January 5^th, 1958. It was a cold, bleak day in Moscow. Just like that image you get in your head whenever anyone mentions ‘Moscow’. Although you grow up with the cold, you never get used to it. The multiple layers of clothing; hands always gloved so that after a while your fingers look naked whenever they’re not covered. Socks over socks, and that ever-present neck scarf that catches your stubble and irritates the hell out of your skin. Just for one day I’d like to walk around without feeling I was encased in a column of tires. Yeah, the cold has this way of restricting you. After a while it gets to your head, too. You start to think in terms of trying to stay warm. Pretty soon you’re limiting the places you go and the trips get shorter and shorter. As the circle in which you operate narrows, so does your way of thinking. Pretty soon your brain feels like it’s encased in a tube of rubber too. Pretty soon your brain starts to narrow its own horizons and the walls of your mind start to close in. All because of the cold. Yeah, I blame the cold.

I sometimes wonder. If Russia were in the tropics, would we have embraced communism? Or did the cold make us what we are today? Then again, look what’s happening in Cuba right now. Not exactly a land of blizzards. Shut up Kasparovich, you don’t know shit.

I moved away from the radiator that heated my section of KGB headquarters, and went back to my desk. The copy of ‘Screen Stories’ I’d been studying was turned to a different page than where I’d left it. Naughty. It was perfectly okay for me to examine the pages of such decadent fare. After all, as an agent who specializes in the study of the influence of Western culture, it was my job. I truly believe you can learn more about American society from a paperback like 1,000,000 Delinquents than any damn textbook.

What I found more interesting than the subject matter, was the fact that somebody’s need to peek at something so American obviously outweighed their fear of the consequences of getting caught. Kasparovich, you’ve just got to be more careful. Don’t want to get some poor dope into trouble. Again.

I was just about to leave for the day when I noticed Svetlana coming towards me. Svetlana worked as a secretary directly under Aleksandr Shelepin, the soon-to-be-head of the KGB. Shelepin was getting busy; covertly pulling the strings and launching his initiatives before the official announcement of his leadership later in the year. Svetlana had piled in her arms a stack of record albums and magazines. Although when Svetlana comes towards you, you tend to remember details like that, much later.

“These are for you. Something to keep you at home tonight.”

I looked at the pile of plastic she’d spread all over my desk like pate de foie gras. Not that I’d ever seen actual pate de foie gras. Mambo records, Rumbas. 33s 45s and 78s. Prado, Cugat. ‘Cuban Pete’ by Desi Arnaz. I knew all about Desi. That song title gave me the thread.

Svetlana interrupted my train of thought.

“And Comrade Shelepin wants to see you first thing tomorrow.”

That was a big deal. But my mind was fixed on something else entirely. She had that half smile whenever she talked to me. I never knew whether it meant she wanted to play, or thought I was the biggest loser in the building. I took a chance that it was the former.

“You know, two people could get through this pile a lot quicker.”

“Ah, but only one person is authorized to inspect the materials.”

Damn, think of a comeback quick, you slow-witted ape.

Thankfully there was no need.

"I'm sure it will be okay if I listen...blindfolded."

Zing! Now why couldn’t I have thought of that?

We walked out of the Politburo and into the night. Heads down against the icy wind. She was wearing an exquisite Ushanka. Had to be Mink. Had to be a gift from someone well connected. Secretaries - even those working closely with the head of the KGB - just don’t make that kind of money. Yeah, it had to be a gift. We didn’t speak. It was too damn cold for that.

My apartment was close by. It was in one of the modern buildings built in the late thirties. On of the perks of working in the KGB. As we climbed the stairs Svetlana spoke for the first time since leaving the office.

“So I finally get to see the infamous apartment of Kaspar Kasparovich and all its forbidden treasures.”

There was that half smile again. I fumbled my keys and let her in.

She stood transfixed at what lay before her. Okay, so I live alone and am by no means the tidiest person in the world. That wasn’t what was mesmerizing her though. The hype about my place was more than justified.

It was all part of my KGB research. Books, records, paintings. Examples from every facet of Western popular culture. Boogaloo, Rhythm And Blues, Race Records, Hot Rods, Hucklebuck and Roller Derby.

And that was just the stuff I was working on legit. Her jaw would have been in the cellar, if she’d seen what I had locked away in my study.

Squeezed between the movie posters and pinups on my wall were the obligatory pictures of Stalin and Khrushchev to show that I was a good communist. Which I was. But it’s like the cop who goes undercover and poses as a hop head to bust open a dope ring. In order to do a good job, you sometimes have to get addicted. And I was addicted.

I cobbled together some food while she like flitted from shiny toy to shiny toy like a bee with a flowerbed smorgasbord. Everything she laid her eyes on invoked a question. It made me feel good that for each one she had, I had an answer.

I walked in to find her rifling through a box of 45s. Sun artists. Jerry Lee Lewis, Carl Perkins and Howlin’ Wolf. Raw, hillbilly, R&B, Rock ‘n Roll.

"May as well make the most of it.  It won't be around for much longer."

"What do you mean?"

