Face Me When You Walk Away (12 page)

‘Are they… I mean, how…?'

‘Yes,' said Josef. ‘They are sleeping together.'

‘Lucky girl.' It seemed too much trouble to pick up the invitation. She pecked at the remains of the chocolate cake with which they had ended their meal, needing distraction.

‘Has she moved in with him?'

‘I don't think so. I think she just stays some nights. Remember Nikolai has a flat to himself – that's quite a novelty for a secretary at the Ministry.'

Pamela returned to the original question. ‘Certainly he
did
drink quite heavily while you were in Stockholm,' she said. ‘You know how I feel about a lot of his behaviour. I felt the drinking was experimenting, too. On the two occasions we've had him at the apartment, he hasn't drunk excessively.'

Pamela had been terrified at both dinners, presenting every excuse and objection until they could be postponed no longer. At each, Nikolai's disregard of her had been almost impolite.

‘Not excessively,' agreed Josef. ‘But he's been fairly drunk.'

‘Are you worried about it?'

Josef looked uncertain. ‘He still hasn't begun a sequel to
Walk Softly on a Lonely Day
,' he said.

‘I don't see that proves anything. Surely writing a book isn't like building a motor-car? You can't expect a level of productivity every day.'

‘I suppose not,' accepted Josef. ‘But whenever I mention a sequel he gets annoyed, dismissing me as someone who doesn't know what he's talking about. I think he's enjoying fame too much.'

She laughed contemptuously. ‘That's pretty limited, surely?'

‘By Western standards,' he agreed. ‘But not here. He's recognized wherever he goes … makes sure of it even. I think he's flattered by the privileges. If it's gone to his head here, what's it going to be like in Stockholm and London?' Josef smiled, reflectively. ‘I think I preferred it in the early days at the dacha. He was certainly easier to control.'

Aware that by this time the following day she would be alone, Pamela wanted to protract the evening as long as possible.

‘Had a letter from my mother today. She said she might get a visa to come here.'

She seemed to expect some response from Josef, but he stayed silent.

‘Could you help?' she asked.

‘I'll try.' He paused. Then he said, ‘You're pretty unhappy here, aren't you?'

She tensed, anticipating another argument.

‘Yes,' she admitted. ‘Very unhappy.'

‘I'm sorry.'

She jerked her shoulders. The movement spilled cake crumbs over the table. Embarrassed, she began picking them up between thumb and forefinger and replacing them on the small plate.

‘So am I,' she said. ‘I didn't think it would be like this. It's like being … like being locked up. I feel trapped here, just like those poor sods at the British colony.'

‘I did warn you it would be different from what you were used to,' he reminded, gently.

‘I know.'

‘Wish you'd listened?'

‘Frequently.' Silence built itself into a barrier between them.

‘I've been wondering …' she said, groping.

‘What?'

‘… Would it be possible for me to accompany you on these trips? Could we afford it, I mean?'

Josef hesitated. First a weakness. Now an encumbrance.

‘We could afford it, certainly …'

‘You don't want me.' Immediately the anger flared, her voice loud. Several people glanced from adjoining tables.

‘That's not true,' he said, anxiously. ‘And you know it. I'm as upset at these separations as you are. But mine aren't the sort of business trips to which you're accustomed. Sometimes the discussions are …' He stopped, searching for an expression that would not offend her. ‘… Well, delicate. The government wouldn't welcome the thought of your being with me.'

‘So I'm going to be stuck here for ever.'

‘Of course not. You've retained your British passport, so you won't need an exit visa, just the guarantee of readmission.'

‘I hate this country,' she snapped, bitterly.

‘You don't know it,' he said. ‘You've been here barely eight months.'

‘I'm miserable. And lonely.'

She really was quite immature, he decided. He wondered if she had been spoiled by both her parents or just one of them.

‘Perhaps you could come on some trips,' he offered. ‘Once I'd made the initial contacts and overcome most of the problems of negotiation. I'll try. I promise.'

‘And mother. You'll help with her visa?'

‘If I can.'

