chsdbacks Chapter 368 Two Weeks in Moscow
Chapter 368 Two Weeks in Moscow
The snow in Moscow never seems to stop.
It doesn't have the light, decorative feel of Tokyo's snow, nor does it have the elegant feel of the occasional white flakes falling on the roof tiles in Kyoto's winter.
The snow in Moscow is more like dust.
It fell from the low-hanging sky, landing on the wide streets, the gray-yellow buildings, the black Volga car roofs, and the trampled red carpet in front of the foreign guests' hotel, and was quickly mixed into something indistinguishable by wheels, boots, soot, and mud.
Kozlov would show up on time every day.
Sometimes he wore a dark blue coat, sometimes a gray-black one. He changed his hat twice, but his smile never wavered.
The Volga convoy's route was almost always the same: from the hotel to a certain location, and from that location back to the hotel.
The route was fixed, the speed was fixed, and Kozlov's opening remarks in the co-pilot's seat were also fixed—"Today we will be heading to…" "Between the people of Japan and the Soviet Union…" "Your generous donation…"
Shuichi sat in the back right row every day, with hot tea provided by the hotel beside him, gently responding to the praises relayed by the translator.
Satsuki sat next to Shuichi, her scarf tucked under her chin, her face displaying the most fitting smile in a foreign guest photo.
She wouldn't interrupt her father, nor would she let Su Fang feel slighted.
Kozlov seemed quite pleased with this.
An overly intelligent and proactive heir to a Japanese zaibatsu would make all the reception staff nervous.
A polite Chinese woman who praises ballet and kneels down to talk to children in a children's welfare home makes the promotional photos look much prettier.
The itinerary prepared by Moscow was delivered to their suite every night.
The document consisted of two thin pages, with Russian on the left and Japanese on the right. The schedule was neatly arranged: departure at 9:30 AM, arrival at 10:15 AM, lunch at 12:00 PM, a meeting at 2:00 PM, and a group photo at 4:00 PM. Each location was followed by parentheses, which contained the host organization, accompanying personnel, and the expected length of stay.
The itinerary for the second day was not much different from that of the first day.
The same applies to the third day.
Later, Satsuki no longer needed to read the words on paper. As long as she heard Kozlov say "We will be heading there today" from the passenger seat, she knew what was going to happen next.
The car door opened, and the steps, as usual, had been swept. Someone was waiting at the door.
Upon entering, we took off our coats, shook hands, received speeches, had our translations translated, applause erupted, and took group photos.
Shuichi was responsible for speaking in a mild and formal manner, while Kozlov was responsible for keeping it equally respectable in Russian.
Satsuki was responsible for standing half a step to the side and slightly behind Shuichi.
She would kneel down to accept paper flowers in a children's welfare home, praise Soviet ballet in the conference room of a cultural exchange foundation, and smile and applaud during the handover of humanitarian supplies.
Her Russian is good enough, but she doesn't use it actively most of the time.
An overly assertive Japanese zaibatsu heir would make the reception staff nervous, while a Chinese lady who is willing to hand over the reins to her father would only make the photos more beautiful.
The photos are indeed very beautiful.
The reception room of the children's welfare home had clean windows, children's drawings on the walls, and green plants on the shelves. The children had changed into clean clothes beforehand and lined up in two rows to sing; their voices were a little uneven, but they were orderly enough.
The dean spoke very politely, thanking the Saionji family for their generosity, the people of Japan and the Soviet Union for their friendship, and for the warmth brought during this cold winter.
Satsuki crouched down and took the paper flower handed to her by a girl.
The girl's hair was neatly combed, and her bow was a little worn. When she lowered her head, the toes of her shoes always turned inward.
Her shoes were polished to a shine, but a small hole had worn through the sole, though it had been carefully stitched up from the inside. The teacher next to her placed her hand on the girl's shoulder, a very gentle touch, as if to remind her not to take another step forward.
The medicine box was also placed in the reception room.
White outer shell with a red cross, and neatly rolled gauze inside.
