Face Me When You Walk Away

by Brian Freemantle

  *

  The American call came within thirty minutes. Blyne was ecstatic. Advance subscription was unprecedented in their history. They intended a Dutch auction for the paperback rights and anticipated a record there, as well. Every major film company had contacted him, urging him to use his influence in any subsequent meeting they might have with Josef. The publisher seemed surprised the negotiator wanted to talk about Endelman. The man came with his full support, as he had said in his letter to Josef in Moscow. So his mail was being intercepted, Josef accepted. Blyne was bemused at Josef’s reluctance.

  ‘But what do you know about him?’ asked the Russian.

  ‘What sort of question is that?’

  ‘Can I trust him? If he’s allowed to get as close as he wants, there’ll be some pictures I won’t want him to take.’

  The man didn’t win three Pulitzers and achieve his reputation without integrity,’ argued the American. ‘He’s not going to risk getting thrown out on his ass, is he?’

  Josef replaced the receiver, dissatisfied. Blyne, he realized, was swamped under a tidal wave of success. Devgeny and Illinivitch appeared locked in their own struggle. Which left no one to be objective, apart from himself.

  Josef pulled the briefcase towards him, to close it. And stared down. There, in the corner, neatly wrapped in one of the napkins that had come with his supper, lay the last of the sandwiches, automatically hoarded. Angrily, he threw it back on to the tray. It missed, collapsing on to the floor in a pile of bread and ham pieces.

  Dear God, he thought, will it never stop? Consciously, he reached for the sleeping tablets. He would never, he knew, be tired enough.

  *

  They were at breakfast in the Eaton Square flat, the only time they encountered each other long enough for prolonged conversation.

  ‘I’m going to get a visa to visit Pamela,’ announced Doreen Bellamy, defiantly.

  She hesitated as she saw him prepare to speak.

  ‘… And for God’s sake, don’t say you forbid it.’

  Sir Hudson closed his mouth, deciding upon persuasion.

  ‘It will be embarrassing for me,’ he said. ‘I’ll be a laughing stock in Westminster.’

  ‘That’s probably an exaggeration,’ she said. Then, sincerely, she added, ‘I’m not doing it to embarrass you. I genuinely want to see Pamela again.’

  ‘The Russians are bound to leak it,’ said Sir Hudson, reflectively. ‘I know I’m on their black list for all the anti-Soviet speeches I’ve made.’

  ‘Crap,’ sneered his wife. That’s a line from the publicity machine.’-

  ‘They will leak it,’ he insisted, with slightly less conviction.

  The woman made a ‘so what’ gesture.

  ‘I don’t suppose it would be any good if I sincerely asked you not to go?’ he asked, quietly.

  ‘No,’ she retorted.

  For a moment, they sat in silence. Lady Bellamy went back to her newspaper, using it as a shield.

  ‘I’ve something to tell you,’ he said.

  His wife looked up, irritated.

  ‘I’ve got to go into hospital, for an operation.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Exploratory,’ he said. ‘It might be prostate.’

  ‘Poor dear,’ she mocked unsympathetically. ‘That’ll ruin your sex life, won’t it?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ said Sir Hudson, seriously, ‘I lay awake at nights imagining how wonderful life would be without you.’

  Lady Bellamy looked at her watch theatrically.

  ‘It’s late. Shouldn’t you run along?’

  Wordlessly, he moved towards the door.

  ‘Don’t forget your cycle-clips,’ she called, without looking up from the paper.

  13

  Pamela had run to the telephone, imagining the call from Josef. The voice had confused her. Her immediate reaction was that it was a practical joke. Then she realized it could not be. Only friends played practical jokes. They both accepted the problem of identification and finally Pamela agreed it would be better if they met there, in the apartment. The call completed, she stared down at the phone. Had she done right in agreeing to the meeting? She shrugged. Why not? She suddenly realized that it was the first person to whom she had spoken in the past forty-eight hours. Or was it fifty-six?

  She laughed, aloud. Someone to talk to. She glanced around the apartment. Nothing needed doing. She was a mess, though. She showered, washed her hair and then fluffed it into a style reminiscent of London, rejecting a brightly patterned dress for one of severe black wool, broken only by a diamond brooch high on the left shoulder.

