Face Me When You Walk Away (30 page)

‘Yes, Josef. Frightened because I knew I was inadequate … that I couldn't make a proper wife. Can't you imagine what it was like for me, married to someone like you, terrified to say or do anything, knowing it would be wrong, frightened of the look that would show you were disappointed or ashamed …'

‘Was Nikolai better than I was, when my turn finally came?' he asked, bitterly.

‘Oh God,' she said.

‘Was he?' he pressed, savagely.

‘Don't,' she said. ‘Please don't.'

‘Don't be stupid,' he said.

‘Isn't the aggrieved husband act a little false?' she accused. ‘You knew I wasn't a virgin.'

‘I didn't know it was him.'

‘Ah,' she said, given a sudden explanation. ‘So it's pride more than love.'

‘I never questioned what you did before we married,' he said, refusing her the excuse.

She looked into her lap, rehearsing the words. ‘I
am
ashamed, Josef,' she offered. ‘There wasn't a time when you were away when I wasn't terrified of the moment you'd find out, knowing that bastard would eventually boast that he'd screwed your wife …'

Josef winced and her words clogged as she stumbled to a halt.

‘I'm begging forgiveness, Josef,' she said. ‘Please. I know I've hurt you, terribly. But I want help.'

‘I saw your mother in London,' he said and she stared at him, unable to understand the change of direction.

‘We talked about visas.'

Pamela's face cleared. She looked very sad. ‘Oh,' she said, understanding.

She would cry now, thought Josef. Then her eyes would look worse than they already did. He hoped she would avoid it. She really did look quite ugly.

‘Did you try?' he asked.

‘Yes,' she said, resigned.

‘And?'

‘They wouldn't give me re-entry. But I can go out, of course. Any time.'

‘Yes.'

‘I saw my parents' marriage collapse. Don't let it happen to me. I know I've no right, after what I've done. I can't even offer an explanation or a proper excuse. But let me stay, Josef.'

‘Your mother wants to see you again.'

The tears finally came, marking parallel paths down her face. Her nose was running, too. Disgusted, he threw a handkerchief across the gap separating them.

‘Can't you forgive anyone, Josef?' she sobbed.

He continued looking at her, saying nothing.

‘I hope to God,' she said, ‘that you never know the need for pity.'

‘Why don't you take a bath?' he said, rising. ‘You smell.'

23

He had to wait three days to appear before the inquiry committee of the Praesidium. By coincidence, it was the day Pamela was flying to London. She had made a desperate effort since the homecoming, accepting the separate sleeping arrangements, keeping the flat clinically clean and not, as far as he was aware, touching any alcohol.

Twice, when she realized his determination, she had pleaded again, staying completely controlled, not giving way to tears, which Josef admired. He had matched her control and rejected her. Everything was still very civilized, he thought.

He saw her struggling to get her cases from what had been their bedroom and moved to help her.

‘Thank you,' she said.

There had been another time, between the Stockholm visits, when they had been over-polite and courteous to each other, Josef recalled.

‘There's an important meeting. I'm afraid I shan't be able to take you to the airport.'

‘It doesn't matter.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘It really doesn't matter.'

‘I'll make arrangements through my London bank for an allowance. And some drawing facilities on the main account.'

‘Please don't bother. I gather my father left me a lot of money.'

‘I'd like to.'

‘I shan't use it.'

‘I'd still like to.'

‘As you wish.'

She looked very lovely. She would have opened out like a flower in the sunshine of Sochi, he thought. It was all very unfortunate.

‘Perhaps I'll write,' she offered.

‘All right.'

‘I suppose we should be sensible. About a divorce, I mean. You might meet somebody else. Or I might.'

‘Yes,' he agreed. ‘I suppose we should.'

‘Will it be difficult, because of different nationalities?'

‘I don't know.'

‘You'll find out, though?' she asked.

‘Yes.'

They stood looking at each other. Sometimes, Pamela thought, he looks just like a bear. But a friendly, cuddly bear, like they have in children's fairy stories.

