Face Me When You Walk Away Read online

  ‘You really think so?’

  ‘You know I do.’

  The performance over, Nikolai came on to the veranda, edged a chair alongside them and sat down, staring out towards the lake. Silence settled as heavily as the mist in Josef’s recurring dreams. Nikolai knew they were on honeymoon, but it never occurred to him they might wish to be alone and that his presence was an intrusion. Josef studied the younger man sitting alongside Pamela, reminded again of thiersimilarity in colouring. They could be brother and sister, he thought. Nikolai did not notice the attention, but Pamela turned, raising her eyebrows in helplessness.

  ‘Have you discussed supper?’ she asked, seeking neutral discussion.

  Josef sniggered, unable to suppress his reaction to the situation.

  ‘Caviar, borsch and some wild boar. With wild strawberries to follow.’

  Now it was Pamela’s turn to laugh. ‘My pompous M.P. of a father maintains a town house in Eaton Square and a country seat in Buckinghamshire. And he doesn’t dine on beluga and wild boar.’

  Josef joined her amusement. He knew she was impressed and it pleased him. Pamela’s lightness slipped away. ‘Somehow,’ she said, ‘it seems wrong that we live so well.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Wasn’t this what it was all about? If we could discover a seventy-year-old menu, we’d find the archduke ate caviar and wild pig. And had fresh strawberries and champagne.’

  ‘I hope he did,’ said Josef. ‘It would show more taste than his interior decorating.’

  He saw she refused to be amused.

  ‘It is different, you know,’ he said. ‘The peasants aren’t animals any more. And there’s no such thing as a classless society, no matter how perfect your socialism. There are always those who lead and those who follow. And the leaders provide themselves with a better life-style for taking the responsibility. That’s not really unfair, surely?’

  ‘But your life is so similar to what things must have been like before 1917 …’ She glanced at Nikolai. ‘And people still live in sod huts way out in the country.’

  Josef sat looking at her, arrested by a doubt. Could he any longer afford to exact the punishment from those who had jailed him? Before he had only had the danger to himself to consider and he’d decided the challenge with great calculation, aware there was no safety net beneath the tightrope he was erecting for himself and that the applause would be louder if he fell rather than kept crossing. But now there was Pamela. Just as his lifestyle would protect her from the harder aspects of Soviet life as long as he remained indispensable, so his collapse from favour would impose upon her greater problems than those of the poorest peasant for whom she felt sorry.

  ‘I love you,’ he said. It sounded like an apology.

  Embarrassed by the affection, she snatched a sideways look at Nikolai. A finger was exploring his left nostril and he seemed completely occupied by the view of the lake.

  She looked back. ‘I love you, too,’ she said, breaking a moment then blurting on, in a whisper. ‘And I’m so sorry.’

  At that moment, the telephone sounded inside the dacha and Josef’s balloon of happiness popped.

  2

  It was a small room in the Ministry of Culture, away from the Kremlin complex, and only four members were present. Uli Devgeny, a member of the Central Committee of the Supreme Soviet and the man who had signed the imprisonment order against Josef, had been appointed Minister four years before. He sat, smiling, content that at last he had complete control over a project in which Josef was involved. Vasily Illinivitch, the deputy Minister, who sat on his right, was also on the Central Committee. Illinivitch puzzled Josef. The man acted as a liaison between the Praesidium and several committees for which Josef had worked, so there was no one else with whom the negotiator had closer contact. Yet the man was a perfect stranger to him, resisting all but official contact. Josef suspected intense ambition behind the reserve and acknowledged that Illinivitch’s unique function gave him unrivalled opportunities to ferment purges. Did he, wondered the negotiator, covet Devgeny’s Ministry? Or was there something else?

  ‘I don’t think you know our other comrades,’ Devgeny introduced, formally. ‘Alexandre Ballenin,’ he said, gesturing towards a white-haired man squinting myopically through pebble-lens spectacles. ‘And Dimitry Korshunov.’

  Korshunov was sallow, greased hair like a tight-fitting hat. He stared exprcssionlessly across the intervening table, revolving a pen between his fingers. Ballenin, Josef knew, was the man who had first recognized Nikolai’s ability, when his manuscripts had been sent from Kiev.