  Promptly at the arranged time, the doorbell rang. Pamela stood in the middle of the room, waiting for the second ring. Even then, she moved slowly to answer it.

  ‘Hello,’ said Pamela.

  ‘Hello,’ said the girl. She was a little taller than Pamela, hair bobbed short, mannishly almost. She wore no make-up and Pamela noticed that her nails, visible as she held her handbag nervously before her, were badly bitten. Pamela judged the dress she was wearing would be her best one. It was mottle tweed and badly cut, the seam some way off her shoulders. It was too long, as well.

  ‘Come in,’ invited Pamela, standing aside.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Attractive voice, thought Pamela, unless the huskiness was caused by nervousness. A broken front tooth made her lisp slightly.

  ‘Do sit down,’ said Pamela, gesturing towards the long settee before the fire. Had there been a patronizing note in her voice? Of course not. Anyway, her flawed Russian would disguise any offence.

  ‘So you’re Sanya,’ said the English girl.

  The Russian sat with her handbag clutched on her lap, legs tight together. The low heel of her left shoe needed repairing, Pamela saw. And she had fat knees.

  Sanya nodded, half smiling. ‘You know of me?’

  It was a hopeful question.

  ‘My husband mentioned your name.’

  ‘Oh.’ She sounded disappointed.

  ‘Would you like something to drink? Some sherry, perhaps,’ gushed Pamela.

  ‘Thank you,’ said the girl, who had never tasted it.

  Pamela served the drinks, smiling happily at the encounter. She was conscious of Sanya’s attention to the dress and the brooch. The apartment obviously overpowered her, too.

  ‘I hope you weren’t angry at my calling,’ said Sanya, repeating the telephone apology. Aware of Pamela’s faulty Russian, the girl was speaking slowly. Considerate, thought Pamela.

  ‘Of course not,’ she assured. Calculated from the time she had said goodbye to Josef, it was fifty-six hours since she’d engaged in any conversation, apart from unresponsive greetings from the concierge.

  ‘… But really, there was no one else I could ask.’

  Nervously, the girl sipped her wine. It caught her breath and she gulped, just avoiding the cough.

  ‘… You’ll think me silly …’ groped the girl.

  ‘No, please,’ said Pamela. The other girl was extraordinarily plain, thought the Englishwoman. And naive. Perhaps that was what had appealed to Nikolai, the attraction of somebody as unworldly as himself. The thought distressed her. Had that been her original attraction for the writer?

  ‘Have you heard from your husband?’

  ‘Yes,’ lied Pamela, immediately. ‘I’ve had several telephone calls. Everyone is excited about Nikolai’s book.’

  ‘I’m glad.’ It was said without conviction. She finished the sherry and replaced her glass. Immediately, Pamela refilled it from the decanter she had carried to the low table between them.

  ‘We fought,’ Sanya suddenly blurted out, looking away from Pamela. ‘We fought and he threw me out…’

  She gestured to the iodine-like stain of a disappearing bruise on her left cheek.

  ‘He hit me, too. My tooth broke. I have weak teeth.’

  The girl sipped her drink, embarrassed at the admission. She’d be quite attractive with longer hair, thought Pam
ela. Her nails would have to be manicured, of course. And her clothes fitted properly.

  ‘Would you help me?’

  Pamela frowned. ‘How?’

  ‘The next time your husband calls. Can you ask him to give Nikolai a message? Say I’m sorry. And ask him to contact me.’

  ‘You’re sorry?’ echoed Pamela. ‘I thought he hit you?’

  Sanya smiled. ‘But I want him back.’

  ‘So you’re prepared to plead?’

  Now the Russian girl frowned. ‘I’m not actually pleading. But I would, if I had to.’

  ‘But …?’

  ‘… I love him,’ said Sanya, simply, anticipating the question.

  Pamela blushed. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘For not understanding,’ said the Englishwoman, gently. How frequently she apologized, she thought.

  ‘Nikolai says that you and your husband are his only friends.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Pamela.

