Free Document Z by Andrew Croome

sitting with two men. The first of these men was Ivan Pakhomov, the Soviet Tass journalist based in Sydney, and Bialoguski admonished himself for not realising the Russian was at the club. The second man was round, almost barrel-shaped, a little floppy at the edges, neatly dressed, smoking a cigarette and staring at the room through black-rimmed spectacles.
    â€˜Lydia, this is Doctor Bialoguski,’ said the chairwoman.
    â€˜Please,’ he announced, leaning down to take the girl’s hand, ‘my name is Michael.’
    Lydia smiled. Pakhomov invited the doctor to sit. Mrs Klod-nitsky declared she would fetch the table some champagne.
    â€˜How is your boy, Ivan?’ Bialoguski asked Pakhomov.
    â€˜He recovers well.’
    â€˜That’s good news.’
    â€˜Are you a medical doctor?’ Lydia asked. She wore a small hat, and underneath it he saw blonde hair. A broad face, but attractive.
    â€˜That’s right,’ he said.
    â€˜Do you have rooms?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜I must visit you. I have a complaint with my ear.’
    â€˜It will be this band.’
    â€˜The doctor does house calls too!’ said Pakhomov. ‘Very good.’ The Russian gestured to his friend. ‘Doctor, this is Vladimir Petrov. He is VOKS, the embassy’s new cultural representative.’
    They shook hands. Bialoguski went to say something, but Lydia interrupted.
    â€˜Will you be joining our drama circle, Doctor? Mrs Klod-nitsky has told me about you. She says we need some good members. You don’t look like the kind of man who’s regularly here.’
    He asked what she meant.
    â€˜Oh, I mean that you appear sure of yourself. Radically. Many of the men this place attracts seem raggedy to me.’
    â€˜Raggedy?’
    â€˜Yes. They are communists but of the type who wear scrappy jackets and seem to carry chips on their shoulder about some fact or other. They’re easy to set off. They want to argue about politics, but once you do they get angry and close up. My experience anyway.’
    â€˜You speak excellent Russian. Are you Russian?’
    â€˜Maybe.’
    â€˜I hear you have relatives in Moscow.’
    â€˜Yes, I have an uncle there.’
    â€˜And are you a communist?’
    She looked at him as if he were strange. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I believe the revolution in Australia is, at maximum, five years away.’
    Mrs Klodnitsky returned with the champagne. Bialoguski opened the bottle and poured. ‘Why don’t you make the toast, Lydia?’ he asked.
    â€˜To Soviet planes on our runways!’ She raised her glass.
    They drank. The man named Petrov grinned and seemed to be enjoying himself. Bialoguski leaned towards him. ‘Mr Petrov, how are you finding Australia?’
    â€˜Oh, very warm.’
    They laughed.
    â€˜You are the VOKS man,’ said Bialoguski. ‘Has someone shown you the club’s library?’
    â€˜Yes. I am going to arrange for more journals. Science and literature. Full colour. Perhaps even some medical texts.’
    â€˜I would be interested.’
    â€˜Alright.’
    Bela Weiner went past, drawing two boys with her to the dance floor. Lydia Mokras looked at them all watching her, then leaned forward suddenly. ‘Doctor,’ she said, ‘it must be a discreet profession you are in.’
    â€˜Discreet?’
    â€˜Yes. People must trust you. You must keep secret what ails them.’
    â€˜I suppose.’ He smiled.
    â€˜Do you have a car, Doctor?’ She was looking at Petrov as she said this.
    â€˜I do,’ Bialoguski replied.
    â€˜That’s interesting. I will keep that in mind. Are you much of a photographer?’
    He looked at them both. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I have an old Pentax I used to use.’
    She smiled and nodded, and he was sure she was smiling and nodding at Petrov. Slowly, the night wore on. He purchased the table a second bottle of