Face Me When You Walk Away

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘How has it gone?’ asked Semyonov, pointedly.

  ‘Well, I think,’ replied Josef.

  ‘Oh.’ The ambassador’s reaction conveyed doubt. ‘Moscow seemed a little surprised you weren’t staying at the mission,’ continued Semyonov. There’s plenty of room at East 67th Street.’

  The refusal had been another demonstration of Nikolai’s independence.

  ‘The whole point of the trip is exposure,’ responded Josef. ‘We thought the Pierre would be more convenient.’

  ‘And much more luxurious. You enjoy luxury, don’t you, Comrade Bultova.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Josef, annoyed at the man’s posturing. He felt incapable of mental finger-wrestling.

  ‘We’ve arranged a reception for tomorrow night,’ said the ambassador. ‘At the United Nations. I hope you’ll be able to fit it in with the other more important arrangements.’

  ‘I’m sorry the arrival of Russia’s Nobel prizewinner is such a chore for you,’ said Josef. ‘I’ll rebuke Moscow when I get back, so they can avoid troubling you in future with such triviality.’

  Semyonov jerked round, but Blyne gushed out to greet them, smothering the ambassador’s reply. The room was banked with television- and film-lights and crowded with people and noise. The conference became the longest they had had to endure, but Nikolai was used to them now, replying with growing frequency in English. Rarely did he bother to consult Josef. The conceit before a camera or television lens was almost embarrassing, thought Josef. The questions, as always, ranged from the intelligent to the ridiculous, but there were no probes about his involvement and Josef knew that Semyonov, who stayed pressed against the wall, near the entrance, would be unable to select anything incriminating from it.

  Josef was saddened by the visible neglect of New York as they drove into the city. The snow had been churned to slush and tiny mountains of grime were massed around the bases of the office and apartment blocks, so that skyscrapers stood with dirty knickers around their ankles.

  Favoured interviewers were allowed to travel with them in the cavalcade of hearse-like Cadillacs, so that it was not until they reached the Pierre that Josef had the chance of any real conversation with the American publisher.

  He needed help, Josef accepted. It was impossible from Semyonov, from whom he had parted at the airport with frosted promises of later contact. Any revealed weakness would be played back immediately to Devgeny. So that only left Blyne. The publisher bustled through the connecting door from Nikolai’s rooms, still crammed with photographers, his face rutted with smiles.

  ‘Marvellous,’ he enthused. ‘Absolutely fucking marvellous. What about the President’s reception? Would you have guessed? Would you have believed it was going to be like this? I tell you, this is going to be mammoth, just mammoth.’

  Josef looked into Nikolai’s suite. The writer was twisting and posing for the cameras. Just like a model, thought Josef, a female model. Endelman stood sulkily in the background.

  ‘You don’t look like the guy that’s pulled off the coup of the century,’ said Blyne, carelessly.

  ‘This trip,’ warned Josef, slowly, ‘has every likelihood of collapsing into an unmitigated disaster.’

  Blyne, who in his excitement had been wandering the sitting-room, unable to keep still, stopped and frowned.

  ‘Did you know Endelman was homosexual when you wrote that letter of introduction?’ demanded Josef.

  Blyne humped his shoulders, uncaringly. ‘You know how it is with these guys,’ he dismissed. ‘They swing one way, then another. So what?’

  ‘So now Nikolai is doing it that way, that’s what. And he’s smoking marijuana and heroin and stuffing Christ knows what pills down his throat. He got that from Endelman, too. In London, yesterday, I decided to cancel this part of the tour completely and get straight back to Russia. I’m here solely because of the Presidential reception.’

  ‘You can’t be serious.’

  ‘You know damned well I’m serious.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘And for God’s sake stop swearing like a schoolboy whistling in the dark,’ snapped Josef.

  Blyne’s nervous hands moved, as if he were trying to shape words out of the air.

  ‘That’s not all,’ enlarged Josef. ‘Nikolai knows how important he is. He’s treating me like dirt. And Endelman only stays because he’s good in bed and supplies the drugs.’

  Blyne sat down, the exuberance leaking from him.

  ‘It can’t be that bad …’ he began, but Josef stopped him.

