The Russian Interpreter

5

Later they talked about Sasha.

‘I wish he’d lose his temper with me when we have these scenes,’ said Manning. ‘He just looks hurt, and then forgives me.’

‘It’s better to hurt someone who’s capable of forgiving you than someone who’s not,’ said Katerina.

‘It doesn’t seem like that at the time.’

‘There’s no point in having moral qualities if they’re not used.’

‘That sounds cynical.’

‘It’s not intended to be.’

‘But, Katya, you wouldn’t want me to hurt your feelings, just so that you could exercise your forgiveness?’

‘No, because I’m not strong, like Sasha. I’m weak, and I shouldn’t forgive you.’

They walked in silence for some minutes.

‘He took me to hear Shchedrin last night,’ said Manning. ‘He knows him – they were in an orphanage together during the war. We had dinner with Shchedrin and his wife afterwards.’

‘Did you like them?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘Was Shchedrin very modest? Did he make little jokes in a quiet voice, and make everyone laugh respectfully?’

‘Do you know him?’

‘No, but I can imagine him. A neat blue suit. A tidy, quiet face, with smooth skin filling out a little round the jowl.’

‘That’s a caricature….’

‘No, it’s a description. All Sasha’s friends are of a type.’

‘You’ve never met Sasha or his friends.’

‘You’ve told me about them. I know their sort.’

‘Their sort? Katya, why are you so contemptuous of them? They’re good people.’

‘Of course they’re good. They’re strong, good, able people, whose strength and goodness and ability enable them to rise above their brothers. Well, God be with them. But I want to make it clear that I am one of the others – the ones who are not strong or good enough – the ones who are risen above.’

‘Sasha and Shchedrin may be better paid….’

‘It’s not money, of course. Even if Shchedrin had to walk the roads and beg his bread, he’d still know that he could sing like one of God’s angels. That would be real riches.’

‘And you want to take that away from him?’

‘No! I just want to commit myself to those who have no such riches. That’s the real battle in life – the one between the strong and the weak.’

‘And you’re weak, Katya?’

‘Yes. I’m weak because I’m afraid of so many things. But I recognize my weakness, and I use it as my passport to where I want to be – in the ranks of the losers.’

‘Am I weak, Katya?’

‘Oh, yes. But you’d never admit it to yourself. You’d like people to think you were strong. So you put a good face on it and stay close to those who are strong – like a little boy who marches down the street with the soldiers.’

It was quite dark, and suddenly very cold. The feeling of spring had gone with the light.

‘I met someone last night,’ said Katerina after a long silence, ‘who said he was an old friend of yours.’

‘Proctor-Gould? Where did you come across him?’

‘At the desk in Sector B. I came to look for you.’

‘Oh,’ said Manning, ‘it was you?’

‘The woman at the desk wouldn’t let me in, and she wouldn’t tell me whether you were there or not. So I started to cry – you know how I do.’

‘Then Proctor-Gould came along?’

‘Yes. He tried to cheer me up. He spoke a little German – very badly.’

‘What did you think of him, Katya?’

‘I’m not sure. I thought for a start that he was very confident – he put his arm round me as if it was the most natural thing in the world. But then I began to wonder if he wasn’t one of those people who do everything boldly and confidently in order to impress themselves – to convince themselves by external evidence that it must be right. It’s like trying to persuade oneself one’s rich by spending money – a sort of confidence trick upon oneself. One day the bills fall due and one discovers one’s own deceit.’

Manning looked at his watch. They had been walking for over an hour.

‘Shall we find a restaurant and have something to eat?’ he asked.

Katerina shook her head.

‘One can’t talk and eat. Anyway, two people can’t really talk facing each other. It’s much better to talk in the streets, walking side by side.’

‘Do you want to go on walking for a bit, then?’

‘No. There’s nothing more I want to say to you today. Good-bye, Paul.’

For an instant her head turned towards him, her nervous smile flickered in the light from the street-lamps, and her hand rested on his arm. Then she had turned and was disappearing down the steps of a Metro station. Manning gazed after her, disconcerted by her lack of ceremony and shocked by her frankness.

The station was called Komsomolskaya, after the Communist League of Youth. He stared at the word, aimlessly repeating the melodious syllables over to himself. Behind him someone cackled with laugher, and shouted out:

‘You look, and look, and look!’

Manning swung round. For a moment he could see no one. Then there was another burst of laughter from somewhere down near pavement level, and Manning saw an old man with snow-white hair, sitting propped up in a little wooden trolley, like a Guy Fawkes in a go-cart, with leather pads on his knuckles to push himself along. Both legs were amputated just below the groin.

‘You stare, and stare, and still you stare!’ cried the old man, leaning on his padded knuckles and shaking all over with violent laughter.