The Russian Interpreter

28

But Raya was not in the bath, nor in the room. She had gone, and she had taken all her belongings with her. The pictures on the wall – the pyjamas under the pillow – the stockings and underclothes in the bathroom; they had all vanished. Apart from some wilting birch twigs in a vase, the room had returned to the gloom in which Manning had first seen it.

The two men walked vaguely about, touching things, unable to get used to the idea.

‘Well,’ said Proctor-Gould, ‘I suppose one ought to be grateful.’

‘I suppose at any rate we might have guessed.’

‘The room looks so strange. It takes a bit of getting used to.’

He looked disconsolately about. Then he remembered something, and took out of his pocket the single stocking they had found at Konstantin’s. He looked at it for a moment, then tossed it on to the chest of drawers. It landed half on and half off, and poured itself slowly over the edge on to the floor, where it remained, unnoticed by Proctor-Gould, in a sad little heap.

‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘let’s have some Nescafé.’

He fetched the little kettleful of water, opened one of the tins they had recovered, and went through the familiar, soothing ritual.

‘Ah, Paul,’ he said, taking up his old position in front of the radiator, and stirring the brown fluid with the same old apostle spoon. ‘She led me a terrible dance. Of course, it was my fault. I made a fool of myself. I appreciate that now.’

‘These things happen. Gordon.’

‘Sometimes she wouldn’t even look at me for a whole day. She’d just lie on the bed there, reading or smoking, and not pay the slightest attention to me. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I think they were the most awful days of my life.’

‘I know what you mean.’

‘Then sometimes she could be so sweet! I don’t know how to explain exactly. She’d do little things for me – iron a shirt, or suddenly bring me a cup of Nescafé. I can’t really explain.’

He had difficulty with his voice. It wavered a little, and he coughed, and fell silent, and coughed again.

‘No, I know what you mean,’ said Manning.

‘I mean, I’d feel we were really making contact. I’d talk to her, Paul.’

‘What – in English?’

‘I know it sounds silly. I used to tell her about England. Sometimes I’d describe my parents’ house, where I was brought up. It’s in Norwood. Do you know Norwood at all?’

‘Not really. But do you think Raya understood any of this?’

Proctor-Gould sighed and pulled at his ear, gazing reflectively into the corner of the room.

‘Well, I occasionally had the feeling that she more or less knew what I was driving at. She used to talk as well sometimes. We used to have quite long conversations.’

‘Did you understand what she said at all?’

‘Well, you know how it is, Paul. I had a general sense that we were getting through to each other. Does that sound absurd?’

‘No, no.’

‘I don’t want to underestimate your services as an interpreter, Paul. But sometimes I think we achieved a sort of telepathic communication that didn’t really depend on the actual spoken words at all. That’s what I felt at the time, anyway.’

‘And then she’d pinch something?’

Proctor-Gould sighed again.

‘I suppose I made rather a fool of myself,’ he said sadly.

Manning was moved.

‘I suppose I did, too, Gordon,’ he said.

‘You could talk to her, of course.’

‘Yes, I suppose I could talk to her.’

They sat in silence for some moments, thinking about her.

‘The first time we met,’ said Manning in a faraway voice, not looking at Proctor-Gould, ‘was on a sort of picnic in the forest near Maliye Zemyati.’

‘I know. I was there, Paul.’

‘The sun was shining. But it was quite cold – there was still snow lying in places.’

‘I remember.’

‘We just walked through the woods. And climbed trees. I suppose it sounds a bit pastoral.’

‘No, I know what you mean.’

‘We came to this lake. There was this kind of wooden landing stage thing. We lay down on it in the sunshine, side by side. Everything seemed somehow so simple and uncomplicated – I can’t explain.’

He fell silent, gazing into the depths of the escritoire. Proctor-Gould watched him. Neither of them moved.

‘After a while,’ said Manning, ‘she said we should take our clothes off.’

There was another long silence. It scarcely seemed that either of them was breathing.

‘And go for a swim in the lake,’ said Manning at last.

Proctor-Gould opened his eyes very wide.

‘And go for a swim in the lake?’ he queried. ‘With snow on the ground?’

He began to giggle his silly girlish giggle. For a moment Manning felt himself blushing. Then he began to laugh, too.

‘Of course, we didn’t,’ he explained above the strange contralto whinnying coming from Proctor-Gould. Somehow the explanation struck them both as being even more ridiculous than the original proposal, and they began to laugh all over again.

Eventually their laughter ebbed, and they became serious.

‘Did you ever, in point of fact,’ said Proctor-Gould, ‘enjoy her favours, as I believe they call it?’

‘No – I’ve told you before. Did you?’

‘No.’

‘I suspected not.’

‘I suppose she is what rather vulgar people at Cambridge used to call a prick-teaser.’

‘I suppose she is.’

They both sighed, and became companionably silent.

‘Anyway,’ said Proctor-Gould, ‘she did know when to go. And she did leave in a very quiet and decent manner.’

‘Yes,’ said Manning.

A thought struck him.

‘I suppose she didn’t by any chance take the second case of books with her when she went, did she?’

Proctor-Gould crossed the room in two strides and wrenched open the wardrobe.

She had.