I didn’t how to begin to tell her. How do you explain the ongoing dilution of music so raw and spontaneous that it caused a massive shift in a country’s values and attitudes? The neutering of flamboyant black stars with too much swagger, too much money, and too much influence over impressionable white teenagers? The rise of the new teen idols – Fabian, Pat Boone and Ricky Nelson. White, clean cut, boys next door. Just like the generation of crooners before them. The generation that Rock ‘n Roll was supposed to replace. How do you explain the forces at work that were bringing about this change? Little Richard and Jerry Lee had shot their load already. Alan Freed was up to his hairline in shit. From halfway around the world, even I could see that Elvis’ DA was next.

How did I tell her? I didn’t.

“Everything passes sooner or later. Like the Lindy Hop.”

We ate the stroganoff I’d heated up, but didn’t really give it a second thought. As she poured another Vodka, I reached for my homework. A lot of the stuff I knew already. Cuba had been in all our minds ever since Castro started to emerge from the mountains and beat back Batista’s troops. I wasn’t the only one who had been ordered to take a special interest in all things Cuban. No, the pile of records and magazines that had been foisted upon me wasn’t for study purposes; my superior was delivering a little preemptive appetizer before tomorrow’s heartburn. Who said the KGB didn’t have a sense of humor?

I slipped Trocadero Mambo onto the turntable. The crackle as the needle hit the record told me that someone else had played this more than once already. Then the sounds of Havana, of Miami, of Mexico City, Los Angeles and New York burst forth from my tinny speakers. I took hold of Svetlana’s hand, in an attempt to pull her up to dance. You’d swear from the look she gave me that I’d just asked her to screw in Lenin’s tomb.

"What if someone hears us, and..."

I reassured her.

“The place is soundproof. Head Office insisted on it.”

Bullshit. My place wasn’t sound proofed at all. It didn’t need to be. In fact, someone did rat me out to Head Office once. Some poor, misguided dope that thought he was doing the right thing informed the Stasi about the music and films being played in the apartment above him. His reward was to disappear into the bowels of KGB headquarters forever. Poor Bastard. No one ever complained after that.

Svetlana was on her feet, swaying. She knew she wanted to do it. It was the Garden of Eden all over again, and she was about to try forbidden fruit.

Then without any warning, we were dancing. She had absolutely no idea how to Mambo, but after following my lead it started to come naturally. Suddenly she discovered she had hips. And what hips. It was obvious she was enjoying herself, but decided she had to put on a guilt trip for my benefit. I was a KGB agent after all.

"This feels so...wrong."

We spent the next few hours dancing and listening as we waded through the pile. One record stuck out. Well, it would have stuck out if my mind had have been on the game. Squeezed in amongst the big band sounds of Havana was an Elvis 45 - ‘All Shook Up’. I looked straight at it and didn’t think twice.

I made sure Svetlana arrived at headquarters that morning five minutes ahead of me. For the benefit of those whose job it was to monitor my movements. I immediately made my way up to Shelepin’s office.

And there she was again.. Like the old clown trick, she'd pulled a blanket down past her face and changed her expression. Like last night didn't happen.

“Comrade Shelepin has asked me to make you sure you have been well briefed on the subject matter.”

“Yes Comrade. I assure you the briefing was thorough and as satisfactory as it could be.”

We looked at each other waiting for one of us to crack. But we were too skilled, and had too many years of perfecting our perfect Russian Poker faces for that.

“You can go in” she said dryly.

Shelepin's office was a cavern. I walked across the creaking floorboards to a chair situated about ten feet before his antique desk. He continued to rifle through papers on his desk and ignore my presence. Without looking up he motioned for me to sit. In doing so, I immediately felt like someone about to be interrogated.

“So...you studied the materials”. Not a question. The manner in which Shelepin spoke presumed everything was a foregone conclusion.

“Yes comrade. I have familiarized myself with...”

He cut me off. I knew this was going to be a test.

“And the conclusions you arrived at – tell me about them.”

“Well, with the current situation in Cuba, I assume...”

He cut me off again.

“That I want you to get acquainted with the culture. And...”

Damn this was tough. If Svetlana hadn't got me all shook up...

“Elvis Presley” I suddenly shot out. There is a situation in Cuba which concerns - or someone with an influence on - Elvis Presley.”

I ran with it.

“With the impending rejection of Capitalism by the Cuban people, a situation has occurred in which an unnamed person is in harm's way and in danger being permanently trapped when the inevitable transition of power happens.”

Shelepin affected the Russian Poker face. But I could see the upturn in the corners of his mouth.

Shelepin's big, farmer's hands exploded in a fit of clapping.

“Very Good Comrade Kasparovich, very good! You see – the other operatives I have to write detailed briefs for. But not with you.”

The big man had suddenly thawed.

“The man I want you to find is Andreas van Kuijk. Do not let the name fool you. He is one of us; a Russian who relocated and grew up in Holland.”

The name was unfamiliar to me, but the picture inside the dossier Shelepin thrust at me wasn't.

“This can't be right” I stammered.

Shelepin smiled. Just when I thought I had all the answers he had one-upped me.

“I assure you it is true.”

I stared and stared at the photograph in front of me.

“Colonel Tom Parker. Elvis Presley's manager.”

“Correct. Andreas van Kuijk and Colonel Tom Parker are one in the same.”

NEXT:  Chapter II  - 'Winter In Havana'