There was a slight breeze which lifted the hem of her dress, revealing the lace edge of a silk slip. She held her skirt down with her hand.
‘Have you met the latest one?’ she asked.
‘Latest what?’
‘You’re not going to get away with it that easily,’ she said, smiling at him. ‘Bobby has a girl here, in Budapest. A Hungarian. We both know that, don’t we?’
This was dangerous territory. Not where he wanted to be at all.
‘I don’t know anything about that,’ he said carefully.
‘Don’t sound so surprised.’ Christine laughed. Was she mocking him? Why did he feel so uncomfortable? ‘I’m married to him. If anyone knows, I ought to, don’t you think? There’s no point in pretending.’
‘I suppose you’re right.’
‘Shall I tell you what I’ve found out? She’s in her mid-thirties. Works as an interpreter. She has a daughter, lives near the university. Medium height, dark hair, good-looking in a strong way. Athletic, too. I think she went to the Olympic Games in London. Her name is Eva Balassi.’
She leaned over him as she refilled his coffee cup and he saw her bosom swelling the fabric of her dress. He smelled her scent, roses and something else he couldn’t make out.
‘Why do you put up with it?’ he asked, meaning why don’t you put your foot down? It can’t be a life, living like this.
‘Do I have a choice? Life with Bobby, knowing what Bobby gets up to, or life on your own? I don’t call that any choice. Do you?’
‘Then you let him get away with it.’
‘Oh, dear. That sounds like a judgement to me.’ She smiled sorrowfully at him. ‘It’s all my fault. I’m pushing him towards these girls.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘I’m sorry.’ She moved neared to him. ‘I’m not fooling myself. I know what goes on. I know there’s talk at the embassy. How can Christine live with herself? Rachel wants me to leave Bobby. Over the years a lot of people have told me to leave Bobby. The answer is, I hope I put up with it with some shred of dignity. What do you think an unfaithful husband tells the world about the wife he escapes from? That she’s a cold-hearted bitch?’
He didn’t answer her question. She didn’t answer it either. It was too painful for both of them.
‘Whatever I may be, I’m not cold-hearted.’
It was then that she reached over and kissed him.
8
At first glance [Martineau wrote], the Petofi Circle would appear to be little more than a vehicle for the reunion of former youth activists. Closer inspection shows that political protest in this country is conducted in a coded language. Recently, a well-attended evening meeting of the PC discussed Yugoslav literature and ended with a declaration of support for Yugoslavia. In Hungary that must be read as an outright rejection of Rakosi’s anti-Tito campaign. Its significance will have been understood by the government.
Further discussions on political and economic topics have followed since, with the attendance at some meetings numbering as many as two thousand. What began life as a reunion of old comrades is rapidly becoming an embryonic political force. The speakers are careful to avoid any mention of the two topics they know will cause the authorities to shut them down – Soviet domination in Hungary or the one-party state. What they have done is to develop their own subtle method of conveying meaning. In the alternative language of opposition, such statements are potent symbols. Applause for the speakers is a clear declaration of solidarity and assent, though never one to which the ever-present secret service men in the crowd can object.
The Petofi Circle acts as a focus for sublimated dissent. It is creating an opposition to Moscow’s puppet government. It is bringing the public discussion of political issues back on the street, awakening the conscience of a repressed people and breaking the years of silence under the communists. Not unsurprisingly, similar discussion groups are appearing in other parts of the country. These are the beginnings of a core of resistance that some here believe will sweep through the country.
The West cannot afford to cut itself off from what is happening or underestimate the consequences of a revolution against the Soviets. The repercussions will extend way beyond the borders of this beleaguered country. We must now seriously consider the possibility that the Soviets, given a fierce shove by the Hungarians, might see their empire begin the process of collapse from the weight of its internal contradictions. Communism as a political orthodoxy is not about to end tomorrow. However, handled correctly, the process that could lead to its unravelling might begin tomorrow. That is the importance of what is happening here now.
9
I got your message [Anna wrote in her notebook]. Someone telephoned from the Foreign Office. I couldn’t believe it. A few words from you. When you didn’t return that night in Vienna I was distraught. I thought something terrible had happened to you. Those days without news of you were the worst of my life. I knew nothing. All I could do was hope.
The certainty that I am in your thoughts has brought me back to life. You are with me always, every hour of every day, and most nights too. Sleeping without you is hard. I lie awake for hours, my mind alive with memories of you. I can hear your voice; sometimes I think I can feel your warmth beside me. I know you will be free soon. These people have no reason to keep you there. Darling Joe. I love you. Anna.
10
Martineau arranges to take Eva out to dinner, arguing to himself that it will be easier to break the news in a neutral setting. He is late, held up at the embassy waiting for a telephone call from London that doesn’t come. She is sitting at the table when he arrives. The delight in her eyes when she looks up and sees him, her pleasure in his presence, not to speak of her beauty, contrive to break his resolve. He hasn’t the heart to upset her happiness. How easily he deceives himself. He drinks more than he intends, talks feverishly throughout dinner and is easily persuaded by Eva to return to the flat after they’ve eaten. Dora is staying with her friend. He thanks heaven for Dora’s friend, stays the night and says nothing.
