Face Me When You Walk Away (7 page)

6

He had telephoned from Vienna, warning of his return, so there were no customs formalities. While his luggage was being loaded into the car, he rang the dacha and was surprised to learn that Pamela had returned to Moscow. Immediately, a childlike excitement at seeing her swept through him.

Like tombstones in a neglected churchyard, the apartment blocks reserved exclusively for leading government officials who shared their homes with no one were regimented with a view of Kutuzovsky Prospekt. Josef's apartment formed the penthouse on the first section, externally as drab as those that surrounded it. Inside, it rivalled the dacha for indulgence. It had taken him nearly three years to furnish it satisfactorily to suit his purpose, shopping throughout the world. It was essential, above every other consideration, that he had what no others possessed in the city. And was known to have them. With the exception of the huge sunken lounge, where the walls were lined with raw Japanese silk, the apartment was largely panelled in Norwegian pine, not because he particularly liked the style, but because it was unusually modern in Moscow.

The furniture was predominantly Scandinavian, mostly Swedish. The kitchen was almost entirely automated with electrical goods purchased in America and a book-lined study was an Aladdin's cave of more electrical equipment. Two Xerox machines had been set into cabinets. One tape recorder was so large it occupied the whole of the specially constructed side-table, and during a visit to Tokyo two years before he had purchased two miniature recorders. Since he was a man of precise records, painstakingly kept for his own protection, one was fitted into a briefcase he took on all business trips to enable him to dictate all correspondence and memoranda at the end of each day, to be shipped to Moscow in the diplomatic pouches of whatever country in which he was working.

Having created an apartment that would have been remarkable on New York's Fifth Avenue and which was consequently dazzling by Moscow standards, Josef occasionally gave carefully selective dinner parties, where he served imported wines and liquor often untasted in the Soviet capital to Party executives and neighbouring officials of whose envious gossip he was assured. Until four months ago, after the natural gas negotiations in America and before he had been entrusted with chaperoning Nikolai Balshev, he had intended inviting Uli Devgeny to one such function, aware that every other guest would know the reason and that Devgeny would be humiliated whether he attended or not. Now the gas deal, like all the other successful negotiations that had preceded it, was forgotten. Now, thought Josef bitterly as he moved away from Moscow's Sheremetyevo Airport, Devgeny's only likely visit would be to take over the place.

As the Zil moved slowly through the rush-hour traffic, the memory of the last night in Vienna, with the choking nightmare, forced its way into his mind. In needless reassurance, he undipped the briefcase. In the specially segregated side-pockets lay the drugs with which he had restocked while he had been out of the country. He had methalaquone, librium and valium, and in Vienna had visited a chemist he had used before, to buy a greater concentration than normal of chlordiazepoxide and diazepam.

Her reaction was different from that he had expected. He stood just inside the lounge, waiting for her to smile, but instead she frowned at him, combing her hands through her hair, dishevelled and unkempt.

‘Hello, wife,' he greeted, in anticipation. She appeared to forget their word game.

‘Hello, Josef.'

‘Is that all?' he asked, offended by her flat greeting.

‘But I didn't expect you … look, I'm a mess.'

She wore the same jeans and shirt as that last day at the dacha, but her face had lost the well-scrubbed look.

‘You're lovely,' he said, untruthfully. He stared at her, uncertain of her mood.

‘What's wrong?'

‘You surprised me, I wish you hadn't arrived like this, darling, Unexpectedly, I mean.'

‘But I
wanted
to surprise you, once I learned you weren't at the dacha.'

‘And I wanted to dress up properly, in a dress. And with my hair done. Not like this … like some bloody hippie.'

‘It was a bloody hippie I fell in love with, remember?'

‘And still am?' she asked. There seemed an urgency for the compliment, he thought.

‘And still am,' he reassured. He cupped her chin and kissed her. She locked her arm around his neck and held him, tightly, almost grinding her face into his.

‘Hello, husband,' she said, remembering at last. Then, in a rush, she added, ‘Oh darling, I'm so glad you're back.'

‘You're crying. Your nose is red.'

She sniffed, scrubbing her hand over her face. ‘I'm so happy to see you. I've been … lonely.'

‘I've missed you, too,' he said.

She turned away from him, sharply. ‘I need ten minutes to make myself presentable to my husband,' she said.

