The Russian Interpreter

‘The woman at the desk wouldn’t let me in, and she wouldn’t tell me whether you were there or not. So I started to cry – you know how I do.’

‘Then Proctor-Gould came along?’

‘Yes. He tried to cheer me up. He spoke a little German – very badly.’

‘What did you think of him, Katya?’

‘I’m not sure. I thought for a start that he was very confident – he put his arm round me as if it was the most natural thing in the world. But then I began to wonder if he wasn’t one of those people who do everything boldly and confidently in order to impress themselves – to convince themselves by external evidence that it must be right. It’s like trying to persuade oneself one’s rich by spending money – a sort of confidence trick upon oneself. One day the bills fall due and one discovers one’s own deceit.’

Manning looked at his watch. They had been walking for over an hour.

‘Shall we find a restaurant and have something to eat?’ he asked.

Katerina shook her head.

‘One can’t talk and eat. Anyway, two people can’t really talk facing each other. It’s much better to talk in the streets, walking side by side.’

‘Do you want to go on walking for a bit, then?’

‘No. There’s nothing more I want to say to you today. Good-bye, Paul.’

For an instant her head turned towards him, her nervous smile flickered in the light from the street-lamps, and her hand rested on his arm. Then she had turned and was disappearing down the steps of a Metro station. Manning gazed after her, disconcerted by her lack of ceremony and shocked by her frankness.

The station was called Komsomolskaya, after the Communist League of Youth. He stared at the word, aimlessly repeating the melodious syllables over to himself. Behind him someone cackled with laugher, and shouted out:

‘You look, and look, and look!’

Manning swung round. For a moment he could see no one. Then there was another burst of laughter from somewhere down near pavement level, and Manning saw an old man with snow-white hair, sitting propped up in a little wooden trolley, like a Guy Fawkes in a go-cart, with leather pads on his knuckles to push himself along. Both legs were amputated just below the groin.

‘You stare, and stare, and still you stare!’ cried the old man, leaning on his padded knuckles and shaking all over with violent laughter.

6

In the end Manning met Proctor-Gould by chance. He was walking past the Hotel National after lunch one day when a man with a large, lugubrious face came slowly out, gazing absently at the street with eyes as soft as a spaniel’s and pulling at his right ear. He was wearing a double-breasted blue blazer with brass buttons, some sort of institutional tie, and dark grey flannel trousers. His breast pocket was full of pens. His suède shoes were going shiny over the bulges made by the little toes, and there were odd threads of cotton adhering to the nap of the blazer. Manning was astonished. Why had no one mentioned that he was moonfaced? Or that one’s overall impression of him was one of seediness? But he did not doubt for a moment that it was Proctor-Gould.

As he drew level the sad brown eyes focused on him.

‘Paul Manning,’ said Proctor-Gould conversationally.

‘Gordon Proctor-Gould,’ said Manning.

They shook hands, as if they really were old friends, and had not seen one another for a month or two.

‘I’ve been trying to contact you,’ said Proctor-Gould. But you seem to be rather an elusive customer.’

‘Why didn’t you leave a note for me and tell me where you were staying?’

Proctor-Gould gave a wry chuckle.

‘I did think of it,’ he said. ‘The old brain will just about run that far. But let me confess, I thought I’d take the opportunity to meet some of your friends and find out a little about you.’

He looked at Manning, his eyes open humorously wide, inviting Manning to register some sort of humorous indignation in return. Manning felt that he would have been most at home in one of those conversations which consist in the leisurely exchange of heavy banter, like the desultory dialogue of long-range artillery. There was some sort of ponderous charm about him. Manning saw why people smiled when they thought of him.

‘Naughty of me, I know, Paul,’ went on Proctor-Gould, pulling at his ear again. ‘But one learns to make a few discreet inquiries about one’s potential business associates.’

‘I’m a potential business associate?’

‘I have a little proposition to put to you. Can you spare ten minutes now? We could talk about it over a cup of coffee.’

Manning nodded, and Proctor-Gould ushered him into the gloomy lobby of the hotel, where only the polished brass fitments and the pale suits of American tourists gleamed among the sombre pre-Revolutionary furnishings.

‘It makes a change to be dossing down in this place,’ said Proctor-Gould. ‘They usually put me in the Hotel Ukraine, miles from anywhere. I seem to be persona fairly grata with the authorities at the moment.’