Instantly Fox’s face takes on an expression of deep concern. “Darling, you look awfully tired. Do you need to lie down?”
I nod, the way I imagine a sweet, exhausted wife would nod, and Kedrov takes the hint and bustles away, but not before bringing the tea service to our attention. He waves his arm to the table before the sofa, where an enamel tray offers teapot and curving, elegant cups and plates stacked with pastry. After he leaves, Fox extracts his arm from mine, motions to his ear then to the four corners of the room, and says, “How are you feeling, darling?”
“Like I could use a nice bath and a rest.”
“Some tea?”
“That would be lovely. I’ll pour so you can have a look around. Where are those bellboys with our luggage?”
“Elevator must be slow,” says Fox. He starts to move around the room, examining walls and objects and windows. I sit on the sofa but I don’t pour any tea. I stare at the pot and the cups and the creamer. Instead of the delicate pale roses and leaves of an English tea service, they’re painted in vivid lapis with gold rims.
I wonder what kind of tea service Iris has. I wonder what she looks like now. I wonder what she’ll say to me, whether she still hates me, whether she wrote that letter in ink or bile. For the first time, I consider why Iris would reach out to me, of all people, when she needed help. What on earth made her think I would answer the summons? Yet I did.
Fox arrives back into the room.
“Something the matter?” he says softly.
I shake my head. He approaches me, anyway, and sits on the sofa by my side. The springs gasp and settle. He takes one of my hands and folds it between his own, and he speaks in a low, husky lover’s whisper, so the microphones won’t pick up his words.
“Don’t be afraid. I won’t fail you, Ruth.”
I swallow back a laugh. Sumner Fox, fail me? That thought hasn’t crossed my mind in days. The man can speak a dozen languages, for God’s sake. He survived a Japanese prison camp.
But I nod anyway. It’s easier than telling him what I’m really afraid of.
He says, a little louder, “Let me pour you some tea, sweetheart.”
We have dinner downstairs with a couple of undersecretaries from the American embassy whose unenviable job it was to smooth out the diplomatic details of our visit. I can’t be certain whether they’re in the know—initiated, to use the jargon—although I suspect not, because they talk without irony about facilitating understanding between the two countries at this sensitive time and so on. Lay it on thick. Even assuming the KGB is listening in, they seem awfully earnest. Everyone except Fox drinks too much. We part in the lobby at one in the morning. When they disappear into the revolving door, Fox leads me by the hand to the elevator, as if he isn’t sure I can find it on my own.
Once in our suite, I drop the hand and hurry to the dressing room. The chambermaid has unpacked our suitcases and laid out our toiletries in the bathroom. I brought a silk negligee of the kind a bride would wear, and I shimmy it on now and brush my teeth and slather on the cold cream. When I’m finished, I step into the living room and tell Fox the coast is clear.
By arrangement, I’m to sleep on the giant bed in the bedroom, and Fox on the sofa nearby, covered by a blanket. For the record, I did protest. I said that as Fox was twice my weight, he should have the bed—my God, think of the embarrassed explanation should the delicate sofa come to grief in the night. But Fox only regarded me gravely and said that he wouldn’t sleep a wink in that case.
So I climb alone onto the giant bed—some kind of elaborate relic of the Russian Empire, or else a convincing reproduction. The chambermaid has already turned back the heavy brocade bedspread, and a piece of chocolate lies on the pillow. I eat the chocolate even though I’ve already brushed my teeth. I hear faint noises from the bathroom, rushing water and so on, and a moment later Fox appears in a pair of silk pajamas that hang strangely on him.
I point to the walls. “Hello, handsome.”
“Hello, yourself.”
I pat the mattress next to me. He walks across the gilded room and lowers himself on the bed. He doesn’t exactly move with the fluid grace you might expect of an athlete, but then he never has. I haven’t asked him about the prison camp. I’ve always thought there are things nobody wants to talk about, especially to a woman you hardly know. He has a slight limp to his walk, which you only notice if you pay close attention, and the motion of his left hip isn’t quite what it should be—again, too subtle for the casual observer, but by now I’m no longer a casual observer. He lays his hands on his knees and looks sheepish.
