Face Me When You Walk Away

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘I pity you,’ said Sukalov, as Josef poured him vodka.

  ‘I pity myself,’ said Josef, with equal sincerity. The ambassador turned, ignoring the drinks for the moment.

  ‘Is it that important?’ he asked, stopped by the tone of Josef’s voice.

  ‘Yes,’ said Josef.

  ‘Then I really pity you.’

  For the first time for several days, Josef relaxed. He leaned back, closing his eyes. If he felt so tired, why couldn’t he sleep? No one could feel as he did and lie, sleepless, for hour after hour each night. How good a holiday would be. A fortnight – a week even – just sleeping and relaxing somewhere nobody knew him. Just a few days of blissful anonymity. Just good food. Walks maybe. And sleep. Normal, easy sleep. No nightmares, no blocked, strangled breathing. No sleeping pills. Oh yes, and Pamela. Of course. Pamela.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  Josef opened his eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ he apologized.

  Sukalov shrugged.

  ‘It’s a strain …’ began Josef, but Sukalov raised his hand, stopping him.

  ‘I don’t want an explanation. And I mean that.’

  ‘It’s nothing that could embarrass you,’ assured Josef.

  ‘I still don’t want an explanation.’

  My father would not have said that thought Josef. He would have recognized somebody in need of help. He would have come forward at the trial, too, not held back as Sukalov had done.

  ‘It hasn’t gone well, so far,’ admitted Josef.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I’m not sure I can do it.’

  ‘That isn’t something you should say to me,’ cautioned the ambassador.

  ‘Will you report it?’

  ‘No. So you’re lucky, but you’re not thinking enough, Bultova If it’s important you’re making too many mistakes.’

  ‘And I could die because of it,’ said Josef. Immediately, the theatricality of the remark embarrassed him.

  ‘Rubbish,’ threw back Sukalov. ‘No one would have behaved as you did tonight, abandoning someone like Balshev, if his life depended on it.’

  More than a nuisance now, thought Josef. She was a danger to his life. A risk of a labour camp again. The barracks with beds like shelves; cold, mist-layered landscapes; brick trucks on their never-ending circle. Swill; whips; and guards, laughing, jeering guards. Had Medev managed to die? He’d wanted to, Josef remembered. Towards the end, he’d spoken constantly of dying.

  ‘I made a mistake,’ confessed Josef. Admitting errors was a relief. Sukalov was a good man, he decided.

  ‘Your father died because he made small mistakes.’

  I’ll never make that error, thought Josef. I’m aware of so many difficulties I’m building phantoms out of shadows.

  One of the attachés came through the linking door, interrupting them. He looked damp and irritable.

  ‘He wants a sleeping pill,’ reported the man.

  Josef took some seconal from his briefcase and handed it to the attaché.

  ‘It’s going to be difficult for you, personally, elsewhere,’ predicted Sukalov.

  ‘I’ve realized that,’ assured Josef. The Washington ambassador had been one of the chief prosecution witnesses at the trial.

  The second attaché came from the adjoining suite and said Nikolai was asleep.

  ‘I suppose you’ll have to report this,’ said Josef.

  ‘If I don’t,’ said Sukalov, nodding towards where the man had disappeared, ‘one of them will. It will sound better, coming from me.’

  Endelman must have been waiting in the lobby for the ambassador to leave, Josef realized. The telephone went within five minutes of the diplomat’s departure.

  ‘It’s Endelman,’ announced the photographer.

  ‘I know,’ said Josef. The other man had a soft voice, inclined to sibilance.

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘Better, thank you.’

  ‘Good. He was very drunk tonight, wasn’t he?’

  Josef could not remember seeing the photographer at the reception.

  There was a pause. Then Endelman offered, hopefully, ‘I don’t think too many people noticed.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ said Josef. The man was trying very hard to be sympathetic. Josef wondered if it were a trick, like remembering names.

  ‘Have you heard from Moscow yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh,’ said the photographer. The disappointment sounded very genuine. ‘Have you spoken to Blyne?’

  It was a clever guess that he would have called New York.

