‘So I must’ve spoiled your fun. I’m sorry.’
‘Oh, dear, don’t let’s get into a routine of saying sorry to each other.’ She drove a little too fast into a sharp corner. ‘Ben didn’t say you were like that.’
He wondered exactly how he had been characterised. Presumably Ben had now anglicised himself to the point of never using his Russian name.
‘Where is he now?’ he asked.
‘You’ll see.’
Though the words might have seemed sharp, she spoke them with the patience of someone used to evading direct questions. He studied her profile, noting that she now drove very intently once she was able to drive fast, anticipating likely danger but with the confidence of the watchful. She did not have Jenny’s brisk, rather defiant manner of spinning the steering wheel as she flicked her way in and out of traffic.
‘I’ve been wondering what happened to him. I thought he might still be in London.’
‘No, he’s not in London.’
‘I suppose he’s given up calling himself Boris.’
‘I simply don’t know what you’re talking about.’
He realized his fishing had been a mistake. Her tone was sharp. If Boris had anglicised himself successfully, then he’d obviously never been known as Boris. He turned to look at Dolly in the back seat.
‘Have you got Andy?’ her mother asked, glancing in the rear-view mirror.
‘I have. You mustn’t fuss, Mummy. You know I always have him.’
He saw she was holding a teddy bear wearing a rather bedraggled bow tie.
‘I like your teddy,’ he said. ‘He looks very well brought up.’
‘Yes, he’s very well brought up,’ Dolly agreed. She sat upright, chin raised. ‘I’ve brought him up very well.’ She looked out of the window.
‘He’s been up to London today, has he?’
‘Of course.’
It was a perfectly sensible rebuke. Silly of him to ask.
‘How did you know I was really the one you wanted?’ He spoke to Gloria Billington.
‘Ben showed me a photograph of you. Everyone at that place where you worked had to have one. That’s what Ben said.’
She glanced round at him as if seeking reassurance for Ben’s claim. He recognised that she might know a great deal more about him than he supposed.
‘So what’s he told you about me?’
‘He said you and he were good friends. He said he trusted you. You’re apparently very fond of poetry, as he is. And you’ve got a good reputation, so you’d be the best person to…’
‘To what?’
‘To do the translations.’
‘Ah. So he’s got more translations, has he?’
‘I’m not going to say anything more.’
Because they were driving along an open road and the pale blue sky now free of rain clouds had the look of a girl’s innocent face, he suddenly had an intuition about Gloria Billington. He felt the magic of the afternoon was telling him that she suspected he was as much a rival as an intruder. She was the one who was in love with Ben, the afternoon was saying. She was the one who protected, cherished, perhaps organised, made love with and sought to have as her own. He would have to be careful with her, he thought, recognising that it would be wise not to mention how close he had come to meeting Ben the previous evening. Or mention Jenny or his success in decoding Ben’s message. She had, he supposed, the sort of confidence in her own power that only the really wealthy seem to possess as if by right.
‘Do you speak any Russian?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘But Ben believes you’re the only one he can trust.’
‘Trust to translate, you mean?’
‘Exactly.’
They drove in silence along a motorway and then through small villages along curling roads. Suddenly they were in woodland, going down a hill past houses and a school – ‘See, they’re coming out!’ Dolly shouted. ‘Yes, dear,’ said her mother – and then turning into a narrow lane, descending farther into woodland past a few bungalows, the tyres crunching over fallen branches that littered the tarmac. It was windy and there was a brief tattoo on the car roof as something – acorns or twigs – fell on it. Then they came to large steel gates and tall fencing. The gates opened automatically at their approach and admitted them to vistas of tall trees, many of them oaks, through which they drove slowly.
The smell of the woodland was sharp and moist and deep. It penetrated into the car’s interior through slightly open windows, rather like the surrounding quiet that had the curious effect of diminishing the sound of tyres squelching on leaf mould and hissing through puddles with a gentle sibilance. As they rocked slowly through small depressions in the woodland road, a mystery seemed to encase them. It grew thicker, more profound in the gradually enveloping stillness. Brief flashes of emerald sparks came through the pillars of the trees in what seemed like an encroaching sylvan dusk, emphasising the sight of leaves falling singly or in torrents as the wind ruffled the topmost branches.
