by William Boyd
Eva thought: it’s probably nothing, a coincidence, but she suddenly wanted to be away from Bradley Street.
“If anyone does call say I’ve gone back to Vancouver.”
“Of course, dear. Take care now, it’s been lovely knowing you.”
Eva left the house, turned left instead of her usual right, and briskly walked a meandering, convoluted mile to a different bus stop.
She moved into the Franklin Hotel on Bank Street, one of Ottawa’s largest, a functional, modest establishment with over 300 rooms ‘completely fireproof and all with shower and phone’ but no restaurant or coffee shop. However, even with her single room at three dollars a night, she realised she was going to run out of money. There were no doubt cheaper hotels and more frugal lodgings to be had in Ottawa but she required the security and anonymity of a large central hotel. She had a little over three weeks to go until her voyage back to Britain: she just needed to bury herself away.
Her room was small, plain and on the seventh floor and through a gap in the buildings opposite she could see the green expanse of the Exhibition Grounds and a swerve of the Rideau River. She unpacked and hung her few clothes in the wardrobe. The one advantage of the move was that she could at least walk to work and save on bus fares.
But she kept wondering if she had done the right thing, if she had been too jumpy, and that the very suddenness of her move from the Richmonds might have signalled something itself…A strange car in a suburban street—what could be so alarming about that? But she reminded herself that she had chosen Bradley Street and the Richmond Guest House precisely because its location made it easy to spot anything unusual occurring. Everybody knew everyone and knew everyone’s business on Bradley Street—it was that kind of neighbourhood. And who was the young man who had failed to read the ‘Ladies Only’ rubric on the guest-house sign? A careless traveller? Not a policeman, she thought, for a policeman would have simply identified himself and asked to see the register. Someone from BSC, then, instructed to check out the hotels and guest-houses in Ottawa. Why Ottawa, she reasoned further, why not Toronto? How could anyone guess or deduce she had gone to Ottawa? And so the questions continued, badgering her, sapping her energy. She went to work as usual, typed letters and documents in the typing pool and came home to her room. She barely inhabited the city. She bought sandwiches on her way home from work, stayed in her room with its view of the Exhibition Grounds and the Rideau River and listened to the radio, waiting for Christmas and 1942 to arrive.
The Ministry of Supply offices closed on Christmas Eve and opened again on 27 December. She chose not to go to the ministry’s staff Christmas party. On Christmas Day she slipped out of the hotel early and bought some turkey roll, a loaf of bread, butter and two bottles of beer. She sat on her bed, eating her sandwich, drinking her beer and listening to music on the radio and managed not to cry for an hour or so. Then she allowed herself to weep for ten minutes, thinking she had never been so alone in her life, disturbed by the thought that not one person in the entire world knew where she was. She found herself thinking of her father, an old sick man, living in Bordeaux, and she remembered his encouragement and his zeal when Romer came to recruit her. Who would have thought it would end like this? she said to herself, alone in a hotel room in Ottowa…But no, she thought: no self-pity, she angrily reminded herself, wiping her eyes and steeling herself anew. She cursed Lucas Romer for his cruelty and his betrayal. Then she slept for an hour or so and woke more determined, more composed and calculating, stronger. Now she had an ambition, a purpose: to defeat the worst intentions of Lucas Romer became her mission and she began to wonder, in her solitude, if he had been manipulating her from the very beginning of her recruitment; if he had been observing and honing her habits, her cast of mind and her particular diligence—trying her out in Prenslo and in Washington, waiting for the day when she would become suddenly very useful indeed…It was futile stuff, she knew, and to think like that would drive her to madness. The simple fact that he could not find her was her hold over him—her little portion of power. While Eva Delectorskaya was at large in the world, Lucas Romer could never truly relax.
And then she wondered if this was what her life would always be like, from now on: covert, fearful, always watchful, always restless, always watching, suspecting. It was something she didn’t particularly want to contemplate or consider. Forget that, she ordered herself: one step at a time. Get home, first, then see what happens.