As the dean opened the cabinet to introduce the items, Kozlov stood beside him translating. Satsuki noticed that the bottom shelf was actually empty, containing only a few flattened cardboard boxes. Half of the writing on the boxes had been worn away.
The dean noticed that Satsuki had discovered it, quickly closed the cabinet door, and continued smiling.
The handover ceremony for humanitarian supplies was even more solemn.
The banner was hung upright, the photographer arrived very early, and the thank-you speech lasted for almost six minutes.
Medical supplies, children's educational products, and winter clothing filled three pages of the list, totaling $1.06 million.
Shuichi said a few words of honor, which Kozlov translated. The other party nodded, and then said something else, which was translated again.
What lingered the longest was the gaze of the porters.
Before each box was carried away, they checked the numbers again. Some people bent down to look at the labels, while others used pencils to tick off items on the list.
When the third wooden crate was placed on the cart, the young staff member read out the crate number very softly and slowly. These were things that ordinary people in Japan could easily buy in large quantities, but here they seemed to be extremely rare and precious items.
Of course, the two million dollars worth of in-kind support is not something ordinary people can afford.
The donation of foreign language journals was handed over in another auditorium.
Two flags hung on the front of the auditorium, one red and the other white with a red sun, about one meter apart.
The host read a long passage in Russian, the gist of which was friendship, cooperation, prospects, and preciousness.
Shuichi accepted the thanks on behalf of the Saionji family. The twelve researchers in the audience sat in chairs, responsible for looking forward and applauding enthusiastically after Shuichi finished speaking.
Several boxes of foreign language journals for photography were placed on the right. The lids were open, and the covers were brighter than anything else in the auditorium.
Several researchers lingered on the journals for so long that someone nearby had to nudge them with their elbow. The person nudged quickly looked away and back at the stage.
Satsuki stood a step behind Shuichi, her face still bearing that reserved smile.
The exhibition hall of the optical research institution was brightly lit.
The glass display cases were spotless, and the microscope equipment, measuring instruments, optical lenses, and prism samples were neatly arranged.
The designs of the several samples were quite advanced, with very elegant routes, and the lens coatings shimmered with a faint bluish-purple hue under the light. The researcher in charge of the presentation spoke quickly, his fingers moving across the drawings, exuding confidence.
The Soviet Union was not crude in these matters.
At least not in the exhibition hall.
However, the corridor leading from the exhibition hall to the conference room was dark. Several doors were not completely closed, and the iron racks of the warehouse could be seen through the cracks.
Handwritten labels were affixed to the metal rack: optical glass, precision bearings, imported electronic components. Several labels rested empty except for a register.
The most recent page is filled with dates, quantities, and signatures; the same items are repeatedly registered, but the numbers keep getting smaller.
Two young researchers spoke in hushed tones at the corner of the stairs.
As Satsuki passed by, she only heard a few fragmented words.
Rationing, postponement, Finland.
There is also an English abbreviation that is not pronounced very clearly.
The two men stopped immediately when they saw her. Satsuki returned a polite smile without slowing her pace.
The theater nights are the most dignified part of the week.
The audience was quiet, the lighting was stable, and the actors on stage were extremely skilled.
The white skirt spread out under the light, like a flower suddenly blooming on the snow.
Satsuki really does love ballet, and she watched very attentively.
After the performance, she briefly entered the side corridor under the pretext of presenting flowers.
It was much colder there than in the stands. The paint on the walls was peeling, and the floor was worn white from being walked on.
Several young actors, draped in old, faded blankets, waited by the wall. One of them bent down to untie his dance shoes, revealing bandages wrapped around his ankles. The bandages were also gray, probably from being washed too many times.
The actress's fingers were cold when she accepted the flowers, but her smile was warm.
The photographer took the picture.
The moment the flash went off, the old blanket and gray bandage were completely obscured.
Very beautiful photos.
The young translator's tentative attempts always occurred when there was no camera around.