On the way to his office early the following morning, he is overcome by guilt at his cowardice. Nothing, not even his memories of Eva lying in his arms, can obliterate the force of Carswell’s warning, that his personal circumstances are too fragile to avoid the instruction. It will be painful, he knows, but the pain must be faced and the relationship ended. Eva can have no part in his life now. As he takes the lift to the fourth floor, he resolves to act on this knowledge. He will see her tonight and end the affair. Like a man awaiting execution, he finds it impossible to believe in the reality of his own death but is buoyed up by the exhilaration of dying for a cause.
By midday his determination has evaporated. The cause is no longer worth a life. He feels trapped and increasingly desperate. Morose and brooding, he avoids Eva for two days, using his work as the excuse. If he does not see her, nothing is to be decided. Unaware that any sentence has been passed, she is reprieved. Then she telephones, the call is irresistible and he goes to Vaci Street.
*
‘I have to speak to you, Eva.’ The words burst from him like an explosion. He is standing in her sitting room, in his shirtsleeves, drinking beer.
‘What about?’
There’s no escape now. It is all much worse than the scene he has replayed in his mind so many times.
‘Us. You and me. What’s happened between us.’
She knows by the sound of his voice that he is serious. She stands beside him and takes his hand.
‘What is it?’
On the way over in the taxi he has rehearsed a dozen ways of telling her that they can have no future because of what he is. Now it comes to it, the words vanish. He is tongue-tied. He has no idea what to say.
‘Bobby. Tell me, please.’
‘I haven’t told you the truth about myself.’
‘Oh, that.’ Does she sound dismissive, or is it just his imagination?
‘I’m not what I said I was.’
‘You don’t work at the embassy?’
‘I’m not a diplomat.’
‘I guessed you weren’t a diplomat. I see many diplomats in my profession. You don’t behave like one. If you did, you would not be here now.’
‘I’m an intelligence officer. The people I work for have found out about us.’
Those are the fatal words. Once they are uttered, there can be no turning back. He sees the expression in her face change. She understands the rules of this particular game. Does that tell him something about her?
‘Are they telling you to leave me?’
‘Yes.’
For a moment she says nothing. Then she gets up and walks away, leaning her head against the wall, her back to him. ‘I can’t live without you, Bobby. I will die if you go.’
‘What do you think I feel like?’
There’s an awful distance between them. It is worse than he feared it might be.
‘Then listen to me. Don’t listen to them.’ She is facing him now.
‘What choice do I have, Eva?’
‘It’s your life.’
‘They control it.’
‘Why? Why must it be like this?’ He is beside her and she holds on to him desperately, tears in her eyes. ‘I can guess what your people say about me. That woman is a communist, do not trust her. Being with her is dangerous. Am I right?’
He says nothing.
‘I cannot stop them believing what they like but it is not true. What matters is that you believe me when I say I’m not any of those things. I am a Hungarian woman who has fallen in love with you. I have loved men before, I have been to bed with men I thought I loved, but until I met you, I had never known my own heart. Now, when I was least prepared for it, I have found what I have always wanted. It is the most wonderful discovery of my life.’
She kisses his hand and holds it against her cheek. He wants to weep he feels so wretched. He believes what she says; these are the words he has waited all his life to hear. He knows she is telling the truth – he only has to look at the pain and distress in her eyes to see that – and he knows that nothing he can do can save them.
‘It’s out of my control,’ he says again. ‘It’s because of what I represent and what you represent. It’s nothing to do with us as individuals.’
‘Isn’t it better that we should love each other than want to kill each other?’ she asks bitterly. He knows she doesn’t expect an answer. ‘What will become of us, Bobby? What’s going to happen?’
‘I don’t know. I wish I did but I don’t.’
‘You cannot let them do this to us, Bobby. I won’t let them take you away from me.’
She throws herself on him, holding him tightly to her. He feels her warm tears on his skin. It is more than he can bear. How can anyone ask him to give up this woman? Has Carswell any notion of what love is?
‘Please, Eva. Don’t cry, please.’
‘Even my daughter has noticed how I have changed these last few weeks. She says to me, it is that Englishman, isn’t it? Are you having an affair with him? No, I tell her. This is not an affair. For the first time in my life I am truly in love. When I tell her that she kisses me and tells me she is happy because she knows I am happy.’
He cannot talk any more. Words have become meaningless because they are powerless, they can change nothing. He takes her in his arms and kisses her, tasting the tears on her cheeks. He loves her and she loves him. For a few moments the importance of this admission defies the future. She has told him all he needs to hear. She is his and his alone. He will love her and the world and its demands will be forgotten.
‘Love me,’ she murmurs in his ear. ‘Love me once more. Take me away from all this pain.’
He does as she asks. It is all he can do.
