Face Me When You Walk Away (18 page)

‘Forgive me. Lady Bellamy.'

‘I hope you don't mind my lying in wait for you like this … I saw your arrival on television …'

‘Of course not,' assured Josef. ‘I was just going to telephone Pamela. Why not come and speak to her?'

He introduced the woman to Nikolai and Endelman and they travelled up in the lift together, a self-conscious group.

‘Nightcap?' he offered at the door of his suite. Nikolai shook his head.

‘Jimmy is tired. So am I.'

‘Do you want a sleeping tablet?'

‘No thanks,' said Nikolai, grinning. Then he added. ‘You don't want me to become an addict, do you?'

‘He seems a nice boy,' offered the woman, as they entered Josef's suite.

‘Your daughter isn't very keen,' sidestepped Josef. He had had a well-stocked bar installed in the suite and joined her with a brandy. He was told the Moscow call would take thirty minutes.

‘I've been trying to telephone Pamela for the last two days,' said the woman. ‘But there's been no circuit.'

‘Was it important?'

‘Her father died.'

‘Oh,' said Josef. Her announcement was one of complete detachment. ‘I'm sorry,' he said, automatically.

She shrugged, discarding the pleasantry.

‘We didn't get on.'

Josef said nothing.

‘In fact, we hated each other. We stayed together for his public image.'

It was not the confession to make to someone at the first meeting, Josef thought. He didn't think he liked the woman. She finished her drink and looked at the glass, pointedly. Josef refilled it, his back to her. She smiled up at him when he returned with the drink and he almost faltered, seized by the thought that she was trying to flirt. He felt sorry for her. Was it incestuous, he wondered, to sleep with one's mother-in-law?

‘I've come to ask a favour,' she said.

He waited, suspiciously.

‘Don't look frightened,' she said, coquettishly. Josef was curious at the reason for her stupidity. Was she worried about her failing sex-appeal, he wondered.

‘What?'

He was conscious of the curtness and she seemed to detect it. The smile became uncertain.

‘I'd like Pamela to come and visit me,' she said.

‘She's too late for the funeral, surely?'

‘Of course,' agreed the woman. ‘But I'd still like her company.'

Josef thought of his wife's unhappiness just before his departure.

‘Have you heard from her how she likes Russia?' he questioned.

Lady Bellamy hesitated before answering. Then she said, ‘In every letter she tells me how wonderful it all is.'

The scepticism was obvious.

‘But you don't believe her?'

‘No,' said the woman.

The conversation had run into a cul-de-sac. Josef poured her a third drink.

‘Are you frightened?' she asked, behind him.

‘Of what?'

‘That she wouldn't return?'

Josef shrugged. ‘I don't know,' he answered, honestly.

‘So she isn't happy?'

‘No,' he admitted. ‘Russia is different from what she expected.'

‘So there's little chance of your letting her come home?'

‘Pamela has already asked me,' he replied. ‘She wants a visa for you to come to Russia.'

‘That would be nice,' she said, without enthusiasm.

‘Another brandy?'

‘Please.'

The same invitation was being extended two and a half thousand miles away as Pamela tried to protract an already over-long dinner. Sanya had eaten in the apartment for three nights, and for the past two hours the English girl had argued the pointlessness of the other girl returning home when there was a bed in the apartment. As it was snowing, the offer had some validity. But Sanya hesitated, unsure. She felt stifled, as she did when the elder sister with whom she slept in their cramped, two-family apartment pulled the blankets over her face. Always Pamela hovered, offering the flat or her Western clothes or the use of her jewellery as bribes, like an elderly aunt fearful of abandonment by a daughter who had already sacrificed too much.

‘You'll be frozen to death,' said Pamela, reinforcing the argument.

‘It isn't far.'

‘In this weather, it is.'

‘My parents will worry.'

‘Telephone.'

‘We haven't one.'

‘Isn't there a concierge with whom you could leave a message?'

Sanya felt the blanket moving higher and higher. ‘No,' she said, definitely. ‘I must go.'

‘Nikolai might phone,' threw out Pamela, desperately.

