‘As a matter of fact,’ he said gloomily, looking out of the window again, ‘I haven’t got enough money to go to Finland just now, anyway.’
Sasha was silent.
‘I’m sorry, Sasha,’ said Manning.
‘If you do decide you want to go,’ said Sasha, ‘I’ll certainly ask for you.’
‘No, no. It was just one of those ideas one has.’
‘I only want to do what’s best for you, Paul.’
‘I know you do. I’m sorry.’
Sasha’s gentle eyes rested on Manning, full of earnest sympathy.
‘I know the feeling, Paul,’ he said. ‘A great restlessness. I get it too on a day like this. I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We’ll go to the Conservatory this evening. My friend Yuri Shchedrin – I told you about him; we used to play duets together when we were boys – is singing twelve Schubert songs. We’ll forget our troubles. We’ll forget Soviet public utilities. We’ll forget Moscow.’
Excited, as he always was by the sound or the thought of music, he began to sing ‘Frühlingsglaube’ in his sweet, soft tenor.
‘Die linden Lüfte sind erwacht …’
‘That would be nice,’ said Manning.
‘And afterwards we could go on to that Georgian grill in the Arbat. Have a shashlik – drink a bottle of wine – look at the pretty girls.’
‘I look forward to it,’ said Manning. And suddenly he did. He felt unable to look beyond the prospect of small pleasures in the immediate future, as if he were a child. In various pleasant or unpleasant ways Sasha often made him feel like a child. He picked up his bag and went to the door.
‘I apologize for my childishness,’ he said.
Sasha waved the apology away.
‘Incidentally,’ he said as Manning opened the door, ‘I hear there was someone round here looking for you last night.’
‘So the doorkeeper told me.’
Sasha looked at him expectantly. When Manning did not elucidate further, he asked:
‘That would be your friend Gordon Proctor-Gould, would it, Paul?’
‘Would it?’
‘I thought it might be. I believe he’s trying to get in touch with you.’
‘You’ve met him, have you?’
‘No, no. I heard about him.’
‘From whom?’
‘From some friends of mine. You’ll be in the library, will you, if he calls again today?’
‘Yes.’
‘Perhaps I could invite you both out for dinner some time? You know I’m always pleased to meet any friend of yours, Paul.’
‘Yes,’ said Manning. ‘I know.’
‘Particularly a very old friend like Gordon Proctor-Gould.’
‘Quite. You’re not the last person in Moscow to meet him, Sasha, I assure you. I’ve never set eyes on him myself.’
Manning shut the door and walked down the corridor towards his habitual place in the Faculty library. He already felt slightly guilty. Sasha would worry about Proctor-Gould now all morning.
4
Another diamond-bright day was ending. Luminous shadows reached across the great central squares; devoured them entirely; left only the skyscrapers still shining in the pale gold light.
By the fountains in Sverdlov Square Katerina was already waiting for Manning, darting little nervous glances about her like a bird. She was still wearing her winter overcoat and her brown woollen stockings. Beneath the blonde plait looped up around her head her face was all pink-and-white – a winter face. She saw Manning while he was still crossing the roadway, and ran to meet him between the traffic lanes, putting her hand on his arm for a second and giving him a quick, shy smile.
‘You look so tall and dark and discontented,’ she said, letting him watch out for the traffic and guide her by the elbow. ‘You must learn to accept yourself.’
‘It’s the circumstances around me that make me discontented.’
‘The circumstances around you are part of you. People carry their lives about with them like tortoises carry their shells.’
Manning found the grave aphorism a solace. Though he supposed that she might equally well have said: ‘One’s circumstances are insignificant. People shed their lives like snakes slough their skins.’ He supposed he would have found that equally comforting.
They began to walk about the city, at a steady pace but in no particular direction, companionable but not touching each other, and for some time saying nothing. They left the crowded pavements of the centre, and lost themselves in streets fronted by peeling brown apartment blocks, and small basement workshops whose pavement-level windows exhaled heat, clatter, and the smell of oiled machinery.