While she changed, he opened champagne, and selected tapes on the stereo-unit recessed into the wall. She came back shining from soap and rough towelling, her hair strained back into a comb, Spanish style. She wore a plain black dress, with scalloped neckline and flat heeled shoes. She pirouetted, pleased with his attention.

‘Now I feel able to greet you properly,' she said. She accepted the wine, raising her glass in a silent toast.

‘How's Nikolai?' he asked.

‘What?'

Josef stared at her, curiously. ‘I asked how Nikolai was,' he repeated, mildly.

‘All right, I suppose. Why shouldn't he be?'

‘Did you fight with him?'

‘Of course not. Why ask a funny question like that?'

‘You seemed angry at his name.'

She sat down opposite him in one of the low armchairs, taking elaborate care arranging the folds of her skirt.

‘Have you eaten?' she asked. ‘There's food in the freezer.'

‘Did you quarrel with him?'

‘No, of course not. He's just not my idea of a honeymoon companion.'

‘If there had been a way of avoiding it, I would have done so.'

‘I know. I'm sorry.'

For several minutes, neither spoke, each recognizing the nearness of an argument.

Pamela voiced the fear. ‘Please, let's not fall out on your first night home.'

‘You still haven't answered my question,' pressed Josef.

‘Nikolai is like he always is,' she said. ‘He needs to be told, every day, how good he is. It doesn't matter who tells him, as long as somebody does. You could train a monkey to do it. And he still smells.'

‘So you don't like him.'

Pamela shrugged, holding out her glass for more wine. ‘I don't dislike him. And I don't like him, either. He makes me feel uncomfortable. Like birdwatchers create hides from which to spy on birds, to learn about them, Nikolai spies on people, from behind his artificial barrier.'

‘I think you're wrong,' said Josef. ‘He's unusual, that's all. A sort of person you haven't encountered before.'

Pamela made a dismissive motion with her hand, unwilling to discuss the man.

‘He's anxious about you,' she reported. ‘He wants to know about Stockholm.'

Josef looked at his watch. He wondered if the price to prison guards had risen over the decade. Did prisoners still drug themselves with tannin and sometimes run to the wire, hoping to get shot? They never did shoot them, of course. Outside there was nowhere to go, so eventually they had to return.

‘I'll speak to him tomorrow,' he said, discarding memories. He looked at her. ‘Are you sure nothing is wrong?' he asked.

‘Positive.' She spoke over-loudly, he thought. Some wine spilled from her glass, staining her skirt, but she ignored it.

‘When did you come back to Moscow?'

‘About six days ago,' she said. ‘I decided I'd rather be here. At least there are things I could do by myself. And get away from Nikolai watching me.'

She suddenly brightened. ‘Oh. I saw the ballet. It was fantastic.'

‘The Bolshoi? How did you get tickets?'

‘A friend of yours suddenly rang, the night I got back. Said he had heard you were away and had thought of me. Apparently he got the tickets for someone who had let him down.'

Slowly Josef replaced his glass on a side-table. A feeling near to nausea gripped him.

‘What friend?' he asked.

Pamela picked up the jotting pad from beside the lounge telephone.

‘Devgeny,' she read, looking up and smiling. ‘Uli Devgeny. Wasn't that kind of him?'

‘Very,' agreed Josef. What the hell did that mean?

‘He said he'd like to talk to you when you returned. I promised you'd telephone and thank him.'

‘Oh, I'll speak to him,' said Josef, absently. ‘I'll certainly speak to him.'

That night they both got drunk. Josef did it knowingly, welcoming the feeling of irresponsibility like a schoolboy playing truant for the first time. He was secure in his locked apartment. No one could take advantage of him. There could be no record of any indiscretion, no memorandum to be produced months later at an inquiry. He lived constantly aware of himself, Josef thought. Every action was assessed for its effect, every word considered for its implication, like a chess master thinking perpetually five moves ahead of an opponent. Suddenly there was the need to relax. Or collapse. But even as he tried to rationalize the decision, he recognized the element of desperation. He was giving up, just a little. He
did
need to unwind. And it
was
safe. He needed sleep, too, and alcohol might help. But there had been other, safe occasions when he could have relaxed with a bottle. And the pills in his briefcase could provide rest, of sorts. Above everything else, Josef Bultova knew himself. And so he accepted the fear and its motivation. Now he was seeking oblivion, like the flotsam of fifteen years ago who had traded with him to brew their strange narcotic concoction and upon whom he had lived, like a parasite on a series of dying animals. By recognizing Pamela, Devgeny had made it quite clear he intended destroying Josef completely, moving not only against him, but against the only other person for whom he knew Josef had the slightest feeling. There was too much unknown opposition, he thought. Pamela was Josef's weakness and Devgeny knew it. Love, thought Josef, before alcohol flooded his reasoning, had little place in his life. It made him vulnerable.

