‘Because …’ Pamela paused, confused. His sudden change of attitude bewildered her.
‘Because you didn’t want me to go,’ completed Nikolai, positively.
‘You’re playing with me.’
‘What?’
‘You’re acting out some part,’ she accused. ‘Like an experiment.’
He smiled. ‘Perhaps you’re right.’
‘Then I find it offensive. And I think you should go.’
‘All right,’ he said. He gulped his wine, spilling a little, then stood up.
‘I didn’t mean now,’ she protested, lamely. She looked at her watch. It was after eleven. ‘There’s no way you can get back to Moscow tonight.’
‘You could drive me.’
‘I don’t choose to become a chauffeuse at half-past eleven at night after drinking nearly a bottle of wine.’
He sat down and emptied the second bottle of imported Volnay into her glass.
‘Please stop it,’ she pleaded.
‘Stop what?’
‘Oh don’t. You know what I mean.’
She swallowed, trying to conceal the nervousness from Nikolai by dabbing her lips with her napkin.
‘I didn’t mean to upset you,’ he said, appearing contrite. ‘I was rude. Please forgive me.’
He smiled openly and again he was the guileless, shy young man she had met two weeks before.
‘I’m so unsure of myself,’ he blurted, suddenly.
She waited, her bewilderment growing. Was he a lonely, scared man, seeking friendship? Or was it part of the game she had earlier accused him of playing?
‘Sometimes,’ he went on, ‘I almost wish it hadn’t happened to me.’
He was stirring his wine with his finger. She’d seen someone do that in a film, years ago. She tried recalling the title and failed. It had been a bad film, she remembered, full of phoney mannerisms.
‘Why?’ she asked.
He smiled at her. ‘Because I don’t know if I can do it …’
He halted, ashamed that he was badly expressing himself. It seemed difficult for him to continue. ‘People expect so much of me. And I know it’s it’s going to get I want the prize, God how I want it. But I’m terrified. Anyone who wins the Nobel prize must be a special person. I don’t feel special. Just frightened.’
‘Josef can help you.’
‘He can tell me what knife to use and what wine glass to pick up and how to address important people,’ agreed the writer. ‘But that’s like putting on a cloak to hide a hole in your trousers.’
He sipped his drink.
‘Do you know?’ resumed Nikolai. ‘At home they thought I was the village idiot.’
Pamela laughed, knowing he meant her to. It wasn’t an act, she concluded. He did need a friend.
‘Why?’
‘Because I scribbled in books,’ he said. ‘The local party secretary, a man called Georgi Polenov, actually came to the house to complain. He said I was setting a bad example, refusing to work. If I were excluded from the co-operative, then others would want the same privileges.’
Nikolai stopped, staring at her. ‘They wanted me to work in the fields,’ he remembered, disbelievingly. ‘I was supposed to drive a machine that packed wheat during the harvest. Every time I tried, I broke it.’
It was difficult not to laugh again. Thank God, thought Pamela, for the napkin.
‘I was lucky, meeting Polenov,’ said Nikolai. ‘He was a refined man, mourning the old era.’
He poured brandy into her glass. It seemed pointless to object.
‘The only way he could do it was through his pretension to literature,’ said Nikolai. ‘He would even, at times, refer to Dickens and Shakespeare as if he had read them, which I’m sure he hadn’t. But he had read Amalrik and Solzhenitsyn in samizdat …’
He stopped, like someone helping another across stepping-stones in an eager river.
‘Do you know of samizdat, the underground method of printing and circulating prohibited material?’ he asked.
Again Pamela stifled a laugh. For the first time in his life, she thought, he was talking confidently to someone.
‘I had heard of it,’ she said. Then, allowing him the indulgence, she added, ‘But I was never quite sure what it meant.’
He smiled, enjoying the role, like a child with the monologue in the school play.
‘He sent my stuff to some friends he had cultivated among the Writers’ Union in Kiev. They were impressed and sent it here, to Moscow. Luckily for me, Comrade Ballenin read it.’