Manning thought that Katerina was somewhat younger than himself, but he did not know. He knew very little about her or the life she carried around with her; they never talked about such things. He didn’t even know where she lived. He wrote to her by way of a box number in the Central Post Office, suggesting a meeting-place. Then they would walk the streets for an hour or two, sometimes talking, sometimes silent.
‘Look up at the sky,’ she said. ‘Blue and gold from horizon to horizon. Now you’re looking into the iris of God’s eye.’
‘Literally, Katya?’
‘Oh, yes. The sky is God’s iris. But it is also God’s sadness, and God’s great age. All God’s attributes are every part of Him.’
‘And yet I’ve heard you say, Katya, that God is within us?’
‘Yes – He within us, and we within Him. We are God, Paul.’
‘But we’re free to please or displease Him.’
‘Of course. We are entirely free in every possible way. But our liberty must be comprehended in God’s Liberty. That’s obvious.’
Katerina often talked about God. She had apperceptions of Him at every corner, feeling His presence in the air she drew into her lungs, seeing His hands pierced by the skyscrapers. Manning liked to hear her speak of God, and led her on with questions. He liked to think of the hot lathes in the basement workshops and the inert masonry of the public buildings as being in some way impregnated with human attributes and sensibilities, just as he liked to try to see the whole visible world, including himself, Katya, and the people crowding off the trolley-buses on their way home from work, as nothing but a complexly interbalanced network of electrical charges. It was an astonishing vision – like suddenly catching a glimpse of oneself from behind in a double mirror.
‘As you know,’ he said, ‘I don’t understand what you say about God at all.’
‘Nor do I. We couldn’t expect to. All we can do is to venture descriptions of Him which give rise to unfathomable infinities and unresolvable contradictions, and to contemplate these with humility.’
Sometimes Katerina spoke of the sufferings of people she knew, particularly those of her friend Kanysh, who had remained in Moscow for a year without police permission in order to be near her, unable to get a job because he was a Kazakh. He had been in despair and ill with hunger, and he had been deported to Ulan-Bator back in November, just before Manning had met Katerina at the door of the Foreign Literature Library, weeping because she had forgotten her pass and couldn’t get in. Katya collected Kanysh’s letters from Box Number 734 at the Central Post Office and read them as she walked about the streets. Manning had seen her. The letters were written in a close, sloping hand on thick wads of cheap blue writing paper, and she carried them round and re-read them until they wore out at the folds and fell to pieces.
How Katerina supported herself Manning didn’t know. He believed she lived with a widowed mother and an aunt, and that she had some connexion with the Philological Faculty. He felt it would have been overstepping the boundaries of their relationship to ask. He knew that she was translating Rilke’s Geschichten vom lieben Gott into Russian. But of course, it would never be published. He had no idea how far she had got with it. Sometimes her remarks seemed to indicate that she was revising a finished translation. Sometimes she seemed to suggest that it was beyond her even to st
art.
They walked down a long, straight avenue with factory chimneys smoking behind blind brick walls. The streetlights sprang on in the thickening dusk.
‘Shall I tell you a story?’ asked Katerina.
‘Yes, I’d like to hear one of your stories.’
She thought for a moment.
‘In a far distant land,’ she said, ‘there lived an old man with three sons. The old man was dying. He called his three sons around the bed and told them he had one last wish – to see before he died a man who had led a life of perfect happiness. So the three sons set off to search the world for such a man. The eldest son, Petya, searched the cold lands in the north. The next eldest son, Kolya, searched the hot lands in the south. And the youngest son, Vanya, took a boat and searched the Empire of the Sea-King.
5
Later they talked about Sasha.
‘I wish he’d lose his temper with me when we have these scenes,’ said Manning. ‘He just looks hurt, and then forgives me.’
‘It’s better to hurt someone who’s capable of forgiving you than someone who’s not,’ said Katerina.
‘It doesn’t seem like that at the time.’
‘There’s no point in having moral qualities if they’re not used.’
‘That sounds cynical.’
