The Russian Interpreter

But it had. Even as he opened the door of Proctor-Gould’s room he noticed the smell was different. It no longer smelt of loneliness and soiled white shirts – a smell which Manning had always found bleak but curiously English. Instead there was a mixture of warm, cheerful smells – Russian cigarettes, scent, hot cloth. And the appearance of the room had changed. There was a vase of tulips on the chest of drawers, a bowl of birch twigs on the escritoire. The stacks of books had been arranged neatly on shelves, and several large pictures had been pinned to the wall. They were of doll-like figures with red cheeks holding single flowers in their hands, childishly painted in bright poster colours on sheets of dark art paper. The piles of dirty linen and the open suitcases had gone. So had the washing with which the room had on previous occasions been festooned. Instead, Manning noticed, a blanket from the bed had been spread over one of the Imperial occasional tables, leaving the clawed golden feet of the table sticking out ridiculously from underneath, like the boots of a lover hiding behind a curtain in a French farce. On the blanket stood a neat stack of folded pyjamas and shirts, and an up-ended electric iron which clicked as it cooled and contracted.

By comparison with the changed décor, Proctor-Gould and Raya themselves seemed surprisingly familiar. To Manning their ordinariness was depressing; the new status quo was not a matter of impression or interpretation at all, but common, objective fact. Proctor-Gould stood with his back to the radiator, pulling at his ear. Raya lay on top of the bed, propped up on her elbow. It was as if they had always been so, as if a world which contained them in any other way was inconceivable.

‘Welcome to our little nest,’ said Raya, shaking the hair out of her eyes. ‘It’s not much, but it’s home.’

Manning was embarrassed. So evidently was Proctor-Gould, though he seemed highly pleased with himself as well. He kept frowning importantly to hide his pleasure, and pulling harder and harder at his ear.

‘You’ll have it right off if you’re not careful,’ said Manning irritably. Proctor-Gould began to giggle at once, and went on for a long time. Manning noticed that his blazer had been brushed and his trousers were pressed. The pens and pencils had been removed from his breast pocket. He looked almost sleek.

‘Do you like the pictures?’ Proctor-Gould asked at last.

‘Very nice.’

‘Raya painted them herself.’

‘Really?’

‘At least, I think she did. I think that’s what she was saying.’

There was an awkward silence.

‘The point is, Paul,’ said Proctor-Gould, ‘we need to get a few things settled as between Raya and myself.’

‘I suppose you do.’

‘I wondered whether you would be kind enough to interpret for us?’

‘What?’

‘I hope you don’t mind?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake …!’

‘What do you mean, Paul?’

‘I mean – well, for God’s sake …!’

Proctor-Gould pulled at his ear again.

‘I see your point, Paul,’ he said. ‘But I can scarcely get one of the Intourist interpreters up, can I? Look, I shan’t ask you to translate anything that might embarrass you. There are just one or two little logistical points we ought to get straight. I’ve been trying to get through to her all day in sign language, but we haven’t made much headway.’

‘She’s been here all day?’

‘She disappeared after breakfast – I thought for good. But when I came up to have a nap and a cup of Nescafé after lunch she was back, and she’d brought all this stuff with her.’

He gazed round the room at her handiwork. He seemed pleased and proud, but a little out of his depth.

‘Very nice,’ said Manning. ‘But when’s she going? You’re not thinking of letting her stay tonight, are you?’

‘That’s rather what I want to establish. I think she’s fetched her pyjamas.’

‘Look, don’t be stupid. You can’t just set up with a mistress in the best hotel in Moscow.’

‘I know, I know,’ said Proctor-Gould. He began to walk up and down the room, his hands behind his back, frowning anxiously. Raya watched him from the bed, and lit a cigarette.

‘Let me know what conclusions you arrive at, gentlemen,’ she said.

‘What did she say?’ asked Proctor-Gould at once.

‘Asked to be told our conclusions.’

‘Ah. She said quite a lot this afternoon. I couldn’t get a word of it.’

‘I expect somebody got it.’

‘How do you mean?’

Manning pointed at the wall and mimed speaking into a microphone. ‘You’ve thought of that aspect?’ he asked.

‘Microphones? Oh, yes.’

‘You don’t mind the prospect of being blackmailed?’

‘Paul, we went into all this last night.’

‘We never arrived at any sense.’

‘Look, Paul, I’m entirely in the hands of the Soviet authorities anyway. If they want to find a lever against me, or an excuse for expelling me, they don’t have to mess about with footling misdemeanours like having a guest in my room after hours. All they’ve got to do is to get one of my clients to say I’d tried to persuade him to work for British Intelligence.’