The Amber Room_ The Fate of the World's Greatest Lost Treasure - Cathy Scott-Clark [24]
The Director wears a glossy Italian suit. His fountain pen, with which he now tap-tap-taps on his desk, has an amber clasp. Behind his huge face, with its well-tended salt-and-pepper moustache, is a drawing, the same plan for an imperial Prussian study that we saw in Kedrinsky's office and that we now know is Andreas Schliiter's eighteenth-century blueprint for the original amber chamber. A smiling woman in her sixties sits at the other end of the office with a pansticked face framed by a 'Zsa Zsa' of platinum hair.
'Welcome to the Catherine Palace,' Dr Sautov intones. 'May I introduce Larissa Bardovskaya, our head curator?'
Bardovskaya. The woman whom Kedrinsky mentioned. Someone he evidently feared. How much do Bardovskaya and the Director know about our unauthorized meeting with Kedrinsky? The Director tap-tap- taps with his amber-clasped pen on the desk again, calling the room to order.
We launch our introductory speech - a rickety vessel that takes on a little water: no one is better placed to help us learn about Anatoly Kuchumov and the Amber Room than Dr Sautov, the book we intend to write will be a wonderful platform for his museum. Sautov interrupts with a speech of his own. 'Understanding amber is the key to everything,' he says. Tap-tap-tap with that pen on his pate. His fuggish study is beginning to send us to sleep. 'The prehistoric residue carries a small static charge and that is why in Russia we use amber for therapies. Every year I go to Svetlogorsk and take off all my clothes to roll in Baltic amber.'
We stifle an urge to laugh at the thought of his fleshy body rolling around in granulated amber and distract ourselves by thinking of dour Svetlogorsk. During Soviet times party officials built palatial dachas here, a seaside town on the Samland Peninsula, at the source of the Gold of the North. They would arrive by the shores of the Baltic in fleets of blacked-out Zil sedans to imbibe tea while their mistresses rubbed them down with amber resin.
Dr Sautov nods at Bardovskaya and then says to her, 'What is it that they want from me?' We notice for the first time his huge hands, like baseball mitts, clasped upon his desk. 'What experience do they have? What is their specialism?' He turns to us. 'Have you ever worked with museum staff before? Do you understand the nature of archives?'
All of these are apposite questions although the tone of the meeting is noticeably chilly. We perform a brief resume. Reasonable people. Can take instruction. Will cooperate.
Tap-tappity-tap with the amber-clasped pen. I don't think we understand each other,' Dr Sautov says, sipping his tea.
Poached in vodka on the Gulf of Finland, parched in this humid study, we too would love a glass of tea, but we press on with our dry lips cracking, explaining about this book.
The Director bangs his fists on the table in irritation and Bardovskaya intervenes: 'What information do you require?'
Has the vodka made us foolish? We don't know what we want until we know what he has.
Bardovskaya leans towards us: 'What does the Catherine Palace get?'
Sautov booms, 'Ours is not a charitable enterprise. Why should you make money from what we know? Precious knowledge. Expensive knowledge., There will have to be a contract.'
Bardovskaya has been doodling a clutch of 2s on her notepad and now interrupts: 'The second day of the second month in the second year of a new millennium is a very unlucky day for making deals.'
The Director ignores her. 'A binding legal document. I am used to dealing with things in a professional manner.'
Bardovskaya draws closer. 'Everyone has to sign a contract. Steven Spielberg signed and paid half a million to hire the mirrored ballroom. True. Elton John threw a party and he signed for 250,000 dollars. It doesn't have to be money.' She smiles. 'A film crew from Hollywood provided the staff department with air conditioning units. One publisher donated L,OOO free copies of its book.