Sanya looked at the other woman, pityingly. At first she had feared the English woman's interest might be sexual and had tensed for the approach, but it never came, not even when Pamela had insisted she try on her clothes, which they both realized would not fit without alteration. The only reason for the effusiveness, Sanya concluded, was genuine, soul-aching loneliness. If only, Sanya reflected, she wouldn't try so hard.

‘I don't think it's likely Nikolai will telephone, do you?'

As if in rejection of the argument, the telephone rang. They both looked at it, surprised. Pamela's uncertainty immediately registered with Josef and he became apprehensive.

‘What's the matter?' he asked.

‘Nothing,' said Pamela, recovering. ‘Sanya's here.'

Josef frowned. Had the woman been planted by Devgeny, he wondered. He explained to Pamela that her mother was with him, then connected them. He poured another drink, thoughtlessly, while they spoke, juggling the suspicion in his mind. It was possible Devgeny would try to get someone that close, he thought. He tried to recall the girl, realizing he could not properly imagine what she looked like. There was only a misty outline of a scruffy girl, who was too fat, with ragged hair. Pamela appeared to have accepted the news of her father's death with the casualness with which Lady Bellamy announced it. Gauged from one side of the conversation, they were embroiled in plans for one to visit the other, chattering with the excitement of sixth-formers planning a school outing. They were great friends, Josef realized. He wondered if Pamela would develop like her mother. Would Pamela return to Moscow, once allowed out? Perhaps. Then again, perhaps not. He took the doubt further. Did it matter? He tried to imagine it would, but found it hard to create the inner emotion. The only thought was that Pamela's departure would make him less open to attack. It was, he realized, a reaction of utter selfishness. But one of great practicality.

‘She wants to speak to you,' announced Lady Bellamy, offering the receiver.

He felt inhibited by the woman's presence and his conversation was formal, embarrassed almost and he actually lowered his voice when she demanded whether he loved her. But that only came at the end of the conversation, after a long account of what a good friend Sanya had proven to be. As if she had mentioned it before, which she hadn't, as far as Josef could recollect, Pamela asked him to remind Nikolai to establish contact with the girl. It would be best, Pamela said, for Nikolai to call the flat. Sanya was usually there. Josef frowned, quite sure the author had forgotten completely about the girl. With the assurance to phone again before he left for America, Josef replaced the receiver.

‘Thank you,' said Lady Bellamy. ‘That was marvellous.'

Josef wondered if she were drunk. Why does everyone drink so much, he thought, reflectively. A world of uncertain people, afloat on a sea of alcohol. The idea amused him. The thought of a drunk, he concluded.

‘Well,' he said, fearing another hole in the conversation and keen to bring the meeting to an end. ‘I'll see what I can do about a visa.'

The woman glanced at her watch, an artificial gesture.

‘I'm being dismissed,' she said, anticipating a denial.

She
was
slightly drunk, decided Josef. And she was still flirting. Poor woman. She looked at him expectantly, awaiting the contradiction. Instead, he said, ‘Have you got a car?'

She seemed unsettled by his anxiety to get rid of her. He was treating her rudely, he knew.

‘Yes,' she said. Perhaps realizing she had behaved badly, she straightened, trying to create a distance between them.

‘Well,' she said. ‘Thank you. And I'd appreciate what you could do about a visa. Either way.'

Josef thought it would be better if Pamela came to London. He did not think he would enjoy a prolonged period of Lady Bellamy. He saw her to the lift, accepting the discourtesy of not travelling to the foyer with her. The woman disconcerted him. It was almost a feeling of nervousness, he thought. It would be necessary for there always to be a barrier between them.

In Moscow, Pamela had turned from the telephone, provided with a full hour's further conversation by the call. Sanya would have heard her mention Nikolai's name. She could fabricate that part of the discussion further and ensure the Russian girl's interest. She'd have to stay now.

The lounge was empty. She glanced into the dining-room. Empty too. The bathroom, she decided, sitting down to await the girl's reappearance. It wouldn't be a lie to promise Nikolai would telephone, Pamela convinced herself. Curiously, she glanced along the passageway leading to the bathroom. Sanya was taking a long time. Finally Pamela walked lightly towards it, listening, then tried the door. It opened into a darkened room. Quickly, panicky now, she ran into the bedrooms calling the other woman's name. She returned to the lounge, arms tight at her side, striving for control.