Then they stopped by a house. She turned off the engine. In that instant the silence of the place was immense.
‘Go down the path,’ she said. ‘You’ll find him down there,’
‘Ben, you mean?’
‘Down there.’
She sounded angry as she spoke. There was a path down through more trees beside what he thought at first was an outhouse. She pointed at that and for fear of upsetting her any more he walked off in that direction. As soon as he had gone a short way down the path he realized the outhouse was a wing or extension of the main house. It was a much bigger building than the front of it suggested. There were further buildings at the back resembling farm buildings. He saw two youths in blue jeans and knee-high boots entering one of the buildings carrying what looked like sacks of feed and somewhere or other a tractor could be heard, but a few steps later the noise became almost inaudible as the path took a downward turn, the buildings disappeared from view and he was again in the mysterious silence of the trees.
He came to another gate that opened into a fenced area of open grass, trees and bushes. In its uninhabited but well-trimmed look it resembled part of a golf course. And then he supposed that’s what it might be, for he saw what looked like a white marker stone on a piece of level grass at the far end of the vista. Otherwise there appeared to be no sign of habitation, let alone a building. He stared at the place, thinking this was as far as he could go. He’d come here and there was nothing. That’s it, then: I, Joseph Richter, am being tested, he thought in a sudden access of self-pity. In a flash the flimsiness of the whole business seemed obvious to him. Leo Kamen’s money, the letter, Ben’s message, the train trip, Gloria Billington – they were all parts of a sickening con trick. He was a patsy! The only reality was the slight burning sensation that he felt beneath the Band-Aid on the inside of his left wrist.
It took him a moment or so to realize that, by standing where he was, he was visible to the entire fairway. He thought of turning back and demanding that he be taken to the station. ‘Down there’ was all she had said and ‘down here’ was nowhere: open grassland, a white marker and distant woodland! It would be pointless to go on because there was no sign of a path or route to follow. He stood there, pursing his lips in doubt.
On the instant of turning back something caught his eye. It was a distinct movement of something white being waved beyond trees to his left. The trees formed a screen which seemed at first impenetrable in combination with the darker woodland beyond but showed the faint outline of a shape behind it. At least, he thought, he could take a closer look. He closed the gate behind him and began walking across the open grass. The wind now broke out from behind the trees and exploded against him. The grass turned into green flames. The trees behind him roared. Right in front, as the land dipped in a wide slope towards bushes, he saw the flashing white and blue of the sea and heard, even despite the roaring of the leaves, the low rumble of waves breaking along the coastline.
7
The shape looked no more distinct than an overgrown bush as he approached and he paused in the sudden certainty that he was wrong. In the blink of an eye, a flash of light, or maybe it was sunlight on a blown leaf, alerted him. He looked steadily forward into the density of the trees bordering the area of fairway and heard, even above the roar of the leaves, a voice say quite clearly like a loud stage whisper:
‘Siuda! Siuda!’
Then he saw the muzzle of the gun. It was being waved from within the overgrown bush.
‘Dobro pozhalovat’! Pridee siuda, drug moi!’
Parts of the camouflage opened to reveal a doorway in what he realized was some kind of structure that had been made to blend into the trees so perfectly it was almost invisible. It was exactly the right hiding place for his monster, except that there, offering a hand to help him in, was Boris Krestovsky or Ben Leyton as large as life, his face broad, boyish, clear pale eyes set wide apart, full expressive lips, dark-brown curly hair greying very slightly above the ears, thick-necked. The smile he offered was a sunburst of welcome. His arms in a dark-blue wool jersey were as massive in their embrace as a Russian sky. He kissed Joe loudly on either cheek.
‘Zdradstvui! Zdradstvui!’
A gust of wind made the structure shake slightly and something fell with a crack on the roof.
‘Akh, they shoot me!’
The exclamation was in English, followed by a bellow of laughter and a theatrical pretence of clutching his heart and stumbling backwards. The momentary reality of the gesture was a shock. Then in Russian:
‘It is nothing!’