‘It’s not intended to be.’
‘But, Katya, you wouldn’t want me to hurt your feelings, just so that you could exercise your forgiveness?’
‘No, because I’m not strong, like Sasha. I’m weak, and I shouldn’t forgive you.’
They walked in silence for some minutes.
‘He took me to hear Shchedrin last night,’ said Manning. ‘He knows him – they were in an orphanage together during the war. We had dinner with Shchedrin and his wife afterwards.’
‘Did you like them?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘Was Shchedrin very modest? Did he make little jokes in a quiet voice, and make everyone laugh respectfully?’
‘Do you know him?’
‘No, but I can imagine him. A neat blue suit. A tidy, quiet face, with smooth skin filling out a little round the jowl.’
‘That’s a caricature….’
‘No, it’s a description. All Sasha’s friends are of a type.’
‘You’ve never met Sasha or his friends.’
‘You’ve told me about them. I know their sort.’
‘Their sort? Katya, why are you so contemptuous of them? They’re good people.’
‘Of course they’re good. They’re strong, good, able people, whose strength and goodness and ability enable them to rise above their brothers. Well, God be with them. But I want to make it clear that I am one of the others – the ones who are not strong or good enough – the ones who are risen above.’
‘Sasha and Shchedrin may be better paid….’
‘It’s not money, of course. Even if Shchedrin had to walk the roads and beg his bread, he’d still know that he could sing like one of God’s angels. That would be real riches.’
‘And you want to take that away from him?’
‘No! I just want to commit myself to those who have no such riches. That’s the real battle in life – the one between the strong and the weak.’
‘And you’re weak, Katya?’
‘Yes. I’m weak because I’m afraid of so many things. But I recognize my weakness, and I use it as my passport to where I want to be – in the ranks of the losers.’
‘Am I weak, Katya?’
‘Oh, yes. But you’d never admit it to yourself. You’d like people to think you were strong. So you put a good face on it and stay close to those who are strong – like a little boy who marches down the street with the soldiers.’
It was quite dark, and suddenly very cold. The feeling of spring had gone with the light.
‘I met someone last night,’ said Katerina after a long silence, ‘who said he was an old friend of yours.’
‘Proctor-Gould? Where did you come across him?’
‘At the desk in Sector B. I came to look for you.’
‘Oh,’ said Manning, ‘it was you?’
‘The woman at the desk wouldn’t let me in, and she wouldn’t tell me whether you were there or not. So I started to cry – you know how I do.’
‘Then Proctor-Gould came along?’
‘Yes. He tried to cheer me up. He spoke a little German – very badly.’
‘What did you think of him, Katya?’
‘I’m not sure. I thought for a start that he was very confident – he put his arm round me as if it was the most natural thing in the world. But then I began to wonder if he wasn’t one of those people who do everything boldly and confidently in order to impress themselves – to convince themselves by external evidence that it must be right. It’s like trying to persuade oneself one’s rich by spending money – a sort of confidence trick upon oneself. One day the bills fall due and one discovers one’s own deceit.’
Manning looked at his watch. They had been walking for over an hour.
‘Shall we find a restaurant and have something to eat?’ he asked.
Katerina shook her head.
‘One can’t talk and eat. Anyway, two people can’t really talk facing each other. It’s much better to talk in the streets, walking side by side.’
‘Do you want to go on walking for a bit, then?’
‘No. There’s nothing more I want to say to you today. Good-bye, Paul.’
For an instant her head turned towards him, her nervous smile flickered in the light from the street-lamps, and her hand rested on his arm. Then she had turned and was disappearing down the steps of a Metro station. Manning gazed after her, disconcerted by her lack of ceremony and shocked by her frankness.
The station was called Komsomolskaya, after the Communist League of Youth. He stared at the word, aimlessly repeating the melodious syllables over to himself. Behind him someone cackled with laugher, and shouted out:
‘You look, and look, and look!’
