

*

Margaret enters the hotel lounge. She walks slowly towards the bar where Julie is engaged in animated conversation with an attractive-looking man. They are both laughing easily, like old friends. He has short, thick black hair, a long back with broad shoulders. Margaret wonders whether she should tactfully keep away for a time, but the man turns, and she sees his dark Arabic face in profile. Her heartbeat misses. She continues walking slowly across to them and Julie sees her.

“Mother, this is Jean Phillippe - or John - my mother, Margaret.” He appears slightly shocked and then his smile deepens. He holds out his hand, which Margaret clasps.

“Have you ever worked at this hotel?”

What a strange question for Mother to ask a complete stranger, thinks Julie.

“I have worked in L’Albatross hotel,” Jean Phillippe says. “Now I own it.”

Julie detects a tenderness in his voice and thinks her mother holds his hand for what seems an indecent length of time.

“I thought you might,” Margaret smiles and turns to face her daughter. “Julie, darling, I think I would like to spend some time on my own today. Would you mind? I might even go shopping in the Medina.”