Face Me When You Walk Away

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘We’re not virgins any more,’ he said. He sounded proud. ‘Was it good for you?’

  She felt his head move away at the question. He was looking at her in the darkness. Always the need for reassurance, she thought.

  ‘Yes,’ she lied. ‘It was wonderful.’

  He missed the sadness in her voice, leaning over and clicking on the light. She turned her head away from the glare.

  ‘You’re crying,’ he said.

  She didn’t reply.

  ‘Is it happiness? Was it that good for you?’

  She nodded. ‘Of course.’

  When the effects of the wine subsided, she began crying openly, desperately, sobs jerking through her body. Once she turned to Nikolai, reaching out towards him. He was snoring, small, bubbly sounds. He shrugged her hand away.

  4

  Count von Sydon was an undeniably imposing man, thought Josef. He wore his snow-white hair long, almost to his collar, but carefully trimmed. So, too, was the beard, contrasting with the mahogany-brown face. He dressed with matching attention, his suit bordering on the flamboyance befitting a man associated with the arts and sciences, but stopping short of a style that could be criticized or laughed at. Josef sat opposite the Nobel Academician in the discreet chamber off the main dining-room of an hotel in the old part of Stockholm and watched him dab his lips with a white silk handkerchief drawn from his jacket sleeve. Josef wondered from whom he had copied the mannerism. The Count had made himself into a composite picture, decided Josef, a jigsaw of mannerisms and behaviour copied from admired men whom he had encountered in twenty years of life devoted to the Nobel Foundation. Strip them away and there would only be a grey outline left, like a child’s drawing ready for colouring.

  Josef had known everything about the Count, long before they had hesitantly shaken hands fifteen minutes earlier. Successful negotiations depended on complete knowledge, so in advance of any discussion Josef had detailed dossiers prepared by the relevant Russian embassy upon the person with whom he was becoming involved. The Stockholm embassy had done particularly well, he thought, correctly identifying the Count as a poseur who had successfully cloaked his deficiencies to become the embodiment of the Nobel Foundation.

  The Count ordered coffee for himself. Josef chose mineral water.

  ‘It was good of you to come,’ said the Swede. He was ill at ease, seeking safety in cliches, decided Josef.

  The Russian shrugged. ‘It was good of the committee to consider Balshev for the award,’ he said, matching the banality.

  ‘But it must be quite clear,’ stressed the Count, ‘that this is an unofficial meeting.’

  ‘Quite,’ agreed Josef.

  ‘It has no standing whatsoever,’ emphasized the old man.

  It was sad, thought Josef. Aloud, he said, ‘The fact that I, rather than anyone in an official capacity, have come from the Ministry of Culture must indicate our acceptance of that.’

  ‘Good,’ said the Count, smiling. ‘But I feel you will appreciate my concern.’

  ‘Concern?’ asked Josef, innocently.

  Count von Sydon appeared unsure.

  ‘I can talk openly?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Solzhenitsyn was an embarrassment, a great embarrassment. There was criticism … unpleasant comment … when he would not leave Russia for the presentation …’

  ‘It was unfortunate,’ agreed Josef.

  ‘Oh please,’ said the Count, anxiously. ‘Don’t infer annoyance at your country on my part. But it’s important that the Foundation is above politics.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Josef. He wondered if the man had ever expressed an opinion.

  ‘Walk Softly on a Lonely Day is a wonderful book,’ the Count said, abruptly. ‘A work of art.’

  ‘It is,’ agreed Josef.

  ‘I believe the committee think very highly of it.’

  Josef sipped the mineral water, allowing the old man to wade deeper. The silence stretched out.

  ‘… But I … the Foundation … well, it is important that we avoid a repetition … should Balshev be nominated, it’s necessary for us to know that he will accept the award.’

  Although the words were splintered, the Count had spoken rapidly, avoiding the other man’s eyes.

  ‘I can assure you,’ said Josef, formally, ‘that my country regards it as a great honour that one of its writers is being considered for the nomination. If Balshev is chosen, then he will definitely be allowed to travel to Stockholm.’

