Face Me When You Walk Away (21 page)

‘So what?' dismissed Nikolai. ‘I don't see it's anything to be ashamed of.'

Josef sighed, tired of the author's baiting.

‘Be quiet, Nikolai,' he said, contemptuously. ‘It's stopping, now. From this moment, I'm resuming control. You'll do as I say.'

Again he nodded towards the photographer.

‘He's going,' he announced. ‘Tonight. He's either going properly, by himself, or I'll get people from the embassy to throw him out.'

Nikolai tried to speak, but Josef waved him to silence.

‘There'll be no scene,' he predicted. ‘It will all be done in a very calm manner.'

For the first time, he addressed Endelman directly.

‘Do you remember what I told you, when you came to my room after I found you together?'

The photographer nodded.

‘I meant it,' said the negotiator. ‘In fact, I would quite enjoy the thought of you getting hurt.'

‘Have you finished?' asked Nikolai. The banter had gone from his voice. He was staring directly across the room and Josef knew it was the moment of complete challenge.

‘It
is
over, Josef,' said Nikolai, picking up the negotiator's expression. He paused, sipping from his drink. He didn't need it for courage, realized Josef, but to extend his enjoyment of what was happening.

‘I've tolerated you, Josef,' he started again. ‘I've tolerated you because I needed your experience and your guidance. But I told you in Stockholm what your role was to be.'

Josef sat without any feeling. The victor of this encounter would be in charge for the remainder of the tour, he knew. Nikolai, after another sip, was speaking again.

‘From now on, Josef, your only function will be to sec everything goes smoothly. I will do what I like, with whom I like. I've resented every moment of your overbearing arrogance, every rebuke you've ever given me. I've counted every slap …'

He smiled, pleased at the look on Josef's face.

‘I know just why I've been allowed to come out of Russia. I know I'm a performing monkey, impressing other countries that Russia can have artists as well as square-shaped men in uniform. I know how frightened everyone is that something will go wrong. And I know just how powerful that makes me.'

He stopped, unable to avoid the smirk. He knew Josef was worried.

‘If I want pills, then Jimmy will get them for me. If I want grass, he'll get that for me too. Just like he'll get anything else.'

Josef rose to the invitation, realizing too late that it had been manufactured.

‘Anything else?'

‘Marijuana is quite tame, really,' said Nikolai. ‘I like horse much better.'

Josef turned to Endelman, for explanation.

‘He wanted heroin … try it and see what it was like. He said he wanted every experience …' muttered the photographer.

‘You mean …?'

Endelman shook his head. ‘He smoked it, that's all.'

Josef reflected on the incongruity of the sentence, then said, ‘I thought you cared for him.'

‘You don't understand …' began the photographer, but Nikolai gestured him to silence, determined not to sacrifice the stage.

‘Really, Josef, I've rarely known anyone more unaware of what's going on around them. Tonight isn't the first time that Jimmy's been told he can get out. I told him, days ago. He might love me. I never said I loved him. He, like you, stays because he's useful. He's as efficient in some things as you are in others.'

Josef shook his head in disbelief.

‘I'm a genius, Josef. That's what everyone keeps saying. No one expects normal behaviour from a genius.'

Josef realized that Endelman was weeping and felt contempt for the man. Medev had cried a lot, he remembered. And so had his father, in the end. But each had good reason.

‘So there it is,' concluded Nikolai. ‘Without me, there is no triumphal tour for the mighty Soviet Union. So from now on, it goes completely as I direct.'

He drank deeply and the liquor caught his breath. He almost choked. Josef waited, hopefully, but the writer recovered. There was no sound in the room now except Endelman crying.

‘Well?' demanded Nikolai.

The transition was remarkable, Josef conceded. Could it only be a few months ago that he had been the shy, stumbling person at the dacha, preferring the loneliness of an insect-veiled lake to contact with even two people.

‘It was a good try, Nikolai,' he said, evenly. ‘I admire your sudden courage, Strangely, I even think it's genuine. Even in those early days, at the dacha, I knew you were hiding some aspect of your personality, but I never guessed it would emerge like this …'

The writer was frowning at him, apprehensively. He had anticipated a different reaction. Endelman had stopped crying and was looking, too.

