‘Nothing much,’ he said. ‘Just sitting, thinking.’
‘Oh.’
‘Sorry I phoned you?’
Ann saw the chance. It had happened because they’d allowed things to drift and things that were allowed to drift ended up on the rocks. This was the moment to talk about it – why not, it had happened and they were adults, not children – and label it for what it was and try, as best they could, to forget it ever occurred. She said, ‘No, I’m not sorry you phoned.’
‘Have you eaten?’
‘I’m not hungry,’ she said. What a hell of a resistance, she thought.
‘If this were Cambridge we could go out for a drink’, he said. ‘Remember the wine bar opposite Kings?’
‘Very much,’ said Ann. A million years and a million happenings ago.
‘I got a new shipment of books today,’ he said. ‘There’s an Anthony Burgess and a couple I haven’t read by Paul Scott. And Updike’s latest.’
‘Maybe I could borrow something, when you’ve finished?’
‘I can’t read them all at once.’
Were they adults? This was kids’ stuff, first-kiss-and-fumble behaviour, she thought. ‘Why not come over?’ she said.
‘You sure?’
No, she thought. She wasn’t sure about anything except perhaps that she was out of her mind. ‘Why not?’ she said.
She realised he must have been waiting for the invitation because he arrived within fifteen minutes, with no indication of any hurried preparation. He’d made an effort at the pretence, bringing a book. Updike, she saw. She would have preferred Burgess. ‘Thanks,’ she said.
‘That’s all right.’
They stood facing each other in the short corridor leading into the living area. He went to kiss her but abruptly she turned, presenting only her cheek. He hesitated and then finished, his lips briefly touching her. She backed away and turned into the room. ‘I started without you,’ she said, indicating the glass. It was vodka and already her glass was half empty in her sudden need for courage.
‘The same,’ he accepted.
He sat on the couch – a couch much like the one in his apartment where it had begun – and Ann began going positively towards a bordering chair and decided that was ridiculous and so she sat beside him.
‘What were the thoughts?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘When I telephoned you said you’d been sitting, thinking.’
‘And you agreed it was a stupid question.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Of course I’m sorry! Aren’t you!’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘You haven’t got so much to be sorry about.’
‘I don’t think I would be, even if I had.’
‘That’s stupid, too,’ she said. ‘It’s also the most appalling syntax I’ve ever heard.’
He put his arm along the back of the couch, like he had before, but this time he didn’t let it stay there but played his finger through a coil of her hair.
‘Don’t,’ she said. She only pulled away fractionally. Determinedly she said, ‘It was a mistake.’
‘Was it?’
‘Of course it was,’ she said. ‘Please don’t be so difficult.’
‘I’m not trying to be difficult.’
‘Well you are! It was a mistake and I think we should regard it as such.’
‘OK,’ he said.
‘Just that? OK?’
‘What else do you expect me to say?’
‘That you’re sorry.’
‘I said I didn’t think I was. Maybe it was my bad syntax.’
‘It’s not a joke!’
‘I wasn’t joking.’
‘Do you realise what we’ve done!’
‘Is it a capital offence?’
‘Yes,’ she came back at once. ‘In some countries it is.’
‘Only if you get caught. And this is Russia, not the Middle East.’
‘We should recognise it as the mistake it was.’ Ann set out again, positively. ‘Recognise it and then try to forget about it.’
‘Now you’re being stupid.’
‘Why!’
‘We’re not going to be able to forget about it, are we?’
‘We’re going to have to,’ she insisted.
‘Put our heads in the sand and wait until it goes away!’
‘Stop treating it as if it weren’t important!
He teased her hair again and this time she didn’t pull away. ‘Jokes are forgotten,’ he said. ‘You’re the one making it important.’
‘Wasn’t it, to you?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
It was like wandering in the desert, thought Ann, desperately; they’d lost direction and were coming back upon themselves. ‘What are we going to do?’ she said, pleadingly.