  Count von Sydon sat back, sighing, the tension leaking from him. Life, he thought, was very pleasant.

  ‘Wonderful,’ he said.

  There seemed nothing else to say.

  ‘It would give me great pleasure … indeed I would be honoured … to offer you lunch,’ said the Swede, after several minutes’ silence. ‘But I’m afraid that might be difficult.’

  Josef looked at him, not helping, his face blank.

  ‘You see,’ continued the other man, the unease returning, ‘I am quite well known in the city …’

  He smiled, shyly. ‘I’ve been connected with the Foundation for a long while. I’ve a certain amount of local notoriety …’

  Josef nodded.

  ‘… And you,’ continued the Count, ‘are even more well known. I do not think there are any good restaurants in this city where we could go together without being recognized …’

  Count von Sydon paused, swallowing. He regretted embarking on the conversation, Josef knew.

  ‘To be seen together, in advance of any announcement by the committee of any award, literary or otherwise, would be very damaging to the Foundation,’ said the old man. ‘The Foundation’s reputation for impartiality could be jeopardized.’

  ‘I understand perfectly,’ said Josef. He inhaled deeply, preparing himself. ‘As I said, my country is deeply honoured at being considered for the award.’

  Count von Sydon frowned at the repetition.

  ‘The Praesidium of the Supreme Soviet itself sent me here to assure you of Balshev’s attendance …’

  ‘But …’

  Curtly, Josef held up his hand. He had to be in command now, for the rest of the meeting.

  ‘I must impress upon you,’ he went on, ‘that having gone to so much trouble, my country would be deeply offended if the award went to another writer.’

  Count von Sydon’s face cleared, then clouded immediately.

  ‘My dear sir, are you trying to tell me …’

  ‘I’m not trying to tell you anything,’ cut off Josef, sharply. ‘We started this meeting on the understanding of honesty. My country wants to do nothing that will embarrass the Foundation … although we realize that any disclosure of this meeting would be embarrassing to both you personally and the organization you have worked with for so long. Especially after the Solzhenitsyn problem. We are completely aware of the difficult questions that would be posed … of explanations that would be demanded … it could do the Foundation irreparable harm …’

  Count von Sydon sat absolutely still, gazing at the Russian.

  ‘But I have no power … no way …’

  ‘That’s not really true, is it? You are a man who has devoted his life selflessly to the Foundation. Your reputation and integrity are immense and your views are respected by the Literary Committee.’

  ‘But you’re asking me …’

  ‘I’m asking you to do nothing. I’m just making the position clear.’

  Count von Sydon straightened in his chair. ‘This is despicable,’ he said.

  Josef humped his shoulders. ‘You sought this meeting. You asked for guarantees. I see nothing despicable in requesting similar assurances.’

  ‘I refuse to do it,’ said the Count, stiffly. ‘You are right. I do have influence. And I shall use it to ensure that someone other than Balshev is nominated.’

  Josef sighed. ‘Count,’ he said, almost gently. ‘The initial conversations you had with our embassy were recorded. So was my telephone call to you
. You have been photographed entering this hotel, today. And your departure will be recorded, too, as mine will. We can prove connivance and produce evidence and pictures of your participation. Neither China nor America would accept the award under those circumstances. We are quite prepared to publish everything and permanently damage the Foundation.’

  ‘The Count stood, scraping the chair backwards, looking down contemptuously at the Russian.

  ‘We look forward to hearing from you,’ concluded Josef.

  Back in the hotel, Josef made telephone reservations for the next part of the journey and considered trying to call Pamela. Telephone connections to the villa from outside the country were bad, he knew. Instead, he wrote her a letter, then ate an early dinner in his room, staring out over the darkened capital. Much later, as he was undressing, he found a scrap of bread from the dinner-tray in his jacket pocket. He frowned. It was only under great stress that he unconsciously reverted to the prison-camp routine, hoarding things, especially food. Medev had been very good at it, frequently stealing food unseen in the camp from the commandant’s kitchen. Always, the Jew had shared it with him. It hadn’t happened for a long time, reflected Josef. Before lapsing into what he regarded as sleep, he ate the bread.