At the hotel elevator, beside the car door, in the theater's side corridor, at the corner of the research institute's staircase. Their foreign languages were all excellent; they could translate Shuichi's diplomatic rhetoric appropriately and handle Kozlov's jokes without being impolite. But the moment their superior turned around, they would ask a question in a very soft voice.
Are video recorders really that much cheaper in Tokyo than in Moscow?
Are Japanese jeans easy to buy?
Are Sony Walkmans always in stock in Tokyo department stores?
After asking the question, they would immediately look away.
It was just something mentioned casually.
On the last night of the week, Fujita brought back the trading company's first batch of returns.
German foundations, American universities, and Finnish academic projects all had contact with Soviet researchers. Some of these contacts were through public academic exchanges, some were business cards handed out after conferences, and some were invitations obtained indirectly through third-country companies.
The list is not long.
But that's enough to show that it wasn't just the Saionji family who saw these people.
After reading it, Satsuki put the paper back on the table.
It was still snowing outside the window. The muddy marks left on the red carpet in front of the restaurant during the day hadn't been cleaned off yet, and were now covered by new shoe prints.
Kozlov will still show up on time tomorrow, and the new schedule should arrive before 9 p.m.
However, there wasn't much left for the Soviets to show them.
It's time to end this stage play.
……
Kozlov appeared at exactly nine o'clock the next morning.
As he did every day before, he stood under the hotel porch, his coat buttoned up to the top.
But he didn't have an itinerary in his hand.
Kozlov entered a little slower than usual. He shook hands with Shuichi first, then bowed to Satsuki, before straightening up and speaking in a carefully chosen tone.
"Lord Saionji, Miss Saionji."
"The trip to Moscow has come to a successful conclusion. All visits, handovers, and cultural exchange activities went very smoothly, and all higher authorities have expressed high appreciation for your generosity and sincerity."
He paused for a moment.
"If you plan to return to Tokyo in the near future, we will arrange a dedicated channel and exit procedures for Sheremetyevo. Flight times can be flexibly adjusted according to your needs."
Xiu Yi nodded slightly, his gaze gentle.
"Mr. Kozlov, thank you for your thoughtful arrangements these past few days."
Just as he was about to continue, Satsuki spoke softly.
"Mr. Kozlov."
Kozlov turned to her.
"Yes, Miss Saionji?"
Satsuki tilted her head slightly, her tone tinged with embarrassment.
"Actually, I have a somewhat immature idea."
Kozlov's shoulders tensed involuntarily. Over the past week, he had learned one thing—when the young lady of the Saionji family said "not very mature," it was often followed by something that was already mature beyond its years.
"Speaking."
"It's rare for my father to leave Japan," Satsuki said, looking at Shuichi. "He's usually tied to Tokyo by work. This trip was originally intended to give him a little rest."
She turned her gaze back to Kozlov.
"The trip to Moscow was wonderful, but I always regretted not having the chance to go to Leningrad. The Winter Palace, the Neva River, the Kirov Theater... I've read about these places in books for years."
She smiled, a smile that fell somewhere between "sincerity" and "coquetry".
"So I want to accompany my father to Leningrad in a private capacity. There's no need for any formal arrangements, just a walk, looking at paintings, and listening to a ballet performance."
She paused.
"Of course, if this causes you too much trouble, we won't force you to continue."
Kozlov's smile froze for a second.
His gaze shifted from Satsuki to Shuichi, then back again.
Shuichi didn't urge him. He simply held his teacup and casually replied.
"To my shame, I read a lot of Russian literature when I was young and always wanted to see the Neva River with my own eyes. But I could never get away because of work."
He smiled and sighed.
"It's a rare opportunity to get out of the house, and after my daughter persuaded me, I've really started to consider it."
Kozlov was silent for three seconds.
From his perspective, there are two ways to handle this matter.
The first approach is to politely persuade the other party to return to Tokyo. The reasoning is sound: the itinerary is full, Moscow's reception resources cannot be extended indefinitely, and Leningrad needs to re-coordinate with the foreign affairs department and local friendship associations.
But there's a problem: the Saionji family has just donated supplies worth five million US dollars. This is a significant amount, and its political implications are far more important than the number itself—a Japanese aristocratic financial group has proactively reached out to the Soviet Union.
