Face Me When You Walk Away (11 page)

‘This isn't a rest home …' began the man and immediately stopped, afraid the remark might be inferred as insolence. Josef motioned impatiently for him to continue.

‘We just don't leave them to sleep it off. We try to sober them up. We take their clothes off and put them in here …'

He stopped again, searching for another apology. Unable to find one, he scurried to the end.

‘… And then one of the men puts on protective clothing, fixes a hose to one of the outlets and hoses them around the room.'

Josef stared at him. ‘You mean, helpless through drink, men are washed up and down this room by the pressure from a hose?'

The man nodded. ‘The walls are padded. And the water isn't really freezing. They can't really get hurt. It's supposed to dissuade them from coming back again.'

‘Where is he?'

The man led Josef to a side room where concrete bunks jutted from the floor, like decaying teeth. Josef shivered as the memory flooded over him. So similar, he thought, although in his barrack block the beds had been wooden and the concrete blocks had formed the tables around which they tried to eat. Most of the men were uncovered, spread-eagled like animals awaiting sacrifice. But blankets had been placed over Nikolai, who lay appearing quite comfortable. Gently the guard shook his shoulder and Nikolai snuffled into wakefulness. He stared unseeingly around the room, finally focusing upon Josef. He gave a shy half-smile.

‘I told them to get you,' he said. ‘They were very frightened when they learned you were my friend.'

He'd enjoyed it, Josef realized. Another self-indulgent experiment, to draw attention to himself. He stood, frowning around the room, while Nikolai dressed, helped by the solicitous guard and then filed ahead of them back along the corridor. In the car, Josef demanded, ‘Well?'

Nikolai hunched down into his clothes, shivering.

‘Doesn't this car have a heater?'

‘Well?' demanded Josef, again,

‘Good material for a writer,' said Nikolai, defensively.

‘Not for the sort of books you're writing,' warned Josef.

It was as if Nikolai had been awaiting the remark. ‘Why am I being kept away from everyone in the Writers' Union?' he asked. ‘No one else can get published in Russia unless they belong.'

It was a question the man didn't really want answering, thought Josef. He was unsure of the direction that Nikolai was taking.

‘You're an exceptional writer,' ventured Josef cautiously.

That's not enough,' argued Nikolai. He was silent as they picked their way through the deserted streets towards the apartment into which the author had moved two months before. ‘Are they frightened, Josef? Are they frightened that I might get into contact with some dissidents?'

Was it Nikolai's usual query, wondered Josef? Was he merely anxious for more importance to be bestowed upon him? He stopped the car outside the writer's home and turned in the seat, looking at him.

‘It could be,' he said, honestly.

‘No one need worry, Josef,' said Nikolai, returning the direct stare. ‘You can tell them there is no need to worry.'

For the briefest moment, Josef was uncertain and then he realized what the writer was telling him.

‘I'm being manipulated, aren't I, Josef?'

‘We're all manipulated, one way or another,' said the negotiator. He felt tiredness reaching out for him. If only it meant sleep instead of near exhaustion.

‘I don't mind, Josef,' assured the writer, earnestly. ‘I mean I know. But I don't mind.'

Another opportunist, realized Josef. Like Devgeny, Nikolai was interested in nothing but himself.

‘I see,' said the negotiator.

‘You will make it clear … if anyone wonders, won't you?'

‘Yes,' promised Josef, wearily. ‘I won't let anyone misunderstand.'

‘Thank you, Josef. You're a friend.'

At the door of the flat, Nikolai announced, ‘Sanya's here,' and carelessly punched the bell. Instantly a girl opened the door, looking frightened. She was plump, her hair straggled over her face. She had a dressing-gown that was too large hugged around her body. Nikolai pushed past her, straight into the bedroom, not bothering to introduce them. Josef and the girl looked at each other.

‘I'm Sanya,' she identified, finally.

‘Nikolai told me. I'm Josef Bultova.'

‘I know.'

Each stood, waiting for the other to speak.

‘I work at the Ministry,' she said.

‘I thought I recognized you.'

She shivered. He saw her feet were bare. They didn't seem very clean.

