Seattle – sample

Our brother and sister – Mortimer and Venetia de Haviland – are on a Soviet ship, bound for Leningrad. The passengers gather to hear a talk by the crew, and begin to share their ideas of things…

They sat in a rough semi-circle in the booths and at the tables of the saloon, facing the counter where the young woman and the samovar watched them with the same disinterest. The speaker was due any moment, and so there was time for other things. Mortimer had taken his place on the right, next to the Colonel and Mrs Pritchard; he saw Venetia somewhere in the middle. She glanced at him, and then away, as he sat.

There was a general discussion in the room, and, as is the way of things when people are brought together for a common purpose, and their proximity warms them to the social, the discussion pooled. It grew from the small tributaries of pairs and trios, to the wide mouths of the collective.

It seemed that the primary thing on the minds of the audience – the thing that had won out, had squeezed between the private and the banal to become a point worthy of discussion – was what were they all going to do about their tours, their guides, their chaperones. Mortimer was aware of this. He had done his reading. Many travellers to the Soviet Union – he included – had booked a tour. He would be shown Leningrad, Moscow, and environs, by people who knew their stuff. It seemed sensible. That said, he also knew that tours were seen as possible points of deception. Indeed, somebody helpfully voiced this a moment later, as the discussion took flow in earnest.

‘They’ll only show you what they want you to see!’ exclaimed said somebody.
The young man with the curly hair was sat at the front and centre of the audience. He turned in his chair and said ‘well, if someone visits your home, do you show them your drains?’

The first voice made a sound as though to reply, but another voice, that of a tall wiry man with a thin moustache, cut in: ‘I don’t want the wool pulled down over my eyes, thank you very much.’

The young man rolled his eyes, and then Mrs Ponderson, from across the room, in her hoarse voice – like that of a distant train, puffing its way towards them all – ‘and you must be careful not to pull the wool over your own eyes, sir.’

This was quite a comment, and there was a suitable babbling in response. Mortimer saw with surprise that Venetia had half-raised her hand, as though at school, and at an opportune moment she said ‘but, if I may madam, what do you mean?’
Mrs Ponderson, with a glance at her husband, as though to despair as to why she had to explain such things – should they not be obvious – said ‘well – prejudice, my dear. Prejudice. We bring with us many notions, and yes, whilst we may be presented with the Red version of these, we must be wary of our own. And after all… what comparison is there between the prejudices of a decaying world, and those of a world seeking new light?’

This sounded mightily clever to Mortimer, though also rather troubling. This seemed to be the general response in the room, too. He wondered in what way it troubled others. For him, he did not like the word ‘decaying’. Much too unsettling.

‘I’ll say!’ shouted a voice, American, and Mortimer saw a small man rise to his feet. He looked to be part of the delegation he had seen boarding and talking to the whistling mate the day before.

‘Coming over from New York, we witnessed this first hand! We were prohibited to discuss the Soviet Union at a meeting, but just in the next room along, they sang hymns! They actually sang hymns!’

This did not strike Mortimer as odd. He saw Venetia smile, and look down, but Mr and Mrs Ponderson looked confused, and they shrank back somewhat.

Another voice: ‘why shouldn’t they?’
‘Well, I mean to say,’ said the American, his voice high, ‘they can do as they like, but why can’t we discuss our own concerns? Prejudices of the decaying world, I’ll say!’ he cried again, looking at Mrs Ponderson, who smiled weakly.

Rowan spoke then, and Mortimer wished he knew her full name. He felt curiously attentive to that voice.

‘Is it fair to say, I wonder,’ she said to the room at large, ‘if we need to pierce a certain veil, by going to the Soviet Union? I mean to say, to properly understand, we need to have the right mindset,’ she nodded at Mrs Ponderson, ‘but also be wary of those of others,’ she continued, looking back over to where the first voice had spoken out.

This to Mortimer sounded terribly reasonable, and he felt a renewed rush of admiration for the lady Rowan. There was a ‘hear hear!’ from somewhere. The young man with the curly hair looked irritated, and said ‘but there are truths, better found by better methods. That is why we are going to this place, and no other. The Soviet has discovered a better way, and so one prejudice is not like another.’

‘I heard a story, I read it in a book,’ said a small woman beyond the Colonel and Mrs Pritchard, to Mortimer’s right. Her voice was high and rather childish, and she struggled rather to get her words out. ‘It was Mr Webb, you know, and he was saying that Lady Astor visited a factory in Russia… and asked a man there – in Russia I mean, a Russian man, she asked a Russian man – how he felt about his life, and did he want to complain about his bosses. Well, the funny thing is, Mr Webb said – or so said the man who related the story, I can’t remember his name,’ and there were eyes around the room, catching one another, amused and impatient, ‘the funny thing was the man, the Rusisan man, I mean, he said “I don’t want to complain about my bosses,” and Lady Astor said “ah, because you aren’t allowed to,” and Mr Webb said this showed Lady Astor didn’t trust the word of the man, and why was that, or something like that, and… well,’ and the voice tailed off, the lady lost her confidence, and there was a silence that was not silent, filled as it was with the rumble of the boat and the cries of the crew as the canal drew ever closer and the meaningful glances of those around the lady.

Colonel Pritchard then spoke, with a surprising gravity: ‘If I may, my ladies and gentlemen,’ and at this someone American squawked some kind of complaint, but the Colonel was sublime in his absolute incomprehension that such a phrase could engender such feeling, and so he carried on. ‘I have read of the tours, and of the sites they take us to, and so on. I have read conflicting reports, of many different kinds. I have read of famines, and I have read of a great future. I do not know what we may find there, but I know I can trust my eyes, my ears and my nose.’

The curly-haired man stifled a laugh behind a hand, but there were others who looked convinced by this calm, sensible empiricism, Mortimer thought. He certainly was himself.

‘Why do they invite us, if not to show us their best side?’ said Mr Ponderson.

‘Why not let us wander where we want to?’ came the retort.
‘Again, think of the drains!’ cried the young man.

‘Half of you don’t even speak Russian! How do you expect to see anything?’ said another, and there was a general halloo at this, as people shook their heads and Colonel Pritchard cried ‘I have a nose!’.

Mrs Pritchard pattered his arm and said ‘yes, you do dear,’ and then she turned to Mortimer. ‘Good lord,’ she chuckled, goggling. ‘This is rather fun, isn’t it?’