“What an evening,” I say. “I think I might have had a little too much wine. I’m just so nervous about seeing my sister. It’s been years.”
“Nervous? You?”
“Yes, nervous! You’ve never had a twin sister, or you’d understand.”
“I wouldn’t worry. She wouldn’t have asked you to come if she didn’t want to mend fences, would she?”
“Or unless she’s that worried about the birth. Do you think she’ll be all right?”
“I’m sure they have terrific doctors here. She’ll be fine. And you’ll be here to help her.”
I lay my head on his shoulder and pat his thigh. “Darling, thank you again for coming with me. Putting your work on hold like this and everything. You’re the best husband a girl could ask for.”
“Well, what else was I supposed to do for my best girl? I couldn’t let you travel halfway across the world without me, could I?”
At this point, I should reveal—if you haven’t guessed already—that we’re not exactly speaking off the cuff. During our many long hours of preparation, we sketched out conversations like this, for the edification of anyone listening—it might not convince them, Fox said, but it would give our story a little more credibility. We had to pull it off right, though. We had to make it sound natural. No scripts, no set speeches. Spontaneity, that was the ticket. Did I think I could manage that? I said I thought I could.
What I don’t expect is how naturally Fox carries off the act.
“Mmm,” I purr, as if snuggling into his chest. “You’ll love Iris, darling, even though she’s not a bit like me.”
“No? But I love every bit of you!”
I giggle, which is no stretch, believe me, as drunk as I am. “She’s sweet and quiet and never puts a foot wrong. Never has too much to drink!”
“Aw, I don’t mind that. I like a girl who likes a good time.”
“Oh, Sumner, stop! I’m so awfully tired.”
“How tired?”
“Tired enough to go right to sleep. Do you mind?”
“I sure do. A husband has his needs, you know.”
“So does a wife, but not after a day like today. Now be a good boy and kiss me good night like a gentleman.”
“Good night, darling.” He kisses me, a little noisily, so I almost laugh. I put my arms around his neck and pull him down with me, so the bedsprings squeak.
“Oh, don’t be naughty! I really can’t!” I cry.
His shoulders shake. He rolls me over.
“Darling, please. Rain check?”
“Oh, all right. As long as I can cash it in tomorrow, with interest.” He makes a noise like a dog with a bone. When he looks up, he’s smiling this grateful smile—relieved—a wonderful and unguarded expression that transforms his face, and I realize this is the one part of the operation he hasn’t planned out, or even allowed himself to consider, and I’ve come up trumps, haven’t I? I mean, you couldn’t have finessed that scene any better if you tried.
“You’re the most considerate husband in the world, and I’m so glad I married you.”
Fox winks a pale eye. “Sleep well, buttercup.”
He reaches out to flick off the lamp and rise from the bed. I feel him move about in those un-Foxlike maroon silk pajamas that make me smile, just thinking about them. He gathers a pillow and blanket. As soundless as a cat, he walks back across the rug to the chaise l
ongue next to the wall, where he arranges himself without a single creak.
Iris
August 1948
Dorset, England
Over drinks in the library of Honeysuckle Cottage, Iris worked up the nerve to ask Philip Beauchamp about his children.
“I have three. Two girls, Dorothy and Hannah. A boy, Philip. He’s the youngest. A bit of a surprise. We hadn’t been trying for another. They are magnificent, of course. Above average by every possible measure.”
“Children always are. Do you see them often?”
“Not any longer, I’m afraid. My wife took them to Canada with her. They’re supposed to spend summers with me, but I’m afraid it didn’t work out this year.”
“Why not?”
He swirled the sherry in his glass. “She had some excuse, I forget what. I don’t mean to speak against her. It was a disappointment. I’m taking leave in September. Sail over and see if she’ll let me—if I can visit with them for a bit.”
“It’s outrageous. The government should do something. To keep a father from his children, it’s terrible!”
“The government takes the view that young children are almost always better off with the mother, which I imagine is quite true in most cases.”
