The Russian Interpreter

by Michael Frayn

  ‘I said,’ she repeated, ‘I’m happy for your happiness.’

  ‘I was just laughing at us.’

  ‘Oh. Is Raya beautiful?’

  Manning considered. Would being beautiful count for or against Raya in Katya’s eyes? He was frightened of her judgement. He could see Raya through Katya’s eyes, and she became insignificant – as insignificant as Katya herself would certainly seem to Raya.

  ‘I think perhaps she is,’ he said cautiously.

  ‘Would I think she was?’

  ‘You might.’

  ‘I wonder.’

  ‘I’m surprised you’re interested.’

  ‘I like to think of a woman being beautiful, since I’m not myself. I like to think that you should find a beautiful woman.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I’m not jealous, Paul. You wouldn’t like me to be, would you? I thought I might feel jealous of Raya when you first began to describe her. Or rather, not of her, but of your feeling for her. It’s easy to be jealous of love, even when it’s experienced by someone with whom one’s not in love oneself. You are a little jealous of my love of God. It makes you wonder whether you have that same capacity yourself. You think you don’t want to love God or be loved by Him, but you cannot help wondering whether you could if you did. Was Sasha jealous?’

  ‘Sasha? How could he be? You don’t think he’s in love with Raya?’

  ‘I meant jealous of her hold on you.’

  ‘You think he’s in love with me?’

  ‘He’s like a conscientious father with a delinquent son. He doesn’t much like you. But he has an obsessiveness about you which might count as a sort of love.’

  ‘Perhaps he was a bit jealous.’

  ‘He became very polite and withdrawn and solicitous?’

  ‘Yes. When he found us by the lake he said they’d been looking for us for over an hour. I hadn’t realized we’d been gone more than ten minutes. He’d wanted to go to the police. I felt like a badly behaved child, as usual.’

  ‘Did Raya?’

  ‘No. She was amused. She started to tease Sasha. When we got on the train to come home, for example she threw the rucksack at the rack so that it just missed and fell back on Sasha’s head. It probably sounds a bit silly. But it was the way she did it…’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And she kept apologizing. “I’m dreadfully sorry,” she said. “I underfulfilled my plan, Alexander Timofeyich”.’

  ‘Timofeyich? Is that really Sasha’s patronymic?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Were you amused?’

  ‘Well, I was. It may not sound very funny as I tell it, but at the time …’

  ‘Yes, I see that. Poor Sasha.’

  ‘Poor Sasha? But I thought you disapproved of him, Katya?’

  ‘Oh, Paul! We always have this conversation; I explain to you every time. Sasha’s good – how could I not approve of him? In fact I admire him. It’s just that I’m opposed to him, because he is on the side of the strong, and I’m on the side of the weak.’

  ‘I know. I know. But you’re able to feel sorry for him?’

  ‘It’s terrible when good people are teased by bad people.’

  Manning danced with a burly man in a shabby blue overcoat, trying to pass to left and to right, then ran to catch up with Katya, who had not stopped or slowed down.

  ‘Raya isn’t bad …’ he began.

  ‘I didn’t mean that,’ she interrupted. ‘At least, I didn’t mean to mean it.’

  ‘You think it.’

  ‘I have no opinion. I have excised my opinion.’

  After a little while she asked:

  ‘Is Raya good, then, Paul?’

  ‘I think so, Katya.’

  ‘When you asked yourself, as you must have done, whether she had attached herself to you for sincere motives or because she was told to, what answer did you find?’

  ‘Well, I’ve no proof either way. How could I have?’

  ‘You’ve no proof about my motives, either. But you’re sure of me.’

  ‘Oh, Katya, with you the question doesn’t arise.’

  ‘But it does with her?’

  ‘I think I’m satisfied.’

  ‘It’s a difference between us.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  Katya was silent.

  ‘Is she perhaps good in the way that Sasha is good?’ she asked finally.

  ‘Katya!’ cried Manning. ‘You’re obsessed with goodness!’

  ‘No, no – I’m obsessed with God, of whom goodness is the physical radiance. When I ask if Raya is good, I mean, is she God-filled, in the way that Sasha is God-filled?’

  ‘Sasha God-filled? How can he be? He’s an atheist.’

  ‘Sasha’s opinions about himself are irrelevant.’

  ‘But, Katya, I don’t understand at all! You think that Sasha is strong. But you also think that God is on the side of the weak!’

  ‘Oh, Paul! God doesn’t take sides! It’s I who take sides.’

  ‘Against Sasha? Against God within him?’

  Katya became very agitated. She began to walk more quickly, so that Manning had difficulty in keeping up. She flushed, and pressed her fingers to her lips. Manning wondered if she was going to cry.

  ‘I don’t know where my thoughts lead,’ she said at last. ‘Must I turn my hand against God? But my hand is God! God against God! What confusion! What problems we’ve been set!’

