Face Me When You Walk Away

by Brian Freemantle

  Endelman hit him, swinging his arm sideways in a wide arc, slapping the author full in the face. Sitting with no support, he slammed backwards with such force that he almost bounced back up again in the same sitting position. The pain and surprise unlocked the gates and he let out a wailing, sobbing cry.

  Endelman looked up at Josef. ‘… I’m … Oh God …’ he stammered. Then he said, angrily, ‘Oh fuck.’

  Throughout the diatribe, Josef had stayed immobile, his face completely without expression. He felt a numbness and then, inexplicably, the fear that had washed over him as he and his father had been hustled through the camp gates, then forced to stand for an hour before the other prisoners, awaiting the commandant’s inspection. At last he moved, going carefully along the furniture, opening drawers and cupboards. Both men were watching him, Nikolai through his cupped hands into which he was sobbing. Finally, Josef got to the bed. He hesitated, hand half forward as if touching something contagious. He motioned Endelman away from the pillow and looked beneath it. The bed smelt of warmth and use and perspiration. Endelman’s chest was very hairy, like his arms, he noticed, wondering if it scratched. Josef went around to Nikolai’s side of the bed, jerking the pillow from underneath his head. Crushed now, Nikolai edged away, appearing frightened.

  ‘What are you doing?’ muttered Nikolai.

  ‘He’s looking for my cameras,’ guessed Endelman. ‘If you were photographed in the compromising position that you’re in now, you’d be ruined.’

  The photographer smiled at Josef. ‘There ain’t any cameras,’ he guaranteed.

  The search completed, Josef turned and walked from the room, quietly closing the door behind him. He stopped, just inside his own suite, breathing deeply. He detected something in his hand and looked, curiously. The sleeping pills were soggy with perspiration and disintegrating. He washed them away in that bathroom, conscious of a growing sensation, not nausea, more like the feeling of hunger after a day without food. He began retching, but found he could not be sick. He ran water into the basin, then scooped it into his face. He walked uncertainly back into the living-room, jumping at the sight of Endelman. The photographer was wearing Nikolai’s bathrobe and was barefoot. Men’s feet and legs were ugly, thought Josef. It had often occurred to him in the camp, as the men shuffled around the barrack block just before lights out.

  ‘There’s no need to worry about pictures,’ began Endelman.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I’m homosexual, Josef. Happily so. And so is Nikolai. It’s very obvious. At least, it was to me, in Stockholm. I’m attracted to him. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt him.’

  He spoke in little squirts of sentences, still nervous. There was nothing Josef could say.

  ‘You’d be disgusted if I said I was falling in love with him, wouldn’t you?’

  Never, thought Josef, would he be asked a more bizarre question.

  ‘Not disgusted. Perhaps unable to understand.’

  ‘I think I am falling in love. So there’s even more reason why I wouldn’t hurt him. There won’t be any photographs … not of the wrong sort, anyway …’

  Josef stayed silent.

  ‘Don’t make difficulties, will you Josef? Nikolai knows his strength. He says he’ll make a scene, at the lunch and on the television show. And he’ll refuse to go to America. He knows you couldn’t really make him go, not if he didn’t want to.’

  ‘Another ultimatum?’ said Josef, wearily. ‘I accept. Or else.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ agreed Endelman, mildly. ‘But don’t misunderstand me. I’m not threatening you. I’m just passing on what Nikolai’s said.’

  Josef sat down. Endelman had a large vein on the inside of his left leg, he saw. Later it would probably become varicose and need surgery.

  ‘It might be better,’ he argued, ‘if I announced an illness, cancelled the tour and went back to Russia.’

  Endelman pulled the bathrobe around him and tightened the cord.

  ‘You couldn’t really, could you?’ said the photographer, conversationally. The feeling of unreality hovered. ‘Nikolai knows the importance to Moscow of this tour. It’s pretty unusual, after all. To suddenly rush back to Russia would create just the sort of publicity you’re trying to avoid.’

  ‘True,’ conceded Josef. Suddenly, he laughed. ‘This is stupidly civilized,’ he said.