  Devgeny was a huge, bull-like man, almost too big for his surroundings. Thick, black hair capped a florid face blotched with the bubbles of too much vodka, and the hands which lay flat before him were matted with wiry, black hair that protruded from beneath his shirt-cuffs. He wore a badly tailored, double-breasted suit, with all three buttons fastened, even though he was sitting, so that the material creased around his body, like sagging skin about to be shed by a snake. A dangerous reptile, thought Josef. An anaconda. Or a python, which would crush its victims to death, very slowly. Devgeny was over sixty and had taken part in the siege of Leningrad. In the end, the rumours said, when the German withdrawal had become a rout, he’d made commando raids among the weakened, frightened stragglers, strangling them with his bare hands. There were other stories, too. It was said that during the siege, at the worst part, Devgeny had survived by eating the flesh of people who had died around him.

  Josef’s father had never believed the stories, but then the old man had never believed anything involving Devgeny. And had died because of it. Josef’s father had been one of those rare revolutionaries, born into the aristocracy but a man who embraced the overthrow of a system he recognized as corrupt. In Devgeny he had seen an opportunist as evil as any who existed in the Czarist court, and had openly opposed Devgeny before the Praesidium when they considered the ambassadorship the man so desperately wanted. The Praesidium had been persuaded, recognizing in Josef’s father the man fitted to the role, despite his age. So Josef’s father had become perhaps the best ambassador Russia had ever had in the immediate post-war period and Devgeny had stayed in Moscow, plotting the old man’s downfall. And when he had succeeded, he had dragged Josef down, too. And then been made to look ridiculous before the Central Committee, who had to concede the need for someone like Josef to bridge a necessary gap between the countries of the world. So the well-practised hatred had transferred from father to son.

  ‘How do you like our young genius?’ asked Devgeny.

  Josef saw Ballenin frown at the disparagement.

  ‘A little odd,’ offered Josef.

  ‘Men of genius don’t have to conform to normal standards,’ defended Ballenin. ‘They are extraordinary men.’

  Devgeny ignored the statement. Josef felt pity for the old man’s unawareness.

  ‘Things are developing in Stockholm,’ said Devgeny.

  ‘I still don’t like the idea of getting involved,’ began Josef, guardedly.

  Devgeny smiled. He looked capable of eating another human being, thought Josef. Or crushing them.

  ‘It’s a problem of your own creation,’ said the Minister, happily. ‘There’s no one else we can possibly consider for the job.’

  ‘But in a strange field, I could be unsuccessful,’ warned Josef.

  ‘Fail!’ mocked Devgeny. ‘But you never fail, Comrade Bultova. “Russia’s unofficial ambassador,” isn’t that what they call you? “Mr Fixit.” There’s scarcely been a man since Stalin who has manufactured the personality cult like you.’

  ‘There is common sense in manipulating the Western press,’ sighed Josef. Almost lecturing, he continued, ‘As I’ve explained many times before, a man with a reputation for negotiating astuteness has an in-built advantage over an unknown in any business dealings. That’s basic psychology.’

  Devgeny turned to the other three. ‘You will come to learn,’ he said, ‘that psychology enters
into Comrade Bultova’s reasoning quite frequently. He even studied it at Harvard, the American university, in his youth.’

  Josef refused to accept the bait.

  ‘I thought I was to be allowed my honeymoon,’ he said. Devgeny would expect protest and be suspicious if it were not made.

  ‘You were,’ said Devgeny, in a voice showing it had never been the intention. ‘But as I said, things are happening a little faster than we anticipated.’

  ‘Like what?’ demanded Josef, emphasizing the truculence.

  ‘Nikolai is on the Nobel prize short-list,’ announced Devgeny.

  ‘We knew that weeks ago,’ said Josef. He allowed the exasperation to leak into his voice. Devgeny was achieving too much superiority. ‘We’re already engaged in negotiations with Western publishing houses.’