“But you’re a wonderful father. I can just tell—the way you play with the boys and with Aunt Vivian’s girls. I think it’s wonderful the way you pay attention to them. God knows they—” Iris bit off the end of the sentence. From the kitchen came the faint, happy noise of the children helping Mrs. Betts with the dinner—certain kids more helpful than others. Aunt Vivian stretched out on the chaise longue, deep in conversation with a neighbor of Philip’s, some army major who saw action in North Africa and the Italian campaign and loved to talk all about it with pretty women. Iris sat with Philip on the sofa next to the bookcases. They were filled with old, musty Victorian novels that Iris read after the children were in bed, and the house was quiet, and there was nothing to do but commiserate with Aunt Vivian and wait for the telephone to ring with some drunken, incoherent confession from Sasha, or else the policeman who’d found him on a London park bench at six in the morning.
“We do write frequently,” said Philip. “She’s been good about that.”
“But naturally she reads your letters first, before handing them over.”
“One must assume so.”
Iris laid her hand on his knee. Philip turned his face away.
“If you’ll excuse me a moment, I think I’ll have a smoke outside before dinner.”
A half hour later, Iris found him beyond the lawn and the shrubbery, all the way near the sea cliffs. He stood with his hands in his pockets and stared over the Channel waters, pink and purple with sunset.
“You almost had me for a moment,” she said, “and then I remembered you don’t smoke.”
“Ah, foiled again.”
“Dinner’s ready, if you’re ready to come in.”
He held out his elbow. “Shall we?”
Iris took his elbow with her hand, but she didn’t turn back to the house. “Philip, I’m so sorry. I wish I could help.”
“Iris—”
“I hope—I’ve been worried—I hope it doesn’t hurt you, seeing all of ours all running about—”
“No! God, no. The opposite. I can’t tell you what it means to me. Your taking me in like this, like a stray uncle.”
She couldn’t help it. She lifted her hand and found his mauled ear, the scars on the side of his face. “Not like an uncle at all,” she said.
The scars were softer than she expected—like touching a palm, lightly calloused. Philip didn’t flinch, even when her finger traced the ridge of mangled cartilage that was once a perfect ear. He lifted his fingers and touched the back of her hand.
“Do you know something, you’re the only woman who actually looks at me. Straight at me, I mean, not sideways.”
“I love to look at you.”
Where did those words come from? Some other Iris must have said them, some Iris she didn’t even know. The real Iris adored her husband, in spite of all his flaws and his anguish; the real Iris never dreamed of looking at another man. The real Iris kept her husband’s secrets. The real Iris was loyal only to Sasha, and the things that Sasha was loyal to; she understood that he did what he did—drank what he drank—because he was torn apart.
But this Iris seemed equally real. This Iris felt as if some wound in her chest was knitting together right now, under the sweetness of sherry on Philip Beauchamp’s breath—like the scent of home, the smell of something that’s loyal to you.
She put her arm around Philip’s neck and rose on her toes. She caught his stutter of hesitation on her lips and kissed it away. From the house and the driveway drifted the sound of voices, but she was too busy kissing Philip Beauchamp’s suddenly fierce mouth to notice or care what the rest of the world was doing right now, the real world she still belonged to.
They returned to the house in the near darkness. Iris was too confused to say anything, to think ahead to what this meant—that she just kissed Philip Beauchamp desperately on a sea cliff and might be in love with him. She was just plucking up the courage to ask him whether this meant anything, would they kiss each other again, when Philip stopped and dropped her hand.
“What is it?” she whispered.
He stared at the driveway, steaked with light from the windows, and the car parked in front of the door, and Iris’s ears finally picked up the pandemonium taking place indoors.
“It looks as if your husband’s come home.”
Aunt Vivian had taken charge. She greeted Iris with a perfectly natural “There you are! Did you find the wine you were looking for?”
To which Iris answered coolly, “I’m afraid we’ve already drunk the last bottle. Philip’s going to run back to Highcliffe to get some more. Aren’t you, Philip?” Then she turned to Sasha, who was wrestling Kip and Jack on the living room floor, while Aunt Vivian’s army major lounged on the sofa and a bloated, dark-haired man poured himself a drink at her liquor cabinet. “What a lovely surprise,” she said.