  ‘He wants you to come with us,’ said Josef. ‘Perhaps I’ll talk to Moscow this evening to try to get a decision.’

  ‘I’d appreciate that,’ said Endelman.

  After the call, Josef dictated his nightly report, then paused, wondering about the photographer. Was Endelman one of the small mistakes about which Sukalov warned? In the pocket of his evening jacket he detected a cube of cheese affixed over a piece of pineapple. He pulled out the fluff-flecked canape surviving from the reception, carefully removed the debris from the lining of his jacket and nibbled it, enjoying the faint flavour of the fruit. The nightly account finished and despatched, he searched his pockets in case he had hoarded more than one piece. He hadn’t, he realized. Pity. They were really quite nice.

  It took an hour for the call to come through to the number that Illinivitch had given him. Very carefully, he outlined Endelman’s request, refusing to be cut off by the deputy chairman’s interruptions that he had considered the overnight contents of the diplomatic pouch. It was all right, Illinivitch assured him. The Ministry felt it fitting that one of the world’s best-known photographers should record the tour and accordingly every facility should be made available. Josef’s doubts were dismissed almost flippantly.

  ‘Why wasn’t it discussed before I left Moscow?’ demanded Josef.

  ‘Devgeny,’ replied Illinivitch, immediately. ‘He knew you’d realize your mail was being intercepted and be unsettled by it. He wants you to know you’re expected to fail and be constantly worried, so that you’ll make more mistakes. Your only hope is to support me openly.’

  It was wrong, decided Josef, when the call had finished. Instinctively, he felt that the inclusion of Endelman would create problems.

  14

  Nikolai’s artificial groans disturbed Josef before seven a.m. The writer was very child-like, he thought. Nikolai was lying on his back when Josef went into the room, his eyes closed but obviously not asleep.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  Nikolai moaned, slowly opening his eyes and squinting against the light.

  ‘It’s no good, Josef. I shan’t be able to go to the rehearsal. I’m too ill. I’ve even vomited blood.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Josef, unsympathetically.

  ‘Call a doctor,’ demanded the writer.

  Josef ordered coffee and orange juice in the room and had showered by the time it was served. He returned to Nikolai’s suite carrying the larger of the two briefcases.

  He offered coffee to the prostrate author, who grimaced and turned his head away.

  ‘Leave me alone, Josef.’

  ‘Nikolai,’ said Josef, gently. ‘You’ve got a hangover. Probably a bad one. But you deserve it.’

  He opened his briefcase and handed Nikolai three paracetamol tablets.

  ‘These will get rid of the headache,’ he promised. Nikolai took them, staring at the orderly arrangement of bottles and phials inside the briefcase. Josef took another bottle from its holder.

  ‘This will make you feel more confident about the receptions and the rehearsals,’ he added, handing the writer two of the chlordiazepoxide tablets he had acquired in Austria.

  Nikolai smiled up at the negotiator.

  ‘Thank you, Josef,’ he said. ‘You’re a true friend.’

  He gulped the analgesic tablets, waited for thirty minutes, as Josef instructed, then took the chlordiazepoxide. An hour before their first appointment, Nikolai
was more relaxed and confident than Josef had ever seen him.

  Josef had telephoned Endelman, telling him of the overnight decision by Moscow, and the photographer arrived at their suite at nine. Nikolai was taking the bath upon which Josef was now insisting, so Josef served coffee while they waited.

  ‘I’m glad it’s worked out,’ said Endelman.

  ‘I’m surprised,’ admitted Josef. ‘But I don’t like the idea. So let’s understand one thing. If it becomes awkward, the arrangement ends.’

  ‘Sure,’ agreed Endelman, easily.

  He doesn’t think I mean it, thought Josef. Nikolai was surprised and at first retreated into his shell of reserve. But gradually, as the day developed, with Nikolai being introduced to other Nobel Laureates, Josef noticed the writer smiling more often at Endelman’s efforts to communicate. The photographer had made a joke, in the hotel suite, of his Russian, which Josef thought quite good.

