Thread: Russian Opening

Mucked around with this for an hour or so this afternoon, be honest if you wish.

‘Moscow in winter isn’t the happiest place to be’. Wallace had told me this upon more than one occasion, but I had ignored his words of wisdom. Whitehall bored me. Nonetheless, as we descended across the seemingly endless swathes of sparse, frosty birch forest, I began to question whether I had indeed made the right decision. I laid aside my book and glanced around the carriage. My fellow passengers were the usual rag-tag band of characters one encounters on such flights. Concert pianists perhaps rueing their decision not to defect, sharp besuited business types hoping (often in vain) for a small slice of the Soviet pie, and of course, those whom the Daily Express referred to as ‘useful idiots’, the donkey jacket-clad middle aged men from Welsh Valleys who had become convinced of the virtuousness of the Soviet model.
Not that I had very much faith in the ideas of Western democracy either, I had spent far too long in the diplomatic game to maintain any ideological illusions. I reckon that the Diplomatic Service must contain more irreligious and apolitical individuals than any other tool of the Government. Those with strong opinions tend to be shunted off to other areas rather quickly, where such things are a blessing rather than a curse. Tehran in particular had been a great blow for my youthful idealism, one from which it had never recovered, and one I preferred to forget for my conscience’s sake. Nonetheless, over the past fifteen years I had convinced myself that the rules weren’t of particular importance. It was winning the game that counted.
I felt a jerk as the wheels of the Comet touched down against the concrete runway. When the doors of the aircraft were pulled open, I would be leaving the last bastion of British certainty behind; entering at long last what remained a vast unknown – although I supposed that at least I’d made it further than Napoleon.
We were filed quickly through various grey corridors, arousing the interest of the rather tired-looking Soviet commuters, preparing for their return to Murmansk or Novosibirsk from the week’s celebrations in Moscow. Another year had gone by since ‘the Great October Socialist Revolution’, as the bright banners proclaimed, amplified by the otherwise dour halls. Every drink-sodden Party apparatchik had flocked to Moscow for the celebration, and now they gazed up from their copies of Pravda through substantial hangovers, following our progress through the dim panes of glass.
Eventually the corridor descended into a large atrium, the rare winter sun glinting through the domed glass roof above. The Soviet citizens passed through passport control in a swift and orderly manner: for them at least, it was far easier to enter the country than to leave it. The foreigners had been restricted to a single booth at the far end of the hall, and I, after wandering through the long corridors in something of a daze, found myself near the back of the queue.
There was clearly no rush to let anyone through, and I found myself falling into conversation with the gentleman directly behind me. He was an American, from the South, and although he said little about his business, it was evident he was no Soviet sympathiser. ‘The free world ends here you know, after that you’re under their control, from the moment you raise your weary head ‘till you place it down again: you can’t do anything without some little rat in the Kremlin knowing about it.’ He opined on in a similar vein for some time, and it became apparent that he thought little better of his own country than the one he had just arrived in. ‘Goin’ to the dogs I tell you, goin’ to the dogs, there are Reds in Moscow (pronounced that curious way that Americans pronounce it) and there are Reds in Washington.’ I kept my conversation to mere pleasantries, half-wondering if the man was capable of discussing anything else.
At last, a stern looking guard pointed me towards an even sterner looking official. I slid my papers across the desk to her. Having diplomatic credentials thankfully exempted me from the usual barrage of questions, and I passed through quickly, hoping to avoid my American acquaintance. I was met in the foyer by a young enthusiastic, fresh-faced assistant from the Embassy, who practically snatched my case out of my hands, and ushered me towards a rather sleek black Volga.

This is good writing, I liked it.

It seem to be placed in politics as far as I can tell. I still don't know what any of the characters look like or whats the sex of the main character is. I don't know if you meant to do this or not. but still confusing.

I would like to read more.

I like this a lot! The way that you wrote captured the essence of the character. I can tell that you stepped into his or her shoes!
I think you should have added a space between the quotes and the second sentence, like this:
‘Moscow in winter isn’t the happiest place to be’.
Wallace had told me this upon more than one occasion, but I had ignored his words of wisdom. Whitehall bored me.

I'm curious as to what happens. I went through a phase of having a fascination with all things Soviet, and still enjoy reading and learning about Communist Russia. Truthfully I think this piece needs a hook, something to entice the reader to continue, though you may not know where it is going yourself yet. Reading this snippet has made me want to re-read the short biography of Jeremy Wolfenden, a British diplomat who drank himself silly for several years whilst based in Moscow, and was eventually set up as a spy by the KGB. It's in Faulks' The Fatal Englishman. If you are unsure where to take this it may just inspire you.

Good luck if you continue with this.

Scott.