  ‘I’m terrified,’ he said, honestly.

  Blyne made more hand movements. ‘But what can we do?’

  ‘I wish to God I knew,’ replied the Russian.

  An American whom Josef recalled seeing heavily involved in the airport press-conference came through the linking doors and smiled, innocently.

  ‘Isn’t it great, Herbie?’ he said.

  Josef stared at him, then looked to Blyne for an explanation.

  ‘This is Matheson,’ introduced the publisher. ‘Harvey Matheson … speaks Russian … edited Nikolai’s book.’

  Josef nodded, still looking to Blyne for guidance.

  “We’re on the same side, for Christ’s sake. We’re going to need help,’ said the publisher.”

  He had stopped swearing, Josef noticed. He was glad. He found the habit irritating, as his father had. Medev had never sworn, he recalled. The Jew had been a very unusual man.

  Matheson looked questioningly from one to the other. He was very slim and fair. And young, not much more than twenty-eight, judged Josef. Yale, decided the Russian, or maybe Harvard, bought into the publishing house by parental money or influence. Or both.

  ‘Nikolai is a fag,’ explained Blyne, quickly. ‘He and Jimmy are daisy-chaining together. He’s also into drugs. And if we’re not careful, this whole thing is going to come around our ears.’

  The young American looked over his shoulder, to where Endelman was now dispensing drinks and then back to Blyne.

  ‘So what do we do?’ he asked, immediately. Josef looked at Matheson approvingly. He had accepted the difficulty without any of the artificial surprise to which Blyne seemed prone.

  Josef shrugged. ‘Stay with him pretty closely,’ he said, talking as the thoughts came to him. ‘Try and anticipate the scenes before they develop. He likes attracting attention. If anything goes wrong, he’ll react like a petulant child.’

  ‘And I thought this would be perfect,’ reflected Blyne, bitterly. Matheson wouldn’t have said that, thought Josef.

  ‘What about the studio?’ asked Josef.

  ‘I’ve arranged meetings later this afternoon,’ said Blyne.

  ‘What will happen to Nikolai?’ asked Josef. It was too soon for negotiating, he thought. He should have given himself time to recover from the flight.

  ‘I thought he’d be tired … getting over the flight,’ offered Blyne, uncertainly.

  ‘I can’t leave him alone,’ said Josef, simply.

  ‘They’ve flown in from the West Coast,’ urged Blyne, imagining the Russian was going to cancel the appointment. ‘The director has even come from Europe.’

  ‘I could stay with them,’ suggested Matheson. ‘Maybe go to P.J.’s or Elaine’s, do the tourist bit. It would keep them occupied until you’re through.’

  Josef shook his head, reluctantly. He was so exhausted that words were slipping away from him, like fish he could see in a stream but not catch. He kept pausing, groping to express himself.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ he said.

  ‘Look,’ said Blyne. ‘You won’t be away more than a couple of hours.’

  ‘It could only take minutes to foul up completely,’ argued the negotiator.

  ‘If you act frightened, they’ll realize it and try to make it worse,’ reasoned Matheson. ‘You’re the audience they are playing to.’

  He really was intelligent, thought Josef …

  ‘What do you think?’ he asked Blyne. The oddness of th
e question immediately registered. He tried to remember the last time he had asked anyone’s advice. It had been Medev, he recalled, during those first weeks in the camp, when he was trying to save his father as much hardship as possible.

  ‘Seems logical,’ said Blyne.

  ‘Josef!’

  Blyne and Matheson turned to the negotiator at the shouted demand from the adjoining suite.

  ‘Come and watch the cabaret,’ invited Josef.

  He pushed into the other rooms. The photographers had gone, leaving Nikolai and Endelman alone. Endelman was staring out over the grey, snow-wrapped view of Manhattan, his back to the room.

  ‘Have you properly met Herbert Blyne, who’s publishing the book here? And Harvey Matheson, who edited the American edition?’ began Josef, politely.

  ‘Edited?’ picked up the writer, ignoring Blyne and looking at the younger man. ‘My books don’t need editing.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Matheson, in flawless Russian. ‘It was the easiest thing I ever had to do.’