Nikolai added more brandy to her glass, then to his.
‘Oh God, how Kiev frightened me,’ he reflected. He looked directly at her. ‘Would you believe,’ he said, ‘my father had never been there. Never once in his whole life. It was like hell, something mothers frightened their children with. “If you are naughty, I’ll send you to Kiev.” We didn’t call it by its real name. It was always the “big place”, as if to mention its correct name would call down a curse.’
Nikolai was talking hurriedly, spurred by memories. Sometimes Pamela, whose Russian was still imperfect, had difficulty in immediately understanding him. Alcohol was blurring some of the words. Did peasants really feel that about Kiev or Moscow, she wondered? Or was he romanticizing the whole thing? He began to laugh and she thought he was lapsing into complete drunkenness.
‘I was absolutely terrified the first time I went there,’ he started again. ‘I had the address of Polcnov’s friend in the Writers’ Circle, but everything was so big and I couldn’t find it. I went around and around all those concrete buildings. Everyone was far too busy to help me. And then I wanted a toilet. I didn’t know how to find one. I was walking around, pigeon kneed. And finally I found a park; I was quite sure I would get arrested, but I couldn’t wait any longer. So I peed against a tree.’
Pamela sniggered.
‘It wasn’t funny,’ protested Nikolai. ‘I was so frightened of park-keepers or police that I still wet my trousers. I walked around for an hour until it dried. I chafed my legs red raw.’
Remembering a nephew to whom it had happened in London, Pamela said, ‘Yes, it does.’
The child had been six years old, Pamela recalled.
‘I tried a trolley bus,’ went on Nikolai. ‘And it went five kilometres the wrong way before I realized it. So from then on I walked everywhere. I got very tired. I nearly always got lost, so I would begin journeys hours before any appointment.’
Pamela felt a great sadness for the man. How could anyone so naive create such beauty with words, she wondered.
‘It was marvellous when I got back home, though,’ he reminisced. ‘I wasn’t the village idiot any more. I was important now. People who a year before would have slammed the door in my face welcomed me for some vodka or to share their borsch.’
He stopped again. His finger was in his glass, stirring. He looked up, suddenly, staring directly into her eyes.
‘I liked it,’ he admitted. ‘It will be the fame that I’ll enjoy. I could manage it. It was enough, really. I’d been to the big place. They were not quite sure what I had done, but they knew it was something special. The fame wasn’t mine, really. It was theirs.’
Pamela pretended the cheese she had been nibbling had caught in her throat and coughed, so that she was able to bring the napkin to her eyes. He stretched over the table, taking her hands.
‘I am a selfish person,’ he confessed. ‘I don’t mean to be. But I haven’t the experience to behave otherwise. I know I’ve intruded upon you and Josef … I’ve cluttered your honeymoon even …’
‘No, please …’ protested Pamela, automatically.
‘I have,’ he said, ignoring her protest. ‘And I know there are other things that must offend you …’
He motioned with his hands, helplessly.
‘Stop,’ demanded Pamela. She felt numbed. It was like watching somebody inject themselves with a local anaesthetic and then perform their own autopsy.
Nikolai sa
t waiting. He looked very small, she thought, just like the nephew who’d wet his pants. The child had done it to draw attention to himself, she remembered, because his sister had a new dress and was earning all the praise. In England, she recalled, there had been a quiz programme where contestants had to rearrange words on magnified boards. She had never been able to understand their difficulty as they scrambled around, aware of the enormous clock which timed their progress. She was like one of the contestants, she thought. She knew the words, could see the sentences even, but she couldn’t put them into the right order.
‘I’m sorry …’ she started. Why did every sentence begin with an apology?
‘… if I’ve hurt you,’ she started again. Then I’m sorry. I didn’t understand … strangely, it seems we’re very much alike – two very frightened people …’
The silence grew brittle between them. There was no clock. No fawning compère with lacquered hair and plastic teeth was going to suddenly appear and apologize because she had run over time. Why couldn’t she arrange the words in their proper order?
