Face Me When You Walk Away

by Brian Freemantle

  She shivered. He saw her feet were bare. They didn’t seem very clean.

  ‘He lets me stay here sometimes.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I was worried. We went to a restaurant and there was a scene … he broke some glass and refused to pay for it. Then he walked out. I thought something might have happened to him.’

  ‘He got drunk,’ said Josef.

  ‘He often does,’ said Sanya, miserably.

  Tonight had been entirely staged, accepted Josef. Nikolai had wanted to indicate his willingness to be a puppet but had had to clothe himself in drunkenness first, so that if Josef raised any subsequent query, the writer could claim to remember nothing about it.

  ‘It isn’t very nice, is it?’ said the girl, looking over her shoulder. ‘Is he all right?’

  Josef followed her look. The apartment was cluttered and dirty, like a railway-station waiting-room.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think he’s quite proud of it.’

  ‘I wish he wouldn’t do it,’ said the girl. ‘He seems to like people recognizing him. He performs for them.’

  They were silent again, the girl with one hand against the door, Josef standing uncertainly in the corridor.

  ‘I would invite you …’ began the girl, without enthusiasm.

  ‘No,’ said Josef, ‘it’s too late.’

  He turned, but the girl spoke again.

  ‘Comrade Bultova?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What did he say about me?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Josef. ‘He just said you were here.’

  ‘Oh.’

  She was another experiment, decided Josef, driving home. He suddenly grew angry at himself. It would have meant nothing to lie to the girl, creating some innocuous remark and attributing it to Nikolai. There had been times, he reflected, when such kindness would have come naturally. And the girl would probably need kindness, eventually.

  10

  Josef was humming as he entered the Ministry of Culture. He had an advantage and the adversary was unaware of it. Rarely did things combine so well.

  He had anticipated a meeting different from the others, but even he had not expected the change that was obvious in Devgeny. The Minister was scruffy with neglect, chin bristled from careless shaving, his eyes reddened either from lack of sleep or too much vodka. Or perhaps from both. His customary ill-fitting suit was even more wrinkled than usual and his hands strayed constantly from smoothing his jacket to his face, which twitched to some perpetual irritation he appeared unable to subdue. Perhaps Illinivitch was right. Perhaps Devgeny had exhausted his usefulness, hollowed out from inside like a diseased tree, ready to fall in the first wind of opposition.

  ‘This meeting is little more than a formality,’ began Devgeny. ‘We have decided we want you to go to London directly from Stockholm. And from London, to America. We’ve seen the letters concerning the film proposals. You are to proceed with those negotiations, too.’

  Devgeny’s speech was stilted and unnatural. He seems very worried, thought Josef. ‘There are no doubts about the contracts so far negotiated?’ he asked.

  It was an important question. He was determined he could not be later accused of exceeding his authority. He directed the question to Devgeny, still according him the position of chairman.

  ‘No,’ said Devgeny. He hesitated, turning to Illinivitch for confirmation. ‘We are content with the contracts, aren’t we?’

  Illinivitch nodded, smiling.

  ‘I’ll air-freight via the diplomatic bag any further documents I accept,’ promised Josef. ‘And you’ll get the usual tape-recorded reports.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ mocked Illinivitch, clumsily attempting to remind Josef of their discussion in the apartment, as if they had some secret agreement. ‘I believe you go in for electronic paraphernalia.’ Josef ignored the jibe.

  ‘Are we prepared to allow any film to be shot within the Soviet Union?’ he queried, still addressing Devgeny.

  Again the Minister turned to Illinivitch before replying. The deputy Minister shrugged, uncaring.

  ‘Yes,’ said Devgeny. He seemed unsettled that Illinivitch had not expressed an opinion. A feeling of embarrassment grew as everyone realized the pointlessness of the meeting.

  ‘We wish you luck,’ contributed Korshunov. Josef looked pityingly at Devgeny.

  ‘I take it the meeting is over?’ he demanded, not bothering to disguise the contempt. The Minister nodded and Josef leaned sideways to collect the briefcases. When he straightened, Illinivitch was beside the chair, staring down.