‘I must go,' she said. ‘Or I'll miss my plane.'

‘Yes.'

‘You won't look me up in London, will you?' She guessed.

‘Probably not,' he agreed.

‘I
will
write.'

He wondered if he should kiss her. She seemed to expect something. Hesitantly, he offered his hand. She faltered, then took it.

‘I'm sorry, Josef,' she said, for the last time.

‘Yes,' he said. ‘It's a pity.'

They stayed joined for several moments. Then, withdrawing his hand, he said, ‘I'll help you down with your luggage.'

Josef was conscious of the awareness of people as he approached the main committee room in the Kremlin. Perhaps Devgeny's secretary had been voicing his opinion. He was kept waiting for forty-five minutes, but sat relaxed, recognizing the psychology and untroubled by it. Devgeny's secretary summoned him, not quite able to keep the smirk off his face. Josef picked up his two briefcases and followed into the room, pausing just inside the door. Its size was imposing. Chandeliers hung from the high, vaulted ceiling and were augmented by strip lights, which gave everything a harsh, unreal glare. Windows stretched from ceiling to floor almost the complete length of one side, and facing walls were bare of any decoration. An enormous table occupied the centre of the room, slightly curved at either end, so that the men before whom he was to appear sat in a half moon, facing out towards the windows. In front of them, there was a small table, also half-mooned, for officials and secretaries, and then, isolated, a table at which only one man could sit, positioned so that the occupant had his back to the light. He walked in front of the expressionless men, towards the smallest table he knew was his. He paused, then put his briefcases beside the chair and turned, awaiting permission to sit. Devgeny was half-way down on the left-hand side, he noticed. Illinivitch was sitting next to him. Korshunov was several seats further along. Ballenin was far away, among the lesser important. In the centre sat the Party Chairman, Mikhail Beilkin, with the Secretary, Ostrap Svetlova, on his right. Josef was always surprised when he saw them. Such men should be over six feet, he felt, and large, their stature befitting their positions. Both, in fact, were quite small men. But then, so were Khrushchev and Beria. Both men sitting before him were assessed to be tougher and more ruthless than either of them had been. The sixteen men of the Politbureau were all on the inquiry committee. That gave it the highest rank possible, he realized.

The Party Secretary nodded his head and Josef sat down. Devgeny stared at him, his face blank. He looked better, thought Josef, than when they had last confronted each other. Even his suit was freshly pressed and there was no sign in his face of the excessive drinking that Josef had suspected before he went on tour with Nikolai. He moved on to Illinivitch. The man was looking at him as if he were a stranger.

‘This preliminary inquiry into the recent tour of the West with Comrade Balshev is to establish whether a criminal investigation should be undertaken into your conduct,' began Svetlova, officiously.

He nodded towards Devgeny.

‘… The Minister of Culture lays the complaint against you. It is serious …'

Devgeny shifted in his seat, his excitement needing movement.

‘There is, in fact, a demand that you be placed on trial,' the Secretary went on. ‘This Committee will decide whether such a trial is justified …'

The man shuffled through the papers lying before him, found the document he wanted and looked up.

‘… There is provision for a charge against you under Section 190 of our Criminal Statute,' he said. ‘The allegation is of anti-Soviet activity …'

Why had the man to go through the charade of finding the document? It was always Section 190. That was the panacea indictment thrown like a fishing net over the Russian judicial system. It was always possible to mount a prosecution under Section 190, no matter what offence, real or otherwise. How bewildered his father had been when the allegation had been made against him, a man to whom such action would have been anathema. He had shaken his head, refusing to accept it, actually challenging the court clerk in the belief that the charge was •wrongly made and there had been some terrible mistake.

‘Do you have anything to say?' asked the Secretary.

Josef cleared his throat, rising to his feet. Whenever challenging a fact or addressing the committee, he had to stand, he knew.

‘I categorically deny the accusation laid against me,' he said, formally, and sat down. Movement shuffled along the table and several of the committee looked sideways to their partners, as if they had expected Josef to say more.

