Face Me When You Walk Away (20 page)

It took only minutes to dictate the nightly report. An account of complete and genuine success, he reflected. Moscow should be impressed by the coverage planned by the
Sunday Times
. He took another brandy to the bedside table, swallowed three sleeping tablets, ignoring the danger of mixing them with alcohol. He noted the dosage on the pad, so that he would have a reminder if he awakened and then lay waiting for unconsciousness to come.

*

Lady Bellamy was summoned to the family lawyer's office a fortnight after her husband's death. The solicitor, Henry Pottinger, had acted for Harry for twenty years and didn't like her, she knew. His unsympathetic voice was dry and brittle, like twigs crackling underfoot in June.

‘This is a little unorthodox,' he announced, as she sat down. ‘But I'm afraid your husband made an unusual will.'

Pottinger must have been aware of their marital difficulties, she thought. He would have had to draw up the allowances for Harry's other women.

‘Your husband was a rich man, an extraordinarily rich man …' he began.

‘How much did he leave me?' she asked, shortly. There was no point in protracting the meeting.

‘Nothing,' announced the lawyer. ‘Three other women get it.'

Lady Bellamy laughed openly. ‘Oh, the bastard,' she said. ‘He really did hate, didn't he?'

‘I'm afraid he did,' agreed Pottinger.

‘How sad it must have made him,' reflected the woman. ‘That he couldn't be around for all the publicity. He liked publicity.'

‘I suppose you could challenge it,' offered Pottinger. He was still loyal, realized Lady Bellamy. The interview wasn't dictated by kindness. The man wanted to know if there would be a fight over the estate.

‘Challenging the will would only involve unnecessary legal costs and put off the inevitable publication of Harry's opinion of me,' she said, realistically. ‘A court case would be too dirty.'

‘So you definitely won't challenge it?' he confirmed, relieved.

‘No,' she said. She wondered if her Moscow visa would arrive in time for her to be out of the country. She'd have to hide somewhere.

‘There's another thing,' said the lawyer. He shuffled papers, wedging half-rimmed spectacles on his nose. She could never understand why men wore such ridiculous glasses.

‘The will ends,' he read out, ‘ “And to my daughter, Pamela, whom I love and whom, through stupidity, I wronged, I leave two hundred thousand pounds in the hope that I can bring her more happiness in death than I brought her in life. And, now dead, I seek from her the forgiveness I could never ask when alive.”'

Pottinger looked over his spectacles. ‘It's in a trust fund,' he added, helpfully, a man of detail. ‘Set up years ago. The money's very safe from duty.'

For a moment, the lawyer thought the woman was going to cry. She swallowed several times and the first attempt to speak failed.

‘Hate is such a stupid thing,' she said, finally.

17

The television recording went perfectly, as Nikolai's public appearances increasingly seemed to. The author appeared completely confident and indulged in the affectation of stumbling replies in English, to the delight of the interviewer. They regarded it as something of a coup getting Josef on the same programme and the interviewer was awed by his legend and consequently the questions were soft and unabrasive. Moscow could only be pleased, Josef had decided. It seemed a recurring thought. Always, there was a desperate hope associated with it.

The negotiator entered the hospitality suite relaxed, escorted by the producer, Harriet Brindley, a bolster-bosomed woman wearing an ill-advised trouser-suit, given to smoking small cigars and trying to impress people with her outrageousness, which she practised assiduously.

‘Magnificent,' she judged, handing Josef a whisky. She, like the interviewer, was impressed at Josef's reputation, laughing nervously at the end of sentences, agreeing too readily with his half-expressed opinions.

‘You think it went well then?' queried Josef, politely.

‘Undoubtedly.'

Nikolai and Endelman were in the centre of a small group of people across the room. The author was embarrassingly patronizing in his over-politeness to everyone, thought Josef. The interviewer, a carrot-headed young man whose name Josef had half heard as Deakon was braying with nervous laughter, shoulders jerking at whatever Nikolai said. Josef felt sorry for the man.

‘I see it's caught on in your country, too,' said the woman. She grabbed two more glasses from a passing tray and handed one to Josef.

‘I'm sorry?'

The producer nodded towards the laughing group.