Ben crossed himself with an elaborate flourish. He held the door open for his visitor and then locked it. The interior revealed the structure as a large wooden pavilion, presumably a golf house at one time, now converted into a comfortable home. Joe looked round.
‘This is where you live, is it?’
‘Sure I live here.’
‘Why the gun?’
‘Maybe enemies come. I saw you. Look.’
A small screen by the door showed a view of the open area of fairway Joe had just crossed. He shrugged. The flash of light had come from a security camera.
‘So, Boris, you reckon you’re safe here?’
Suddenly there was a rapid finger-wagging. ‘No, no, Joseph, my friend, I am Ben. Who is this Boris? No, no, Ben is free here. He comes and he goes. When you are English, your home is your castle, yes? That is probably true freedom, you know. To have your own home, that is to be free. So I call my home Sur-bit-on. Look, my Sur-bit-on!’
There had always been phases through which meetings would pass, from initial, extravagant gladness to deeper, more certain expressions of friendship, but now he invited inspection of his home with unfeigned pride of ownership. Shining imitation fawn veneer fronts to doors and tabletops were to be appreciated, along with unobtrusive fawn designs on the curtains. It was a sizeable room, well-appointed, with the further attraction of corner windows, through one of which a grassy headland and distant sea could be seen. The opposite window was covered by foliage. It darkened the interior a little, though not enough to affect the spotless gleam of metal surfaces in a small adjoining galley or mirrors on cupboard doors. The only sign of activity were an open laptop and books open on a table. Otherwise, smart upholstered furniture, including easy chairs and sofa, gave the impression of being recently installed and hardly used. In one corner was a wide-screen television showing women talking noiselessly. The room smelled faintly of paint and renovation.
‘It looks very comfortable,’ Joe said. ‘How long have you been here?’
‘No, that I won’t tell you. Please, no questions like that. We speak my own language now. As I say, I come and go.’
A touchy concern for privacy had to be deferred to, although this Sur-bit-on looked as if it was only on hire and could easily be quite transient.
‘As I say, I come and I go,’ Ben said. ‘I never realized before in my life that I could be free in reality. Here, in my Sur-bit-on, I have found freedom. Please, please, sit down. We will drink tea and you will tell me how you found me here. It was my message, wasn’t it? Yesterday I tried to find you. No, no, first we will drink tea.’ A kettle had already been boiled and the usual glasses in their metal holders were placed ready on a tray together with plates, a bowl of sugar, jam, small sweet biscuits and paper napkins. Joe sat down at a place laid on the table. ‘You see, I have learned the only truth worth knowing. You find freedom, my friend, where you never expect to find it. For me real freedom will always be accidental. So as you know, I lived my early life in Sur-bit-on, yes? And that is where I learned to be free but did not find it. This is my second Sur-bit-on and I find it here, in this comfortable wooden box just like a neat, clean summer dacha, but where no one can see me because the windows are special one-way glass windows.’
‘You’re happy, Ben?’
‘Of course!’ The question was treated with scorn. Joe acknowledged to himself he shouldn’t have asked it. Then the eyes crinkled into a smile and the finger wagged again as Ben sat down opposite. ‘Ah, I know what you’re thinking! Yes, there is that happiness too. That is the greatest happiness, of course. She is recently divorced, you know.’
It was beginning again, that unusual and un-English process in a Russian conversation when formalities ceased and were replaced by raw confessional candour. The depths of such candour would be so quickly reached Joe often found it hard to keep from drowning. So Gloria Billington was recently divorced, he told himself. Somehow that fact was not life-saving.
‘But her father has died,’ Ben was saying. It was unclear why he should mention this or accompany it with a significant gesture. ‘Very, very rich. That is the strange thing. I cannot say more at present. He died only two months ago, that was why I… Will you have lemon? I have cream if you would like it. You see, my Sur-bit-on has everything. Except…’ He sighed and made a face, as if the age of consumerism had somehow let him down ‘…except no tea leaves, no tea like our Russian tea, only tea bags. Though they make good tea. And so many sweet things. If my Klara could see how I am living now!’
