Face Me When You Walk Away

by Brian Freemantle

  The Party Secretary nodded his head and Josef sat down. Devgeny stared at him, his face blank. He looked better, thought Josef, than when they had last confronted each other. Even his suit was freshly pressed and there was no sign in his face of the excessive drinking that Josef had suspected before he went on tour with Nikolai. He moved on to Illinivitch. The man was looking at him as if he were a stranger.

  ‘This preliminary inquiry into the recent tour of the West with Comrade Balshev is to establish whether a criminal investigation should be undertaken into your conduct,’ began Svetlova, officiously.

  He nodded towards Devgeny.

  ‘… The Minister of Culture lays the complaint against you. It is serious …’

  Devgeny shifted in his seat, his excitement needing movement.

  ‘There is, in fact, a demand that you be placed on trial,’ the Secretary went on. ‘This Committee will decide whether such a trial is justified …’

  The man shuffled through the papers lying before him, found the document he wanted and looked up.

  ‘… There is provision for a charge against you under Section 190 of our Criminal Statute,’ he said. ‘The allegation is of anti-Soviet activity …’

  Why had the man to go through the charade of finding the document? It was always Section 190. That was the panacea indictment thrown like a fishing net over the Russian judicial system. It was always possible to mount a prosecution under Section 190, no matter what offence, real or otherwise. How bewildered his father had been when the allegation had been made against him, a man to whom such action would have been anathema. He had shaken his head, refusing to accept it, actually challenging the court clerk in the belief that the charge was •wrongly made and there had been some terrible mistake.

  ‘Do you have anything to say?’ asked the Secretary.

  Josef cleared his throat, rising to his feet. Whenever challenging a fact or addressing the committee, he had to stand, he knew.

  ‘I categorically deny the accusation laid against me,’ he said, formally, and sat down. Movement shuffled along the table and several of the committee looked sideways to their partners, as if they had expected Josef to say more.

  The Secretary nodded to Devgeny, who rose and walked around the table, so that he could command the full attention of everyone. The Minister stood, one hand lightly resting on the huge table, savouring the moment. This, thought Josef, was the occasion for which the man had waited for nearly fifteen years, the moment of Devgeny’s vindication. Now he would extract the apologies far more demeaning than those which Josef had been insisting upon for a decade and a half.

  Perspiration was causing the inside of Josef’s legs to irritate. He scratched himself surreptitiously. As he withdrew his hand he saw that it was four-thirty. Pamela’s plane would be taking off now. She would be happier in London, he knew. And safer. Certainly safer. He wondered if she would ever realize that.

  ‘There have been occasions in the past,’ began Devgeny, ‘when this committee has had to make preliminary inquiries of this nature. Because of the fairness of the Russian legal system, many of those accusations have been dismissed as unfounded …’

  He paused, for effect, but it was an unhappy hesitation, seeming as if the Minister were awaiting challenge upon the assertion of fairness. Several other people had the same impression, Josef knew.

  ‘… Others, however, have not,’ took up Devgeny. Even he regretted the pause, speaking quickly to make up for it. ‘The accusation I make today will come into the second category. Rarely will this committee have encountered a worse case of anti-Sovietism…’

  How many hours had gone into Devgeny’s rehearsal, wondered Josef. He felt the briefcases at his side, a needless reassurance. He should have returned with more sleeping pills and tranquillizers, he thought. Devgeny seemed very confident. Hardly, decided Josef, with growing conviction, a man with little support in the Praesidium.

  ‘The facts,’ went on Devgeny, ‘are as simple as they are horrifying. At the beginning of this year, the Ministry of Culture heard that the Nobel Foundation was considering one of Russia’s most brilliant writers, Nikolai Balshev, for their literary award.’

  Was it really only a year ago, questioned Josef. It seemed a lifetime.

  ‘Balshev’s talent is undenied. There is probably no one in the world today with greater lyricism. He has been publicly acclaimed in every country in the world. More, he is a good Russian. It was decided that Balshev should be encouraged to accept the award if he were the eventual recipient, and that he would be allowed to make a literary tour of the West, in which the sales of his books were to be negotiated.’

  He stopped, sipping from a glass of water. Dramatically he extended his hand, pointed at Josef.

  ‘That man was entrusted with the task of negotiating those sales and arranging the tour. It was also his task to let the Foundation know, in a diplomatic way, that every facility would be made available for Balshev to accept’

  How easy it sounded, thought Josef. It was the job of a junior counsellor at a minor embassy, a mission in which nothing could go wrong.

  ‘Bultova was selected because of his unrivalled knowledge of the West, to which he travels frequently …’

  Another pause, for effect.

  ‘… Some may think too frequently. He was to do more than just organize the tour. His principal job was to safeguard Nikolai Balshev. The writer is a shy, unworldly man. His very lack of sophistication is one of the major delights of his writing. The Soviet Union had to be spared any embarrassment that such innocence might have unthinkingly created.’

  Devgeny stopped for more water. It was a brilliant denunciation, conceded Josef.

  ‘Because of the immense importance to the Soviet Union, I had our overseas security service constantly in attendance,’ admitted the Minister.