‘Grass,' she said.

As Josef looked across, he caught the eye of both Nikolai and Endelman. Very slowly, Nikolai took a cigarette to his lips and Josef saw that it was crumpled and badly made. As he withdrew the cigarette, Nikolai gave a small wave and he and Endelman laughed. Endelman shrugged a ‘don't blame me' gesture. Harriet talked on, unaware of the shock effect of her announcement.

‘I think it should be legalized, for Christ's sake,' she continued, with the vehemence of liberalism. ‘A bloody sight more harm is done by booze than by a little harmless pot. Cheers.'

‘Quite,' said Josef, recovering. ‘Good health.'

The bastards, the arrogant, conceited bastards, he thought. Another challenge. He wondered if, drug-fogged, they would flaunt their homosexuality. It had been a long time since anyone had dared laugh at him.

‘There's no medical danger, you know,' insisted the woman. Two weeks before she had had a forum of free-thinking doctors on her programme.

‘So they say,' replied Josef. He wanted to end the boring party and get them both away before they made some noticeable mistake.

‘Is he queer?'

The question was like a cold hand reaching deeply into Josef's stomach. He turned to the woman, subduing the panic. Her perfume was being defeated by body odour.

‘What an odd question,' avoided Josef. ‘Why do you ask?'

There must have been some gesture he had missed. Or maybe a remark when he was concentrating upon the interviewer. What was his name? He'd forgotten.

‘No reason,' shrugged Harriet, dismissively. ‘Deakon is, that's all. I thought it might be a mutual attraction. They seem to have some way of spotting each other. And he seems pretty taken with Nikolai.'

‘I think he's just impressed,' tried Josef, desperately. ‘Deakon is young. I shouldn't imagine he's met a Nobel prizewinner before'

Josef found her habit of uttering disconcerting remarks irritating. He had to get over to the group.

‘Shouldn't we join the others?' he said. He couldn't afford rudeness. The recording could still be edited, he realized, into a harmful programme. ‘Nikolai might need some assistance. His English still isn't that good,' he added, with forced innocence. The bastards, laughing at him. The group opened at their approach and Nikolai smiled.

‘My mentor,' said the author, showing off his new English word. Everyone smiled and Josef wondered if Nikolai had shared their joke against him. The author seemed alert and in complete control of himself. No one was smoking now and there was no evidence of any stubs. Josef presumed they had been pocketed.

‘We must go soon,' said Josef.

Nikolai sniggered.

‘Why, Josef?' he replied, the Russian so rapid that even Endelman would have had difficulty in following. ‘Frightened I might make a scene?'

‘Stop it Nikolai,' warned Josef, at the same speed. ‘I won't be made to look a fool.'

‘But the role fits you so well, Josef.'

‘Come now,' interposed Deakon. ‘No one can understand a word.'

The interviewer moved his hands about a lot when he spoke, and Josef saw his nails were coated with clear varnish.

‘Forgive us,' he apologized, reverting to English.

‘Jeremy has invited us to a party,' announced Endelman indicating the interviewer.

‘We're going,' confirmed Nikolai. There was an edge of defiance in his voice.

‘It will be all right if other people come, won't it?' asked Josef.

The interviewer and the producer both misunderstood. Harriet smiled, hopefully, and Deakon, imagining the arrival at a party with a Nobel prizewinner and Josef Bultova, beamed.

‘Of course,' he said. ‘I was going to invite you …'

‘Two people from the embassy,' enlarged Josef. He saw Endelman bending towards the author.

‘Oh,' said the interviewer, deflated. The woman buried her face in her whisky glass.

‘No,' said Nikolai. He spoke in English.

‘Then you don't go,' replied Josef, in Russian.

Nikolai reverted, too, his English no match for his anger.

‘I will not be treated like a child,' he said, falling back on a familiar protest. ‘I'm going.'

‘And two attaches will go with you.'

‘I don't want them. It's not going to be that sort of a party.'

‘Are you out of your mind? Do you think I'm going to let you loose among a load of homosexuals? For Christ's sake, Nikolai, start behaving sensibly.'

‘I'll make a scene,' pouted the writer.

