The Russian Interpreter

13

Manning took Raya to the theatre, to the cinema, to the ballet, and wherever they went people turned to look at her.

He had to get the tickets for these occasions from the foreign students’ allotment, through Sasha. Sasha produced them reluctantly; he could not conceal his uneasiness that the relationship was continuing. Under the stained portrait of Lenin in his office he had one of his ‘serious talks’ with Manning about the need for getting ahead with his thesis, particularly since he had already chosen to give up time to interpreting for Proctor-Gould. He insisted on taking them both out to dinner one evening, in the way that a possessive mother insists on inviting her son’s unsuitable girl friend home, in the hope that she will not survive the light of day. It was a tiring occasion. Whenever Raya spoke, Sasha frowned anxiously, strained by his determination to be scrupulously fair to her. But instead of being subdued by it, she was amused. Manning saw her mouth straightening at the corners with the effort of not smiling.

‘What’s your favourite dish, Raya?’ asked Sasha politely, as they discussed the merits of the food in front of them.

‘Young men, Sasha,’ said Raya, her eyes modestly downcast, ‘served by the half-dozen with flowers and chocolates,’

Sasha did not invite them again.

Proctor-Gould, as well, knew about the affair. Manning rapidly spent all the money he had earned from interpreting, and had to ask him for twenty roubles on account. Proctor-Gould disapproved, too.

‘None of my business, I know, Paul,’ he said, ‘but I shouldn’t get too serious about Raya, if I were you. I’ve known this sort of thing happen before. A chap over here, in your position, starts some sort of monkey business with one of these Russian girls, and it all ends up in the most unholy mess – usually with the man in question being deported. Then there’s always the possibility that you might find yourself being blackmailed. Have you ever thought of that?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, take my tip, Paul – the game’s not worth the candle. A little light banter over the dinner-table, yes. Anything more – definitely no. I’ve made myself a rule, Paul – and I may say I’ve observed it scrupulously – never to get myself emotionally involved over here, however delightful the young lady may be.’

And he invited them both to the opera.

‘You won’t tease him, will you, Raya?’ pleaded Manning, who foresaw another evening like the one with Sasha. ‘He takes himself very seriously. Just listen to what he says and agree with it.’

‘All right,’ said Raya.

The opera was Khovanshchina. From time to time during the acts Manning turned to watch Proctor-Gould in the darkness. He was, he saw, trying to find some way of propping his head; the lids were coming down over his eyes. But between the acts, as the three of them paced about the buffet and the corridors, he was soulful and moved.

‘Wonderful singing!’ he said, shaking his head solemnly. ‘Wonderful singing!’

Manning translated this to Raya.

‘Tell Gordon I’m very pleased to hear him say that,’ she replied, ‘because it’s exactly what I thought.’

Manning translated. Proctor-Gould stroked his ear, lugubriously pleased.

‘Ask Gordon,’ said Raya, ‘if he didn’t think the soprano was a little harsh in the upper registers.’

‘Tell Raya that I did,’ replied Proctor-Gould. ‘Just a shade, in my opinion.’

‘Tell Gordon,’ said Raya, ‘that I think that’s a most perceptive judgement.’

Proctor-Gould lengthened his face judicially when he heard this.

‘Tell Gordon,’ said Raya, ‘that it’s very agreeable to have one’s intuitive feelings confirmed by a connoisseur.’

‘Oh, hardly a connoisseur, I’m afraid,’ said Proctor-Gould. ‘Just someone who enjoys a little fine singing when the occasion arises.’

‘Tell Gordon he understands fine singing because he sings himself.’

In the next interval Proctor-Gould insisted on standing them a bottle of champagne in the buffet. He toasted Raya. Raya toasted Proctor-Gould. Proctor-Gould toasted Manning and Raya jointly. They all became a little dizzy.

‘I must say, Paul,’ said Proctor-Gould to Manning in a low voice, ‘I congratulate you on your lady-friend.’

‘I thought you were rather against the whole idea?’ said Manning.

‘Oh, in principle, Paul, yes.’

‘You haven’t changed your mind about the principle?’

‘No, no. I’m still opposed to the principle of the thing.’

After the opera they strolled about the streets, pleased with each other and unwilling to break the evening up. The night was mild; summer was undoubtedly drawing on. It was, thought Manning, in the evenings that the approach of summer first showed itself. On the night that the amputated man had laughed at him outside Komsomolskaya Metro there had been that sense of desolation in the air which makes itself felt as the light fades at the end of even the most brilliant winter day. But tonight there was no tinge of sadness or loneliness at all. Already you could feel the first suggestion of the excitement and anticipation that comes down with the twilight in early summer.

The mood seemed to have affected Raya.

‘You know what everyone’s talking about in Moscow?’ she asked. ‘It’s the local hooliganism. You can’t possibly leave without taking part in it. Come on, let’s all hold hands. That’s uncultured for a start.’

She took their hands. She made them run across the road at a place where pedestrians were not allowed to cross. She spat on the pavement – they had a spitting competition, which she won. She got Proctor-Gould to sing the ‘Internationale’. They trotted, hands still linked, through a grocery store on Gorky Street, barging against the late-night shoppers. Proctor-Gould caught Manning’s eye. He pulled his ear with his free hand and giggled.

‘It’s good for the system to behave childishly sometimes, Paul,’ he said.

She trotted them all the way down to the Nikita Gates, then pulled them up short, and pointed at a bed of tulips behind a low railing in the public gardens.

‘That would be real hooliganism,’ she said, ‘to steal a municipal tulip.’

Manning hesitated.

‘I think that might be going a bit far, honestly, Raya …’ he began dubiously.

‘What does she want?’ panted Proctor-Gould.

‘A tulip.’

Proctor-Gould pulled his ear once, then trotted across to the railing, clambered awkwardly over, and snapped one off. Manning watched him as he trotted back with the flower. He had never noticed before that Proctor-Gould’s body was long and his legs were short – when he ran his bottom seemed to be almost resting on the ground. Manning wondered if he would look impressive placed on a pedestal in Gorky Street opposite the Statue of Yuri Long-Arm, the founder of Moscow, labelled as Gordon Long-Bottom, the finder of people.

Proctor-Gould presented Raya with the flower, then suddenly seized her hand and kissed it.

‘Oh, Gordon!’ said Raya, laughing. ‘Oh, Gordon!’

She held the tulip up, and looked at it carefully. Then she put it in her mouth and ate it, crunching it up like raw cabbage.

‘In this health-giving and nutritious way, Gordon,’ she said, ‘I conceal the evidence of your crime against the state.’