  ‘He’s very shy,’ said Sanya, as if Nikolai needed a character reference. ‘That’s what makes him drink. I wish he wouldn’t. He’s only cruel when he drinks.’

  ‘Have you asked him not to?’

  Sanya nodded. ‘He says rude things to me.’

  They were silent for several minutes and the Russian girl became embarrassed again.

  ‘Will you get your husband to persuade Nikolai?’

  ‘Yes,’ promised Pamela.

  But Nikolai wouldn’t call, she thought. She wondered if Sanya knew it. She must be very desperate. Would she plead for Josef, Pamela wondered. It was an uncomfortable question. She wasn’t sure of the answer.

  Sanya looked at her watch. ‘I’ve occupied too much of your time.’

  ‘But you haven’t finished your sherry.’

  ‘I must go.’

  ‘Have you another appointment?’

  Sanya hesitated, half rising from the chair.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘But I’m intruding …’

  She gestured towards Pamela’s dress. ‘You are going out.’

  ‘Why don’t you stay for supper?’ invited Pamela, hurriedly. It couldn’t end so soon. Sanya was on her feet.

  ‘But I couldn’t put you to such inconvenience.’

  ‘Look,’ said Pamela, emotion clogging her voice, ‘you’re the first person I’ve spoken to in two days. I’m practically going out of my mind with loneliness …’

  She extended her hands.

  ‘… Please.’

  *

  The acceptance speech was the way to turn Nikolai back into the focal point of the tour and recover from the abysmal airport press conference, Josef knew. He obtained the lecture that Solzhenitsyn had prepared but never delivered and the response that Hemingway had had read to the Foundation in 1953. Nikolai studied both, then timidly stop-started his attempt to match them.

  ‘I can’t do it, Josef.’

  ‘You’ve got to,’ rejected Josef, refusing the writer the self-pity he was seeking.

  After five hours, it was still incomplete. Nikolai sat, exhausted, unable to continue. There would be time the following day, Josef decided.

  Initially, it was easy for Josef to disguise the delay to the official reception, because Nikolai was not ready. Then the author appeared, dressed in his hired evening clothes, and the postponement became more obvious. Twice, the embassy driver appeared, seeking instructions. Finally, after the third deferment because of bad connections, Josef transferred the call he had booked to Pamela to the building where the reception was being held. He drove in silence, annoyed the solution had not occurred earlier. Personal mistakes angered him.

  The greetings were effusive, but Josef detected the annoyance. To work on the speech, he had refused to allow Nikolai on two sightseeing tours the Foundation had organized and he knew that was being interpreted as impoliteness.

  Every other Nobel Laureate was already in the room when they entered the chandeliered chamber. People turned towards them and Nikolai winced at the attention. They edged through the officials and Ministers, Josef methodically memorizing the names and constantly apologizing for their late arrival. Nikolai’s face was waxy with sweat. A waiter approached, assorted drinks on the tray. Nikolai looked inquiringly to the older man. Josef handed him champagne, then took a glass himself. They were surrounded by the Literary Committee. Josef’s head moved like a June spectator at Wimbledon, translating and inventing responses from the near–unspeaking author. Josef detected frowns of uncertainty at Nikolai’s cowed demeanour.

  ‘Good evening.’

  Josef turned to Mikhail Sukalov, the Russian ambassador to Sweden. He had been a friend of his father’s, Josef remembered. He had not come forward to defend him at the trial, but he hadn’t lied for the prosecution, either, and in the atmosphere of the time, that had amounted to friendship.

  ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t able to meet you at the airport,’ said the ambassador.

  ‘It didn’t matter.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Sukalov. They stared at each other for several moments, then Sukalov added pointedly, ‘You were late.’

  ‘Unavoidable,’ said Josef. Over the ambassador’s shoulder, Josef saw Nikolai replace his empty glass and take another from a passing tray. Aware of Josef’s attention, Nikolai ignored his eyes, over-attentive to some stumbling point a member of the Literary Committee was making in bad Russian. Josef recalled the man’s name was Lev Krantz. Jewish, he had decided when they were introduced. And ashamed of it. Medev had never been embarrassed by his race. He had been a proud man, recalled Josef, boasting of the life he would eventually make for himself in Israel.