  Endelman looked crumpled and tired, thought Josef, without his customary elegance.

  ‘I have to see some film people this afternoon,’ Josef said to Nikolai.

  ‘I’ll want to approve the script,’ said Nikolai, immediately. Everyone knew the writer’s complete ignorance of film making.

  ‘Of course. Whatever you say.’

  He saw Blyne frowning. He was unsure whether the publisher’s expression came from his own easy acquiescence or Nikolai’s arrogance.

  ‘You,’ said Nikolai, to the publisher, who jumped at being addressed. ‘What other arrangements are there?’

  ‘Nothing for this evening,’ replied Blyne. He was having difficulty controlling himself, thought Josef. ‘Tomorrow there’s a breakfast meeting at the Algonquin with the New York Times. You’ve got lunch with the editors of Kirkus Reviews and Publishers Weekly and in the afternoon a publicity tour, a taped television show and two recorded radio pieces. In the evening, there’s the reception at the United Nations.’

  Nikolai nodded. Josef wondered if the writer would risk making himself look ridiculous by challenging the schedule, as he had the film, but he said nothing. Matheson seemed embarrassed by the performance.

  ‘I’m sure you’re not tired,’ opened the young man, directly addressing Nikolai.

  ‘Of course not,’ rejected Nikolai, a predictable reaction. He turned to Endelman. ‘We have ways of staying awake, don’t we Jimmy?’

  The photographer remained looking out of the window.

  ‘Good,’ said Matheson. ‘While Josef is with the film people, I thought we might look at New York. See a few of the bars.’

  ‘I’d like that,’ said Nikolai. He reverted to Russian, but spoke slowly, so that Endelman could understand. To Matheson, he said, ‘It would make a pleasant change to be with people whose company doesn’t promise to be unutterably boring.’

  The writer pouted in theatrical campness and Blyne stared in disbelief. Endelman had turned and looked at the writer sadly.

  ‘Bring your camera,’ Nikolai ordered Endelman. ‘I want some pictures of myself around New York.’

  He turned to Josef. ‘Be here when I get back, won’t you?’ he commanded.

  The trio swept out and Blyne stared after them. The publisher laughed, an empty sound.

  ‘It’s got to be a joke,’ he said.

  ‘I wish it were,’ said Josef. ‘If it weren’t so serious, it would be pitiful.’

  ‘Jesus H. Christ,’ moaned the publisher. He sat on the arm of a chair, shaking his head. ‘Have you told your people what’s happened?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you?’

  ‘What good will it do?’ asked the negotiator.

  ‘They might decide, even now, to take him back.’

  ‘Not when they’ve sent the deputy Minister of Culture to attend a Presidential reception.’

  ‘If it’s any consolation,’ said Blyne, smiling reluctantly, ‘the book is breaking records. I don’t think there’s been a seller like it.’

  Josef looked unimpressed. There isn’t any consolation left on this trip,’ he said, bitterly.

  He was too tired for film meetings. Fatigue kept snatching at him, insistently. Increasingly, his concentration had wavered as he talked to Blyne, so that the words ebbed and flowed. He showered and still felt exhausted. Reluctantly, he opened the briefcase and stood examining the neat rows of bottles. He had always disdained their help in direct negotiations, carrying them only for insurance. Apart from his fear of dependence, it would be like cheating himself, admitting a weakness, and Josef always hesitated to concede any weakness. He selected a phial of benzedrine. Today was an exception, he thought. It would be impossible without them.

  The company had taken a conference suite two floors above his. They were already assembled when he entered, and Josef paused, just inside the door, staring round. It was artificial, he thought. People were arranged around the room and at tables and on easy chairs as they might have been rehearsed for a film-set. Smiling, he moved further into the room and the man around whom everyone else was placed stood in greeting. Josef decided that Richard Watts looked more like an accountant, which he probably was, than a film-company president. He was a thin, short man, with rimless spectacles and a small, clipped moustache. The appearance was calculated, Josef thought. As the man carefully enunciated the introductions, Josef realized that he practised the affectation of the very powerful, showing over-deference to everyone. Josef felt he was being patronized, but was unoffended. He never objected to discussions with people who felt the need to portray imagined roles. The director, who sat immediately on Watts’s right side, was Sheldon Burgess, a fleshy man with a sagging, American stomach and a monk’s cap of hair. The stomach, Josef knew, was misleading. Burgess had worked for fifteen years in Europe after being blacked by every Hollywood studio for refusing to testify before the McCarthy Un-American Activities Committee. From Rome he had won two Academy Awards, was under nomination for a third and was now making American film companies pay for his exile by demanding three times what any other working director was being paid. Josef supposed he should feel an affinity with the man. He didn’t.