  ‘Jimmy and I have made a pact,’ announced Nikolai, at lunch. ‘He’s going to speak to me only in Russian and I’m going to reply only in English. That way we both improve our language.’

  Just like the arrangement between himself and Pamela, thought Josef. He looked over the writer’s head, to Endelman.

  ‘See,’ said the photographer. ‘I told you it would work.’

  Josef didn’t return the smile. Again the thought returned that Illinivitch’s decision was wrong. He wondered if it had been made by the Ministry or by the deputy Minister alone. If the Ministry had been involved, then there would be an official record.

  The afternoon rehearsal in the concert hall was strange, like a funeral without a body, Josef thought. He had anticipated Nikolai’s request and brought more chlordiazepoxide which he had given him as lunch was ending.

  It was the first time Josef had seen Endelman work. He was very professional, decided the Russian. None of the Nobel Laureatesj encased in their own nervousness, seemed aware of him.

  The ceremony dictated that Nikolai be officially conducted into the hall by two members of the Literary Committee. Lev Krantz, whom Josef recalled from the reception at which Nikolai had got drunk, was one of his attendants. The other was a man called Noedstrom, whose Christian name Josef had missed. Names were becoming a problem for him, he realized.

  For nearly two hours they went over the ceremony, beginning with the entrance from the Oxtorgsgatan, into the committee rooms and then, after the trumpet calls and royal hymn that would indicate the arrival of the royal party, the entry through the centre doors to their places on the right hand side of the platform. There were cocktails after the rehearsal. Nikolai, Josef noticed, moved immediately to Endelman and the two became immersed in conversation, apparently oblivious to people around them.

  Krantz smiled and came up to the negotiator, nodding towards Nikolai.

  ‘He seems better today,’ he said.

  ‘I’m afraid he was nervous the other evening.’

  ‘They often are,’ said the Swedish Jew. ‘I have known many literary winners. Always they are frightened. Writers are private people. They shouldn’t be exposed to public view.’

  Josef nodded, but could not think of a reply. Ballenin could get on well with the man, he thought.

  ‘It is a sad occasion, this year,’ filled in Krantz.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘You are unaware of our tragedy?’

  ‘I’m afraid …?’

  ‘This year we are avoiding the salutatory oration that would have come from Count von Sydon.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ recalled Josef. ‘A sad loss.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Krantz. ‘You never met, I suppose?’

  ‘No,’ said Josef. ‘Never.’

  ‘A remarkable man,’ said Krantz. ‘Really remarkable.’

  Nikolai, thought Josef when they got back to the hotel, was an enigma. His moods swung like a pendulum from one extreme to the other and Josef was unable to decide how much was genuine. A great deal of Nikolai’s behaviour, he thought, was calculated, like a man glancing sideways into a shop–window reflection to gauge his appearance. The early part of the day had gone without difficulty and Nikolai had built an icing-sugar confidence from it. As they prepared for the ceremony, Josef heard him whistling in the adjoining room. The negotiator went through the linking doors, into Nikolai’s rooms. The writer swirled in his hired evening-dress and Josef realized he had bathed for the second time.

  ‘How do I look?’

  ‘Magnificent.’

  ‘Will I look as good as Endelman?’

  Josef stared at the writer curiously. Was he jealous of the American photographer?

  ‘Every bit as good,’ assured the negotiator.

  ‘I want another pill,’ announced Nikolai.

  ‘No,’ rejected Josef. ‘You’ve had three. Already that’s too many.’

  Immediately the fragile confidence began flaking away. ‘In two hours time I’ve got to stand on a stage and deliver the most important speech I’ll ever make in my life. I’ll be representing Russia. We both know I can’t do it without help. This will be the last time, I promise,’ said Nikolai.

  He was right, of course. This was the highlight of the tour and nothing could be permitted to go wrong. Nikolai had written the address, finally, but Josef was still apprehensive of it. He couldn’t afford a public disaster.

  ‘The last time,’ he warned.

  ‘I promise.’

  As Josef returned with the capsule, Endelman arrived, with champagne. ‘Our own celebration,’ said the photographer. ‘Before the razzamatazz.’