The Secretary nodded to Devgeny, who rose and walked around the table, so that he could command the full attention of everyone. The Minister stood, one hand lightly resting on the huge table, savouring the moment. This, thought Josef, was the occasion for which the man had waited for nearly fifteen years, the moment of Devgeny's vindication. Now he would extract the apologies far more demeaning than those which Josef had been insisting upon for a decade and a half.

Perspiration was causing the inside of Josef's legs to irritate. He scratched himself surreptitiously. As he withdrew his hand he saw that it was four-thirty. Pamela's plane would be taking off now. She would be happier in London, he knew. And safer. Certainly safer. He wondered if she would ever realize that.

‘There have been occasions in the past,' began Devgeny, ‘when this committee has had to make preliminary inquiries of this nature. Because of the fairness of the Russian legal system, many of those accusations have been dismissed as unfounded …'

He paused, for effect, but it was an unhappy hesitation, seeming as if the Minister were awaiting challenge upon the assertion of fairness. Several other people had the same impression, Josef knew.

‘… Others, however, have not,' took up Devgeny. Even he regretted the pause, speaking quickly to make up for it. ‘The accusation I make today will come into the second category. Rarely will this committee have encountered a worse case of anti-Sovietism…'

How many hours had gone into Devgeny's rehearsal, wondered Josef. He felt the briefcases at his side, a needless reassurance. He should have returned with more sleeping pills and tranquillizers, he thought. Devgeny seemed very confident. Hardly, decided Josef, with growing conviction, a man with little support in the Praesidium.

‘The facts,' went on Devgeny, ‘are as simple as they are horrifying. At the beginning of this year, the Ministry of Culture heard that the Nobel Foundation was considering one of Russia's most brilliant writers, Nikolai Balshev, for their literary award.'

Was it really only a year ago, questioned Josef. It seemed a lifetime.

‘Balshev's talent is undenied. There is probably no one in the world today with greater lyricism. He has been publicly acclaimed in every country in the world. More, he is a good Russian. It was decided that Balshev should be encouraged to accept the award if he were the eventual recipient, and that he would be allowed to make a literary tour of the West, in which the sales of his books were to be negotiated.'

He stopped, sipping from a glass of water. Dramatically he extended his hand, pointed at Josef.

‘That man was entrusted with the task of negotiating those sales and arranging the tour. It was also his task to let the Foundation know, in a diplomatic way, that every facility would be made available for Balshev to accept'

How easy it sounded, thought Josef. It was the job of a junior counsellor at a minor embassy, a mission in which nothing could go wrong.

‘Bultova was selected because of his unrivalled knowledge of the West, to which he travels frequently …'

Another pause, for effect.

‘… Some may think too frequently. He was to do more than just organize the tour. His principal job was to safeguard Nikolai Balshev. The writer is a shy, unworldly man. His very lack of sophistication is one of the major delights of his writing. The Soviet Union had to be spared any embarrassment that such innocence might have unthinkingly created.'

Devgeny stopped for more water. It was a brilliant denunciation, conceded Josef.

‘Because of the immense importance to the Soviet Union, I had our overseas security service constantly in attendance,' admitted the Minister.

They were very good, thought Josef. Not once had he recognized them. Devgeny would know of everything, of course. Like a croupier dealing cards, the Minister handed the security reports along the table.

Devgeny cleared his throat.

‘Today Nikolai Balshev is a patient in a sanatorium. He is a hopeless, committed heroin addict. His creativity is utterly destroyed. In a few moments, I shall call a doctor to tell you that apart from his craving for drugs, Balshev has only one interest He returned from the West a sexual deviant, a savage pederast. For the protection of the other patients, some of whom are young boys, Balshev has to be kept locked in a private ward.'

It was hardly surprising the secretary with thick spectacles had made up his mind, thought Josef. No doubt he'd witnessed the organization of the evidence, perhaps even typed the draft of Devgeny's opening address. Dcvgeny took a document from a folder.