  They were very good, thought Josef. Not once had he recognized them. Devgeny would know of everything, of course. Like a croupier dealing cards, the Minister handed the security reports along the table.

  Devgeny cleared his throat.

  ‘Today Nikolai Balshev is a patient in a sanatorium. He is a hopeless, committed heroin addict. His creativity is utterly destroyed. In a few moments, I shall call a doctor to tell you that apart from his craving for drugs, Balshev has only one interest He returned from the West a sexual deviant, a savage pederast. For the protection of the other patients, some of whom are young boys, Balshev has to be kept locked in a private ward.’

  It was hardly surprising the secretary with thick spectacles had made up his mind, thought Josef. No doubt he’d witnessed the organization of the evidence, perhaps even typed the draft of Devgeny’s opening address. Dcvgeny took a document from a folder.

  ‘Many of you will be familiar with the press-conference in Stockholm. I refer to it again. Rarely can there have been an occasion so mismanaged as to create greater public criticism of the Soviet Union than this. Within twenty-four hours of that disastrous beginning, Bultova abandoned the man to become hopelessly drunk at an official reception while he telephoned his wife in Moscow …’

  He paused. ‘… to tell her he loved her.’

  Sukalov had done more than just report the incident, decided Josef. The ambassador had obviously decided there would be a purge and backed what he thought was the winning side. It didn’t come as a shock to realize his telephone had been tapped. Josef shrugged, discomforted by the heat, wishing he could remove his jacket. In the camp, he remembered, there were many times when he wished he had just such a covering, instead of the thin cotton uniform that the wind and cold penetrated so easily.

  ‘It was in Stockholm that the destruction of Nikolai Balshev began. Many of you will remember his demeanour when he left Moscow. He was apprehensive of his responsibilities, knowing he was going to the Nobel ceremony not only as an author, but as a representative of his country. He was a man needing help. He was a man needing assistance and guidance …’

  Another sip of water. Never again, Jo
sef knew, would Devgeny experience a moment like this.

  ‘Did he get it?’ resumed Devgeny, rhetorically. ‘He did not. Instead he was provided with drugs, to give him false confidence. The doctor will tell you the sort of man Nikolai Balshev is. He is brilliant, but unpredictable. His uncertainty in himself is deeply rooted. He is, in fact, just the sort of person to whom drugs should not be made available, because he will become psychologically dependent upon them. But by Josef Bultova they were given freely. He always travels with a briefcase stocked with stimulants and sedatives.’

  He stopped, allowing every implication of the smear to settle in the minds of the committee. ‘Josef Bultova apparently finds the work he does for his country a great strain,’ he added.

  He would never know another enemy as implacable as Devgeny, Josef knew. Illinivitch would never match him.

  ‘But even that was not enough,’ continued the Minister. ‘Balshev was immediately thrown into contact with an American photographer, a famous man. His name is James Endelman. He is a homosexual. And a heroin user and trafficker. It was with this man that Balshev, already introduced to drugs, terrified of being in a strange country and desperate for friendship, was placed. So he started using heroin. And was perverted into homosexuality…’

  Illinivitch was smiling, Josef saw, a triumphant expression.

  ‘Unquestionably,’ Devgeny went on, ‘Balshev was under the influence of drugs when he delivered his speech at the Nobel ceremony. I have no doubt Bultova will point to the world-wide reaction to that address and argue it as a credit to Russia. There are many who feel otherwise.’

  His voice was becoming hoarse from so much speaking. He was coughing occasionally and the water glass was almost empty. Josef wondered if it were just water, or whether he was taking confidence from vodka. He had little need for artificial confidence, accepted the negotiator.

  ‘Publicly, the visits to England and America were successful,’ conceded Devgeny. That was clever, thought Josef. It conveyed the impression of balanced criticism.

  ‘Privately,’ continued his accuser, ‘the tour was a disaster. I have in my possession for introduction into any court proceedings reports from London, New York and Washington that fully show the depth of degradation to which Balshev was reduced by a man in whom he placed his full trust.’

  Devgeny was supporting himself against the table now, physically strained.

  ‘By far the most horrifying was a party which Balshev was allowed to attend in New York.’

  Semyonov had done well, thought Josef.

  There were no women at the party, although half were dressed as such. Available was every sort of drug and narcotic. Balshev was allowed to go because at the time, Bultova was negotiating at considerable financial reward to himself the sale to an American film company of the rights to the novel.’

  There isn’t one member of the committee who hasn’t decided already on a trial, thought Josef.

  ‘Men freely copulated with men,’ went on Devgeny. ‘It was a scene of sexual degradation almost beyond comprehension.’

  The Minister drained his water glass.

  ‘Bultova got the man from the party, largely by the help of the American publisher and an assistant. As they left, a man later found to be under the effect of lysergic acid diethylamide leapt to his death. Balshev’s departure was just fifteen minutes before the arrival of the police …’

  He paused, allowing the point to register.

  ‘Ambassador Semyonov has returned from New York and is at hand to give evidence should you require it,’ he said.

  Devgeny’s determination was incredible, thought Josef.