She went back to work on the 27th only to be faced with another holiday looming at the New Year. But having survived Christmas she felt she could cope with welcoming in 1942. German forces were retreating from Moscow but the Japanese had taken Hong Kong: this was the way it would go, she thought, for a long time to come. She bought a pint of whisky and woke to discover that she had managed to construct a presentable hangover for herself on the morning of I January. The year began with a persistent day-long headache—but there was another headache approaching that she knew could not be avoided.
On her second day back at work, just before the office closed for the evening, she asked if she could see Mr Comeau. He was free and she knocked on his door and was admitted. Comeau was visibly pleased to see her—he had been keeping his distance since she had turned down his holiday invitation, but now he was up and around from his side of the desk, drawing out a chair for her and sitting himself rakishly on the edge of his desk, a leg dangling, an unfortunate inch of hirsute shin exposed below his trouser cuff. He offered her a cigarette and the small ceremony of lighting took place, Eva being careful not to touch his hand as he held his lighter tremblingly in place.
“Second thoughts, Miss Atterdine?” he asked. “Or is that too much to hope for?”
“I have to ask you an enormous favour,” she said.
“Oh, I see.” The dying fall of the words expressed his huge disappointment eloquently. “What can I do for you? A reference? A letter of introduction?”
“I need to borrow a hundred dollars,” she said. Unforeseen expenses, she explained; she couldn’t wait until her salary started in England.
“Go to your bank,” he said, a little stiffly, offended. “I’m sure they’ll listen to you.”
“I don’t have a bank account,” she said. “I’ll pay you back from England. It’s just that I need the money now, here, before I go.”
“Are you in some kind of trouble, as they say?” His cynicism didn’t suit him, and she could see he knew it.
“No. I just need the money. Urgently.”
“It’s a considerable sum. Don’t you think I’m entitled to an explanation?”
“I can’t explain.”
His eyes fixed on her and she knew he was telling her that there was an easier way—stay in Ottawa, get to know me, we’re both lonely. But she gave him no comforting answer in her gaze.
“I’ll think it over,” he said, and stood up, buttoning his jacket, the state functionary once more faced with a recalcitrant subordinate.
The next morning there was an envelope on her desk with five twenty-dollar bills inside. She felt a strange rush of emotion: gratitude, relief, shame, comfort, humbleness. Never trust anyone, never trust a soul on this earth—except, she thought, the Witoldskis and the Comeaus of this world.
She moved hotel, again, twice before 18 January, collected her ticket and documentation from the travel bureau in the ministry—ticket and documents made out in the name of ‘Mary Atterdine’—and she allowed herself to think of the future for the first time, really, of what she would do when she made landfall, where she would go, what she would do, who she would become. England—London—was hardly her home, but where else could she go? ‘Lily Fitzroy’ awaited her in Battersea. She could hardly travel to France to try and find her father and stepmother, whatever had become of them. The war would have to end first and it showed no sign of doing that. No, London and Lily Fitzroy were her only options, for the short term at least.
TWELVE
SAVAK
HUGUE
S ASKED ME IF I wanted another drink—I knew I shouldn’t accept (I had drunk too much already) but, of course, I said yes and went eagerly with him to the puddled, ashy bar of the Captain Bligh.
“Can I have a packet of peanuts, as well, please?” I cheerily asked the surly barman. I had arrived late and had missed the food provided in the upstairs room—the sliced baguettes and cheese, sausage-rolls, Scotch eggs and mini pork pies—all good drink-soaking carbohydrate. There were no peanuts, it transpired, though they had crisps; but only salt ‘n’ vinegar. Salt ‘n’ vinegar it would have to be, I told him, and in fact I found myself craving that saline bitterness, all of a sudden. This was my fifth vodka and tonic and I knew I would not be driving home.
Hugues handed me my drink and then my bag of crisps, held daintily between thumb and forefinger. “Santé,” he said.
“Cheers.”
Bérangère sidled up beside him and slipped her arm through his, proprietorially, I thought. She smiled hello at me. I had a mouthful of crisps so couldn’t speak: she looked too exotic for the Captain Bligh and the Cowley Road, did Bérangère, and I could sense her keen urge to leave.