‘Perhaps we could help one another,’ she said. That uncertain feeling bubbled at his look.
‘I just want to know everything,’ he stated. He was looking away from her, tracing imagined patterns on the table.
‘Everyone says I can write. They use stupid words, like brilliant and genius, which have no value. How can I write about things when I don’t know about them?’
He looked at her pleadingly.
‘But Walk Softly on a Lonely Day is a wonderful book,’ she said.
For once the accustomed flattery didn’t work. ‘How can you write about love without knowing what it is?’
‘But …?’
‘I am a virgin,’ he announced, flatly. He drank again, avoiding her eyes, ashamed by the admission.
Pamela strained for something to say.
‘I tried once,’ he wandered on. ‘I really did.’
He was defensive, as if she would doubt him. ‘It was in Kiev, the third time. I paid a woman, a prostitute …’
He looked at her. ‘It was thirty roubles. I wanted the best. I saved for nearly three months.’
To have laughed would have bruised him, she thought. Again she covered herself with a napkin.
‘Do you know, they ask you for the money first?’ he said, conversationally.
‘No, I didn’t,’ said Pamela. ‘But I suppose it’s sensible.’
She began experiencing a feeling of unreality.
‘Why?’ he asked.
‘Well, you could always leave afterwards, without paying … once you’d … once you’d done it…’
They were like strangers in a foreign country, trying to follow an inadequate map.
‘Yes, I suppose you could,’ he said. ‘That never occurred to me.’
He relapsed into silence. Pamela sat watching.
‘It wasn’t any good,’ he said, breaking the pause. ‘It wasn’t her fault,’ he added quickly, as if the reputation of an unknown whore needed protection. ‘She was very good. At least, I suppose she was. She did everything she could to help me. She was kind, too. I cried. But she didn’t laugh. She said it often happened to men the first time. Especially on their wedding night. …’
He looked directly at her. That’s why I asked about you and Josef.’
‘Oh,’ she said. The stupid response annoyed her, but there seemed little other contribution she could make. She felt her antipathy towards the man evaporating into pity. His increasing confidence towards her was a compliment, she thought, an indication that he felt at ease in her company. She felt guilty.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, the familiar response.
‘What for?’
She shrugged. ‘Just sorry.’
Because of the cold evenings, she had asked for a fire to be lit in the massive hearth of the dining-room. Now it was dying. The last log cracked and collapsed upon the white ashes in a tiny explosion of sparks. She shivered.
‘It isn’t Josef’s fault,’ she confessed. Having held back for so long, her offer was over-generous. ‘It’s me.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I wish I did.’
‘Frightened?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘There’s an excuse for you,’ he said. ‘It’s supposed to hurt, the first time. But what can I hide behind? It doesn’t hurt a man …’
He hesitated, arrested by a doubt. ‘Does it?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. She shivered again.
‘Let’s go by the fire.’
He stood up, carrying her glass over to one of the cavernous chairs that bordered the hearth. She hesitated, then followed. He had remained standing and when she reached him he pushed her gently into the chair, lowering himself on to one of the bear rugs that the archduke had once shot. The skin had been badly treated and the bullet hole was still visible, high, behind the animal’s ear.
‘Poor bear,’ said Nikolai, pushing his finger into the wound. ‘What a stupid thing to do, kill an animal just to cover the floor with the skin. And it wasn’t even looking.’
He kissed her knee. She didn’t realize it immediately and then she felt his lips on the soft part of her leg, on the inside of the knee.
‘Don’t.’ She shifted.
‘Why not?’
‘Because I say not.’
‘Offended?’
‘No. I just don’t like it.’
His arm was propped against the seat, supporting him, so that his hand was against her thigh. She could feel the pressure. He smiled at her. She smiled back.
‘Why don’t you like me?’ he asked.
‘I do … don’t be silly.’
‘You’ve not been the same, without Josef.’
‘Of course not.’
‘Towards me, I mean. You’ve built a wall.’
‘I haven’t,’ she said, feeling the emptiness of the denial.