*
She lies against him sleeping. Once, briefly, she cries in her sleep. Translucent lozenges of tears slip down her cheeks. He wipes her eyes with a corner of the sheet but she does not wake up. He reaches out and traces his fingers along her body, gently so he won’t disturb her, feeling the velvet of her skin through his fingertips. He tries to imagine what it will be like without her, knowing that she is here, in this city, in this street, in this apartment, in this bed, but without him. He tries to understand what separation from her will mean, but he is so overwhelmed by her presence that his imagination fails him.
In another life with different rules, he would be free to touch her, kiss her, stay with her as often and for as long as he wished. There would be no Christine, no guilt, no concealment, no lies. But in the life he lives, with the rules he plays by, after tonight he will no longer be able to approach her. The soft warm skin that he can touch freely now will be denied him, on the other side of an invisible border, even though it is aching for his caress.
‘Is this the last time?’ he asks himself. He gazes at her naked body, he hears the soft sound of her breathing, he smells the warm sweetness of her presence. ‘After tonight, will I never see you again?’
Hope drains out of him. There is nothing he can do. The love he has searched for has been taken from him the moment he has found it. He turns away from the sleeping body of the woman he loves and faces the wall.
*
He looks out of the window. The grey of the sky is streaked with pink. The street lights blaze, though the streets are empty. There is a sense of emptiness and absence not only of the sounds of people and movement, but of hope and joy. The world is suspended, waiting for the day to do its worst.
How is it possible that this beautiful city with its elegant houses, its intricate decorations, its gypsy music, its dances, all its natural abundance and energy should be held back, separated from its own nature, by the will of a few men? How cruel that its beauty should contain a horror that stalks its streets day and night.
He hears a church bell strike five times.
*
When the morning comes he will get up and shave. He will see her reflection in the bathroom mirror as she gets out of bed. He will take a last look at the naked body that he has come to know so well before she wraps herself in a dressing gown. She will fuss around him, straightening his tie, brushing his hair with her fingers, cutting bread, pouring his coffee, but she will say nothing of any importance, she will not look him in the eye. He will drink the coffee, collect his things from the bedroom, put on his jacket, take one last look down into the street from the balcony – it is his instinct always to check that his exit is clear – and turn to leave.
She will throw herself into his arms, clinging to him desperately. He knows she will hate herself for this because she will have wanted him to leave the flat before she bursts into tears. He will kiss her, hold her, he will tell her he loves her again and again, then he will disentangle himself, look at her one last time and leave the flat. As he goes down the stairs, he knows his heart will break.
12
1
He had no idea what time it was when they came to get him. His watch had been removed when he had arrived at the prison along with all his other possessions, his belt and his shoelaces. His guards, whom he had not seen before, took him by a different route from his cell to a new interrogation room. Not a word was said on the way. He was treated anonymously, an object that had to be moved quickly and efficiently from one location to another. It was dark outside. This was the first time he had been interrogated at night.
His interrogator was a Soviet general. He had a gold signet ring, he noticed, a gold watch, an immaculate uniform. Signs of vanity? he wondered. He was about forty, he guessed, and thickset, with prematurely greying hair and heavy black eyebrows over dark eyes that gave nothing away. A square, pale face. The pallid skin of a man of interiors, used to the artificial light of prisons, interrogation rooms, execution chambers, gave him an air of colourless cruelty. The look of a hangman.
This was it. The preliminaries were over. The real test was about to begin. Give nothing away. How easy it was to say that before you came face to face with your i
nterrogator. Leman felt his body chill in a mist of fear.
‘It is hard to conceal secrets from us, Mr Leman.’ He spoke in Russian without apology or explanation. Neither appeared necessary. ‘We have good sources in your country. We know a great deal about you.’
The ground rules of the interrogation were being spelled out. If the Soviets were able to gather information in London, how much better they must be on their own territory. Leman would have little scope for imaginative manoeuvres.
The general opened a leather briefcase and retrieved a file. (Where would the communist system be without its inexhaustible supply of files, each one thicker than the one before, each one an elaborate web of lies and deceptions designed to implicate the innocent?) In a neutral voice, he read out a summary of Leman’s life. Date and place of birth. Parents’ names and occupation. Cambridge. His visit to the Soviet Union as an undergraduate. The Institute. Anna. Moore Street. No mention of Sykes. That was a relief. If they hadn’t discovered his connection with Sykes, then maybe there were other gaps in their knowledge. He’d have to wait and see.
‘We know you did not come here of your own accord.’ He held up the file in a gesture that suggested Leman was being asked to take an oath before testifying. ‘Who sent you?’
‘Surely your sources in London told you that.’
‘Who sent you?’ The question was repeated with a chilling patience.
‘No one.’
‘You are an academic by training. You have a job as an analyst at the Institute of Soviet Affairs in London. There is no evidence in your past life to suggest that you are a man of action. One day you relinquish the cautious habits of a lifetime and the next you are arrested on the outskirts of Budapest without a visa. You cannot expect me to believe you took such a decision on your own.’
The Russian was pacing the floor, playing with a gold fountain pen. He turned it over and over in his hands, watching it catch the light and send reflected beams dancing around the room.
Secret Kingdom Page 25