  ‘This is a great honour for Russia,’ said the ambassador, putting on cocktail-party conversation like a favourite cardigan.

  ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t become a disaster.’

  ‘Could it?’ queried Sukalov, directly.

  ‘Easily.’

  ‘Do you need help?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ rebuffed Josef, too used to relying only upon himself.

  ‘I was sorry about your father, Josef,’ said the elderly man, making the gesture. ‘Often, I wondered if …’

  ‘They were difficult times,’ broke in Josef, selecting the platitude. He didn’t want the old man to become embarrassed. An official appeared at Josef’s side.

  ‘Telephone,’ said the man. ‘Moscow.’

  Josef turned towards Nikolai. Ten yards away, the writer took another drink from the tray. Was it the third or fourth? Josef had lost count. The author appeared relaxed, smiling easily. A little champagne spilled from his glass as he turned back towards Krantz.

  ‘It must be urgent,’ urged Sukalov, curiously.

  ‘Watch Nikolai, will you?’ asked Josef.

  The kiosk was stuffy and clouded with cigarette smoke. He edged the door open and was immediately aware of laughter from the reception. Turning back into the box, he heard a snatch of Russian, the ringing tone and then, faintly, Pamela’s voice. Immediately they were connected, the line faded, only one in every four words discernible. Josef wondered if it were caused by a listening device. It was a ridiculous, stilted conversation, shouting at each other, using single words for sentences, repeating themselves again and again. Josef was conscious of the attention of people passing outside the box as he yelled to make himself understood. He grew irritated by the need for such an inconsequential conversation. Marriage, he decided, was definitely a nuisance. Again that thought. He felt ashamed, like noticing the gradual breasts of a girl not yet sixteen. Abruptly, dismissing the fear of upsetting her, he concluded the conversation, refusing to emphasize his love. It had been stupidity to worry about the call and leave Nikolai alone, he thought, as he hurried back to the reception. At least the telephone difficulties had prevented an argument. The ambassador was beside Nikolai, stone-faced, staring around for assistance. Nikolai was now quite drunk, laughing at remarks he didn’t understand, his jacket and shirt flecked with spilt champagne. Two embassy atta
ches had eased themselves alongside the author. He was slack-mouthed from alcohol, leaning against one or the other of the two flanking Russians. Accomplished diplomats, they were conversing with people around them. Many people in the room had noticed, Josef realized.

  ‘What happened?’ demanded Josef.

  ‘I was talking with the Swedish trade minister, when Balshev began dropping glasses. The man’s behaving like a fool,’ said Sukalov defensively.

  ‘Thank God there aren’t many who can understand Russian,’ said Josef.

  ‘He wants a lavatory,’ interceded one of the two attendant Russians.

  ‘Take him,’ ordered Josef. liven inside a cubicle.’

  Distastefully, the diplomats edged Nikolai towards the door.

  ‘Your concern is too obvious,’ warned Sukalov. He was a tall, white-haired man, elegant in evening dress, an odd, malacca cigarette-holder held between them, like a demarcation line. Long ago, Josef remembered a picture of the man with his father. It had been at a Washington reception for Roosevelt, just before his father had become ambassador there.

  ‘I’m terrified of the acceptance speech,’ confessed Josef.

  The author returned from the lavatory. He had been sick, Josef knew. His face was yellow-looking. And wet, of course. Why did he perspire so much, wondered the negotiator. Fear, he supposed, even through drunkenness. The writer was almost comatose when he reached them, unaware of what was going on around him. He was guided unprotesting on a slow farewell to the door. In the embassy car, he slumped, eyes closed until they almost reached the hotel. Suddenly, he lurched forward and vomited on to the floor of the vehicle.

  ‘Oh God,’ said the ambassador. He wound down the window, straining out. Nikolai had to be almost carried into the hotel, the two attachés walking with their arms locked behind him. Before they put him to bed, Josef insisted they bathe him,

  Sukalov and Josef went into the adjoining suite, an embarrassed atmosphere between them, like friends who discover they are sleeping with the same woman.