  Endelman laughed, too. ‘There’s no reason why we should shout, is there?’

  Instead of answering, Josef said suddenly, ‘I could have you killed, you know.’

  ‘I suppose you could,’ said Endelman. ‘Russia would murder to protect someone as important to them as Nikolai.’

  He was silent for a moment. ‘Will you?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘It wouldn’t enable the tour to continue, would it?’ said Endel= man, realizing the decision was dictated solely for that reason.

  ‘No,’ said Josef.

  A man used to balanced arguments in which he usually had the major bargaining points, Josef accepted the strength of Endelman’s position. Without the photographer, Nikolai would wreck the tour. And it had to go on.

  ‘I mean it, Josef. There’ll be no scandal.’

  They had about ten days to visit both London and America, assessed Josef. Perhaps after half that time, if Endelman’s involvement proved dangerous, he could curtail it without the reaction that Endelman was correctly predicting. There was no compromise for which he could argue, Josef concluded. Nikolai’s narcissism, surfacing like a cork on water, would too easily extend to a public revolt, he knew.

  ‘What do you say, Josef?’

  Again that smile. Everyone enjoys winning, thought Josef.

  ‘It’s “yes”, isn’t it?’ conceded the negotiator.

  Endelman’s smile broadened.

  ‘Good,’ he said. The photographer put out his hand, Josef looked at it, then up into the photographer’s face.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ rejected the Russian.

  ‘Oh,’ said Endelman.

  ‘I’ve no other choice,’ said Josef. ‘If there were one, even if it meant some physical harm to you, I would take it, without the slightest hesitation. I don’t like being beaten. So be very careful. I can’t allow this tour to break down yet. But as each day passes, your threat diminishes. I’d rather have the conjecture stories than I would have the filth to get out.’

  ‘I’ve given you my assurance …’ broke in Endelman.

  ‘Let me give you one,’ cut off the negotiator. ‘If you cause me the slightest harm, then I’ll hurt you. I’ll hurt you physically or materially. Or maybe both.’

  ‘You’re not a very nice person, are you Josef?’

  The negotiator considered the question for a moment.

  ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘No, I’m not.’

  Josef threw the pause up, preparing the jibe like a conjuror flourishes his cape before a trick.

  ‘Shouldn’t you go back? I expect Nikolai will be waiting.’

  Endelman smiled and shook his head sadly and Josef wished he hadn’t said it.

  ‘There’s another thing,’ said Endelman, remaining seated. Josef waited, questioningly.

  ‘It was a lie about your wife. Nikolai was just trying to hurt you … he was saying the first thing that came into his head … the worst thing he could think of …’

  Perhaps Endelman had some kindness, considered Josef.

  ‘Oh,’ he said.

  ‘Honestly. Nikolai regrets it now. He’ll apologize, tomorrow …’

  ‘It’s not necessary,’ said Josef.

  ‘Oh it is. It was an awful thing to say …’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Josef, softly. ‘It was. Unfortunately, it was true.’

  *

  The full Praesidium had listened intently to everything that Devgeny had said. Frequently he had paused, for argument, but nobody had offered any. It was going well, the Minister thought. He paused now, building up for the moment of his final remark.

  ‘I think,’ he s
aid, gauging the moment. ‘It can be judged as absolutely appalling.’

  He sat down, looking for reaction. Everyone seemed to be awaiting response from somebody else.

  ‘Not quite,’ tried Illinivitch. ‘Certainly things have been bad. But the only public criticism came from the initial press-conference. Since then all the comment has been pretty favourable.’

  Devgeny bridled at the challenge.

  ‘That drunken scene at the Stockholm reception was witnessed by dozens of people,’ retorted the Minister, quickly. He shuffled through a file, extracting a report. ‘It clearly states here that Balshev was at one time dropping glasses and behaving stupidly close to a large number of journalists and that Bultova was nowhere to be seen …’

  ‘But no damage was caused,’ insisted Illinivitch.

  ‘How much longer do you think Balshev can go on being permitted to behave as he is doing without it becoming public knowledge?’ demanded Devgeny.

