Face Me When You Walk Away

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘You need treatment,’ said Josef.

  The men were alongside now, nodding to Josef, positioning themselves around the writer.

  ‘No Josef. Please. You’re my friend. You know what it will mean. Please Josef. No.’

  They were waiting for his permission, Josef realized.

  ‘Goodbye, Nikolai,’ he said.

  ‘But Josef. No. Please Josef. No. Help me.’

  The negotiator nodded and the men either side grabbed Nikolai’s arm, turning him towards the vehicle. He tried to snatch away, but they were experts and held him easily. Nikolai attempted to baulk, wedging his heels into the ground, but they were prepared for that too, half lifting him, so the protest ended with his slipping on the ground. Desperately, as they took him away, Nikolai turned, wild eyed now, screaming back at the negotiator, but the wind took the words and discarded them, so that Josef never heard what he said.

  He stood, watching the vehicle grunt into life and then move slowly away, the wipers fashioning half-moon eyes in the snow. Track marks formed behind it, like two skeins of wool unwinding. Josef waited until the ambulance was completely out of sight and then looked around for the car to take him to the terminal building. The tarmac was deserted. They had expected him to accompany Nikolai to hospital, he decided. It would be another thirty minutes before the bus arrived for the other passengers, he thought. It would be quicker to walk. His clothes encrusted with snow, he crunched off towards the lights, head down against the wind, trying to draw back into his coat. He stopped inside the arrival building, stamping the snow from his shoes and billowing his coat, trying to shake off the cold and dampness. He wiped his hair and face with a handkerchief which became soaked, so he discarded it in a refuse bin. The arrival was a familiar scene, he thought, wearily. How many times had he entered this building, washed yellow with its unshaded lights, with the immigration desks like the traps from which racehorses emerged in America and Britain? Behind them the narrow, low benches of the customs officials were deserted. He walked forward, towards the nearest immigration channel, nodding as he passed through to the man in the tiny cubicle.

  ‘Comrade.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Passport.’

  Josef stared at him, aware for the first time of a difference. There were hardly any passengers in the terminal building, yet there were more airport officials and people than usual.

  ‘My name is Bultova,’ he said expectantly, ‘Josef Bultova.’

  ‘Passport,’ insisted the immigration official, doggedly.

  ‘I see,’ said Josef. He groped into the briefcase and produced the document. There was hardly any conversation in the hall, Josef realized. The man was steadfastly leafing through the pages, even making the pretence of checking against a hardbound, loose-paged book at his side. It took a full ten minutes.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  Josef nodded, his face expressionless, passing through into the customs hall. His suitcases stood, isolated, on the very middle bench, in full view of the entire hall and in a spot where he would have to walk at least forty yards to claim them. He was aware of his own footsteps, as if the ground upon which he were walking was hollow. There was no official near his baggage. He waited, gazing straight ahead, ignoring the attention. It was nearly fifteen minutes before anyone approached him.

  ‘Your baggage?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Open them, please.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘All of them.’

  There were three cases. Josef unlocked the smallest first, ending with the largest. They were painstakingly packed, the suits with tissue paper in the arms and legs to prevent creasing, the shirts laundered and neatly packed, in the American fashion. The customs official rummaged them all, taking everything out, snatching the paper from the suits, unfolding the shirts, reducing the cases to chaos.

  ‘The briefcases,’ he demanded.

  Josef offered both to him. The man jumbled through them, sorting aimlessly through the tapes and miniature recorders, then shuffling the papers into a disorganized mess. He lifted Josef’s pills from the second case and dropped one of the bottles. It smashed against the concrete and sleeping pills rolled everywhere. The man looked at him for reaction, but Josef said nothing.

  ‘Follow me.’

  Josef walked to the cubicle with the man and entered and stood, waiting.