  ‘I’ll walk from the building with you,’ announced the deputy Minister. Josef shrugged, putting one briefcase under his arm, between them. Illinivitch waited until they had cleared the committee room.

  ‘Well?’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  Illinivitch laughed. ‘Don’t be naive, Josef. Devgeny, of course. Have you ever seen such a collapse? He couldn’t even remember the reason for calling the meeting.’

  Josef made an uncertain gesture, not replying. Illinivitch laughed again, a humourless sound, like an old man with bronchitis clearing his throat.

  ‘You’re a cautious man, Josef.’ Still Josef stayed silent. ‘I’m waiting for your commitment,’ said the deputy Minister.

  I thought I didn’t have a choice.’ They paused outside the Ministry building. Josef’s Mercedes was in the reserved parking section.

  ‘By the way,’ said Illinivitch, suddenly. ‘Did you hear about Count von Sydon?’

  ‘Who?’ asked Josef.

  ‘Count von Sydon, the man from the Nobel Foundation whom you went to Stockholm to see. He committed suicide, just after the Literary Committee selected Nikolai.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Sad,’ said Illinivitch, heavily.

  ‘Yes,’ dismissed Josef, getting into the car. ‘I’ll keep in touch from Stockholm.’

  ‘Do that,’ said Illinivitch.

  Because it was their last night together before he left, Josef took Pamela to the Metropole Hotel for dinner. They sat, isolated in the middle of the chandeliered elegance of the dining-room, Pamela slumped with depression at the thought of being left alone again.

  ‘Perhaps it won’t be for very long,’ tried Josef. Every conversation was becoming an argument, he thought, irritably.

  ‘Then again, perhaps it will,’ she countered.

  If only there were outside friends, thought Josef. There had been a desperation in their pursuit of other people. Although he knew it would arouse criticism, he had even allowed some contact with the expatriate British colony, the defectors and spies whom she knew by reputation and imagined would have some aura of attraction, even though she recognized them as traitors and despised them for it. But it had been a novelty, like looking at two-headed calves at an Easter funfair. She had found them grubby, insecure little men, like junior clerks lost on a firm’s outing to the seaside. Their slang vocabulary was of a decade ago, their conversation meaningless trivia involving nostalgia about favoured restaurants that really weren’t very good or plays that had long ceased to run or prompt comment. Most retained their old-school ties, she had noticed, and wore suits shiny with grease and over-wear, just because there was a London or New York label inside the jacket. There was not one whom she had met whom she did not feel secretly regretted the activity that had forced them into exile. So the experiment had not worked and they had been driven back to one another and their marriage was too young for that. Maybe in ten or fifteen years it would not have created a strain. They might even have welcomed it, because by then they would have completely known each other and not needed the assurance of comparison with other people. But now their marriage needed people, like a suffocating man needs oxygen. Each felt a resentment against the other, Pamela against Josef for isolating her in a strange, even hostile country, Josef against Pamela for making him vulnerable. Tension festered until minor idiosyncrasies became major character defects. Each was ultra-polite to the other, in the way of
people alert to misinterpretation, each with an almost schoolroom anxiousness to prove the other was at fault in beginning any argument. Each shied away from personal conversation, seeking neutral discussion, and always they ran into the same cul-de-sac.

  ‘I think Nikolai’s drinking is getting worse,’ he said. The author was the only person they both knew well enough to bridge the gap of communication.

  Pamela thought often of Nikolai’s drinking, particularly at the dacha. As her loneliness increased, the memory of what had occurred there presented itself for examination like a bad photograph she would have liked to destroy if only she had had the negative, until she had persuaded herself that she had been drunk, purposely reduced to helplessness by a man determined to seduce her. She had almost exonerated herself from guilt, imagining the incident as practically a case of rape. ‘Why?’ she asked. Josef shrugged. ‘There’s rarely a night when he isn’t hopelessly drunk,’ he said. ‘Last night he was unconscious. I considered getting a doctor.’

  ‘Perhaps he was lonely.’