‘Go ahead,' invited Josef. ‘And I'll slap you, like the child you are. And the whole room … and Endelman, the person you are trying to impress with your independence, can witness the weeping collapse of the great Nikolai Balshev, a Nobel prizewinner and fool.'

‘Don't talk to me like that.'

Josef just stared at him.

‘You wouldn't dare hit me, not in a TV studio,' protested Nikolai.

‘Because of the publicity? Don't be stupid, Nikolai. They want the interview they have got, not a scandal. I'd insist on walking from here with the film they've just shot. Remember, I reserved the right to censor anything I didn't like. To prevent losing their film, they'd overlook a tantrum.'

‘I don't believe you.'

‘Try it.'

The tension stretched between them, ready to break. It engulfed the others in the room, like a January draught through an ill-fitting door.

‘I can't get out of it now,' said Nikolai and Josef relaxed slightly.

‘I can make an excuse.'

‘Everybody knows we've had a row.'

‘These sort of people live on rows. It seems natural to them.'

Sure of himself now, Josef turned back to the interviewer. ‘I'm sorry,' he said. ‘Nikolai had forgotten there are other things to do before we leave for America tomorrow. I'm afraid we're going to have to turn down your invitation.'

Deakon shrugged, smiling wryly.

‘So you won,' he said, resigned.

‘Yes,' said Josef. Why not admit it? It couldn't cause any harm. Regaining control gave him a twinge of satisfaction.

Deakon looked at Endelman, who sighed.

‘Sorry,' said the photographer. ‘We'd have enjoyed it. It's too bad.'

The embassy car was waiting for them and initially no one spoke. Nikolai sat between them in the vehicle and Josef was conscious of the author pulling away, trying to avoid physical contact.

‘You made me look a fool,' complained Nikolai, again. ‘So I tried marijuana. Is that a crime?'

‘Leave it alone, Nikolai,' said Endelman. ‘Josef is angry with us.'

The author sniggered at the mockery. They refused to be unsettled by the silence, whispering and even giggling to themselves.

‘My room,' Josef announced, as they exited from the lift on the fourth floor. He glanced at the note Reception had handed him as he collected his key. The embassy wanted him. Not as much as he wanted them, he thought.

‘Splendid,' jibed Nikolai. ‘Josef's got a lovely cocktail cabinet. We can all have lots to drink. Drink isn't harmful, is it, Josef? It's only drugs you are frightened of.'

He hurried ahead and Josef was reminded of a court jester, skipping to the crowd. Jesters were sad people, he thought. Inside the suite, Nikolai continued to attempt command, pouring and serving drinks with polite bows. They were still laughing, decided Josef.

‘How long does the charade go on?' he inquired, trying to project the weariness into his voice.

‘Josef's bored!' exclaimed Nikolai to Endelman, and then swinging back to the negotiator. ‘Are you bored, Josef? Oh dear.'

Endelman was sitting rigid-faced, refusing to react to Nikolai's prompting.

‘Stop it, Nikolai,' said Josef. ‘It's finished.'

The writer dropped into a chair, then leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, head in his hands, like an eager pupil listening to his teacher. The ridicule was very practised, thought Josef.

‘Josef is making threats,' narrated the writer. ‘It's so silly, Josef. You know that. You were lucky tonight that I didn't want to go to that fool's party. Don't think you're in control again.'

Josef put aside his glass, untouched.

‘I made it quite clear to both of you,' he began. ‘That I could never allow anything that could publicly endanger this tour …'

He nodded towards Endelman, then continued talking as if he were not in the room.

‘Endelman was a mistake,' he said. ‘The Ministry approved it, but I should have argued. I was always unhappy at the suggestion. There was something odd about it …'

‘Josef is justifying himself,' jeered Nikolai.

‘It was even more stupid for me to have done nothing when I found you in bed together.'

‘Were you frightened, Josef … of what. I would do? Is that why you wouldn't act?'

Again Josef ignored him.

‘Tonight everyone in that bloody room except me knew you were smoking marijuana.'

‘Poor Josef. He's upset because he's too unsophisticated to realize what's happening,' prodded the writer.

‘The woman even guessed you were homosexual,' he said.