  ‘But we didn’t know the other possibilities. There is a black American, Aaron Jones, whom no one thinks has much of a chance. I gather he’s been listed for political reasons.’

  ‘Doesn’t the whole thing degenerate into politics?’ asked Josef. He had to interrupt, to prove he wasn’t frightened. Devgeny ignored the question.

  ‘Nikolai,’ he listed, like a quizmaster announcing prizes. ‘… Aaron Jones …’

  He paused, theatrically. Fool, thought Josef.

  ‘… and Lin Tsai-Fu.’ Devgeny was pleased at the effect upon Josef. ‘From Peking,’ he continued. ‘His poetry and descriptive powers are said by those who’ve read him in the original to be magnificent.’

  ‘So …’ began Josef.

  ‘So your task becomes incredibly important,’ cut in Devgeny, uttering the thoughts that butterflied through Josefs mind. ‘It would be very unfortunate for a member of the People’s Republic of China to be selected and feted as a better writer than a Russian …’

  Devgeny smiled, looking straight at him, like a cat that has finally exhausted an elusive mouse.

  ‘The Nobel Foundation have intimated quite clearly that they wish to nominate Nikolai,’ continued the Minister. ‘But they’re nervous of another Solzhenitsyn problem. Before his name leaks out, they want a positive assurance from us that there’ll be no difficulties.’

  Josef stared across the table at him, cautiously. ‘The decision is irrevocable?’

  ‘Such suspicion, Comrade Bultova!’ mocked Devgeny, still smiling. His teeth were green and discoloured near the gums, where he never bothered to clean them. Josef remembered his own had been like that when he had left the camp.

  ‘Just careful,’ said Josef, preparing a defence. ‘I want it clearly understood by everyone what I am required to do.’

  There was an unintended tinge of desperation in the statement. His eyes remained on the man facing him across the table, assessing his chances later of being able to establish his caution before any examining body. Only Ballenin would be honest, he decided. But his account would be overwhelmed by the other three. The flicker of fear returned. Poor Pamela, he thought.

  ‘So I will give them the assurance?’ he queried.

  ‘Of course you will,’ said Devgeny, like a schoolteacher addressing a particularly dull student. ‘But we expect much more of you …’

  ‘There is no way I can influence the actual selection, for God’s sake,’ erupted Josef.

  Devgeny gazed at him, theatrically surprised. The tip of Josef’s hysteria had just been visible.

  ‘I wasn’t for a moment suggesting you could,’ said the Minister, enjoying his superiority. ‘Please let me finish.’

  Sweat pricked out on Josef’s face. Devgeny would be able to see it and guess the fear, he thought.

  ‘It’s been decided that Nikolai is a good Russian,’ continued Devgeny. ‘He’s someone of whom Russia feels proud.’

  ‘What’s the point you’re making?’ probed Josef. He was irritated at Devgeny’s determination to manipulate him and pride was fuelling his anger.

  ‘If Nikolai gets the award, he will become …’

  He paused. He had waited a long time, Josef thought. He wanted to prolong it as long as possible.

  ‘… What’s the expression your Western friends would use, Josef? A hot property?’

  Josef sat without replying.

  ‘… Yes, that’s it. A hot property. So as well as negotiating with the publishers in England and America with whom you’ve already established contact, we want you to accompany him on publicity tours to those countries.’

  Surprise robbed Josef of response for several moments. Desperately he tried to isolate the snares that Devgeny was laying.

  ‘You’re going to let Nikolai tour the West…?’

  ‘But it’ll be easy for him. Josef,’ broke in Devgeny. ‘He’ll have you to guide him. And nothing can go wrong if you’re looking after him, can it?’

  For a long time, the five men sat in complete silence.

  Then Josef said, ‘Of course, there’s no guarantee he’ll get the award.’

  The hope was too discernible and Devgeny smiled.

  ‘Oh, but that would be too bad,’ said the Minister. We’ve made our minds up. I can’t stress strongly enough how distressed we would be if China got an award we regard as ours.’