‘He lets me stay here sometimes.'

‘Oh.'

‘I was worried. We went to a restaurant and there was a scene … he broke some glass and refused to pay for it. Then he walked out. I thought something might have happened to him.'

‘He got drunk,' said Josef.

‘He often does,' said Sanya, miserably.

Tonight had been entirely staged, accepted Josef. Nikolai had wanted to indicate his willingness to be a puppet but had had to clothe himself in drunkenness first, so that if Josef raised any subsequent query, the writer could claim to remember nothing about it.

‘It isn't very nice, is it?' said the girl, looking over her shoulder. ‘Is he all right?'

Josef followed her look. The apartment was cluttered and dirty, like a railway-station waiting-room.

‘Yes,' he said. ‘I think he's quite proud of it.'

‘I wish he wouldn't do it,' said the girl. ‘He seems to like people recognizing him. He performs for them.'

They were silent again, the girl with one hand against the door, Josef standing uncertainly in the corridor.

‘I would invite you …' began the girl, without enthusiasm.

‘No,' said Josef, ‘it's too late.'

He turned, but the girl spoke again.

‘Comrade Bultova?'

‘Yes?'

‘What did he say about me?'

‘Nothing,' said Josef. ‘He just said you were here.'

‘Oh.'

She was another experiment, decided Josef, driving home. He suddenly grew angry at himself. It would have meant nothing to lie to the girl, creating some innocuous remark and attributing it to Nikolai. There had been times, he reflected, when such kindness would have come naturally. And the girl would probably need kindness, eventually.

10

Josef was humming as he entered the Ministry of Culture. He had an advantage and the adversary was unaware of it. Rarely did things combine so well.

He had anticipated a meeting different from the others, but even he had not expected the change that was obvious in Devgeny. The Minister was scruffy with neglect, chin bristled from careless shaving, his eyes reddened either from lack of sleep or too much vodka. Or perhaps from both. His customary ill-fitting suit was even more wrinkled than usual and his hands strayed constantly from smoothing his jacket to his face, which twitched to some perpetual irritation he appeared unable to subdue. Perhaps Illinivitch was right. Perhaps Devgeny had exhausted his usefulness, hollowed out from inside like a diseased tree, ready to fall in the first wind of opposition.

‘This meeting is little more than a formality,' began Devgeny. ‘We have decided we want you to go to London directly from Stockholm. And from London, to America. We've seen the letters concerning the film proposals. You are to proceed with those negotiations, too.'

Devgeny's speech was stilted and unnatural. He seems very worried, thought Josef. ‘There are no doubts about the contracts so far negotiated?' he asked.

It was an important question. He was determined he could not be later accused of exceeding his authority. He directed the question to Devgeny, still according him the position of chairman.

‘No,' said Devgeny. He hesitated, turning to Illinivitch for confirmation. ‘We
are
content with the contracts, aren't we?'

Illinivitch nodded, smiling.

‘I'll air-freight via the diplomatic bag any further documents I accept,' promised Josef. ‘And you'll get the usual tape-recorded reports.'

‘Oh yes,' mocked Illinivitch, clumsily attempting to remind Josef of their discussion in the apartment, as if they had some secret agreement. ‘I believe you go in for electronic paraphernalia.' Josef ignored the jibe.

‘Are we prepared to allow any film to be shot within the Soviet Union?' he queried, still addressing Devgeny.

Again the Minister turned to Illinivitch before replying. The deputy Minister shrugged, uncaring.

‘Yes,' said Devgeny. He seemed unsettled that Illinivitch had not expressed an opinion. A feeling of embarrassment grew as everyone realized the pointlessness of the meeting.

‘We wish you luck,' contributed Korshunov. Josef looked pityingly at Devgeny.

‘I take it the meeting is over?' he demanded, not bothering to disguise the contempt. The Minister nodded and Josef leaned sideways to collect the briefcases. When he straightened, Illinivitch was beside the chair, staring down.

‘I'll walk from the building with you,' announced the deputy Minister. Josef shrugged, putting one briefcase under his arm, between them. Illinivitch waited until they had cleared the committee room.