‘Endelman goes tonight,' reiterated Josef. ‘If you want to destroy yourself, you'll do it in the Soviet Union, not here or in America, where the whole world can see. I'm cancelling the rest of the visit. We're going back to Russia, tomorrow.'

Nikolai shook his head, but the smile was fading.

‘You won't do that, Josef.'

‘I will,' pledged the negotiator.

He went to the bureau and telephoned Listnisky, but before he could speak, the ambassador began talking, explaining the difficulty of contacting Josef earlier. The American President was giving a reception specifically in honour of Nikolai Balshev in four days. Moscow was delighted and Peking was furious. So enthusiastic was the Praesidium that someone from the Ministry of Culture was flying to Washington to attend.

‘What's his name?' asked Josef. He felt so tired. It was like a weight, pressing down.

‘Illinivitch,' replied Listnisky. ‘Do you know him?'

‘Yes,' said Josef.

‘Marvellous, isn't it?'

‘Yes.'

‘What do you want me for?'

‘Nothing,' said Josef. ‘Forget it.'

From the conversation, Nikolai knew Josef had not carried out his threat. He smiled, waiting for Josef to capitulate.

‘You'd better get to bed,' said Josef, looking straight at him. ‘We've got a long flight tomorrow.'

Neither moved.

‘Both of you,' added Josef, in final defeat.

18

New York was the ordeal Josef had feared. The Russian suffered badly from jet lag and the numbed, cotton-wool feeling was washing over him as the aircraft taxied into the arrival pier at Kennedy Airport. Endelman and Nikolai had consciously ignored him throughout the flight. He had been relegated to the role of organizer and they acted out their private game and accorded him the politeness of a servant. Josef had endured it, content that neither seemed anxious to draw attention to themselves. Apart from snide criticism of the in-flight film, they had behaved perfectly, spending most of their time playing chess on a pocket set that Endelman had produced.

The Russian delegation to the United Nations was waiting, headed by Valery Semyonov, the ambassador. A Devgeny man, Josef knew, who would be a constant threat. The Russians carried the traditional bouquets, which Nikolai and Endelman greeted with laughter.

Semyonov frowned.

Welcome,' he said.

Josef nodded. The photographers were backing away before them as they walked down the finger towards the huge lounge in which Blyne had arranged the first press-conference.

‘How has it gone?' asked Semyonov, pointedly.

‘Well, I think,' replied Josef.

‘Oh.' The ambassador's reaction conveyed doubt. ‘Moscow seemed a little surprised you weren't staying at the mission,' continued Semyonov. There's plenty of room at East 67th Street.'

The refusal had been another demonstration of Nikolai's independence.

‘The whole point of the trip is exposure,' responded Josef. ‘We thought the Pierre would be more convenient.'

‘And much more luxurious. You enjoy luxury, don't you, Comrade Bultova.'

‘Yes,' agreed Josef, annoyed at the man's posturing. He felt incapable of mental finger-wrestling.

‘We've arranged a reception for tomorrow night,' said the ambassador. ‘At the United Nations. I hope you'll be able to fit it in with the other more important arrangements.'

‘I'm sorry the arrival of Russia's Nobel prizewinner is such a chore for you,' said Josef. ‘I'll rebuke Moscow when I get back, so they can avoid troubling you in future with such triviality.'

Semyonov jerked round, but Blyne gushed out to greet them, smothering the ambassador's reply. The room was banked with television- and film-lights and crowded with people and noise. The conference became the longest they had had to endure, but Nikolai was used to them now, replying with growing frequency in English. Rarely did he bother to consult Josef. The conceit before a camera or television lens was almost embarrassing, thought Josef. The questions, as always, ranged from the intelligent to the ridiculous, but there were no probes about his involvement and Josef knew that Semyonov, who stayed pressed against the wall, near the entrance, would be unable to select anything incriminating from it.

Josef was saddened by the visible neglect of New York as they drove into the city. The snow had been churned to slush and tiny mountains of grime were massed around the bases of the office and apartment blocks, so that skyscrapers stood with dirty knickers around their ankles.