Instead of replying Brinkman put his hand further around her head and drew her to him. There wasn’t the fumbling of the first time. They kissed, a lot, and then Brinkman stood, pulling her up, not wanting the clumsiness of the couch. The thought of making love to somebody else in her own bed halted her momentarily, at the point of entering the bedroom, and then she continued on, recognising the hesitation as hypocrisy. If she was going to do it, did it matter where? The betrayal was just as great. The lovemaking was better than before, because they were more used to each other and Brinkman didn’t feel as inadequate as he had then. Brinkman went on longer than he ever had before and when he finally had to stop, exhausted, he said, ‘You’re the most incredible woman I’ve ever known.’
‘Don’t you think I’m a whore?’
‘What!’
‘A whore.’
‘Of course I don’t think you’re a whore.’
‘What then?’
Brinkman thought a long time before replying, wanting to get it right. ‘I think you’re very lonely. I think you’re very unhappy. I think you’re looking for something you haven’t got: maybe can’t have. I think you are very beautiful. And I think you are a fantastic lover.’
The remark about wanting something she couldn’t have didn’t refer to a baby, thought Ann: there was no way he could have known. Unless Eddie had told him and she didn’t think that was likely. ‘What about you?’ she said.
‘I think we should stop trying to follow the principles of Freud and analysing everything,’ he said.
‘So it’s a casual fuck?’
‘No,’ said Brinkman. ‘It isn’t a casual fuck. And it isn’t Romeo and Juliet, either. What’s wrong with you?’
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘For being honest, at least.’
‘Wasn’t that what you were insisting upon?’
‘Oh Christ!’ she said hopelessly. ‘I don’t know what I want!’
The telephone sounded from the other room, startling them both. Ann hesitated and then got up, walking naked from the room, conscious of his watching her. She had to raise her voice and so Brinkman knew who it was and because he could hear her side of the conversation he knew, too, what it was about before she came back into the bedroom.
‘It was Eddie,’ she said unnecessarily. ‘He’s coming home.’ Whore, she thought; whore and slut.
The feeling of relief that Orlov had expected finally came, when he initiated the divorce. From the curt, almost dismissive attitude of officials it was obvious that it was not going to be difficult and there was the impression, too, of at last doing something positive, of making the moves he’d come back to Moscow to make. Now the divorce was underway – promised quickly – there were other moves to make. His newly-established status, with so many people in constant attendance, was going to make that more difficult than he’d anticipated. He’d need an embassy reception as a cover for the approach: so maybe the status had a balancing advantage. When, he wondered, was the next function at the American embassy? And how easy would it be for him to attend? It didn’t matter. Whatever the difficulties, he’d overcome them. He wished he were able to let Harriet know.
Sokol wondered if there
would be any personal summons from Panov but none came and the deputy guessed that the sick old man had decided to suffer his miscalculation without a meeting between them. Sokol didn’t relax. He maintained a constant monitor upon all the arrival shipments and the rail transportation throughout the country to the stricken areas, actually installing his own officers in some cases to ensure there was no interruption. He’d survived, Sokol decided. And impressed those who mattered. What he needed now was that damned coup.
Chapter Twenty-One
At the end Blair was reluctant to leave Washington. He thought he’d allowed himself sufficient time and decided he hadn’t and the day before his departure, after he’d confirmed his reservation back to Moscow, he fleetingly considered asking Hubble for a further extension. But only fleetingly. He’d got his concessions and he intended to invoke them – every one of them – if and when it pleased him. And there wasn’t anything left undone; it was just that he enjoyed Washington.
