24 I am not Russian

THE MONGOLIAN GIRL - CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The three of them stood huddled together on the frozen snow illuminated by orange light from the hotel doorway. Sarantuya looked up at Tom, then turned and spoke to the man in the black trilby hat. He held out his hands as he started to interpret her words:

"She says she telephoned the hotel. The receptionist assured her that she would pass the message on to you. There was a special performance for a group of visiting Soviet officials. She had to work or she would have lost her job. She was so disappointed when you didn't call again, and thought that you must be angry with her."

There were shouts from across the square as Tom blurted out, "Oh, Sarantuya, I'm so sorry."

She saw compassion in his eyes, heard her name and then jumped as a rifle was fired behind her. They spun round and looked across the road at the demonstration. One of the soldiers was standing on the plinth of the statue of Lenin, holding his Kalashnikov aloft. Tom looked to see if anyone was hurt. Then he saw the soldier take aim and fire again over the heads of the crowd.

The man spoke again in English, "I must rejoin my friends. They need me. Stay here and look after Sarantuya. See that she gets home safely."

"Yes, of course. But, who are you? What is your name? I want to thank you."

The man had already started to stride across the road, but shouted back, "My name is Boshigt."

Tom and Sarantuya watched him run through the line of soldiers and disappear into the crowd. There was shouting and then suddenly the demonstrators ran in all directions and scattered across the square, disappearing down the dark side streets. The soldiers shouldered their rifles, climbed back into the truck and drove away down Peace Avenue.

Tom pointed to the hotel entrance, but Sarantuya nodded her head. He was panic-stricken. Oh God, she hasn't misunderstood me, has she? He wanted to say, no I didn't mean that, but he just didn't have the words.

She smiled and pointed down the street: "Minee ger."

Tom smiled back. He understood. She was saying, "My home."

As they walked away from the hotel, past the big yellow building of the Palace of Arts and Culture, Sarantuya slid her hand inside Tom's arm and they continued arm-in-arm. Three Mongolian youths in big padded jackets and woollen hats walked towards them. They looked annoyed and one of then said something to Sarantuya. Tom guessed what it might be and glared at the youth. Sarantuya tugged at his arm and they walked away. He had not seen a mixed race couple in his time in Mongolia. In the 1940s and 1950s there had been some marriages between Mongolians and Russians, so there were a few Eurasians like Olga Shevchenko. But now, in the changing political climate, these were frowned upon. Olof had warned him about this. Increasingly, Russians were being attacked and beaten up in the streets. For this reason one of the first Mongolian phrases that Tom learned was "Be Orus bish (I am not Russian)." But to a Mongolian he looked Russian.

They reached a bus stop and joined the end of the queue. As they stood in line, Tom desperately sought the words he needed to arrange to see her again. Two old ladies in front of them, carrying loaves of bread wrapped in brown paper, turned and gave them icy stares, then edged forward. The bus was approaching.

To be contd.

NEXT CHAPTER

23 A Face in the Crowd

THE MONGOLIAN GIRL – CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

"For decades the public use of your national hero's name has been banned, so my idea is that if you really want a dramatic change of image, you should call yourselves the Ghengis Khan Party." Enkhbold, Batbold and Olga all stared at Tom as he added," It will signal to the voters that you have broken away from the Soviets and that you are embarking on a new era of Mongolian nationalism."

Olga interpreted Tom's words. Enkhbold and Batbold leaned towards each other and had a quick discussion, after which Enkhbold spoke to Olga.

She smiled at Tom. “Mr Enkhbold thinks your ideas are crazy and dangerous. He wants a new report with some more practical suggestions.”

Tom smiled back at her. “How about you, Olga? Do you think my ideas are crazy?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know, but they could be dangerous, especially for people like me.”

Tom raised his eyebrows. He started to ask, “Why?” But he was interrupted by Batbold:

“Thank you. You can go now.”

Tom stood up and went to take his report back from Batbold, who was holding it in his hand.

Batbold looked up at him with a hint of a smile. “No, I want this.”

When Tom reached the end of the corridor, he stopped, listened and looked around. Should he go up the stairs instead of down? He wondered more than ever about what happened on the third floor. What were all those thuds about? But just as he had made his decision and taken his first tentative step up the stairs, he heard voices. Tom stepped back into the corridor and watched two men in black coats hurry up the stairs. Once they’d passed, he headed back down to his office.

When he entered, Shishmishig looked up from his newspaper. “Did Mr Enkhbold like your report?”

“I don’t think so.”

A look of concern spread across Shishmishig’s face “You didn’t mention my name, did you?”

Tom laughed and sat down. “No, I didn’t.”

As he reached down to take his Teach Yourself Mongolian book out of his briefcase he thought to himself, so much for my brilliant idea. He spent the rest of the day studying and practising Mongolian with Shishmishig, who was impressed by the foreigner’s interest in his native language; none of the Russians he had ever known, even those who’d lived in Mongolia for years, had bothered to learn any.

At five o’ clock, Tom followed Shishmishig out of the office door and collected his coat and fur hat from Mrs Jargal. The black Zil limousine was waiting outside with its engine running. The car interior smelled, as usual, of body odour, vodka and cigarettes. As they drove across the city centre, Tom saw that there were more armed soldiers out on the frozen streets.

