Cat O'Nine Tales and Other Stories - Jeffrey Archer [27]
“Housed on three floors, Tsar Peter’s collection displays treasures in over two hundred rooms,” Maureen told him, reading from the guidebook. “So let’s get started.”
By eleven thirty they had only covered the Dutch and Italian schools on the first floor, by which time Maureen had finished the large bottle of Evian.
Dick volunteered to go and buy another bottle. He left his wife admiring Caravaggio’s The Lute Player, while he slipped into the nearest rest room. He refilled the empty Evian bottle with tap water before rejoining his wife. If Maureen had spent a little time studying one of the many drinks counters situated on each floor, she would have discovered that the Hermitage doesn’t stock Evian, because it has an exclusive contract with Volvic.
By twelve thirty they had all but covered the sixteen rooms devoted to the Renaissance artists, and agreed it was time for lunch. They left the building and strolled back into the midday sun. The two of them walked for a while along the bank of the Moika River, stopping only to take a photograph of a bride and groom posing on the Blue Bridge in front of the Mariinsky Palace.
“A local tradition,” said Maureen, turning another page of her guidebook.
After walking another block, they came to a halt outside a small pizzeria. Its sensible square tables with neat red-and-white check tablecloths and smartly dressed waiters tempted them inside.
“I must go to the loo,” said Maureen. “I’m feeling a little queasy. It must be the heat.” She added, “Just order me a salad and a glass of water.”
Dick smiled, removed the Evian bottle from her bag and filled up the glass on her side of the table. When the waiter appeared, Dick ordered a salad for his wife, and ravioli plus a large diet coke for himself. He was desperate for something to drink.
Once she’d eaten her salad, Maureen perked up a little, and even began to tell Dick what they should look out for when they visited the Summer Palace.
On the long taxi ride through the north of the city, she continued to read extracts from her guidebook. “Peter the Great built the Summer Palace after he had visited Versailles, and on returning to Russia employed the finest landscape gardeners and most gifted craftsmen in the land to reproduce the French masterpiece. He intended the finished work to be a homage to the French, whom he greatly admired as the leaders of style throughout Europe.”
The taxi driver interrupted her flow with a snippet of information of his own. “We are just passing the recently constructed Winter Palace, which is where President Putin stays whenever he’s in St. Petersburg.” The driver paused. “And, as the national flag is flying, he must be in town.”
“He’s flown down from Moscow especially to see me,” said Dick.
The taxi driver dutifully laughed.
The taxi drove through the gates of the Summer Palace half an hour later and the driver dropped his passengers off in a crowded carpark, bustling with sightseers and traders, who were standing behind their makeshift stalls plying their cheap souvenirs.
“Let’s go and see the real thing,” suggested Maureen.
“I wait for you here,” said the taxi driver. “No extra charge. How long?” he added.
“I should think we’d be a couple of hours,” said Dick. “No more.”
“I wait for you here,” he repeated.
The two of them strolled around the magnificent gardens, and Dick could see why it was described in the guidebooks as a “can’t afford to miss,” with five stars. Maureen continued to brief him between sips of water. “The grounds surrounding the palace cover over a hundred acres, with more than twenty fountains, as well as eleven other palatial residences.” Although the sun was no longer burning down, the sky was still clear and Maureen continued to take regular gulps of water, but however many times she offered the bottle to Dick, he always replied, “No thanks.”
When they