  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.’

  14

  Manning could not help being pleased that Raya had made such an impression on Proctor-Gould. Proctor-Gould invited them both out to dinner again. Throughout the meal he behaved with a sort of archaic vulgar gallantry. He proposed toasts to Raya’s bright eyes, and to the ladies, God bless them. He asked Manning to ask Raya if there were any more at home like her. He leant forward as he waited for Manning to translate, so that his head got down near the tablecloth, and he had to look up at her with his great brown eyes as if he were an adoring dog looking over the edge of the table. Manning felt that Proctor-Gould’s compliments were indirectly compliments to himself. He translated them fully, wherever possible improving upon them and making them more fantastic in the Russian. Raya watched Proctor-Gould gravely as he spoke, and continued to watch him gravely as Manning translated. Sometimes she would laugh, and Proctor-Gould would at once pull his ear and giggle. He had undoubtedly fallen for her. Manning found it amusing to watch.

  It was while they were waiting, interminably, for the last course to arrive that a note of discord was struck.

  ‘Tell Raya,’ said Proctor-Gould, ‘that she has the most beautiful natural blonde hair I’ve ever seen.’

  Manning told her, raising one eyebrow to show that he appreciated the unconscious irony of the compliment. But Raya replied:

  ‘Tell Gordon I have Finnish blood.’

  ‘What’s this about Finnish blood?’ said Manning. ‘I thought it was bleach?’

  Raya frowned.

  ‘You think my hair’s bleached?’

  ‘That’s what you told me.’

  ‘Look at it with your own eyes! Do you seriously believe that’s not natural blonde hair?’

  ‘What’s the argument,’ demanded Proctor-Gould.

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ said Manning.

  ‘Tell him,’ said Raya.

  ‘She says her hair’s fair because she has Finnish blood. But she told me the other day that it was because she bleached it.’

  ‘Ask Gordon what he thinks,’ insisted Raya. She pulled a handful of hair forward for him to feel. He rubbed it between finger and thumb, smiling foolishly, and touched it against his lips.

  ‘Of course it’s natural,’ he said. ‘It’s the most beautiful honey blonde hair I’ve ever seen. I expect she was teasing you the other day, Paul. She’s a terrible tease, you know.’

  ‘What did he say?’ demanded Raya, when Manning hesitated.

  ‘He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.’

  ‘Translate it, all the same,’ she ordered. He did so.

  ‘Gordon is a good judge of women,’ she said. ‘He knows how to appreciate them, and how to deal with them. Tell him so.’

  ‘She says you know how to suck up to people,’ Manning told Proctor-Gould sourly. He felt irritated at being teased in front of Proctor-Gould. No doubt Raya was intelligent enough to see that Proctor-Gould was one of those men who were attracted to a woman only when she was already attached to someone else. No doubt she was making use of him merely as a fulcrum against which to lever Manning. All the same … All the same, the world no longer seemed quite as simple as it had on that day in the forest, when he had lain beside the lake with Raya in the still sunshine. The thought was a sad one.

/>   ‘Tell Raya,’ said Proctor-Gould, ‘that I should like her to consider coming to England as one of my clients.’

  Manning stared at him.

  ‘This is rather sudden, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Are you sure it’s a serious proposition?’

  Proctor-Gould shook his head reproachfully.

  ‘Paul,’ he said, ‘you’re supposed to interpret what I say, you know, not argue about it.’

  ‘I’m not on duty now, Gordon.’

  ‘I thought you were, Paul.’

  ‘Surely this is a social occasion, not a business one.’

  ‘In my profession all occasions are business ones. In any case, I’m paying you, Paul.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Gordon.’

  ‘I paid you for the evening we went to the opera.’

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

  ‘Anyway, Gordon,’ said Manning, ‘I think you’d have to admit that this case is a little different.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well, frankly, this seems to be more like a personal interest than a professional one.’

  ‘Paul, you don’t own Raya, you know.’

  ‘Translation!’ cried Raya.

  ‘I think,’ said Manning, ‘it’s reasonable for me to ask on her behalf exactly what you have in mind.’

  ‘Anyway, you put it to her.’

  ‘I mean, she’s very different to the other clients you’ve lined up, isn’t she?’

  ‘Translation!’ shouted Raya, banging her hand on the table, so that other people in the restaurant looked round and stared at them.

  ‘They’re all different, Paul.’

  ‘But she’s a young girl.’

  ‘You make it sound as if she were under the age of consent.’

  ‘Well, she’s a personal friend. I’m not sure that I like the idea of her parading herself about in front of the public.’

  ‘Translation!’

  Reluctantly, Manning told her what Proctor-Gould was proposing. She accepted at once with a brief nod – so brief that the other two did not immediately take it in.