  5

  The choice of Vienna for his meetings with the British and American publishers was Josef’s, decreed by no other consideration than that he liked Austria. The people remembered how to live, he felt. Like a sensible widow who survives happily after the death of her husband, remembering the good times and not distraught by the emptiness of the future, Austria had accepted its time of greatness was over and refused to mourn. He liked a country where women put on their favourite hats and dressed up to take afternoon tea and Sachertorte with other women with whom they had exchanged the same gossip the previous day, wearing the same hats.

  Russia, he thought nostalgically, had forgotten how to wear pretty bonnets.

  He stayed at the Hotel Sacher because it had character like the elderly, behatted ladies in its glass-fronted tea-room adjoining the lobby. There would be, he believed, many similarities between the Vienna of 1915 and St Petersburg or Moscow. Perhaps, Josef conceded, he was enamoured with nostalgia.

  Josef had arranged his meeting with care, allowing almost two days from his arrival in Stockholm before he met the Briton and then another forty-eight hours before his encounter with the American. Negotiating drained Josef Bultova. Even the ridiculously easy two-hour session with Count von Sydon had left him too tightly wound. And now there was more than the usual anxiety. His very involvement with a prospective Nobel prizewinner was wrong, he thought. Perhaps, he mused hopefully, wandering aimlessly through St. Stephen’s Square into the old part of the city, some members of the Praesidium would have the same doubts. He hoped so. It would make any subsequent inquiry easier to attend. He feared there would be such an inquiry. Devgeny didn’t intend allowing this negotiation to end in the success that had marked Josefs other involvements. He paused, leaning over the river wall. He always thought it sad that such a miserable, ditch-like river as the Wien had given a city a name. It was almost like cheating. He shivered, feeling the cold. When the snow melted, the river would have a moment or two of pride.

  It was unfair to leave Pamela like he had, he thought, his mind running on. Long absences in a strange country would be too much of a strain on her. He wondered if the short, irritable disagreements that were breaking out between them stemmed solely from their sexual difficulties or went deeper. Perhaps they should consult a doctor when he got back.

  He looked at his watch. It was identical to that which he had sold, all those years ago, on the rocking, smelling prison train. It had been an obsolete model by the time he was released and so he had had one specially made, actually sketching the design for the watch-maker. Perhaps, he conceded, picking up his thoughts of earlier that day, he was in love with nostalgia.

  Josef got back to the Sacher with thirty minutes in hand, knowing Henry Stanswell would be on time. As with the American, there had already been several letters with the British publisher. Today’s meeting was the culmination of tentative approaches that had spread over several months, beginning with personal approaches to Hattersley and Black in London as Josef returned from the negotiation of a wheat sale to compensate for the disastrous Russian harvest. He wondered what the reaction would be to the news the novel was likely to be the Nobel prizewinner.

  There was, of course, a reason other than his enjoyment of Vienna for Josef insisting the meetings be outside England or America. This was a settlement session and they were coming to him. And so they were giving a little away, even before the talking began. It was important psychology.

  *

  Josefs telephone rang precisely at the prearranged time and the Russian experienced that jump of excitement preceding any bargaining. Afterwards there would be the exhaustion, but before there was always a lurch of anticipation.

  Immediately they met, Josef liked the Englishman. He had a brown gravy voice and a habit of caressing his wide moustaches and would, Josef guessed, have wartime stories of the R.A.F. He was tall and fat from self-indulgence, wearing tweeds that accentuated his size. He was used to overpowering people, Josef guessed. His white hair was long, which gave him a passing resemblance to Count von Sydon, but here the affectation fitted. There was none of the self-awareness that made the Count constantly discomforted.

  Josef had booked dinner at the Frances Karna restaurant, preferring it to the Three Hussars. Throughout the fifteen-minute ride to the restaurant, they circled around the subject of their meeting like prize fighters seeking an opening.

