The Russian Interpreter

15

They walked to the Hotel National, the three of them, arm in arm, in silence.

‘Well,’ said Manning, when they reached the entrance. ‘We’ll be saying good night, Gordon. I’ll see Raya to the bus.’

‘Good night, then,’ said Proctor-Gould, giving Raya a peck on the cheek and detaching his arm from hers. ‘I’m sorry we had words, Paul.’

‘It was my fault. I was behaving ridiculously.’

‘We were both a little hasty.’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, good night, then.’

‘Good night.’

Manning and Raya turned to go.

‘You won’t step up to my place for a late-night Nescafé?’ said Proctor-Gould, hesitating.

‘I don’t think we will, thanks, Gordon. Good night.’

Proctor-Gould made gestures to Raya of lifting a cup and drinking, raising his eyebrows interrogatively.

‘What’s he saying?’ Raya asked Manning.

‘Oh, he’s just asking us if we’d like to have a cup of coffee with him. I said we wouldn’t.’

‘Oh, but I would,’ said Raya. She turned to Proctor-Gould. ‘Yes, please,’ she said in English. ‘Kofye – yes, please!’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Raya! It’s far too late.’

‘Then you go home, Mr. Interpreter. But for me – yes, please, yes, please, yes, please.’

They rode up in the lift, Manning angry, Raya impassive, Proctor-Gould with a soulful light in his capacious eyes which Manning recognized as a sign that he was pleased with himself. Manning did not believe that the floor-clerk would allow Proctor-Gould to take guests to his room at this time of night. But when they got out of the lift and came face to face with the old woman behind the shaded light at the desk Proctor-Gould nodded familiarly to her, and she nodded amiably back.

Raya was intrigued and repelled by the room. While Proctor-Gould fetched the boiling water, she walked about, picking up heaps of socks and underwear from the floor, letting them trickle back through her fingers, then shivering, as if the cold loneliness of Proctor-Gould’s way of life struck chill into the marrow of her bones. Manning sat down in the chair with the lions’ heads and watched her, tapping his foot. She caught his eye.

‘Poor Gordon,’ she said, and began to clear the room up, folding the clothes away in drawers, hanging the dried shirts up in the wardrobe, and sliding the suitcases beneath the bed.

‘Oh, dear,’ said Proctor-Gould when he returned, looking round for the piles of clothing beneath which the Nescafé and the mugs lived. He dropped to his knees and pulled the suitcases out from under the bed.

‘I keep telling them not to touch anything,’ he said, ‘but they keep tidying everything away.’

Manning laughed, looking at Raya.

‘It’s an obsession some people have,’ went on Proctor-Gould, mistaking the reason for Manning’s laughter. Manning laughed again.

They watched in silence while Proctor-Gould levered the lid off the tin, measured out the apostle spoons of brown powder, and added the cooling water from the camper’s kettle. In silence they stirred their mugs and sipped at them, unable to think of anything to say to each other. Proctor-Gould took up his position with his back to the radiator, gazing sombrely down at the toe-caps of his shoes, moving his eyebrows thoughtfully up and down. Manning stared into space. Raya walked about the room, touching pieces of furniture, putting her head on one side and examining the stacks of English books on the table. Once she looked suddenly down into her mug after she had taken a mouthful and asked Manning curiously:

‘What is it?’

‘Coffee.’

Then they relapsed into silence again.

‘Well,’ said Manning at last, ‘we must be going. I should think Raya’s probably missed her last bus already.’

‘That’s all right. She can sleep here.’

‘What?’

‘Why not?’

In his astonishment Manning could think only of a practical reason.

‘What about the floor-clerk?’

Proctor-Gould laughed, and pulled at his ear.

‘I see,’ he said. ‘I thought for a moment that your indignation was based on moral grounds.’

‘It is. So will the floor-clerk’s be.’

‘Will you translate, please?’ said Raya. ‘I know you’re arguing about me again.’

‘I don’t think we need worry about the floor-clerk,’ said Proctor-Gould. ‘The authorities are much more sensible and understanding than you’d suppose.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘I mean they seem to realize that the sort of job I’m doing sometimes involves contacts with people in rather unusual circumstances.’

‘In other words, you’ve done this before?’

‘Done what before, Paul?’

‘Had women up here.’

‘Are you asking me?’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘That’s not the sort of question you usually ask your friends, is it?’

‘I’m just interested to know whether Raya’s the thirtieth or only, say, the tenth.’

‘Please,’ cried Raya, ‘what are you two jackasses saying?’