  The Vice-President was introduced as William Wasnet, a tight-faced, watchful man, for whom Josef felt a hint of recognition. Normally, thought Josef, Wasnet, who was head of production, would conduct such negotiations rather than be a witness. Another studio vice-president and chief lawyer, Edward Artman, sat with a file of documents on his lap and a gold pen in his hand, as if it gave him identification from the others. The remaining people, who because they either sat or stood apart from the inner caucus Josef presumed were of lesser importance, were identified only by name, without any titles. Josef disregarded them, as he knew Watts intended.

  ‘It’s a wonderful book, Mr. Bultova. A great book,’ began Watts. Behind him, the chorus nodded and smiled agreement. It was sad, thought Josef.

  ‘I’d like very much to film it,’ added Burgess, as if the President’s views needed endorsement. Burgess had a small voice for a man of his size and seemed embarrassed by it. His hand fluttered around his mouth when he spoke, as if to disguise the source of the sound.

  Outside it was getting dark. Lights on several skyscrapers were being left on, Josef saw, so that they made the shape of a Christmas tree. Belated doubts at allowing Nikolai out into New York in Matheson’s charge began to tug at him.

  ‘My government have obviously considered the film potential,’ reacted Josef.

  ‘Mr Blyne told me you’ve gone to particular trouble to retain the copyright in the Soviet Union,’ said the President.

  Watts would always prefix a name with ‘mister’, decided Josef.

  ‘A business precaution,’ pointed out Josef, talking to Artman. ‘There have been instances of Russian works of art being badly treated because of vague, uncertain copyright.’

  ‘I give you my personal undertaking,’ promised Watts, portentously, ‘that
you would have no argument about the artistic merits of any film my studio made. I personally guarantee that.’

  ‘My government would ensure there was every safeguard,’ assured Josef, unimpressed. It was a bad choice of words.

  Burgess frowned. ‘What does that mean?’

  Josef smiled at the concern. It was nearly six o’clock, he noted. Nikolai had been gone nearly an hour. The time-lag to which he had not bothered to adjust would increase the effect of alcohol, Perhaps he’d be exhausted, needing sleep immediately he returned to the hotel.

  ‘Any contract would have clauses clearly setting out the degree of interpretation allowed in the script,’ he said.

  ‘Censorship,’ protested Burgess.

  ‘It would ensure proper co-operation,’ insisted Josef. He had planned the negotiation on the plane journey from England but had not envisaged a meeting like this.

  ‘I don’t imagine the other studios would raise objections,’ he offered. It was almost a clumsy threat.

  ‘Other studios?’ asked Watts. The men around them registered the concern that would be expected.

  ‘Paramount, United Artists, Universal … most of the independents. In fact, there are few people not interested.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d better tell us what you have in mind,’ said Wasnet. The production chief would definitely have been more of a negotiating adversary, thought Josef.

  ‘For Walk Softly on a Lonely Day,’ began Josef, deciding to list the demands before the encouragement towards their agreement, ‘I would want outright payment of two million dollars. I would also want ten per cent of the gross. It would obviously be a studio financed film, with no outside money. I would want the contract to stipulate quite clearly that the ten per cent came from the world-wide gross before any other deduction whatsoever.’

  He sat back, looking at them, and they returned his stare, waiting, not believing he had finished.

  ‘Too much,’ protested Watts, as Josef had known he would. The man had spoken immediately, without thought, like someone reciting an expected reaction. Josef saw Wasnet and Artman frown.

  ‘But you haven’t allowed me to finish,’ complained Josef closing the door behind the other man. Watts looked uncomfortable, embarrassed by the premature response.