  The nightmare that night was one of the worst. When he awakened in the Moscow apartment, he was unable to breathe and almost lapsed into unconsciousness before forcing air, by sheer strength of will, into his lungs. In the bathroom he discovered there were no sleeping pills. The briefcase in which he kept a supply when he was travelling was empty, too, so he dragged the padded quilt from the bed and sat, cocooned in it, staring out over the capital until the first fingers of dawn appeared, squeezing life into the city.

  He could have commanded a king’s ransom for a quilt as warm as this in Potma, he thought. He wondered if Medev had been brave and succeeded in the attempt he had been too cowardly to accomplish. Probably, decided Josef. Medev had always been the braver of the two.

  3

  The feeling between them was so real Pamela felt she could stretch out and touch it. Upon reflection, she supposed it had begun six nights before, immediately Josef had telephoned from Moscow saying he had to go the following day to Stockholm. But at first she hadn’t noticed it. When it had begun to register, she had dismissed it as the gradual developing confidence of someone who had spend twenty-two years in a narrow, closed environment of a village two hundred miles from Kiev. Then the uncertainty had developed until she felt permanently uncomfortable with the man. She would go back to Moscow, she decided. Perhaps tomorrow. Or the day after. Certainly by the week-end.

  ‘Why are you so quiet?’

  The remains of their meal lay between them and Nikolai fingered the wine bottle, staring at her over the rim. His new confidence irritated her.

  ‘No reason.’

  ‘Of course there is. Missing Josef?’

  ‘Naturally.’ She tried to convey coldness.

  ‘Why naturally?’

  ‘My dear Nikolai,’ she said, pompously, regretting the words as they came, ‘I don’t really think it proper for a guest in my husband’s house to examine whether or not I miss him.’

  He laughed at her, genuinely amused.

  ‘My dear Pamela,’ he mocked back. ‘You are exactly five years older than I am. You’d have to be at least twenty years my senior to speak like that.’

  Embarrassed, she laughed with him. ‘I’ve still no intention of discussing Josef with you,’ she said, primly.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Because you’re unsure of your marriage.’

  For a moment, she was unable to reply.

  ‘What …?’ she tried.

  ‘Oh come on,’ he said, impatiently. ‘You’re frightened of it. Of marriage. Of Russia. Of Josef … of Josef, most of all …’

  ‘I’m not.’

  The denial came a little too swiftly. ‘Of course I’m slightly unsure … any woman would be. But it’s only the strangeness of the country … getting used to it. It’s nothing to do with
my marriage.’

  She didn’t have to offer explanations, she thought.

  Again he laughed. Then why were you apologizing so deeply the other day on the balcony?’

  The blush came back. She felt it spread over her neck and chest and recalled the remark to Josef on the veranda the day he’d been summoned back to Moscow.

  ‘I don’t know …’

  ‘Yes you do. You said you loved him. But that you were sorry. I think I know …’

  ‘I don’t want to know what you think.’

  She should create a scene and storm from the room, refusing to carry the conversation further. She remained seated. He lounged in the high-backed, curved chair, twirling his glass. He added to it from the bottle and gestured towards her. She shook her head. Never once did he take his eyes from her and determinedly she gazed back, refusing to be stared down.

  ‘If it embarrasses you, then I won’t pursue it,’ he said, dismissively.

  ‘It doesn’t embarrass me,’ she blurted out, instinctively.

  ‘What doesn’t?’

  She slapped her hands against the table. ‘Stop insulting me,’ she said, angrily.

  ‘I’m very important to your husband,’ he announced, incongruously.

  ‘Not as important as he is to you.’

  Nikolai nodded, accepting the rebuke. ‘Why can’t you make love to him?’ he said, abruptly.

  ‘I …’

  She had to go now. The only thing to do was to leave the room and tomorrow order him from the house. Was he important to Josef? He hadn’t involved himself with writers before, she knew. And Nikolai seemed so sure of himself. He leaned across the table and added more wine to her glass. Slowly, she sipped it.

  ‘I want to stop this conversation.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you’re rude and impudent and because there’s no reason for continuing it.’

  ‘Why haven’t you asked me to leave in the last six days, since Josef has been gone?’

  Oh God, she thought, he imagines I’m attracted to him.