11

Despite the cold, Josef insisted on driving to Sheremetyevo Airport with the car windows half down, trying to drive away the stench that still clung from Nikolai's apartment. The rooms had smelt of sweat and vomit and unwashed bodies, and had brought the memories crowding back. The barrack blocks had been like that, at first. He'd become used to it, very quickly, but his father had never been able to adjust. The old man had been physically sick the first day, Josef remembered, retching at the foulness, his fragile body arched because his stomach was empty. Never before had Josef seen his father cry. It had embarrassed him, like the first time he had seen him without his trousers, squatting over the open toilet-hole. He'd blushed then, he recalled, and walked quickly away, hoping he hadn't been noticed. The old man had to be allowed some dignity. In the end, of course, there had been nothing. In the months before his death, he'd cradled the sobbing head and put him to toilet, like a child. It had been a vow when he left the camp that never again would he allow himself in contact with such squalor and he hadn't, not until that morning. Dust had been so thick it furred everything, almost like moss, puffing up in tiny clouds at any movement. The debris of meals lay around in nearly every room, scum and mildew forming in cups and over discarded scraps of food. There was a profusion of bottles, some standing, some lopsided on the table, bleeding away their tiny residue over the yellow, stained cloth. The typewriter had been on a small table in the corner, the lid closed, paper haphazard around it. Josef had walked over and ruffled the paper. The Nobel Lecture should have been there. Twice Nikolai had assured him he was working on it. He had shuffled the paper, like cards. It had all been blank.

Distressed by the recollection that the smell had brought and angry at the man, Josef had burst into the bedroom, to find Nikolai alone and crying. He had kicked the clothes away and was lying, naked.

‘I'm scared, Josef. I don't want to go.'

‘You've no choice.'

His anger had made him hostile, which was wrong. But it was another performance, Josef had decided.

‘I don't deserve it. We'll make an excuse. Say I'm ill. I can't do it again, ever. I've tried. Really, I've tried. But the words won't come …'

Josef had looked down on the man, feeling a small surge of pity. He was very frail, his ribs marked out against his flesh. His penis was very small, with hardly a puff of pubic hair, Josef saw. Even in the camp, there had been the instinctive male need for comparison, Josef had remembered.

‘You've written other books,' Josef had tried. ‘
Walk Softly on a Lonely Day
wasn't the first …'

‘But it's the one they're signifying for the award. From now on, it'll be the book by which I'm judged.'

The crying had worsened, the sobs coming in screeches. Nikolai had stretched out, trying to seize Josef's hand.

‘Please. You're my friend. Help me.'

Josef had hit him, in fact harder than he had intended, for as he had swung, backhanded, to quell the hysteria, Nikolai had moved forward to reinforce his plea and come into the blow. He had spun backwards on to the bed, glaring-eyed with shock, groping at the red blotch against his cheek. The screaming had subsided into shuddered breathing, which he could still not properly control, hunched in the opposite corner of the car, as far away from Josef as he could get.

They drove through the barriers to a low building near the control tower where a small group had gathered for the farewell. Photographers from
Pravda
and
Isvestia
positioned Nikolai between lines of Praesidium dignitaries. He looked crushed and unkempt, glancing worriedly to his left and right. Josef saw the red mark where he had slapped him. It had been a stupid thing to do and he felt ashamed.

‘Prepared to commit yourself?'

Josef turned to Illinivitch, by his elbow. He shrugged.

‘I've given you a lot of time, Josef.'

‘The wrong decision could put me back into a labour camp,' reminded the negotiator.

‘You more than anyone else,' agreed the deputy Minister.

‘So don't hurry me.'

‘Remember, keep in touch, from Stockholm and other places.' He handed Josef a card. ‘It would be better if you telephoned me at this number, rather than at the Ministry.'

Josef took the card and wedged it into his wallet.

‘I hope you make the right decision, Josef.'

‘So do I,' agreed the negotiator.