  ‘I trust this meeting means we’ve got the book,’ said Stanswell, finally, after they had ordered. Josef had waited for him to begin the proceedings.

  ‘It depends,’ responded Josef. ‘Our decision to publish in the West is unique. Anyone getting Balshev’s book will have the coup of the year …’

  ‘We’ve already discussed that,’ reminded Stanswell.

  ‘But we haven’t talked specifically about money.’

  Stanswell had to commit himself before he heard the news, so that he would over-compensate in his eagerness to recover.

  ‘We thought of £2,000 advance against royalties, assessed on a scale,’ said the publisher. ‘Ten per cent for the first 8,000, 12½ for the next 5,000 and 15 for any sale after that. We’ll guarantee an initial print of 7,500.’

  Stanswell had stopped eating, reciting the terms from a small notebook fitted inside his wallet. There was no cash in the wallet, Josef noticed, so Stanswell must be wealthy. Only rich people had the confidence to be without money. At no time did Josef carry less than £150 in sterling and dollars in his pocket, with letters of credit and drawing facilities for £5,000. Stanswell smiled, expectantly. He had a gold tooth that glinted when he smiled, like a tiny beacon.

  ‘No,’ said Josef, abruptly.

  He didn’t bother to look up, concentrating upon the final morsel of his venison pâté. Since his imprisonment, Josef never left food.

  The beacon across the table went out.

  ‘But Air Bultova …’

  ‘Please.’ Josef stopped him. He wiped his hands on his napkin. That was good pate, he thought.

  ‘I am offering you the book that is to become this year’s Nobel prizewinner,’ he announced, dramatically.

  Stanswell looked at him in complete astonishment. This was going to be easy, thought Josef, like Stockholm.

  ‘But …’ tried the Briton.

  ‘I know,’ continued Josef, deliberately cutting him off, ‘that your advance exceeds by hundreds of pounds what British publishers usually pay in an advance. I know, too, that the percentages are not over-generous. For a Nobel prize book … one that you could print and have available for the time of the presentation, the whole offer is ludicrous.’

  It was important to maintain Stanswell’s confusion.

  ‘If Balshev is nominated, then he’ll be permitted to go to Sweden to
collect the award,’ continued Josef.

  Stanswell leapt at the uncertainty, as Josef had intended. Now it was time to appear generous.

  ‘You said “if”,’ challenged the publisher.

  ‘I’m not asking you to accept anything before a formal announcement.’

  ‘That’s very fair of you,’ conceded Stanswell.

  A waiter served pheasant.

  ‘Immediately after going to Stockholm,’ continued Josef, enlarging the bait, ‘Balshev will be permitted to promote the book in England.’

  The Russian admired Stanswell’s control. The only indication of his excitement was the complete disregard of the food.

  ‘You’ll appreciate that what I’m telling you is in the strictest confidence,’ warned Josef. ‘For the slightest hint of this to get out would be most embarrassing.’

  Stanswell nodded, half hearing, jabbing at his meal.

  ‘I cannot commit my company to any binding contract merely on your expectation that Balshev will earn the nomination,’ he opened, clumsily.

  He stopped, raising a pudgy hand. Medev had had hands like that, remembered Josef. In the winter they had chapped and bled as they shouldered the trucks up the last incline before the loading bay, and Medev had wept at the pain. Poor Medev.

  ‘I propose we prepare a document binding upon both of us and which I assure you will be honoured by my government,’ said Josef. ‘If Balshev does not get the nomination, then I accept your contract …’

  Stanswell smiled and the tooth flashed a victory. Poor man, thought Josef, he imagines he’s won.

  ‘But I want a second document,’ continued Josef. ‘As legally binding as the first. If Balshev does become the Nobel prizewinner, then I want an advance against sales of twenty-five thousand pounds. That sale is to be restricted solely to Britain, with me retaining the rights of negotiations in Canada. I want twenty per cent on all sales and no division of paperback payment. The full amount reverts to Balshev.’