“On s’en va?” she said plaintively to Hugues. Hugues turned and they talked in low voices for a moment. I finished my crisps—it had taken me about three seconds to consume the packet, it seemed, and moved off. Hamid had been right, they clearly were an item, Hugues and Bérangère—P’TIT PRIX meets Fourrures de Monte Carle—and right under my roof.
I leant on the bar, sipped my drink, and looked around the smoky pub. I felt good; I was at that level of inebriation—that hinge, that crux, that ridge—where you can decide to proceed or step back. Red warning lights were flashing on the control panel but the aeroplane was not yet in a screaming death-dive. I checked out the crowd in the pub: virtually everyone had moved down here from the function room above once the food and the free drink (bottled beer and screw-top wine) had run out. All of Hamid’s four tutors were here and the students he shared them with—and also the small band of Dusendorf engineers—mainly Iranian and Egyptian this season, as it turned out. There was a raucous, teasing mood in the air—a lot of banter was going on around Hamid about his impending departure to Indonesia that he was taking in good grace, smiling resignedly, almost shyly.
“Hi, can I buy you a drink?”
I turned to find a man, a thin tall guy, in faded denim jeans and a tie-dyed T·shirt, with long dark hair and a moustache. He had pale blue eyes and—as far as I could tell in the state I was currently occupying, poised on my ridge, wondering which way to go—he looked pretty damned nice. I held up my vodka and tonic to show him.
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“Have another. They close in ten minutes.”
“I’m with a friend, over there,” I said, pointing with the glass at Hamid.
“Shame,” he said, and wandered off.
My hair was down and I was wearing new straight-legged jeans and a puff-sleeved ultramarine V-neck T·shirt that showed three inches of cleavage. I had my high boots on and I felt tall and sexy. I would have fancied me, myself…I let the illusion warm me for a while before adding the pointed reminder that my five-year-old son was staying with his grandmother and I didn’t want to be hungover when I went to pick him up. This would be my last drink, definitely.
Hamid came over to the bar and joined me. He was wearing his new leather jacket and a cornflower-blue shirt. I put my arm round his shoulders.
“Hamid!” I exclaimed in feigned dismay. “I can’t believe you’re leaving. What’re we going to do without you?”
“I can’t believe it neither.”
“Either.”
“Either. I’m very sad, you know. I was hoping that—”
“What were they teasing you about?”
“Oh—Indonesian girls, you know. Very predictable.”
“Very predictable. Very predictable men.”
“Would you like another drink, Ruth?”
“I’ll have another vod and ton, thanks.”
We sat on bar stools and waited for our drinks to be served. Hamid had ordered a bitter lemon—and it struck me suddenly that he didn’t drink alcohol, of course, being a Muslim.
“I’ll miss you, Ruth,” he said. “Our lessons—I can’t believe I’m not coming to your flat on Monday. It’s over three months, you know: two hours a day, five days a week. I counted: it’s over 300 hours we’ve spent together.”
“Bloody hell,” I said with some sincerity. Then I thought, and said, “But you’ve had three other tutors as well, remember. You spent as much time with Oliver…” I pointed, “and Pauline, and Whatsisname, over by the juke-box.”
“Sure, yeah,” Hamid said, looking a little hurt. “But it wasn’t the same with them, Ruth. I think it was different with you.” He took my hand. “Ruth—”
“I have to go to the loo. Back in a tick.”
The last vodka had tipped me off my ridge and I was sliding, tumbling down the other side of the mountain in a skidding flurry of schist and scree. I was still lucid, still functioning, but my world was one where angles were awry, where the verticals and horizontals were no longer so fixed and true. And, curiously, my feet seemed to be moving faster than they needed. I barged brusquely through the door into the passageway that led to the toilets. There was a public phone here and a cigarette machine. I suddenly remembered I was almost out of cigarettes and paused by the machine but, fumbling, rummaging for change, I realised that my bladder was making more importunate demands on my body than my craving for nicotine.
I went into the loo and had a long, powerfully relieving pee. I washed my hands and stood in front of the mirror. I looked at myself square in the eye for a few seconds and pushed my hair around a bit.
“You’re pissed, you silly bitch,” I said out loud, though softly, through my teeth. “Go home.”