‘Have you heard from her?’
‘Heard from her? Who do I hear from here? I hear leaves and the wind in the trees and the sea. And you know something? I am inspired by that sound! Remember that poem?’
Now suddenly an old mutual passion was revived between them. Joe looked into the other’s face and felt the warmth of Ben’s gaze as he leaned forward, sipped the hot tea and pushed the plate of biscuits towards his guest. The whole room again shook slightly under the buffetings of the wind, making a picture rattle on the wall. Then, clasping the metal of the glass holder just below his chin, Ben broke into a smile so sweet and honest it meant he was about to divulge the rarest, most private and heartfelt of secrets.
‘Pushkin’s poem called The Poet, remember? It is about the poet’s inspiration. Perhaps it is, you know, too simple, too Pushkinian. He sometimes had a very soft voice. So soft you might perhaps think it was just a whisper and barely audible. But unless you listen to the very lightness of the words, not the sharp little meanings that attach to each word but the sense of the whole poem breathing like a living creature, you do not feel, you know, what the poem really is. It is a very intimate, very honest confession. All right, so it starts like someone unsure how his voice sounds. He is trying out the sound of his own voice. So it sounds first of all like Pushkin is trying to be a classical poet. A bit solemn, a bit pompous, a little ordinary, banal perhaps, conventional, trying to find the right solemn, classical image when he says that so long as Apollo does not summon him to make his sacred sacrifice, he is nothing, his lyre is silent and he is perhaps the least significant among men. But as soon as the divine voice reaches his ear – and Pushkin, as we know, has a very, very sensitive ear, always so finely attuned it has perfect pitch, the reproductive quality of a perfect echo – as soon as the divine voice reaches his ear he is awakened, like an eagle, and he rises above the things
of this world, he is filled with a divine sound and fury… And then what happens?’
Joe knew perfectly well how the poem concluded, but Ben’s question at this crucial point seemed to put a full stop to his whole excited appraisal. He reinforced the impression by draining his glass of tea and uncorking a vodka bottle. It was held aloft for a few moments, then tilted. Two short measures appeared in two small glasses.
‘Should we expect a classical climax, yes? A Romantic apotheosis perhaps? Should the poet be gifted with prophetic utterance? Should he perhaps be demonic like Lermontov’s image of the poet? Should he be forever doomed to fly in a limbo between heaven and earth?’
He raised his glass. Lips apart in a contemplative smile, his eyes brightly lit in almost teasing anticipation, he stared straight into Joe’s face.
‘No, that is not Pushkin’s answer, not his climax! His is much more commonplace, much more realistic. Just listen, my friend! Listen!’
Joe listened. A gust of wind pushed against the windows, causing a flutter of leaves and, quite distantly, a faint roar of waves breaking below the headland.
‘No…’ Ben indicated Joe should pick up his glass ‘…no, all the poet does when he is inspired is rush on to the shores of empty waves –‘Na berega pustinnykh voln’ remember? – and then into wide and noisy woodlands: ‘V shiroko-shumnie dubrovy…’ So we drink to that, yes?’
‘We drink,’ Joe agreed. They both drank.
‘But such a disappointment, isn’t it?’ Ben leaned back and stared up at the ceiling.
In the pause that followed Joe could think of nothing to say and found his eyes drawn to the women still talking silently on the television screen. The incongruity of Pushkin’s poem and gossiping women seemed quite appropriate.
‘Pushkin is too simple, isn’t that what you English say?’ Ben posed the question a little sarcastically. ‘Shores of empty waves, wide and noisy woodlands! What sort of poetic inspiration is that? But you know…’ Here the finger wagged again ‘…for weeks now that is all the sounds I hear, just waves and leaves. And now I understand! I know what the words mean! I hear them day and night, day and night. They are images in sound, the poet’s inspiration expressed by his sensitive hearing and given meaning in the dark, deep, resonant vibration of the vowels locked within the words. That is Pushkin’s inspiration! It is also why I come here! In my Sur-bit-on here I feel inspired! And, of course, my inspiration is, well, you know…’
Mr Frankenstein Page 9