  It was the ambiguous sort of remark that could have caused another row and she had made it knowingly. It seemed important to score points. Josef refused the challenge.

  ‘Hardly. Sanya was with him.’

  ‘The same girl?’ Pamela’s question was abrupt. She tried to analyse the feeling. Jealousy? That was ridiculous.

  ‘Yes,’ said Josef. He had detected the quickness of his wife’s reaction.

  ‘Are they… I mean, how…?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Josef. ‘They are sleeping together.’

  ‘Lucky girl.’ It seemed too much trouble to pick up the invitation. She pecked at the remains of the chocolate cake with which they had ended their meal, needing distraction.

  ‘Has she moved in with him?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I think she just stays some nights. Remember Nikolai has a flat to himself – that’s quite a novelty for a secretary at the Ministry.’

  Pamela returned to the original question. ‘Certainly he did drink quite heavily while you were in Stockholm,’ she said. ‘You know how I feel about a lot of his behaviour. I felt the drinking was experimenting, too. On the two occasions we’ve had him at the apartment, he hasn’t drunk excessively.’

  Pamela had been terrified at both dinners, presenting every excuse and objection until they could be postponed no longer. At each, Nikolai’s disregard of her had been almost impolite.

  ‘Not excessively,’ agreed Josef. ‘But he’s been fairly drunk.’

  ‘Are you worried about it?’

  Josef looked uncertain. ‘He still hasn’t begun a sequel to Walk Softly on a Lonely Day,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t see that proves anything. Surely writing a book isn’t like building a motor-car? You can’t expect a level of productivity every day.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ accepted Josef. ‘But whenever I mention a sequel he gets annoyed, dismissing me as someone who doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I think he’s enjoying fame too much.’

  She laughed contemptuously. ‘That’s pretty limited, surely?’

  ‘By Western standards,’ he agreed. ‘But not here. He’s recognized wherever he goes … makes sure of it even. I think he’s flattered by the privileges. If it’s gone to his head here, what’s it going to be like in Stockholm and London?’ Josef smiled, reflectively. ‘I think I preferred it in the early days at the dacha. He was certainly easier to control.’

  Aware that by this time the following day she would be alone, Pamela wanted to protract the evening as long as possible.

  ‘Had a letter from my mother today. She said she might get a visa to come here.’

  She seemed to expect some response from Josef, but he stayed silent.

  ‘Could you help?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ll try.’ He paused. Then he said, ‘You’re pretty unhappy here, aren’t you?’

  She tensed, anticipating another argument.

  ‘Yes,’ she admitted. ‘Very unhappy.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  She jerked her shoulders. The movement spilled cake crumbs over the table. Embarrassed, she began picking them up between thumb and forefinger and replacing them on the small plate.

  ‘So am I,’ she said. ‘I didn’t think it would be like this. It’s like being … like being locked up. I feel trapped here, just like those poor sods at the British colony.’

  ‘I did warn you it would be different from what you were used to,’ he reminded, gently.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Wish you’d listened?’

  ‘Frequently.’ Silence built itself into a barrier between them.

  ‘I’ve been wondering …’ she said, groping.

  ‘What?’

  ‘… Would it be possible for me to accompany you on these trips? Could we afford it, I mean?’

  Josef hesitated. First a weakness. Now an encumbrance.

  ‘We could afford it, certainly …’

  ‘You don’t want me.’ Immediately the anger flared, her voice loud. Several people glanced from adjoining tables.

  ‘That’s not true,’ he said, anxiously. ‘And you know it. I’m as upset at these separations as you are. But mine aren’t the sort of business trips to which you’re accustomed. Sometimes the discussions are …’ He stopped, searching for an expression that would not offend her. ‘… Well, delicate. The government wouldn’t welcome the thought of your being with me.’

  ‘So I’m going to be stuck here for ever.’

  ‘Of course not. You’ve retained your British passport, so you won’t need an exit visa, just the guarantee of readmission.’

  ‘I hate this country,’ she snapped, bitterly.

  ‘You don’t know it,’ he said. ‘You’ve been here barely eight months.’