Favoured interviewers were allowed to travel with them in the cavalcade of hearse-like Cadillacs, so that it was not until they reached the Pierre that Josef had the chance of any real conversation with the American publisher.

He needed help, Josef accepted. It was impossible from Semyonov, from whom he had parted at the airport with frosted promises of later contact. Any revealed weakness would be played back immediately to Devgeny. So that only left Blyne. The publisher bustled through the connecting door from Nikolai's rooms, still crammed with photographers, his face rutted with smiles.

‘Marvellous,' he enthused. ‘Absolutely fucking marvellous. What about the President's reception? Would you have guessed? Would you have believed it was going to be like this? I tell you, this is going to be mammoth, just mammoth.'

Josef looked into Nikolai's suite. The writer was twisting and posing for the cameras. Just like a model, thought Josef, a female model. Endelman stood sulkily in the background.

‘You don't look like the guy that's pulled off the coup of the century,' said Blyne, carelessly.

‘This trip,' warned Josef, slowly, ‘has every likelihood of collapsing into an unmitigated disaster.'

Blyne, who in his excitement had been wandering the sitting-room, unable to keep still, stopped and frowned.

‘Did you know Endelman was homosexual when you wrote that letter of introduction?' demanded Josef.

Blyne humped his shoulders, uncaringly. ‘You know how it is with these guys,' he dismissed. ‘They swing one way, then another. So what?'

‘So now Nikolai is doing it that way, that's what. And he's smoking marijuana and heroin and stuffing Christ knows what pills down his throat. He got that from Endelman, too. In London, yesterday, I decided to cancel this part of the tour completely and get straight back to Russia. I'm here solely because of the Presidential reception.'

‘You can't be serious.'

‘You know damned well I'm serious.'

‘Shit.'

‘And for God's sake stop swearing like a schoolboy whistling in the dark,' snapped Josef.

Blyne's nervous hands moved, as if he were trying to shape words out of the air.

‘That's not all,' enlarged Josef. ‘Nikolai knows how important he is. He's treating me like dirt. And Endelman only stays because he's good in bed and supplies the drugs.'

Blyne sat down, the exuberance leaking from him.

‘It can't be that bad …' he began, but Josef stopped him.

‘I'm terrified,' he said, honestly.

Blyne made more hand movements. ‘But what can we do?'

‘I wish to God I knew,' replied the Russian.

An American whom Josef recalled seeing heavily involved in the airport press-conference came through the linking doors and smiled, innocently.

‘Isn't it great, Herbie?' he said.

Josef stared at him, then looked to Blyne for an explanation.

‘This is Matheson,' introduced the publisher. ‘Harvey Matheson … speaks Russian … edited Nikolai's book.'

Josef nodded, still looking to Blyne for guidance.

“We're on the same side, for Christ's sake. We're going to need help,' said the publisher.”

He had stopped swearing, Josef noticed. He was glad. He found the habit irritating, as his father had. Medev had never sworn, he recalled. The Jew had been a very unusual man.

Matheson looked questioningly from one to the other. He was very slim and fair. And young, not much more than twenty-eight, judged Josef. Yale, decided the Russian, or maybe Harvard, bought into the publishing house by parental money or influence. Or both.

‘Nikolai is a fag,' explained Blyne, quickly. ‘He and Jimmy are daisy-chaining together. He's also into drugs. And if we're not careful, this whole thing is going to come around our ears.'

The young American looked over his shoulder, to where Endelman was now dispensing drinks and then back to Blyne.

‘So what do we do?' he asked, immediately. Josef looked at Matheson approvingly. He had accepted the difficulty without any of the artificial surprise to which Blyne seemed prone.

Josef shrugged. ‘Stay with him pretty closely,' he said, talking as the thoughts came to him. ‘Try and anticipate the scenes before they develop. He likes attracting attention. If anything goes wrong, he'll react like a petulant child.'

‘And I thought this would be perfect,' reflected Blyne, bitterly. Matheson wouldn't have said that, thought Josef.

‘What about the studio?' asked Josef.