  ‘Personal search,’ announced the official, shortly. The hut was created from pressed cardboard sheets and there was no heating. The temperature would be near freezing, thought Josef. Naked, he stood while the man explored his pockets, rifling through his wallet and credit-card holder. Thank God, thought Josef, he had got rid of the heroin on the plane. He clamped his teeth together, determined not to show his discomfort. The cold was drawing the feeling away from his legs. As he finished with each piece of clothing, the official was tossing it aside on to a bench, but Josef held back from reclaiming it. He had to await permission, he knew. How easily the old rules came back.

  ‘Thank you.’ the man said, flatly.

  The cold had permeated Josef’s body and so even dressed it was difficult for him to walk. He hobbled to the bench across which the contents of his cases were strewn and stood, looking at the man. He was still in charge, Josef accepted.

  ‘That’s all,’ said the official.

  Slowly, Josef picked up every pill from the floor, taking an unused tape from its cardboard carton and using that as a container. He laid his suits out, replaced the tissue paper, then folded the shirts into their original, pressed creases. He worked unhurriedly, with no sign of stress. The official stood attentive, aware of the occasional snigger from people watching. The other passengers had been allowed off the plane, but prevented from entering the customs area. Josef could hear the babble behind him and knew they would be staring over the partition, curious at the scene.

  ‘May I go?’ asked Josef, finally. He was very polite.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  The ‘sir’ came automatically.

  He knew there would be no car waiting, so he looked around for a taxi. Several stood in the reserved bay, but there were no drivers. He opened the door of the first and sounded the horn, but no one came. Sighing, he carried his bags to the bus and humped them into the baggage section. The negotiator managed to get a taxi at the terminal and slumped back as it drove towards the apartment. He felt exhausted, almost unable to move, as if someone had tapped an artery and drained the blood from him. He was unaware of the car stopping and felt stupid when the driver turned, looking quizzically at him, and announced his arrival. He loaded the cases under his arms, backed in through the apartment door and found the lift had been turned off. He made two trips up and down from the fourth floor, to get his belongings into the apartment.

  It stank. And was filthy, dusty with neglect, several unwashed glasses lying on pieces of furniture, all of which was disarranged. There were several cushions half on, half off the chairs and embers of a long-dead fire mottled the fireplace and the carpet in front of it. Ashtrays overflowed, some even spilling their contents on the floor. The cow. The filthy, spoiled cow.

  He went from place to place, putting back cushions, emptying ashtrays. Anger flooded over him, a reaction to the dirtiness of the flat and to the carefully orchestrated humiliation since he had stepped off the plane.

  Josef burst into the bedroom, flooding it with light. It was as filthy as the main room and a sour odour hung over everything.

  Pamela snored, an ugly, phlegmy sound. Savagely, he snatched the clothing from her, staring down, waiting for her shocked awakening. She was completely naked, her hair matted over her face, which was swollen and red, almost as if she had been slapped. An overpowering smell of alcohol wafted up at him. She shifted and groaned, but did not wake up. His eyes swept over her nakedness, almost clinically. He stopped, concentrating on her navel, then reached out, touching her pubic turf with his finger, like someone apprehensive that c
ontact might burn. She murmured and turned over. There was no feeling, he thought. No desire, not even lust. She moved again and there was an odd sound and he saw she had urinated in the bed and was lying in it, unconsciously. Gently, anxious not to awaken her now because there was nothing to say, he replaced the bed covering and walked softly from the bedroom. He made the couch acceptable, then sat down. She was disgusting, he thought, utterly disgusting. How prescient Nikolai had been on the homecoming plane.

  Everything was different. Completely different.

  22

  She looked at him curiously, as if he were a stranger. Neither spoke. Her eyes carried on, moving over the apartment that had taken him three hours to clean. He had worked carelessly, disregarding the noise, purposely creating it in the beginning hoping to awaken her, but there had been no movement within the bedroom. Now it was almost noon. The front of her towelling robe was stained and the hem had become unstitched, he saw. The belt had gone, too. She held it across the front of her body, defensively.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. Instinctively she ran her fingers through her hair, fussing it into shape.

