Face Me When You Walk Away

by Brian Freemantle

  As they turned, Endelman emerged from the bathroom, buttoning his sleeve over his arm. He smiled and waved. He was deeply under the influence of some drug, Josef accepted. ‘Don’t go,’ he protested.

  ‘We can’t leave him,’ said Blyne. Dancers were pulling apart, looking at them, Josef could hear Matheson shouting from the next room. He reached out, grabbing the photographer by the shoulder and shoved him towards the main room, after Blyne and Nikolai.

  ‘Pigs,’ someone said, from behind and immediately the word was picked up.

  ‘A raid,’ confirmed another, echoed immediately by a third. There were screams again and renewed shouting.

  ‘Don’t push,’ said Endelman. ‘Want to stay.’

  ‘Get out,’ commanded Josef. He felt an overwhelming need to hit the man.

  A figure wearing woman’s panties and a black suspender belt, trailing a skirt by the hand, fled through the door in front of them yelling, ‘It’s a bust. We’re being raided.’

  Matheson stood in the middle of the main room, holding his face where he had been scratched. Blood was edging out through his fingers.

  ‘Cops. Oh, my God. The police.’

  ‘I’ve got a wife. For Christ’s sake, let me out.’

  ‘Bastards,’ screamed the model. ‘You bastards.’

  Hysteria bubbled around them, like froth on a beer glass.

  ‘Stop it. We’re not police. Stop it,’ shouted Josef. A man ran past him, pushing him sideways. He was missing a shoe, Josef saw.

  Nikolai was still smiling when they got outside. The man with one shoe was at the end of the corridor, frantically stabbing at the lift button. He turned, saw them approaching and whimpered. He looked around for an escape route, then burst through the door marked ‘Fire’.

  In the elevator, Josef put Nikolai’s coat on him properly. From the indicator board came a cacophony of demands from above as the panic spread and people tried to leave the top floor.

  Outside it was snowing heavily, drifts banking high against the building. But the wind had dropped, so there was a stillness over everything. Blyne turned frowning towards Josef at the sound of the party when they emerged. They squinted upwards, realizing that the windows had been thrown open far above. Snow fell into their faces, making it difficult to see. The noise was abnormal, Josef thought, everyone trying to outscream each other. They were halfway across the road, towards their car, when there was a louder shout than the others and both Josef and Blyne stopped, halted by the desperation in it. They sensed rather than heard the sound, and half ducked, instinctively. Then there was the impression of a shape and the strained scream that came from it as it plunged down out of the whiteness. The body exploded against the ground with a plopping sound, staining the snow with a huge splash of red. A blonde wig had fallen away from the body and seemed crouched, like a small dog. The homosexual had been wearing blue, Josef saw. Satin, he thought. He couldn’t see any shoes. Perhaps they had been lost, like the frightened man with a wife.

  ‘Hurry,’ said Blyne. ‘The police won’t take long.’

  Nikolai began laughing in the car, an insane, unreal sound. Josef had to hit him twice before it stopped. Even then, he hunched in the corner of the car, sniggering.

  *

  Pamela waited four days before trying to contact Sanya, wanting to show by her silence that she would not be treated so discourteously. Four days, she decided, was sufficient. When she telephoned the Ministry, she was told Sanya was not available. So she wrote. There was no reply.

  On the Sunday Pamela went to Sanya’s apartment block, a frightening contrast to her own. It seemed to move with people, like a hive. The occupants stared openly at her and one woman actually stretched out, in curiosity, recognizing the coat as Western-made and wishing to touch it. Pamela pulled away, nervously. The tendency of the Russians to touch always upset her. An unsmiling, fat woman answered the door. Enunciating her Russian carefully, Pamela asked for Sanya. The woman shrugged, called over her shoulder and then walked away. Several minutes passed and then it was opened again. Sanya looked at her, surprised.

  ‘I thought you might be ill,’ said Pamela.

  ‘No. I’m all right.’

  ‘I telephoned.’

  ‘I know.’

  Pamela waited for her to continue, but the Russian girl said nothing more.

  ‘Did you get my letter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Pamela shivered, but Sanya did not invite her in. Over Sanya’s shoulder, Pamela saw another woman moving around, staring at her with interest.