*

The flat needed no attention, but Pamela had performed the charade for two hours after Josef left until she tired of rearranging small pieces of furniture that would be replaced in their original position the following day. She sighed, touring the immaculate rooms, touching things, examining ornaments intently, as if they contained some hidden message. She considered washing her hair and discarded the idea. She'd set aside the afternoon for that. She didn't want to rob that part of the day of its activity. A fortnight-old copy of
Newsweek
lay on the table. She resisted the temptation. Tonight. After supper. She decided on a walk. In fact, she had determined upon it before Josef had left, but relapsing into the game she played with herself, she had pushed the decision to the back of her mind, so that it could arrive fresh. The concierge looked at her expressionlessly as she approached the exit from the apartment. Pamela smiled and said ‘Good morning' in Russian. The woman continued to stare, just slightly deflecting her head in acknowledgment. Sour old cow, thought the girl. Outside the apartment, she turned left. One hundred and twenty steps to the main junction, she reminded herself, like a blind person. Consciously, she lengthened her stride and reached it in one hundred and eighteen. A miscount. Tomorrow she'd have to count it again to see which was right. Another game. Two hundred steps before reaching the next turning. This time she walked normally. Two hundred steps later, she reached the intersection. No mistake here. No need for a recount. She found herself approaching the giant Gum department store, as she'd known she would the moment the walk had occurred to her. It was the place Western visitors knew, because it was in all the guidebooks. It was convenient when photographing the Kremlin became boring. She might meet somebody there. Somebody to talk to. Perhaps she'd become really friendly and invite them back to the apartment for lunch and then they could spend all afternoon gossiping about London or New York or wherever they came from. In the evening there would be washing up to be done. Her hair could be put off until tomorrow. It would be good to have something planned for the next day. Happy at the fantasy, she bustled into the store, looking around expectantly, as if she had an appointment.

The tourist season was virtually over, so the store was not as crowded as it was in the summer. Most of the people were Russian, she decided. There were a few who could have been European, but they all seemed intent and assured, with none of the uncertainty of casual visitors. Probably from an embassy. No point in trying to become friendly with embassy personnel. They certainly wouldn't accept a casual invitation to lunch in a Russian apartment, definitely not when they discovered she was the wife of Josef Bultova.

She encountered the two Americans on the far side of the ground floor, in the children's section. They were giggling over matryoshkas, the traditional wooden dolls, where one is lifted to reveal another replica, until the family are uncovered. Both women were deep into plump middle age, white, carefully ridged hair clamped under freshly purchased Russian winter hats, heavy coats obviously bought from America and inadequate for the Russian winter. Fur boots, an attempt to match the hats, swathed their feet and the lower parts of their legs. Pamela thought they looked like an illustration from Goldilocks and the Three Bears book she had had as a child.

‘For three dollars, it's got to be a bargain,' said the slightly older of the two. She made a calculation on a presents list. ‘And we can afford it, easily.'

‘They're authentic,' stupidly agreed the second, moving towards the conviction of her companion.

‘Don't look,' snapped the first woman. ‘But we're being approached.'

The unconvinced one immediately looked around wildly, then locked her attention back on to the dolls.

‘What!'

‘There's a Russian woman, across the counter. She's watching us.'

‘Don't be silly.'

‘I'm not silly. She is staring at us. Remember what they said at the embassy.'

‘What shall we do?'

‘Ignore it. That's what they said. And refuse to sell any money, no matter how good the rate.'

Each was trying to talk without moving her lips.

‘I don't see …'

‘For God's sake, Anne. Don't you remember what the counsellor said. They get friendly, then trap you into some indiscretion.'

Pamela hurried from the store, actually colliding with a man at the entrance in her anxiety to get out. Disregarding the need to occupy time, she continued to hurry, even running the last few yards to the apartment block. The concierge stared at her bustled arrival, still expressionless.

Pamela slipped the burglar lock into place immediately she entered the apartment, leaning back against the door, breathing heavily. Safe, she thought, quite irrationally. I'm safe. She checked the time. Eleven forty-five. She opened Josef's ward-robe-like liquor cabinet, poured a sherry and then carried the bottle with her to the writing table in the bedroom.