  ‘Hello,’ he said.

  ‘Didn’t know you were coming back. Should have told me. Telephoned or something.’

  Properly constructed sentences seemed too much for her. She was still half drunk, he realized. Pamela came unsteadily into the room and sat down opposite him. Her feet were dirty where she had walked around the flat for several days without stockings or shoes. They stared at each other, seeking a bridge to cross.

  ‘Nice you’re back,’ she tried.

  He said nothing.

  ‘Trip.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Good trip?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Place was a mess,’ she confessed.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Should have told me. Didn’t know.’

  ‘Why?’

  She squinted to understand the question.

  ‘Why?’ repeated Josef. ‘The filth? And the drink?’

  Pamela began to move, then realized she was holding her robe and risked exposing herself. She stared down at her hand, reluctant to release it, then back up at her husband. She squinted again.

  ‘What?’ she mumbled.

  ‘What’s happened to you?’

  ‘Lonely.’

  ‘That isn’t sufficient reason.’

  ‘Unhappy. Don’t like it.’

  He went to the kitchen, made coffee and then served her, refilling the cup as she emptied it, watching without sympathy as sobriety came to her. She grew more and more uncomfortable under his stare.

  ‘Better?’

  ‘Suppose so.’

  ‘I know,’ he announced. He had decided it had to be done abruptly.

  ‘Know?’

  ‘About Nikolai. At the dacha.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘He took great delight in telling me.’

  ‘I thought he would.’

  ‘Why?’ he demanded, again.

  ‘He got me drunk.’ She jumped immediately into the practised defence.

  ‘No,’ he refused.

  ‘We did drink.’

  ‘You knew what you were doing.’

  ‘I was frightened.’

  ‘Frightened!’ It was a sneer.

  ‘Yes, Josef. Frightened because I knew I was inadequate … that I couldn’t make a proper wife. Can’t you imagine what it was like for me, married to someone like you, terrified to say or do anything, knowing it would be wrong, frightened of the look that would show you were disappointed or ashamed …’

  ‘Was Nikolai better than I was, when my turn finally came?’ he asked, bitterly.

  ‘Oh God,’ she said.

  ‘Was he?’ he pressed, savagely.

  ‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘Please don’t.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ he said.

  ‘Isn’t the aggrieved husband act a little false?’ she accused. ‘You knew I wasn’t a virgin.’

  ‘I didn’t know it was him.’

  ‘Ah,’ she said, given a sudden explanation. ‘So it’s pride more than love.’

  ‘I never questioned what you did before we married,’ he said, refusing her the excuse.

  She looked into her lap, rehearsing the words. ‘I am ashamed, Josef,’ she offered. ‘There wasn’t a time when you were away when I wasn’t terrified of the moment you’d find out, knowing that bastard would eventually boast that he’d screwed your wife …’

  Josef winced and her words clogged as she stumbled to a halt.

  ‘I’m begging forgiveness, Josef,’ she said. ‘Please. I know I’ve hurt you, terribly. But I want help.’

  ‘I saw your mother in London,’ he said and she stared at him, unable to understand the change of direction.

  ‘We talked about visas.’

  Pamela’s face cleared. She looked very sad. ‘Oh,’ she said, understanding.

  She would cry now, thought Josef. Then her eyes would look worse than they already did. He hoped she would avoid it. She really did look quite ugly.

  ‘Did you try?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, resigned.

  ‘And?’

  ‘They wouldn’t give me re-entry. But I can go out, of course. Any time.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I saw my parents’ marriage collapse. Don’t let it happen to me. I know I’ve no right, after what I’ve done. I can’t even offer an explanation or a proper excuse. But let me stay, Josef.’

  ‘Your mother wants to see you again.’

  The tears finally came, marking parallel paths down her face. Her nose was running, too. Disgusted, he threw a handkerchief across the gap separating them.

  ‘Can’t you forgive anyone, Josef?’ she sobbed.

  He continued looking at her, saying nothing.