They followed a truckload of troops into Sukhe Bator Square. The truck stopped in front of the statue of Lenin where the soldiers jumped out and surrounded a group of about two hundred young Mongolians who seemed to be holding some sort of demonstration.

Tom got out of the limousine, but didn’t enter the hotel. Instead he turned towards the crowd. They looked like students. Two of them were holding poles between which stretched a white banner. Tom couldn’t understand everything that was written on it, but he recognized MDP – Mongolian Democratic Party. They were the opposition.

He walked past one of the soldiers to the edge of the crowd. Everybody looked nervous, but Tom didn’t care because in the middle of the crowd was someone in a blue coat he desperately wanted to reach.

He breathed heavily in the cold air. "Hello, Sarantuya," he said as nonchalantly as he could, after pushing through the crowd.

"Hello." She seemed genuinely pleased to see him. He had expected her to be embarrassed.

He wanted to blurt out straight away, "Why didn't you come?" But, he didn’t know enough Mongolian. Then Saran said something to a middle-aged man in gold-rimmed spectacles and a black trilby hat, who was standing next to her. The man turned to Tom and said in almost flawless English, “Can I help you?”

Tom smiled, “Well, yes you can. Do you think there will be any fighting here?”

“It’s possible, but your presence might help. The soldiers probably think you are Russian, and they are on your side, at least for now.”

Tom shivered. It was getting dark and the temperature was dropping fast. “Would you like to walk out of here with me?”

The man spoke to Sarantuya. She nodded. The three of them linked arms and pushed their way out of the crowd. The soldiers looked tense, but let them pass. When they reached the front of the hotel, Tom asked the man, “Could you do me favour?

“Yes. What?”

“Could you interpret for us, please?”

“Certainly.”

Tom looked at Sarantuya, "I waited for you that night."

She glanced up at him from under her grey fur hat. "But didn't you get my message?"

"No. What message?"

To be contd.

NEXT CHAPTER

14 How Could He Forget?

THE MONGOLIAN GIRL – CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The driver grabbed the gear lever with his leather-gloved right hand, quickly put the black ZIL limousine into first and started to pull away. Tom had one foot still trailing out of the big angular car. The leather sole of his shoe scraped along the street for a few seconds until he pulled it in and the car’s forward momentum caused the door to slam shut on him and Tom to fall across the rear seat. The driver did a hasty u-turn and put his foot down hard. The gears screeched from first to third. Tom pushed himself upright and turned his head to look back through the misted up windscreen. He saw a blur of movement and thought he heard the ‘crack’ of a shot.

He stared at the narrow pair of eyes blinking in the driver’s mirror and breathed his nervous body odour. “What was that?” He stammered.

The driver muttered something in Mongolian and gripped the steering wheel tightly. The ZIL’s square headlights picked out the snow falling in the dark streets as they swept through them at high speed. There was almost no street lighting, just the lights from the windows of the rows of grim apartment blocks and the red single-decker buses, packed with standing passengers in thick brown and grey coats and fur hats.

The car braked so hard when they reached the Sukhe Bator Hotel that Tom was pitched forward, pushing his nose against the driver’s coat collar and filling his nostrils with the smell of stale cigarettes.

He sat back in his seat and as he opened the rear passenger door he said with genuine emotion, “Thanks, err, spaseeba.” The driver turned to look at him and smiled. Tom watched him drive around snow-covered Sukhe Bator Square, then shivered, “Brrrr,” and headed quickly into the hotel. He was starving.

He went directly to the hotel dining hall. He still couldn’t think of it as a restaurant. Its plain white, windowless walls and high ceiling made it look very much like a school canteen, which could also be used as a basketball court or theatre. There was a cluster of Mongolian men in suits at the far end, laughing and joking as they drank their glasses of black tea. Tom slid into his usual place in the foreigners' section. The Russian couple weren’t there yet. He waited optimistically for five minutes for the blue uniform and frilly white apron to appear. It did. Inside was a fearsome looking woman who looked as though she was coming to start a fight with him.

"Yamar?" she grunted. He knew that this must be the Mongolian for "What?"

He pointed at the first item on the menu. She looked before pronouncing triumphantly, "Nieto" - the Russian for "No!"

He then pointed hesitantly to the second item, and smiled wanly at her.

"Nieto," she said with a definite sneer.

The third and fourth items brought forth the same response, each "nieto" uttered with increasing relish.

"Yamar?" he asked in desperation.

"Shashlik," she replied. His spirits rose. That, he knew, was a famous Turkish dish. It sounded delicious.

When she reappeared fifteen minutes later, he looked expectantly at the steam rising from the white porcelain bowl she’d just slid off her battered aluminium tray. As he peered into it, his hopes were dashed: a few lumps of fatty Mongolian mutton swimming in a sea of oily brown water. She placed a small plate, with three slices of white bread, next to it, gave him a proud glance, then turned and headed back to the kitchen, with the empty tray dangling at her side.

The young Russian couple arrived just as he was finishing the last slice of bread. They were relaxed and smiling. Perhaps, Tom thought, this is their honeymoon. Then suddenly his jaw dropped open and he gasped. With all that had happened that day, he’d almost forgotten the Mongolian girl.

NEXT CHAPTER