  ‘When am I seeing you again?’ asked Pamela, finally.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Twice Sanya made as if to speak, then stopped, unsure of the right words. Finally she said, ‘I don’t want to be your friend.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Please go away.’

  ‘But Sanya … why …?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘But what have I done?’

  ‘I don’t …’ tried the Russian, then halted again. She was shaking, Pamela saw.

  ‘Look, Sanya, let’s talk …’

  ‘Go away,’ erupted the other woman. ‘Leave me alone. You smother me. You won’t let me breathe.’

  She slammed the door. Pamela heard her run back into the apartment. As calmly as possible, she turned and slowly walked out of the foul-smelling block, gulping air as she regained the street.

  19

  Fear would give him the chance to re-establish some control over the writer, thought Josef. Endelman sat apart from them, hunched in a dressing-gown. Despite the central heating, he appeared cold, shudders going through him in spasms.

  ‘A man died,’ Josef told the writer. ‘Now there will be police inquiries. If you are implicated, the Nobel Foundation will withdraw the award. You’ll probably be arrested, when you return to Russia.’

  The arrogance and contempt of the previous days had vanished.

  ‘Help me, Josef. I need you to help me.’

  Josef sighed, wearily. ‘No more scenes,’ he stipulated.

  ‘I promise, Josef. Honestly.’

  Endelman sighed, contemptuous of the writer’s collapse.

  ‘And I want to know what drugs you’re taking,’ demanded the negotiator. ‘Pills or marijuana didn’t put either of you into the condition that you were in last night.’

  Nikolai looked to Endelman. He seems to need help from everyone, thought Josef.

  ‘What are you going to do if we don’t tell you?’ asked Endelman, turning to face him at last.

  ‘It’s still not too late for the facility of travelling with us to be withdrawn,’ tried Josef, the hollowness echoing in the threat.

  Endelman laughed at him, openly. ‘It is too late,’ he said. ‘Isn’t it, Nikolai?’

  The writer shifted on the bed, but said nothing.

  ‘You’re a fool, Josef,’ continued the American. ‘You try to convey the impression of being so worldly, but you’re a fool ‘

  The photographer jerked his head towards the briefcase that lay by Josef’s leg.

  ‘You walk around like a clerk, with a briefcase and a pocket full of pens and try to convince people you’re something special. But that’s all you are, Josef. A clerk.’

  Their roles had changed, realized Josef. Endelman was showing the arrogance that Nikolai had attempted and now the writer had the subservient part.

  ‘Show him your arms, Nikolai,’ ordered Endelman.

  Made aware of it, Josef realized that Nikolai was sitting with his shirtsleeves buttoned. The writer half folded his arms, running his hands over them. Endelman had been doing that, as he emerged from the bathroom at the party, remembered Josef.

  ‘Please, Jimmy,’ pleaded the writer. The man’s skin was greased with perspiration. He looked desperately ill, thought Josef. He moved forward to the bed and Nikolai tried to crab away. Josef caught him easily, and jerked the cuff of the shirt. The button broke away and Nikolai’s arm, up to the elbow, was exposed. The vei
ns were blackened tributaries along the inside of his arm, which was marked, near the inside of the joint, with bruises, as if a strong man had grabbed and squeezed. Medev’s arms had been like that, Josef recalled. And his legs, too, after he had defied the guards and given help to Josef and his father and then been taken away to be trussed in a metal frame, like a bed without springs, and beaten. Medev had been a brave man, thought Josef. And stayed one. Even at the worst moments, reduced to tears, he would have rejected narcotics, Josef knew.

  ‘Oh God,’ said Josef, slowly. Nikolai refused to meet his look. ‘You fool,’ said Josef. ‘You stupid, bloody fool.’

  ‘Please don’t be angry, Josef.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, stop it,’ snapped Endelman. He stood up and walked over to Josef, staring down from his superior height.

  ‘You knew he’d smoked heroin, because he told you. So don’t perform the outraged protector now. You should have known bloody well that having smoked it, he was going to start mainlining it.’

  Josef moved away from the bed, needing to get space between himself and the two men. He stared directly at the photographer.