In the current international environment, this can be packaged into many things.
If we send them away now, this story will end in Moscow.
But if they were allowed to stay—to Leningrad, to see the Winter Palace, to listen to ballet, to take more photos—then the story could be told in a longer, more beautiful way, and be more suitable for inclusion in the Friendship Association’s annual report.
and.
Rather than sending Saionji and his party back to Tokyo to independently recount their experiences in the Soviet Union to the Japanese media and business community, it would be better to keep them where the foreign affairs department and the friendship association can see them.
Guests who are within sight are always safer than those who are out of sight.
Kozlov's smile relaxed again.
"Miss Saionji, this is an excellent idea."
His tone even carried a hint of enthusiasm.
"Leningrad is one of the most beautiful cities in our country. The Winter Palace's collections are world-renowned, and the Kirov Theatre's ballets are of the highest caliber in the world."
"I will immediately contact the Leningrad branch of the Friendship Association to arrange reception and accommodation."
"Regarding transportation, I recommend taking the overnight train from Moscow to Leningrad. The 'Red Arrow' is our country's best long-distance train, and many international dignitaries have had the experience of traveling on it."
Xiu nodded. "Then I'll have to trouble you."
"You're welcome, you're welcome," Kozlov waved his hand repeatedly, then added, "Of course, the specific arrangements will need another day or two to coordinate. If you don't mind, you can be free to move around in Moscow for the next two days, and I will arrange for a vehicle and a liaison officer to accompany you."
Thank you so much.
Satsuki bowed slightly.
"Mr. Kozlov, you have been a great help."
Kozlov looked satisfied with being trusted, and his steps were lighter as he left than when he arrived.
The revolving door went around once.
The lobby fell silent again.
Shuichi took a sip of tea.
"Red Arrow." He repeated the name, a hint of amusement in his voice. "That name does sound Soviet."
Satsuki didn't reply. She walked to the window on the side of the lobby and watched Kozlov's figure disappear into the snow outside the door.
"Father."
"Um?"
"Aren't you going to ask me why I'm going to Leningrad?"
I repaired a teacup, placed it on the windowsill, and slowly stirred it.
"Leningrad has the Winter Palace, and the Winter Palace has paintings. You like paintings."
"And you folded the corners of the Leningrad pages in the travel guide before you even left."
Satsuki's eyelashes fluttered.
Xiu Yi smiled.
"Do you really want to go on a trip with me?"
Satsuki stood by the window. Outside, Moscow was shrouded in a gray haze, and snowflakes were still falling, settling on the wide streets and square buildings.
She remained silent for a few seconds.
In those few seconds, Shuichi didn't urge her. He simply held his tea, as if waiting for an answer that didn't require any haste.
"Yes, Father."
Her voice was a little softer than usual.
"This time it's for real."
Shuichi looked at her profile.
The grey sunlight from the window fell on her face, the scarf covering the lower half. What was visible was a serene expression on her face.
He reached out and gently pressed down on the top of her head.
"That's good."
Satsuki didn't dodge. She even slightly tilted her head, moving closer to the hand.
Then she straightened up and transformed back into the elegant young lady of the Hua clan, standing half a step behind and to the side of Shuichi, with a reserved smile.
"I'll go and tell Fujita to get ready."
"Um."
As she walked to the entrance of the side hall, Shuichi said something from behind.
"Satsuki".
She turned around.
Xiu Yi held his teacup, his expression unchanged from usual.
"If there are boats on the Neva River, let's take a ride."
Satsuki paused for a moment.
"The Neva River will probably be frozen over by November, Father."
"Then let's take a look from the shore."
Satsuki looked at him.
Shuichi's hair appeared even whiter under the hotel's yellowish lighting than it had in Tokyo. His coat was draped over the back of the chair next to him, his scarf still on, and he held his teacup in a relaxed manner.
He certainly looks like a father on vacation.
"Okay," Satsuki said.
Let's go to Leningrad.