‘Damn,' she muttered aloud, furious at not hearing Sanya's departure. ‘Damn, damn, damn.'

Although she tried very hard, she couldn't prevent herself crying.

*

Josef was surprised it was only eleven-fifteen. He thought Pamela's mother had been there much longer. It was an undesirable effect, he thought, to appear to occupy more time than one actually did. He hesitated after dictating his nightly report, then ended with the request for an exit visa for his wife.

The daily account finished, he looked around the lonely hotel suite, then stared from the window. A tug sobbed, unseen on the river. He could vaguely see the water, wandering slowly by. The Thames never seemed to be in a hurry, thought Josef. But the Moskva did. Perhaps it was anxious to get away. Along the embankment below, cars scuttled like frightened beetles, as if they were trying to escape from something. He went back into the room, glancing at the linking door, then remembered Sanya's message to Nikolai. He opened the door, listening for any sound from Nikolai. The apartment was buried in deep silence, but as he turned he saw a ruler of light beneath the bedroom door. He smiled, sympathetically, then collected sleeping tablets from his briefcase. Gently, he pushed the bedroom door open, whispering ‘Nikolai' in case the author had fallen asleep with the light on. There was movement from the bed.

‘Nikolai,' repeated Josef, louder. ‘I've got some tablets.'

Nikolai seemed to jump under the covers, then emerged, mole-like. He was staring, surprised. How white he looks, thought Josef. The negotiator smiled, extending his cupped hand.

‘Pills,' he offered.

‘Get out.'

It was a scream, high pitched, the sound of an animal in a trap.

‘Nikolai? What …?'

‘Get out. How dare you.'

‘I only thought …'

‘You're spying on me …'

‘Nikolai, don't be stupid …'

Josef moved towards the bed.

‘Go away,' shouted Nikolai, the rejection cracking into hysteria.

Then Josef saw other movement and stopped. He felt himself blush. Oddly, the reaction embarrassed him. They stared at each other, author and negotiator. Far away, a car horn squealed. One of those scurrying beetles hadn't got away in time, thought Josef.

‘Please get out,' said Nikolai. He wasn't shouting now and there was dampness in his voice.

‘I …' started Josef, but then the other movement increased and Endelman's head came into view. He shrugged himself into a near-sitting position, then looked expressionlessly at Josef before reaching to the bedside table for a cigarette. A forced gesture, judged Josef, to cloak his nervousness.

‘Bastard …' erupted Nikolai. He would cry soon, Josef knew.

‘… Hadn't you better hurry back?' sneered the writer. ‘Won't this be something to whisper into that bloody recorder of yours, so that those fools at the Ministry can get a wet dream about it? Would you like to know what we've done … who did what to whom …?'

‘Stop it, Nikolai,' said Josef. It would be wrong for the man to cry, he thought.

Nikolai sat up further, so that the clothes fell away from him. He was still thin, ribs stepped out through his skin. It wasn't only his face that was white. His body was, too, almost unnaturally. Nikolai saw him looking and his control slipped further.

‘Curious, Josef? Want to see more …?'

He tried to thrust the clothes away, but Endelman gripped the edge of the sheet, preventing it. The writer laughed, a jagged, uneven sound.

‘I'm the passive one, Josef,' babbled the author. ‘He does it to me …'

‘Shut up,' shouted the photographer. His hand was shaking, spilling the cigarette ash.

‘Oh no,' snapped Nikolai. ‘Josef's interested in sex, aren't you Josef? It's not easy for him. His wife's frightened of it. She winces when he touches her and they have long conversations about how sorry they are and how much they really love each other …'

Endelman reached out, putting his hands upon the naked Russian's shoulders as if to physically restrain him, but Nikolai shook him away. All control and reason had gone now. The only motivation was to hurt.

‘Have you made it yet, Josef? Have you finally got her to open her legs and perform her wifely duties …?'

‘Nikolai …' tried Endelman, again.