‘It all seems so easy,’ said Orlov emptily. ‘So prosaically easy.’
Sevin shook his head, positively. ‘It hasn’t been and it won’t be. There’ll be a fight, like there always is, but we’re well prepared…’ He paused, smiling. ‘I’ve admired you and your ability from the moment of our first meeting,’ he said. ‘Do you know what my ambition is?’
‘What?’ said Orlov, miserably.
‘This is my final effort,’ said Sevin, in further confession. ‘I’ve spent a lifetime here in government: I’ve survived purges by megalomaniacs and wars by megalomaniacs and I’ve made or unmade scores of ambitious men who espouse Communism and aspire to the crown of the Czar. But no more. This is the last time…’ The old man hesitated at the full revelation. ‘I want to live to see it,’ he said. ‘I want to be there, in the great hall, when the announcement is publicly made and you are declared leader of the Soviet Union, Pietr Orlov. I want to be there and know that this country, after all the mistakes and the stupidities and the disasters, can at last be properly guided at least some way in the right direction.’
Why oh why did the man have to equate it in terms of dying or living? agonised Orlov. Two hours later, Sevin by his side as sponsor, Pietr Orlov was elected a non-voting delegate to the Central Committee, representing the Moscow area.
The letter arrived, as Ann anticipated, exactly three weeks after she despatched her communication to her mother. They always arrived like that, as some strictly controlled calendar notation. Which it probably was. Her mother was that sort of methodical woman, someone who filled her diary with birthdays on 1 January and never forgot to cancel the milk. Ann read the letter intently, more from curiosity than in expectation of any personal news or feeling or interest, deciding as she did so that the information her mother had given could have come from the briefing sections of Newsweek or Time or any of the publications they got from the embassy. It wasn’t a letter at all; it was sheets of widely-spaced writing – to fill those pages – showing nothing else but the performance of a duty, a duty as perfunctory as subscribing to a charity to which her mother’s conscience dictated or putting the cat out at night, so that it wouldn’t pee and stain the carpet. Why did she bother? Ann asked herself. Why did she continue with this ridiculous charade of maintaining contact with a family so stupid and so traditional and so hundreds of years behind the times that they’d probably even discussed cutting her out of their Will, as some sort of disgrace to the family. Fuck their Will, she thought. Fuck their Will and fuck them and fuck bothering to write any more. As programmed as it always was, the last line of the letter was inevitable. ‘Your father sends his regards,’ it said.
Fuck his regards best – or worst – of all, thought Ann.
Chapter Nine
The evening was an undoubted success – genuinely so – not because of the effort Brinkman put into making it so. And he made every effort, bringing in everything through the embassy concessions and cooking the beef to perfection and entering triumphantly with the Yorkshire pudding and enjoying Ann’s obvious delight and Blair’s appreciation of the remark at their introductory meeting, which was why he had made the effort at all. He accepted their praise of his ability as a cook, but dismissed it with some deprecating remark that if he hadn’t learned he would have starved at university. It naturally created a conversation between himself and the woman and able to talk more fully on this occasion they found mutual acquaintances who overlapped at Cambridge, which provided the subject for a fresh round of chatter. Blair sat contentedly on the sidelines, not understanding the talk of the Long Vac or the intricacies of punting or the rituals of picnics beside the Cam. After the meal Brinkman served perfect coffee and left the brandy open between them on the table, playing the overture from Swan Lake on the second- hand stereo. That led the conversation to the ballet, of which Brinkman said he was a fanatic – which he was – and which Blair admitted honestly that he found boring. And a fresh focus of interest was established between Ann and the Englishman.
‘One of the few good things about living here,’ said Ann.
‘Do you often get to the Bolshoi?’ he asked. Her obvious disappointment with the city registered but Brinkman decided against pursuing it.
‘Not as often as I’d like: Eddie’s not keen, as he said.’
‘Let’s choose carefully and take him sometime and educate him,’ said Brinkman. He felt sufficiently comfortable with the American to make such a comment and Blair smiled amiably back, unoffended.
‘I’ll give it a shot if you’ll come to ice hockey and let me educate you about that,’ said Blair.
‘Deal,’ agreed Brinkman, happy with the evening. He hoped he’d made a point they recognised by not inviting anyone to make up the numbers.
Brinkman led the conversation because he was the host and because he liked telling stories at small gatherings but he remained constantly alert and ready to defer if Blair tried to take over. The American contributed sufficient for politeness but no more, appearing quite content to play a subsidiary role. Ann laughed at all the jokes and anecdotes, the smile almost permanently on her lips. They didn’t however overstay, excusing themselves before midnight.
Nothing was very distant in the diplomatic enclave and as they walked back to their own apartment Ann said excitedly, ‘I can’t remember enjoying myself more for a long time.’
‘It was fun,’ agreed Blair, tolerantly.
‘Betty Harrison was right.’
‘What did the font of all social gossip in Moscow decree?’
‘That he was the best thing to arrive for a long time.’
Blair unlocked their apartment door, standing back for her to enter. ‘He’s a clever guy.’
Caught by something she imagined in the tone of her husband’s voice, Ann stopped in the passageway and said, ‘Don’t you like him?’
‘Sure I like him. Why ask that?’
‘Thought maybe you didn’t, from the way you spoke.’
Blair shook his head, continuing on into the apartment. ‘He’s all right.’
‘Wonder why he’s not married?’
Blair pulled a face at her question. ‘How the hell would I know! Guess he doesn’t want to be. Maybe he’s tried and it didn’t work. Perhaps Betty Harrison knows the answer.’
Ann had been waiting for the opportunity and decided they were both sufficiently relaxed tonight; or rather, he was. She was already in bed when he emerged from the bathroom. She said, ‘I went to see the doctor a few days ago.’
Blair stopped, the concern immediate. ‘What!’
‘The doctor: I went to see him.’
‘I heard that,’ said Blair impatiently. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing much. I was having heavy periods so I thought I should talk to him about being on the pill.’
Blair came and sat on her side of the bed, the worry obvious and Ann despised herself for the deceit. ‘It hasn’t caused any problems, has it?’
‘No,’ she said, immediately reassuring. ‘He just thinks I should come off it, that’s all.’
‘Sure,’ said the American, relieved. ‘Whatever he said.’
‘He gave me a very thorough examination: blood pressure, stuff like that,’ said Ann. ‘There’s really nothing wrong.’
Blair got up, going around to his own side of the bed. ‘What are you going to do?’ he said, getting in beside her.
‘Diaphragm,’ said Ann cautiously.
‘Oh.’
‘It’s just a bit more mechanical, that’s all.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed in the darkness. ‘It is, isn’t it?’
‘I could always use nothing; not bother.’
He was silent for a long time. Finally he said, ‘Does it matter very much to you?’
She turned towards him and said, ‘Yes, darling. It matters very much. I love you and I want to have your