I walked back into the passageway and Hamid was there, pretending to be making a phone call. From the pub the music surged louder—“I heard it on the grapevine”—almost a Pavlovian sexual trigger for me and somehow, in some manner, in some brief gap in the space⁄time continuum, I found myself in Hamid’s arms and was kissing him.
His beard was soft against my face—not raspy and jaggy—and I stuck my tongue deep in his mouth. I suddenly wanted sex—it had been so long—and Hamid seemed the perfect man. My arms were around him, holding him tight to me, and his body felt absurdly strong and solid, as if I was embracing a man made from concrete. And I thought: yes, Ruth, this is the man for you, you fool, you idiot—good, decent, kind, a friend to Jochen—I want this engineer with his soft brown eyes, this solid, strong man.
We broke apart and, as it inevitably does, the dream, the wish, seemed immediately less potent and desirable, and my world steadied slightly.
“Ruth—” he began.
“No. Say nothing.”
“Ruth, I love you. I want to be your husband. I want you for my wife. I’ll come back in six months from my first tour. I have a very good job, a very good salary.”
“Don’t say anything more, Hamid. Let’s finish our drinks.”
We went back into the bar together—last orders were being called but now I didn’t want any more vodka. I searched in my handbag for my last cigarette, found it and managed to light it reasonably competently. Hamid was distracted by some of his Iranian friends and they had a quick exchange in Farsi. I looked at them—these handsome, dark men with their beards and moustaches—and watched them shake hands in a strange way—high, gripping thumbs, then smoothly altering the grip again, as if they were exchanging some covert signal, acknowledging some membership of a special club, a secret society. And it was this thought that must have made me recall Frobisher’s invitation and, for some stupid, over-confident, drunken reason, it suddenly seemed worth pursuing.
“Hamid,” I said, as he sat down beside me again, “do you think there might be SAVAK agents in Oxford?”
“What? What are you saying?”
“I mea
n: do you think some of these engineers have been planted here, pretending to be students but all the while working for SAVAK?”
His face changed; it became very solemn.
“Ruth, please, we must not talk of such things.”
“But if you suspected someone, you could tell me. It would be a secret.”
I misread the expression on his face—that can be the only explanation for what I said next. I thought I had stirred something in him.
“Because you can tell me, Hamid,” I said, softly, leaning closer. “I’m going to be working with the police, you see, they want me to help them. You can tell me.”
“Tell you what?”
“Are you with SAVAK?”
He closed his eyes and, keeping them closed, said: “My brother was killed by SAVAK.”
I tried to vomit by the wheelie bins at the back of the pub, but failed, managing only to hawk and spit. You always think you’ll feel better if you vomit but actually you feel much worse—and yet still you try to empty your stomach. I walked with due care to my car and methodically checked it was locked and that I hadn’t left anything temptingly thievable on any seat and then set off on the long walk home back to Summertown. Friday night in Oxford—I’d never find a taxi. I should just walk home and, perhaps, it might sober me up. And tomorrow Hamid was flying off to Indonesia.
THE STORY OF EVA DELECTORSKAYA
London. 1942
EVA DELECTORSKAYA WATCHED ALFIE Blytheswood leave the side entrance of Electra House and duck into a small pub off the Victoria Embankment called the Cooper’s Arms. She gave him five minutes and then went in herself. Blytheswood stood with a couple of friends at the bar of the snug, drinking a pint of beer. Eva was wearing spectacles and a beret and she approached the bar herself and ordered a dry sherry. If Blytheswood glanced up from his conversation he would easily spot her, though she was confident he wouldn’t recognise her, the new length and colour of her hair seeming to alter her appearance significantly. However, she had put on the spectacles at the last moment, suddenly a little unsure. But she had to test her disguise, her new persona. She took her sherry to a table by the door, where she read her newspaper. When Blytheswood left, walking past her table, he didn’t even glance at her. She followed him to his bus stop and waited with the others in the queue for his bus to arrive. Blytheswood had a long journey ahead of him, north to Barnet, where he lived with his wife and three children. Eva knew all this because she had been shadowing him for three days. At Hampstead a seat behind him was vacated and Eva slipped quietly into it.