Sasha looked up between the thrashing limbs. “Hope you don’t mind, darling! I’ve brought a friend down for the weekend. I see Davenport’s made himself at home, in my absence.”
“Charming family you've got,” said Major Davenport.
“You remember Guy, don’t you, Iris?”
“Mr. Burgess. How lovely to see you.”
Guy Burgess turned to face Iris. (Saturnine, she thought.) He grinned and saluted her with his drink. “Sorry to turn up uninvited! I’m afraid your husband jolly well insisted I needed a spot of fresh air to clean me out.”
“He’s very wise that way. But I’m afraid we don’t have any spare bedrooms, now that my aunt and cousins are here.”
“Don’t we? I must have miscounted,” said Sasha. “Hope you don’t mind the library sofa, Burgess.”
“Oh, I can make myself comfortable anywhere, I assure you.” He sniffed the air. “Is that dinner? I’m famished.”
Philip Beauchamp never returned to Honeysuckle Cottage that night with bottles of wine, but only Iris noticed. Everyone else was too busy laughing at Sasha and Guy, who took turns with the jokes and the anecdotes, the impressions of various stuffy politicians and uncouth Americans, until the conversation turned—this was Aunt Vivian’s doing—to Whittaker Chambers.
Guy Burgess turned pale. “He’s a bloody Judas.”
“Don’t you mean liar, Mr. Burgess?” Aunt Vivian said innocently. “I mean, surely it’s not true about this Hiss fellow and all the others.”
“I amend. If it’s true, then he’s a bloody Judas.”
Sasha reached for the wine and refilled his glass. His face turned the familiar raspberry pink of his deepest rage. Iris looked back and forth between the two of them and thought, Of course. Fellow travelers. She tried to remember where Guy Burgess worked—was it the British Foreign Office?—my God.
“Hiss,” said Aunt Vivia
n. “What a name. I mean, it’s too perfect. Snakes, you know.”
Iris looked at the clock and said, “Goodness, it’s far past bedtime. Children, up you go and into your pajamas, chop chop. Brush your teeth. We’ll bathe in the morning.”
They gave up around midnight, Iris and Aunt Vivian, and went to bed while the men continued their drinking and carousing outdoors. Iris stared at the ceiling for an hour or two. Songs and dirty laughter. At last she rolled on her side and fell asleep, only to be woken by Sasha as he climbed clumsily into bed and scooped her into his arms.
“I’m a beast,” he told her.
“I know.”
“I do love you, you know. You and the boys. I’m crazy about you.”
“Funny way of showing it.”
He turned her on her back. He was stark naked, warm and damp-skinned and salty-fresh, like he’d gone swimming in the sea. “I can’t tell you unless I’m drunk. It doesn’t work. I’m only happy when I’m drunk.”
“Were you swimming?”
“Yes. Best way to sober up, a nice cold swim in the sea.”
He kissed her. She stiffened her lips, but he persisted until she yielded. As they kissed, he reached down and pulled her nightdress up and up, until he had to break off the kiss to pass it over her head. Then he moved down to kiss her breasts, and she gave up—stopped fighting this thing, whatever it was, this chemistry still lingering between them, even when she was furious at him. Anyway, he didn’t stink of cigarettes and sin—he was like a sea creature, all washed clean, and she hadn’t slept with him in weeks, and she was hungry for something, for any man at all. His wet hair fell on her skin. They mated like animals, a wrestling match, tangling and rolling and biting. She made him pay for it, by God. In the end, they lay panting, Iris on her stomach and Sasha a dead weight atop her, all four hands gripping the headboard for dear life. Why did they do it like this? Why couldn’t they have tender intercourse anymore, like two human beings who loved each other? He rolled away, and his long limbs caught the moonlight from the window. His nose made a sharp, elegant triangle against the dark wall. For the longest time, until she drifted to sleep, he was her beautiful Sasha again, the father of her children, her warrior, her paladin of peace.
Our Woman in Moscow Page 22