Manning swung round. For a moment he could see no one. Then there was another burst of laughter from somewhere down near pavement level, and Manning saw an old man with snow-white hair, sitting propped up in a little wooden trolley, like a Guy Fawkes in a go-cart, with leather pads on his knuckles to push himself along. Both legs were amputated just below the groin.
‘You stare, and stare, and still you stare!’ cried the old man, leaning on his padded knuckles and shaking all over with violent laughter.
6
In the end Manning met Proctor-Gould by chance. He was walking past the Hotel National after lunch one day when a man with a large, lugubrious face came slowly out, gazing absently at the street with eyes as soft as a spaniel’s and pulling at his right ear. He was wearing a double-breasted blue blazer with brass buttons, some sort of institutional tie, and dark grey flannel trousers. His breast pocket was full of pens. His suède shoes were going shiny over the bulges made by the little toes, and there were odd threads of cotton adhering to the nap of the blazer. Manning was astonished. Why had no one mentioned that he was moonfaced? Or that one’s overall impression of him was one of seediness? But he did not doubt for a moment that it was Proctor-Gould.
As he drew level the sad brown eyes focused on him.
‘Paul Manning,’ said Proctor-Gould conversationally.
‘Gordon Proctor-Gould,’ said Manning.
They shook hands, as if they really were old friends, and had not seen one another for a month or two.
‘I’ve been trying to contact you,’ said Proctor-Gould. But you seem to be rather an elusive customer.’
‘Why didn’t you leave a note for me and tell me where you were staying?’
Proctor-Gould gave a wry chuckle.
‘I did think of it,’ he said. ‘The old brain will just about run that far. But let me confess, I thought I’d take the opportunity to meet some of your friends and find out a little about you.’
He looked at Manning, his eyes open humorously
wide, inviting Manning to register some sort of humorous indignation in return. Manning felt that he would have been most at home in one of those conversations which consist in the leisurely exchange of heavy banter, like the desultory dialogue of long-range artillery. There was some sort of ponderous charm about him. Manning saw why people smiled when they thought of him.
‘Naughty of me, I know, Paul,’ went on Proctor-Gould, pulling at his ear again. ‘But one learns to make a few discreet inquiries about one’s potential business associates.’
‘I’m a potential business associate?’
‘I have a little proposition to put to you. Can you spare ten minutes now? We could talk about it over a cup of coffee.’
Manning nodded, and Proctor-Gould ushered him into the gloomy lobby of the hotel, where only the polished brass fitments and the pale suits of American tourists gleamed among the sombre pre-Revolutionary furnishings.
‘It makes a change to be dossing down in this place,’ said Proctor-Gould. ‘They usually put me in the Hotel Ukraine, miles from anywhere. I seem to be persona fairly grata with the authorities at the moment.’
They went up to Proctor-Gould’s room, a dark, lofty chamber on the third floor, furnished in the characteristic Imperial baroque, and looking out over the Kremlin. Proctor-Gould appeared to be not so much occupying the room as camping in it, like a rambler in some corner of the lawns at Versailles. An open suitcase lay on the floor at the foot of the bed, a tangled heap of possessions straggling out across the carpet. Suspended on plastic hangers from the dark furniture all about the room were wet shirts and socks, dripping into antique ornamental bowls or on to pages from Soviet newspapers.
‘I’m sorry about the laundry,’ said Proctor-Gould. ‘But I don’t trust the local washerwoman not to boil and beat my shirts to pieces. Sit down and make yourself at home.’
He rummaged in the suitcase, found a little aluminium camper’s kettle with a folding handle, and disappeared with it into the corridor. Manning sat down in an uncomfortable carved chair, with brass lions’ heads beneath his hands, and gazed about him, steeping himself in the profound melancholy of the room. On a table in the corner were stacked dozens and dozens of English books, all still in their dust-jackets. Manning put his head on his shoulder to read the titles. He made out Religion and the Rise of Capitalism, The Human Use of Human Beings, Philosophical Investigations, five copies of Lucky Jim, and seven copies of the Concise Oxford Dictionary.
The Russian Interpreter Page 3