  ‘You did it deliberately, didn’t you Endelman?’ he demanded.

  The photographer laughed, a jeering sound. ‘Josef Bultova, the psychoanalyst,’ he mocked.

  ‘You gave him heroin knowing that he would become dependent upon it. And if he needed heroin, he needed you. So now you’re in command.’

  Nikolai began whimpering, very quietly, and Josef stared at him, distastefully. What a fool, thought Josef.

  ‘So?’ challenged the photographer, knowing his strength.

  Again, there was nothing he could do, accepted Josef. To seek help from Semyonov would provide the man with information that would be immediately channelled back to Devgeny.

  ‘We’re all the same, us fags,’ said Endelman. ‘We’re all bent on destruction.’

  He threw something he took from his dressing-gown pocket on to the bed and Nikolai snatched at it.

  ‘I do look after him, Josef,’ said the photographer. ‘That’ll set him up for the day.’

  Josef turned to leave, but Endelman stopped him.

  ‘Stay, Josef,’ he ordered, challenging a refusal.

  One difficulty disappears and another rises to take its place, thought Josef. He remained, looking on, his face expressionless. Nikolai dissolved the powder into the bowl of a spoon held over Endelman’s cigarette lighter, sucked it into a hypodermic he took unsterilized from the bedside-table and injected into an artery he swelled in his left arm by binding his tie around the elbow joint. Josef felt nothing.

  ‘See what a good pupil he has been?’ mocked Endelman.

  Nikolai sat, hands clasped between his knees, and looking down, waiting for the feeling to engulf him. The photographer prepared his own injection. He was very practised, saw Josef.

  ‘You can go now,’ commanded Endelman. ‘You wanted to know and we showed you.’

  Theatrically, Endelman stopped him as he was about to go through the linking doors.

  ‘And Josef?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Be a little more polite, in future.’

  Back in his room, Josef stood staring out over the whiteness of Central Park, seeing nothing. It had been another vow that never would anyone treat him with the complete disregard he’d suffered during imprisonment. But now it was happening again, he thought. He was jumping at the snap of fingers, running at the whim of everyone, like a common black-marketeer negotiating a squalid deal on Gorky Street.

  They were ready in an hour for the Algonquin meeting with the New York Times. The change in Nikolai was remarkable. Now he was almost as he had been during the early days in Stockholm, obeying Josef without question, turning to him in deference before answering any question. Publicly, Endelman behaved perfectly, always working unobtrusively.

  Blyne joined them back at the Pierre before the publishing magazine lunch. He looked worried and tired.

  ‘Have you seen the papers? The pictures in the Daily News are incredible. They got into the party before it broke up.’

  ‘We’d have had some indication before now if anyone had Linked Nikolai with it,’ said Josef.

  Blyne moved his never-still hands uncertainly.

  ‘I think we should get out of New York,’ said Blyne. ‘Tonight’s reception at the United Nations is the last thing here. Why don’t we go down overnight to Washington? You’re staying at the embassy there, so Nikolai will be under some sort of control.’

  The only objection to going to Washington was that Endelman could not stay at the Embassy, so it would mean he would have to shuttle between 16th Street and the hotel in which the publisher and his party were staying, ferrying the writer’s drug supply. He could not, he knew, make Nikolai’s addiction known immediately he arrived at the American capital. The Washington ambassador, Semyon Vladimirov, had been an attaché under Josef’s father in Paris, an able, eager diplomat. The old man had nurtured him, guiding him so he avoided the pitfalls, recommending his promotion with personal letters to the Praesidium. During the trial, Vladimirov had denounced them both, seeing a short cut to even greater promotion, giving graphic evidence of totally fictitious meetings with members of the Sûreté and the C.I.A, Vladimirov had been in court when the sentence had been announced, Josef recalled. And had found the shock on the old man’s face particularly amusing. To make Nikolai’s addiction an embassy matter would be a tactical mistake, Josef decided. But there was common sense in Blyne’s suggestion.

  ‘Is there a shuttle down to Washington tonight?’

  ‘I’ll hire a plane,’ said the publisher, anxious to cocoon the writer as much as possible.