The after-court sessions with the counsellors took all day, because he couldn’t be conveniently reached on the end of a telephone like the others so they had to get everything right first time. They arranged hurried interviews for him at the rehabilitation centre and he went there with Paul and studied the schedule and Blair was impressed. Still with the counsellors Blair saw the school principal, to satisfy himself there was no need for the boy’s school grades to suffer and left convinced they wouldn’t. There wasn’t sufficient time for him to go into what social work the boy would be required to do, because that had to be coordinated into the drugs programme and the school curriculum but Blair had enough confidence in both Erickson and Kemp – and in their knowing how he felt – to leave that to them. He was confident – no, hopeful – too that by the time Paul got finished with school and finished with the drug programme and finished with whatever social requirements were imposed, the kid would be so bushed he wouldn’t be able to get into trouble if he wanted to.
He involved himself with the family to the exclusion of everything else – not that there was anything else – taking in an Orioles game and boating on the Potomac and getting to movies and eating at McDonalds and setting himself up in competition the following night, grilling the hamburgers over their own barbecue and being declared the winner. Ruth passed on the Orioles game but did everything else with them.
He kept the last night to themselves but the night before that he met Charlie Rogers. He thought Ruth might want him to and there was no reason why he shouldn’t after all. Rogers worked in the control tower at National. Blair guessed Rogers was about five years younger than he was, maybe even younger, an open-faced, easily smiling man. Blair liked him. There was the understandable uncertainty at first, which Blair worked hard to get out of the way, the smiles and the laughs just a little too anxious. Rogers served in Vietnam although later than Blair, which gave them something in common. Rogers talked about the airport but didn’t ask what Blair did in Moscow, so Blair guessed Ruth had told him. So what the hell? To parade the usual explanation – ‘working for the government’ – was so well understood in Washington that it was like wearing in the middle of your forehead a sign like the one along the Parkway. It was as difficult for the boys to relax as it was for Rogers, but Blair insisted they eat with them – cooking out again because it was less formal – feeling it important that Paul and John saw there was no atmosphere. After the kids went to bed and Ruth was still with them Rogers said he hoped Blair didn’t consider he was presumptuous but with Blair away he was willing to do anything and everything he could to help Paul. Blair said he didn’t consider it presumptuous but that he very much appreciated the offer. He thought he’d seen everyone and done everything but if something came up he’d remember the offer and certainly take advantage of it.
When Rogers left Blair remained discreetly in the main room, letting Ruth see the man off and when she came back he said he thought Charlie was a terrific guy and Ruth said she thought so too.
They all came with him out to Dulles, which seemed a good idea at the house but about which Blair was less certain when they got to the airport. He bought them coke in the cocktail bar from which they could see a lot of aircraft and consciously forced the conversation. He told Paul to keep out of trouble now, you hear, and Paul said he would. He told them as soon as he got back he’d establish his schedule and liaise with the school principal and the counsellors and the drug programme organisers about a Moscow trip and when they went down the concourse to look at some of the shops Blair made Ruth promise, needlessly, that she’d get in touch with him the moment she didn’t think things were going right.
At the actual moment of departure, when the final calls were being made for the flight, Blair decided he’d swept away any barriers between them by the way Paul and John clung to him, as if they were physically trying to hold him back, John’s tears wet against his cheek and Paul trying hard not to break up too. He kissed Ruth, as well, and she held him tighter than Blair expected, saying, ‘Thanks again’ and seeming to have the same difficulty as Paul.
After he’d got his drink and refused the earphones for the in-flight movie, Blair put his seat back and considered the visit. Good, he decided. Better, upon analysis, than he could have expected. He’d done everything he could and the court had done everything it could and he was sure the counsellors and everyone else were going to do everything they could. And most important of all – no, not most important; equally important – he’d got to know the kids again. A lot achieved, but still not all. Getting Ann together with the kids wouldn’t be a problem: she’d always been eager, actually criticising him for not doing more before this had blown up. It could only be difficult if the kids made it so. And he thought he’d crossed sufficient bridges on this trip to make that unlikely. Getting Ann to understand the extension in Moscow might be more awkward. He’d have to explain it properly, setting out all the advantages. And when they called them in, he decided he’d take a Washington posting. Ann would still have a say, like he’d decided already, but he’d make it clear what he wanted, to guide her.