  ‘You will be aware,’ continued the Minister, ‘that the President of the United States gave a reception in Washington, honouring Balshev. I have also recalled Ambassador Vladimirov to tell you of indications he has received from the State Department that as a result of Bultova’s behaviour at that function, our relations with America have visibly cooled.’

  Devgeny stopped, his voice weak.

  ‘There appears only one result of Josef Bultova’s involvement in this matter,’ resumed Devgeny. ‘With publishing houses in England and America, he has entered into contracts under which fifteen per cent of all royalties earned by this book goes, on commission, to himself into Swiss banking accounts. Further, there are massive commissions upon film sales. Not only, I submit, is Josef Bultova guilty of anti-Soviet activity, he is guilty of currency speculation on a criminal scale that should be added to his indictment.’

  He stopped, triumphantly, happy with the opening.

  ‘I call the doctor,’ he said.

  The doctor was clearly very nervous. He was tall and extremely thin and in his apprehension kept removing and then replacing his spectacles, as if they were permanently uncomfortable. His voice carried a Siberian blur to it and he stammered, coughing frequently. He identified himself as Ravil Maturin, listed his qualifications and said he was head of the sanatorium at which Nikolai was being treated. The Minister took the man quickly through his evidence. Maturin asserted that Balshev was deeply addicted to heroin and that treatment would be long and painful. He had been subjected to several psychological and psychiatric tests, all of which showed deep mental disturbances, some of which could be permanent. He showed no inclination towards writing, actually rejecting the suggestion from therapists. Balshev was fully and painfully aware of his condition and blamed his success as a writer for creating it. He was also a committed homosexual.

  Devgeny sat down and Maturin removed his spectacles yet again. Because of the arrangement of the furniture, Josef was obviously the man accused. He knew Maturin, in awe of the Praesidium committee, would judge him guilty of whatever he had been charged and would react in Devgeny’s favour to any questions. Josef awaited the invitation from the Party Secretary, then rose, nodding to Maturin. The doctor stared back.

  ‘You have had many sessions of analysis with Balshev?’

  ‘Of course.’ The hostility was obvious.

  ‘He recognizes his addiction and regrets it?’

  ‘I have already said that.’

  ‘Quite so,’ agreed Josef. ‘He blames his exposure as a writer for putting him into a position of needing drugs?’

  ‘Yes,’ sighed Maturin.

  ‘He blames being a writer – not people?’

  ‘What?’ demanded the doctor, realizing the questioning wasn’t aimless.

  ‘During your several examinations, has Balshev ever blamed any person for introducing him to drugs?’

  Maturin hesitated, looking to Devgeny for guidance.

  ‘I’d like an answer, doctor.’

  ‘Not directly,’ said Maturin.

  ‘Whom does he hold responsible?’

  Again Maturin went to Devgeny. The Minister remained unmoved, as he had to.

  ‘Tell the Committee, doctor, whom does Nikolai Balshev blame for his addiction?’

  ‘He talks of the need to experiment, discover new experiences,’ said Maturin, clumsily.

  ‘So he does not blame any person,’ drew out Josef. ‘Rather, he accepts the responsibility himself?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said the doctor, reluctantly.

  ‘Have you talked about me, personally?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What is his attitude towards me?’

  ‘One of dislike, hatred almost.’

  Devgeny, who had been ignoring the questioning, fumbling through papers and box files before him, looked up and smiled.

  ‘Why?’ demanded Josef.

  ‘He considers you betrayed his friendship.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you arranged for his immediate admission to hospital upon his return to this country.’

  ‘Would you explain that further to the committee?’

  ‘He is undergoing acute discomfort because of the necessary treatment. He has accepted that his talent, if not gone, has been severely impaired for some years.’

  ‘So his feeling towards
me is one of resentment, for putting him into a position of suffering discomfort and facing reality about his writing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What would have happened to Nikolai Balshev if I had not insisted upon his immediate treatment?’

  ‘He would have remained a heroin addict, of course.’ Maturin looked at Josef, as if he were stupid.

  ‘Let us suppose he could have obtained heroin, here in Russia, what would have happened?’

  ‘He would have needed bigger and bigger doses.’

  ‘And?’ pressed Josef.

  ‘Eventually he would have died.’

  ‘Now he is undergoing great discomfort and it could be several years before he will be able to write again at the level of his earlier ability. But the discomfort will go, eventually. And he will be able to work again?’

  ‘Probably,’ concurred Maturin, still reluctant.

  So well had the case been prepared against him that Josef knew he could leave nothing unsaid.

  ‘By arranging his admission to hospital, I have saved his life?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And made it possible for him to write again, some time in the future?’

  ‘I cannot make a prediction like that.’

  ‘But it is possible, surely doctor?’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Maturin. ‘It is possible.’

  ‘It is a fact, isn’t it doctor, that some people are more susceptible to drugs than others?’

  Maturin frowned, trying to see which way the questioning was going. He was alert now, realizing he had frayed the points Dergeny had been trying to establish.

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed, slowly.

  ‘Some men are psychologically able to disdain drugs, others recognize their medical benefits but can avoid addiction, as with sleeping pills and tranquillizers, for instance … but others imagine a need for them?’