‘It’s made me sad,’ he went on, dismissing what she had said. He looked up at her from the floor. He seemed so small and vulnerable. ‘Because I wanted us to be friends. I thought I could relax with you. But I offend you.’
He looked away. She stretched out, putting her hand on his arm.
‘Oh don’t, Nikolai. I’m sorry if I’ve been withdrawn. I didn’t mean to reject you.’
He kissed her hand, snailing his tongue between her fingers. She tried to withdraw it, but he held it there with the hand with which he was supporting himself. For a long time they sat there, her hand in his. The fire went lower, spluttering to stay alive. She felt the wetness of his mouth on her leg again, but didn’t bother to protest. She felt heavy with wine and tiredness. At last he shifted, rising to his knees and crouching before her. She knew what he was going to do, long before he moved, and could have avoided it by rising from the chair, because at the last moment he hesitated. Instead she sat there unmoving, like an animal hypnotized by the glare of a poacher’s torch. It was a clumsy kiss, lips dry. Then his tongue edged between her lips, against her teeth, which first clamped shut and then parted and he moved on to the chair, his body partially covering hers. He kept one hand against her leg, the other caressing her face. Her hands were on his shoulders, supporting him.
‘My leg’s gone to sleep,’ he gasped. ‘Kneeling like this, half on, half off the chair. It’s gone to sleep.’
She sniggered.
He smiled, standing before her and putting his weight on his left leg to restore the circulation. Unspeaking he held out both hands to help her from the chair.
‘No.’
‘Yes.’
‘Please, no.’
He stayed, hands reaching out.
‘I’m frightened,’ she said.
‘So am I.’
He leaned, grasped her hand and gently pulled. She stood before him, their bodies touching. They came together naturally this time, without awkwardness, mouths searching. Not speaking now, he turned, arm around her, guiding her fr
om the room. She moved with him, without protest. Near the room she and Josef occupied she stiffened, but he led her past, to his own bedroom further along the corridor. Again he was clumsy, fumbling with the zip at the back of her evening skirt, then the buttons of her blouse.
‘You’ll have to help me.’
She undressed, then hesitantly edged into the bed. The sheets were cold and her teeth began to vibrate. She felt him get in alongside. For a long time they lay without touching. Then his fingers covered hers. And then he moved, his mouth fluttering over her body, his tongue hard and probing. She stayed stiff and unyielding, legs together. She excited him. He brushed against her hand, kneeling over her. Then he took her hand and placed it on him and she felt him grow. There was wetness on her stomach and she touched it with her other hand and realized he was crying. A great gush of pity engulfed her. With Nikolai she did not feel the desperation she knew with Josef, the anxiety to appear sophisticated. Nikolai was as innocent as she was, so he wouldn’t recognize the mistakes and be offended or amused by them. She felt her legs parted, easily, and realized the tension had gone from her. Nikolai nuzzled below her, then moved over. She still held him, tightly, the last tiny attempt to prevent it happening. He was suspended over her, supported on his arms, waiting.
‘Please,’ he said. The cold wetness of his tears dropped against her chest. Gently, frightened for both of them, she guided him into her.
‘It’s too big.’
‘No.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It’ll hurt.’
‘No it won’t. I promise.’
She had kept her hand between them. He moved it away. He stayed just inside her, moving very gently. She was hardly aware of the increased pressure.
‘Does it hurt?’
‘Not really.’
‘Is it good?’
‘I don’t know.’
She supposed she should match the rhythm, but she couldn’t quite adjust to his movement. She began to feel sore. He quickened, suddenly, and she gasped, disappointed, aware it was going to end before she felt anything.
‘No. Wait.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Please.’
‘I can’t.’
He erupted inside her, shuddering movements shaking his body. Then he fell over her, head into her neck, panting. She stared upwards into the darkness, eyes opened wide. It had to be better than that. It hadn’t been anything. She felt very wet. She shifted slightly and he moved off her, head still by her shoulder.
Face Me When You Walk Away Page 3