  He worked hard at being liked, decided Josef. Even in the formalized clothes, Endelman still looked outstanding. Josef saw Nikolai admiring the other man. Endelman uncorked the bottle, poured and handed round glasses.

  ‘A toast,’ he announced. ‘To success. The only thing worth having.’

  Josef drank, with feeling. ‘Don’t let’s forget luck,’ he added.

  They separated at the concert hall, Nikolai going with his two attendants and Josef moving into the main body of the hall. Endelman had a place next to the negotiator and had arranged with the ushers to be seated late, after recording the arrival of the royal party and the assembly of the laureates and their families in the side chambers. Television and film lights glared down, whitening everyone into invalids and making the hall ridiculously hot. Josef twitched damply in the starched formality. He was aware of attention from several parts of the room and it increased his discomfort. Limited recognition was all right, necessary even. But he disliked the sustained exposure. He wanted discreet boardrooms and measured arguments, the tension of nuance and concession. Not this. Not pressed down by a spotlight, squinted at like some malformed freak at a country fairground.

  Expectation was seeping through the room and encompassing people, like water overflowing from a flooding stream. The doubts about Nikolai’s lecture would not recede. The address was something that should have been created slowly, over a period of weeks, not scrabbled together in the time they had spent on it, like a message left for a tradesman. A Nobel lecture became a piece of history. By his words today, Nikolai was standing up, throwing open his coat and saying, ‘Look at me; this is what I am.’

  Josef was horrifyingly aware it could become a case of indecent exposure.

  The trumpets sounded and everyone stood. How small the king looked, thought Josef. They remained standing as the Nobel Laureates entered, bowed to the royal party and then sat upon the platform. Nikolai looked small and crushed, like he had when they had left Sheremetyevo airport. Josef tried to catch his eye, but realized he was too far away. Endelman was in the front of the hall, Josef saw. Nikolai noticed him and smiled gratefully,

  The photographer moved back and edged in beside Josef.

  ‘He seems all right,’ he whispered.

  Because Count von Sydon’s speech had been cut, the ceremony moved straight on to the presentation addresses from the members of each academy. They were in Swedish, followed immediately by translation into
the language of the respective winners. Tensely, Josef listened as Krantz made his speech, then heard the words in Russian, stilted and formal. Nikolai was actually walking across towards the king before Josef fully realized it was him, moving quite steadily, with none of the hesitation that Josef had feared. The applause rippled and then grew and there was a dazzle from the photographic enclosure as the king handed over the gold medal, the diploma and the assignation of the prize. Although slight, the king still dwarfed the Russian, who stood attentive, looking up into the man’s face as if he understood the words being spoken, each holding one edge of the memorial scroll while the cameras recorded the historic moment.

  Then Nikolai turned away, searching for the podium that had been pointed out that afternoon. Twelve steps, Josef remembered warning him, just twelve steps and you’re there. Steadily, the writer paced his way forward to the lectern and stood, looking out, hands either side and pinned down by the lights. He seemed more alert than nervous, thought Josef. Recalling the airport press conference, Josef was glad about the lights. Nikolai would be unable to see the people laid out before him in serried, identically dressed rows, like the ornamental lawns in French chateaux. Occasionally there was a muffled, embarrassed cough, but otherwise there was complete silence. Josef strained upwards, curiously. Nikolai was looking slowly right and left, like a consummate actor gaining effect from silence. It must be nerves, decided Josef. He must be standing there, unable to force the words beyond his lips. The coughing seemed to be increasing and there was the scrape of feet being scuffed over the floor as people shifted, as if in sympathy with the lonely man’s discomfort. Nikolai cleared his throat and the sound was picked up by the microphones. The room became silent.

  ‘Many men,’ the writer began, ‘have stood where I stand today, the award I have just received crowning a lifetime’s work …’

  The words came a little too quickly, like small boys at playtime tripping over one another. Nikolai was staring towards the part of the hall where he knew Josef would be. The negotiator smiled, even though he knew the author would not be able to see the encouragement.