The Russian Interpreter

Then again, even if he decided what to say about Proctor-Gould, it didn’t end his difficulties. Supposing he was asked about Konstantin and Raya? The security people must have realized that Raya was stealing the books as well as exchanging them. And Proctor-Gould had probably told his interrogator everything that Manning had relayed to him of Konstantin’s activities. Was there any possible point for Manning in trying to deny all knowledge of those activities? Wouldn’t it just make his own position worse without in any way helping Konstantin or Raya? Raya’s father could probably protect them more effectively than he could hope to.

From his own experience it was always better in the end to be honest. Indeed, he had almost no experience of attempting anything but honesty. All ethical aspects apart, wasn’t he simply too unpractised to resort to deceit now? Anyway, if he was not whole-hearted in his attempt to deceive – and he was not – he would not have the slightest chance of being believed. And by being detected in deceit he would make things worse not only for himself, but for all four of them….

He worried, and drowsed on his bed. When he awoke the problems were still there to be worried about, more concrete, more complex and interconnected hour by hour. He would have liked to talk about them with the night man, and because he could not, their evening conversations languished, and became one-sided and single-track. They talked about almost nothing but the towel; Manning’s continued failure to provide himself with one provoked ever more pained and eloquent admonitions.

‘You want to exert yourself, you know,’ the night man would say. ‘Make a formal complaint through the proper channels. If that doesn’t work, make another complaint. Take it up to the central administration, if necessary. You’ve got rights, you know, son. We’re not living under the cult of personality now. It’s not healthy, wiping your hands on that little handkerchief all the time. Ah, you’re all the same, you youngsters – you just won’t make the effort.’

On some days Manning was resolved to say nothing that might incriminate anyone. On other days he made up his mind to tell the whole truth and save his skin as best he could. Then there were times when he settled on a more pragmatic approach. He would say nothing incriminating until it definitely became clear from the course of the interview that this was doing him more harm than good. But by then, of course, he would have destroyed his credit. He became obsessed with the fear that even if he told his questioners the truth they would not believe it, or would not accept it as being complete, and would go on pressing him for information which he did not have.

After a while he found it difficult to keep track of the days. The warders were taken off his section, replaced by fresh men, and then brought back, according to some rota that he could not follow. The night man was off for five nights, back for four, then off for three. Some days Manning was taken to the bath-house, at a time when no one else was using it, and allowed to take a supervised bath. Twice this happened on a Tuesday. After his third bath it took him an hour to work out that it was not a Tuesday at all this time but a Monday.

In the bath-house he was always issued with a towel to dry himself, but each time it had to be handed in again, in spite of his protests. He did his best to keep the handkerchief in his cell clean, and to get it dried out, but his face and hands became chapped, and the chaps became sores.

‘I told you it was a disgusting habit,’ said the night man, shaking his head. ‘Let this be a lesson to you, son.’