  No one took up the question and Illinivitch began reading the papers spread out before him. Devgeny smiled, triumphantly. When he returned to his office. Devgeny considered again Josefs recording that had arrived that morning. Because of Josef’s current work Devgeny had insisted that every decision concerning the man should be made by him and not allowed to dissipate through other Ministries. Complete control was important because victory had to be absolute. He listened several times to that part of the tape in which the negotiator sought exit permission for his wife, reminding the authorities that with a British passport, all she needed was the assurance of re-entry. Alongside was the written application from Lady Bellamy to visit the Soviet Union in the event of her daughter being unable to leave, together with the embassy confirmation of Sir Hudson’s death that Josef had mentioned.

  So Bultova wanted to get his wife out of the Soviet Union at the same time as himself, thought the Minister. He laughed at the naivety of it. He would have expected something more subtle from the man. Quickly he dictated a refusal to guarantee Pamela’s re-entry, then another memorandum refusing Lady Bellamy a visa. He poured a celebration vodka, considered the measure, then added to the glass. It would be very soon now, he told himself. Very soon.

  16

  The Foyle’s luncheon was an overwhelming success, insisted Stanswell. Rarely could he remember an author having greater impact than Nikolai. The young Russian almost bubbled with effervescent confidence, which surprised Josef slightly. He hadn’t detected any more pills missing.

  Nikolai and Endelman had shopped that morning. Be-grudgingly, which Josef realized was becoming a constant attitude of mind, he admitted that even though ready-made, the suits were better than those Nikolai had brought from Russia. Before changing for the lunch, Nikolai had showered. It was the second time that morning, Josef had noted.

  At their first meeting the following morning, they had stared at him, barely concealing their apprehension that he would pick up the argument. They are not as confident as they pretend, thought Josef. He said nothing, which actually appeared to increase their discomfort. During the morning and then at the meal, Josef had been tense, alert for any overt campness between them. Neither made the slightest movement that could have aroused suspicion.

  In the afternoon, there was a publicist’s picture session, which Nikolai enjoyed with his growing delight in being photographed, and in the evening a dinner in the private boardroom of the Sunday Times, which was carrying a profile of the author in their Sunday colour supplement. Lord Snowdon took the pictures, after the publicity session. Nikolai presented him with an autographed copy of Walk Softly on a Lonely Day, a gesture that had surprised Josef.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said later, to Endelman, knowing the idea would never have occured to Nikolai.

  Endelman had shrugged. ‘I realized you have a lot of things on your mind and might not have thought of it.’

  Slowly, realized Josef, his self-assurance was being worn away, like a piece of marble eroded by the tiny, continuous irritation of water. Just as the lunch had been successful, so it was impossible to fault Nikolai’s behaviour at the dinner. With prompting from Endelman, he even managed to make a speech of thanks in rusted English.

  ‘Another of your ideas?’ asked Josef, as they were going home.

  Endelman nodded. ‘I thought it would be appreciated,’ said the photographer, deprecating as usual.

  Nikolai and Endelman walked almost challengingly along the corridor leading to their suites, paused, and then both entered Nikolai’s rooms. Nearly inside, they paused as if on cue.

  ‘Good night,’ they said, in unison.

  ‘Good night,’ said Josef, very controlled. He heard them sniggering as the door closed.

  Alone in his rooms, Josef poured a brandy and sat in front of the window, staring out at the Shell building. It was quiet from the adjoining suite. Embarrassingly, he realized he was straining to catch sounds, like a Peeping Tom.