  ‘I hope to God,’ she said, ‘that you never know the need for pity.’

  ‘Why don’t you take a bath?’ he said, rising. ‘You smell.’

  23

  He had to wait three days to appear before the inquiry committee of the Praesidium. By coincidence, it was the day Pamela was flying to London. She had made a desperate effort since the homecoming, accepting the separate sleeping arrangements, keeping the flat clinically clean and not, as far as he was aware, touching any alcohol.

  Twice, when she realized his determination, she had pleaded again, staying completely controlled, not giving way to tears, which Josef admired. He had matched her control and rejected her. Everything was still very civilized, he thought.

  He saw her struggling to get her cases from what had been their bedroom and moved to help her.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  There had been another time, between the Stockholm visits, when they had been over-polite and courteous to each other, Josef recalled.

  ‘There’s an important meeting. I’m afraid I shan’t be able to take you to the airport.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It really doesn’t matter.’

  ‘I’ll make arrangements through my London bank for an allowance. And some drawing facilities on the main account.’

  ‘Please don’t bother. I gather my father left me a lot of money.’

  ‘I’d like to.’

  ‘I shan’t use it.’

  ‘I’d still like to.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  She looked very lovely. She would have opened out like a flower in the sunshine of Sochi, he thought. It was all very unfortunate.

  ‘Perhaps I’ll write,’ she offered.

  ‘All right.’

  ‘I suppose we should be sensible. About a divorce, I mean. You might meet somebody else. Or I might.’

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘I suppose we should.’

  ‘Will it be difficult, because of different nationalities?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You’ll find out, though?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  They s
tood looking at each other. Sometimes, Pamela thought, he looks just like a bear. But a friendly, cuddly bear, like they have in children’s fairy stories.

  ‘I must go,’ she said. ‘Or I’ll miss my plane.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You won’t look me up in London, will you?’ She guessed.

  ‘Probably not,’ he agreed.

  ‘I will write.’

  He wondered if he should kiss her. She seemed to expect something. Hesitantly, he offered his hand. She faltered, then took it.

  ‘I’m sorry, Josef,’ she said, for the last time.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It’s a pity.’

  They stayed joined for several moments. Then, withdrawing his hand, he said, ‘I’ll help you down with your luggage.’

  Josef was conscious of the awareness of people as he approached the main committee room in the Kremlin. Perhaps Devgeny’s secretary had been voicing his opinion. He was kept waiting for forty-five minutes, but sat relaxed, recognizing the psychology and untroubled by it. Devgeny’s secretary summoned him, not quite able to keep the smirk off his face. Josef picked up his two briefcases and followed into the room, pausing just inside the door. Its size was imposing. Chandeliers hung from the high, vaulted ceiling and were augmented by strip lights, which gave everything a harsh, unreal glare. Windows stretched from ceiling to floor almost the complete length of one side, and facing walls were bare of any decoration. An enormous table occupied the centre of the room, slightly curved at either end, so that the men before whom he was to appear sat in a half moon, facing out towards the windows. In front of them, there was a small table, also half-mooned, for officials and secretaries, and then, isolated, a table at which only one man could sit, positioned so that the occupant had his back to the light. He walked in front of the expressionless men, towards the smallest table he knew was his. He paused, then put his briefcases beside the chair and turned, awaiting permission to sit. Devgeny was half-way down on the left-hand side, he noticed. Illinivitch was sitting next to him. Korshunov was several seats further along. Ballenin was far away, among the lesser important. In the centre sat the Party Chairman, Mikhail Beilkin, with the Secretary, Ostrap Svetlova, on his right. Josef was always surprised when he saw them. Such men should be over six feet, he felt, and large, their stature befitting their positions. Both, in fact, were quite small men. But then, so were Khrushchev and Beria. Both men sitting before him were assessed to be tougher and more ruthless than either of them had been. The sixteen men of the Politbureau were all on the inquiry committee. That gave it the highest rank possible, he realized.