  ‘I’m miserable. And lonely.’

  She really was quite immature, he decided. He wondered if she had been spoiled by both her parents or just one of them.

  ‘Perhaps you could come on some trips,’ he offered. ‘Once I’d made the initial contacts and overcome most of the problems of negotiation. I’ll try. I promise.’

  ‘And mother. You’ll help with her visa?’

  ‘If I can.’

  11

  Despite the cold, Josef insisted on driving to Sheremetyevo Airport with the car windows half down, trying to drive away the stench that still clung from Nikolai’s apartment. The rooms had smelt of sweat and vomit and unwashed bodies, and had brought the memories crowding back. The barrack blocks had been like that, at first. He’d become used to it, very quickly, but his father had never been able to adjust. The old man had been physically sick the first day, Josef remembered, retching at the foulness, his fragile body arched because his stomach was empty. Never before had Josef seen his father cry. It had embarrassed him, like the first time he had seen him without his trousers, squatting over the open toilet-hole. He’d blushed then, he recalled, and walked quickly away, hoping he hadn’t been noticed. The old man had to be allowed some dignity. In the end, of course, there had been nothing. In the months before his death, he’d cradled the sobbing head and put him to toilet, like a child. It had been a vow when he left the camp that never again would he allow himself in contact with such squalor and he hadn’t, not until that morning. Dust had been so thick it furred everything, almost like moss, puffing up in tiny clouds at any movement. The debris of meals lay around in nearly every room, scum and mildew forming in cups and over discarded scraps of food. There was a profusion of bottles, some standing, some lopsided on the table, bleeding away their tiny residue over the yellow, stained cloth. The typewriter had been on a small table in the corner, the lid closed, paper haphazard around it. Josef had walked over and ruffled the paper. The Nobel Lecture should have been there. Twice Nikolai had assured him he was working on it. He had shuffled the paper, like cards. It had all been blank.

  Distressed by the recollection that the smell had brought and angry at the man, Josef had burst into the bedroom, to fin
d Nikolai alone and crying. He had kicked the clothes away and was lying, naked.

  ‘I’m scared, Josef. I don’t want to go.’

  ‘You’ve no choice.’

  His anger had made him hostile, which was wrong. But it was another performance, Josef had decided.

  ‘I don’t deserve it. We’ll make an excuse. Say I’m ill. I can’t do it again, ever. I’ve tried. Really, I’ve tried. But the words won’t come …’

  Josef had looked down on the man, feeling a small surge of pity. He was very frail, his ribs marked out against his flesh. His penis was very small, with hardly a puff of pubic hair, Josef saw. Even in the camp, there had been the instinctive male need for comparison, Josef had remembered.

  ‘You’ve written other books,’ Josef had tried. ‘Walk Softly on a Lonely Day wasn’t the first …’

  ‘But it’s the one they’re signifying for the award. From now on, it’ll be the book by which I’m judged.’

  The crying had worsened, the sobs coming in screeches. Nikolai had stretched out, trying to seize Josef’s hand.

  ‘Please. You’re my friend. Help me.’

  Josef had hit him, in fact harder than he had intended, for as he had swung, backhanded, to quell the hysteria, Nikolai had moved forward to reinforce his plea and come into the blow. He had spun backwards on to the bed, glaring-eyed with shock, groping at the red blotch against his cheek. The screaming had subsided into shuddered breathing, which he could still not properly control, hunched in the opposite corner of the car, as far away from Josef as he could get.

  They drove through the barriers to a low building near the control tower where a small group had gathered for the farewell. Photographers from Pravda and Isvestia positioned Nikolai between lines of Praesidium dignitaries. He looked crushed and unkempt, glancing worriedly to his left and right. Josef saw the red mark where he had slapped him. It had been a stupid thing to do and he felt ashamed.

  ‘Prepared to commit yourself?’

  Josef turned to Illinivitch, by his elbow. He shrugged.

  ‘I’ve given you a lot of time, Josef.’

  ‘The wrong decision could put me back into a labour camp,’ reminded the negotiator.