  He felt hollowed out and expended, like an old man at the departure of a busy life facing years of empty retirement. Apart from the negotiations over the film contract, he had nothing to do. The negotiator wondered if Nikolai or Endelman had thought deeply about the shortness of their relationship. In a fortnight’s time, maybe less, it would be over. And when that moment came, Nikolai would be monumentally difficult to control, decided Josef, accepting that his retirement would be short. His mind slipped sideways. Had he and Pamela ever been as happy as they appeared, he wondered, laughing at private jokes, anticipating each other, anxious to be the first in some expression of tenderness? Perhaps, he decided. Perhaps in the very beginning, during the courtship or in the early days, at the dacha. Immediately, the contradiction came. It hadn’t been the same. The attitude between him and Pamela had been politeness, an anxiousness not to offend, like casual acquaintances eager to impress each other. Suddenly Josef tried to engander some emotion, tears or anger or hatred for what had occurred between Nikolai and Pamela. There were no tears, of course. They had all been used up years ago, before he had forged the impenetrable compartments in which he housed all emotion. Certainly there was anger, but not the feeling of a husband betrayed, but of a man made to look ridiculous. He would have felt exactly the same, he was sure, had he suddenly realized at the Foyle’s lunch that the zip on his fly had been undone and that people were laughing. He groped for hatred. That would be the logical reaction, he accepted. Against Nikolai. And against Pamela. The feeling of hollowness, a vacuum in which nothing lived, was the only emotion. And that, he knew, wasn’t an emotion. That was just emptiness.

  It took only minutes to dictate the nightly report. An account of complete and genuine success, he reflected. Moscow should be impressed by the coverage planned by the Sunday Times. He took another brandy to the bedside table, swallowed three sleeping tablets, ignoring the danger of mixing them with alcohol. He noted the dosage on the pad, so that he would have a reminder if he awakened and then lay waiting for unconsciousness to come.

  *

  Lady Bellamy was summoned to the family lawyer’s office a fortnight after her husband’s death. The solicitor, Henry Pottinger, had acted for Harry for twenty years and didn’t like her, she knew. His unsympathetic voice was dry and brittle, like twigs crackling underfoot in June.

  ‘This is a little unorthodox,’ he announced, as she sat down. ‘But I’m afraid your husband made an unusual will.’

  Pottinger must have been aware of their marital difficulties, she thought. He would have had to draw up the allowances for Harry’s other women.

  ‘Your husband was a rich man, an extraordinarily rich man …’ he began.

  ‘How much did he leave me?’ she asked, shortly. There was no point in protracting the meeting.

  ‘Nothing,’ announced the lawyer. ‘Three other women get it.’

  Lady Bellamy laughed openly. ‘Oh, the bastard,’ she said. ‘He really did hate, didn’t he?’

  ‘I’m afraid he did,’ agreed Pottinger.

  ‘How sad it must have made him,’ re
flected the woman. ‘That he couldn’t be around for all the publicity. He liked publicity.’

  ‘I suppose you could challenge it,’ offered Pottinger. He was still loyal, realized Lady Bellamy. The interview wasn’t dictated by kindness. The man wanted to know if there would be a fight over the estate.

  ‘Challenging the will would only involve unnecessary legal costs and put off the inevitable publication of Harry’s opinion of me,’ she said, realistically. ‘A court case would be too dirty.’

  ‘So you definitely won’t challenge it?’ he confirmed, relieved.

  ‘No,’ she said. She wondered if her Moscow visa would arrive in time for her to be out of the country. She’d have to hide somewhere.

  ‘There’s another thing,’ said the lawyer. He shuffled papers, wedging half-rimmed spectacles on his nose. She could never understand why men wore such ridiculous glasses.

  ‘The will ends,’ he read out, ‘ “And to my daughter, Pamela, whom I love and whom, through stupidity, I wronged, I leave two hundred thousand pounds in the hope that I can bring her more happiness in death than I brought her in life. And, now dead, I seek from her the forgiveness I could never ask when alive.”’

  Pottinger looked over his spectacles. ‘It’s in a trust fund,’ he added, helpfully, a man of detail. ‘Set up years ago. The money’s very safe from duty.’

  For a moment, the lawyer thought the woman was going to cry. She swallowed several times and the first attempt to speak failed.

  ‘Hate is such a stupid thing,’ she said, finally.

  17

  The television recording went perfectly, as Nikolai’s public appearances increasingly seemed to. The author appeared completely confident and indulged in the affectation of stumbling replies in English, to the delight of the interviewer. They regarded it as something of a coup getting Josef on the same programme and the interviewer was awed by his legend and consequently the questions were soft and unabrasive. Moscow could only be pleased, Josef had decided. It seemed a recurring thought. Always, there was a desperate hope associated with it.