Pamela got drunk because she was frightened, too. She had left Nikolai's bed in the middle of the night, long before the servants had awakened, and remained tense all day for a knowing look from whomever had had to change the bed or an expectant, over-familiar move from the writer. But the servants remained as taciturn as ever and Nikolai hadn't approached her again. She had rehearsed her belated, positive rejection but his attitude had changed that day. Incredibly, he seemed almost respectful, pulling back into his shell of reserve, speaking few words at mealtimes and spending hours walking alone in the grounds. The experiment, Pamela had realized, was over. The knowledge doubled her humiliation, worse even than if they had made love again.

And her fear went beyond Josef discovering her stupidity. Constantly since it had happened, she had recalled Nikolai's boast. If he were as important as he had maintained, he had an advantage over Josef, as well as her.

‘Darling,' she said, suddenly. ‘How important is Nikolai to you?'

More in reflection than answer, he said, ‘Vitally important. To both of us.'

He opened the second bottle of wine and she leaned forward anxiously for her glass to be filled. Drunkenness failed to extinguish the predominant fear in both of them, but it achieved one thing, the importance of which neither realized at the time. The wine, coupled with the need she felt to compensate, swamped her apprehension of sex with Josef. And it dulled his initial realization, so that he accepted what developed without the surprise that might have raised the lowered barriers. And they made love.

Even drunk Josef was the consummate, accomplished lover she had accused him of being during her apology at the dacha. He was tender where Nikolai had been gauche, forceful where the other man had been clumsy. She and Nikolai had been two youngsters staring into a darkened room where they believed hidden something neither had seen before. Josef shone the light on more beauty than she had ever expected to see.

She came ahead of him, wildly, and then again with him, matching his climax. She kissed him, frenzied and imploring, not wanting to stop. But at what, for them, was the most important moment, Josef was exhausted, tired and drunk, wanting only for her to cease the demands. He forced himself to embrace her and hold her, gently, until she quietened.

‘Oh my God,' she said, both disappointed and relieved. Then, much later, she said gratefully, ‘We're properly man and wife.'

Josef lay beside her long after she had drifted into a contented, drunken sleep. His head ached, badly. After two hours, he took methalaquone. And then, desperately, more. His headache worsened. Sleep still would not come. He turned towards her and in the shadowy light of the bedroom made out her face, turned towards him, fur-like through a skein of hair. She was smiling, very slightly. Love, he thought, for the second time that night, was an inconvenience. An inconvenience he was uncertain whether he could afford.

7

Predictably, Uli Devgeny refused to see him the following morning. The secretary, a pebble-spectacled, never-smiling young man with late-clearing acne, cited pressure of work and previously arranged meetings. Josef reacted immediately and with equal predictability, leaving Devgeny's Kremlin office with the curt instruction that the Minister should telephone to discuss a mutually convenient appointment. Fighting cocks, thought the secretary, unimpressed as the plump Russian hurried out. Bloody fools, both of them. In the end, probably neither would win.

Josef decided to go to the dacha to see Nikolai, so that he could justifiably reject Devgeny's first suggestion for a meeting. The negotiator was permitted to keep a Mercedes in Moscow and he drove with the sun-roof fully retracted, unsuccessfully trying to blow away the previous night's drunkenness. He was unused to hangovers and felt awful. The night had been completely sleepless, culminating at dawn with a violent spasm of vomiting that had left him aching and sore. His eyes were red-veined and puffed from insomnia and his chin stained from bad shaving. A band of pain kept tightening around his head. There had been rumours, he remembered, that tourniquet headbands had been used for torture in some sections of the camp. He wondered if it had been true. Medev had insisted it was.