‘Well?' he said.

‘What?'

Illinivitch laughed. ‘Don't be naive, Josef. Devgeny, of course. Have you ever seen such a collapse? He couldn't even remember the reason for calling the meeting.'

Josef made an uncertain gesture, not replying. Illinivitch laughed again, a humourless sound, like an old man with bronchitis clearing his throat.

‘You're a cautious man, Josef.' Still Josef stayed silent. ‘I'm waiting for your commitment,' said the deputy Minister.

I thought I didn't have a choice.' They paused outside the Ministry building. Josef's Mercedes was in the reserved parking section.

‘By the way,' said Illinivitch, suddenly. ‘Did you hear about Count von Sydon?'

‘Who?' asked Josef.

‘Count von Sydon, the man from the Nobel Foundation whom you went to Stockholm to see. He committed suicide, just after the Literary Committee selected Nikolai.'

‘Oh.'

‘Sad,' said Illinivitch, heavily.

‘Yes,' dismissed Josef, getting into the car. ‘I'll keep in touch from Stockholm.'

‘Do that,' said Illinivitch.

Because it was their last night together before he left, Josef took Pamela to the Metropole Hotel for dinner. They sat, isolated in the middle of the chandeliered elegance of the dining-room, Pamela slumped with depression at the thought of being left alone again.

‘Perhaps it won't be for very long,' tried Josef. Every conversation was becoming an argument, he thought, irritably.

‘Then again, perhaps it will,' she countered.

If only there were outside friends, thought Josef. There had been a desperation in their pursuit of other people. Although he knew it would arouse criticism, he had even allowed some contact with the expatriate British colony, the defectors and spies whom she knew by reputation and imagined would have some aura of attraction, even though she recognized them as traitors and despised them for it. But it had been a novelty, like looking at two-headed calves at an Easter funfair. She had found them grubby, insecure little men, like junior clerks lost on a firm's outing to the seaside. Their slang vocabulary was of a decade ago, their conversation meaningless trivia involving nostalgia about favoured restaurants that really weren't very good or plays that had long ceased to run or prompt comment. Most retained their old-school ties, she had noticed, and wore suits shiny with grease and over-wear, just because there was a London or New York label inside the jacket. There was not one whom she had met whom she did not feel secretly regretted the activity that had forced them into exile. So the experiment had not worked and they had been driven back to one another and their marriage was too young for that. Maybe in ten or fifteen years it would not have created a strain. They might even have welcomed it, because by then they would have completely known each other and not needed the assurance of comparison with other people. But now their marriage needed people, like a suffocating man needs oxygen. Each felt a resentment against the other, Pamela against Josef for isolating her in a strange, even hostile country, Josef against Pamela for making him vulnerable. Tension festered until minor idiosyncrasies became major character defects. Each was ultra-polite to the other, in the way of people alert to misinterpretation, each with an almost schoolroom anxiousness to prove the other was at fault in beginning any argument. Each shied away from personal conversation, seeking neutral discussion, and always they ran into the same cul-de-sac.

‘I think Nikolai's drinking is getting worse,' he said. The author was the only person they both knew well enough to bridge the gap of communication.

Pamela thought often of Nikolai's drinking, particularly at the dacha. As her loneliness increased, the memory of what had occurred there presented itself for examination like a bad photograph she would have liked to destroy if only she had had the negative, until she had persuaded herself that she had been drunk, purposely reduced to helplessness by a man determined to seduce her. She had almost exonerated herself from guilt, imagining the incident as practically a case of rape. ‘Why?' she asked. Josef shrugged. ‘There's rarely a night when he isn't hopelessly drunk,' he said. ‘Last night he was unconscious. I considered getting a doctor.'

‘Perhaps he was lonely.'

It was the ambiguous sort of remark that could have caused another row and she had made it knowingly. It seemed important to score points. Josef refused the challenge.

‘Hardly. Sanya was with him.'

‘The same girl?' Pamela's question was abrupt. She tried to analyse the feeling. Jealousy? That was ridiculous.

‘Yes,' said Josef. He had detected the quickness of his wife's reaction.