Blair slept better on the return trip, less preoccupied with uncertainties than on the outward journey. They staged again at Amsterdam and remembering the omission of his departing flight Blair bought Ann perfume and a diminutive cross and chain with a written guarantee of 14-carat gold in the duty free shop. Still with time to spare before the Moscow connection he bought her a watch, too, inexpensive but quite stylish, which she could interchange with the one she already had and throw away without any qualms when it went wrong.
It was late afternoon before Blair got into Sheremetyevo, still feeling tired despite the earlier sleep. His usual dislike of flying, he decided. He called Ann from the airport and frowned at her obvious quietness, guessing the reason and apologising for being away for so long. She said it was all right and she was looking forward to his getting home.
Blair thought she looked beautiful when he entered the apartment. She kissed him anxiously and held him tightly and Blair thought maybe he’d misconstrued the telephone conversation. She’d gone to the trouble of welcome-home champagne and after they opened it he made a performance of giving her the gifts. He expected her to show more enthusiasm than she did but recognised he was apprehensive of making the announcement, now that the moment had come, and decided against reading too much into small things; it could be him, not her.
Ann had wondered what her feelings would be, at the actual moment of confrontation and realised it was embarrassment. Deep, numbing embarrassment. Did whores feel embarrassed? Or was it something they got used to, with practice? The embarrassment made it difficult to respond properly to the gifts – which actually increased the feeling – but she tried, dabbing on the perfume and twisting to let him put the necklace on her and replacing her existing watch with the new one and assuring him it was lovely.
She was naturally – and sincerely – interested so she asked him about Paul but there was a personal reason, too, because she wanted him to ta
lk rather than respond to a lot of questions about what she had been doing. It took a long time and she was grateful. Blair went into every detail and with the newly-decided honesty confessed the awareness of his own failings and how he believed those failings had contributed to what happened. When he set out the promises and the resolutions, to stay closer to the boys and have them here in Moscow she felt out for his hand – the reluctance until now her own embarrassment, not any hesitation at physical contact – and said she’d do everything she could to make it work, like he’d always known she would.
‘I went to Langley a couple of times,’ he said finally.
‘I thought you would.’
‘Talked about a lot of things.’
‘Like what?’ she said, suddenly attentive.
‘They’ve asked me to stay on.’
‘They’ve what?’ The question was asked quietly, the voice neutral, someone who thought they’d misheard.
‘Stay on, after the normal three years,’ said Blair. He knew he hadn’t done it right and so he hurriedly continued, trying to improve, enumerating all the concessions and the promises, wanting her to see how much to their advantage it would be.
‘You mean you’ve already agreed!’ The outrage was there now, the anger rising.
‘They wanted a decision on the spot.’
‘Without discussing it with me! Asking me how I felt!’
‘That wasn’t possible. You know that.’
‘And you know how I feel about this fucking place! How I hate and loathe it.’
‘Because you haven’t given it a chance.’
‘I’ve given it two years!’ she shouted. ‘Two years that have been like a fucking prison sentence.’
‘What’s the matter with you?’ Blair hadn’t expected her to welcome the decision but he hadn’t anticipated this sort of tirade, either.
It was a valid question, Ann accepted. She was angry – furious – but mixed up in the emotion was her own guilt and embarrassment and feeling of being a whore: being able to shout at him as if everything were his fault slightly lessened it all. Only very slightly. ‘What sort of question is that?’ she said, in controlled rage. ‘You know damned well how I hate it here. How I’ve always hated it. How I’ve been counting off the days and the weeks and the months – like a prison sentence – and hardly been able to wait until the time was up and we could be released …’ She laughed, a jeering sound. ‘That was actually the first word that came into my head, believe me,’ she said. ‘Released.’
Lost American Page 17