Neither of them replied. They were walking about the room not looking at each other.

‘Look, Paul,’ said Proctor-Gould in a concessive tone. ‘You know as well as I do that when a foreigner stays at a hotel in Moscow he’s rung up by prostitutes.’

‘You’ve had prostitutes up here?’

‘Purely for business reasons.’ He realized what he had said and gave a little giggle. ‘Perhaps that’s a rather unfortunate way of putting it. I mean, purely to see if they would do as clients for me.’

‘How did you make assignments with them? You can’t speak Russian.’

‘I know the Russian for “yes, please,” Paul.’

‘You’ve invited prostitutes up here late at night, sat them down in this arm-chair, given them cups of Nescafé, looked them over to see if they would do as personalities, then politely bowed them out again?’

‘More or less. I paid them, of course.’

‘But you couldn’t even talk to them!’

‘We just used to smile and make gestures.’

‘You sat here smiling and making gestures?’

‘Yes.’

‘Drinking Nescafé?’

‘Yes.’

‘In silence?’

‘I sometimes had the radio on.’

‘Well, God help me!’

‘Do you believe me?’

Manning stared at him.

‘I suppose I do,’ he said. ‘I suppose I do.’

‘I must admit, it wasn’t very satisfactory. It was one of the jobs I wanted you for.’

‘Will you please tell me what’s going on?’ cried Raya.

‘You can’t imagine how maddening it is to be left in the dark while this sort of argument flashes about one’s head.’

They looked round. They had both forgotten about her.

‘He’s inviting you to sleep here,’ said Manning briefly.

‘That’s very kind of him,’ she replied. ‘Yes, please.’

‘I wish you’d stop trying to irritate me,’ said Manning. ‘Come on. I’ll see you to a taxi.’

‘She accepted my invitation, didn’t she?’ said Proctor-Gould.

‘Look, don’t be stupid,’ said Manning. ‘Anyway, what about your rule?’

‘What rule?’

‘I thought you had a rule about not getting emotionally involved while you were over here?’

‘Who said anything about getting emotionally involved, Paul?’

‘If spending the night with people isn’t getting emotionally involved with them …’

‘Don’t leap to conclusions, Paul. I shall doss down in the arm-chair. There’s no question of getting involved in any way at all.’

‘What about the danger of blackmail?’

‘Blackmail, Paul?’

‘You were warning me about it, if you remember.’

‘Good heavens Paul! You don’t think Raya’s a police spy, do you?’

‘Well, we don’t know, do we?’

‘I don’t think that’s a very chivalrous attitude, Paul.’

‘Gordon, three days ago it was your attitude!’

‘At that stage I hadn’t met Raya. I was speaking generally. If there’s one thing I’ve learnt in life, Paul, it’s that success goes to the man who knows when to modify his general principles to meet the situation in hand.’

‘You really have tumbled head over heels, haven’t you, Gordon!’

‘Paul, there’s no question of tumbling head over heels, or any involvement of any sort whatsoever. I’m just offering Raya somewhere to sleep for the night because she’s almost certainly missed her last bus.’

‘Gordon, let’s not delude ourselves. You’re in love with Raya.’

‘Certainly not.’

‘Oh, Gordon! You’re making a pass at her! I may say it’s the most preposterous, clumsy, witless pass I’ve ever seen made.’

‘Paul, let me assure you I have no designs upon Raya.’

‘Let me tell you something, Gordon. You’re the archetype of a certain sort of impotence….’

‘Now, Paul, let’s not raise our voices….’

‘You flirt with other men’s women. You get prostitutes in and pay them for drinking Nescafé….’

‘Now, come, come, Paul….’

‘You launch into little adventures where there’s no possibility of failure because there’s no possibility of success….’

There was a sharp rap on the door. They swung round. The old woman from the floor-clerk’s desk was standing on the threshold.

‘Quieter! Quieter!’ she whispered furiously. ‘It’s after midnight – you’ll wake the whole hotel!’

After she had gone Manning and Proctor-Gould stood for a moment looking at each other in silence.

‘Well,’ said Manning, ‘Raya and I are going.’

He looked round to tell her. But she had vanished. She had disappeared from the room without trace.

It was Proctor-Gould who saw her first. She was in bed, with the covers drawn up over her nose, apparently fast asleep. Propped up against the carafe of water on the bedside was one of her playing cards. On it was written in her childish ballpoint hand:

‘A call at 8.0 a.m., please, with cheese, fruit, sour milk, and coffee.’