  Josef telephoned the Washington embassy, curtly instructing them to arrange overflow accommodation. Illinivitch would be staying at the embassy, thought Josef. He would need to speak to the deputy Minister immediately he arrived, he decided.

  Endelman refused to attend the videotaping of the television show, excusing himself to develop the film he had taken during the tour. Josef felt a lurch of uncertainty at the thought that the photographer was tiring of the association with Nikolai. Thank God he had a commission that would keep him with them until the time came for Nikolai’s return. The recorded shows, both for radio and television, went remarkably well, as had the lunch that preceded it. He wondered if the public success of the tour could be produced as a partial defence against any inquiry. It was inevitable that there would be an investigation, he accepted, once Nikolai’s addiction became known.

  Josef had forgotten his time stipulation upon the film company and was surprised to find Wasnet and Artman waiting for them when they returned to the Pierre from the TV studio.

  The contracts were perfectly drawn and needed no amendments and Josef signed the Americans’ copy after the first reading. The anxiety seeping away from Wasnet was almost visible, although Artman managed to control himself slightly better. Watts had withdrawn, Josef decided, because he feared a disaster, shifting responsibility entirely upon the production chief. If Moscow accepted the deal, Josef wondered if Watts would allow the man credit for the successful conclusion. Probably not, he thought.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Wasnet, nervously, as Josef signed. He was still unsure, Josef knew.

  ‘How long before Moscow’s approval?’ asked Artman.

  ‘Difficult to say,’ avoided the negotiator. ‘Within a month, perhaps. I would hope no longer.’

  ‘So would we,’ said Wasnet, with feeling.

  ‘I was wondering whether I could come to Moscow, next month,’ pressed Wasnet. ‘Just to see everything is going smoothly.’

  They were nervous, concluded Josef. But there was an element of personal protection in the idea.

  ‘An excellent suggestion,’ he agreed. ‘I’ll recommend it.’

  Semyonov had taken great care with the reception, Josef realized. Only the Chinese had refused the invitation, and because every other delegation was represented, the major
ity by their ambassadors, the Peking rejection appeared petty and rebounded in Russia’s favour. Diplomacy, reflected Josef as he moved into the room overlooking the East River, often resembled schoolgirl dormitory politics.

  Officiously, Semyonov took the initial role of translator, moving from group to group, introducing Nikolai. He actually enjoyed the reflected glory, realized Josef. The vanity of important men frequently surprised him. Endelman had arrived an hour before the reception, spending most of the time alone with Nikolai, who towards the end of the afternoon had grown irritable and nervous, unable to remain still, as if he were suffering a skin irritation. Now he was relaxed again, a shy man accepting Semyonov’s guidance. Another injection was the most logical explanation. It was always possible, Josef supposed, that they had gone to bed together. He waited for a personal reaction to the thought. There should be disgust, he thought, or a shudder of contempt. He felt nothing, only the emptiness of non-feeling that had existed when he had learned of Pamela’s betrayal and watched Nikolai jab a filthy needle into his arm. How much of him, wondered Josef, had died in Potma? Was something else buried in the shallow ditch into which he had rolled the already stiffening body of his father?

  ‘It goes well, doesn’t it?’ demanded Semyonov. An aide had taken the role of translator, saw Josef.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed the negotiator. The ambassador was tense and smiling, like a man with a secret.

  ‘Did you read of the tragedy in the city last night?’ said Semyonov.

  ‘Which one did you have in mind?’ rejoined Josef. Schoolgirl repartee, he thought again.

  ‘A shocking example of Western decadence,’ said Semyonov, reciting dogma. ‘A man, dressed as a woman, leapt from an apartment where, according to police reports, nearly everyone was homosexual. There are amazing pictures in today’s newspapers.’

  ‘No,’ said Josef. ‘I didn’t read about it.’

  So they knew of the party. Sledgehammer finesse, he thought. If that were an example of the ambassador’s ability, Semyonov must need Devgeny’s constant support. Unless, of course, Semyonov knew through Devgeny of moves in Moscow which meant the man could be careless in his clumsy innuendo. It was obvious they would have been watched, he supposed, but he had not imagined the surveillance would have been so complete. Perhaps Moscow might dispense with an inquiry and move immediately for a trial.