through and deciding there was no more he wanted to say. He repeated his love and was sealing the letter when Petr came into the den in which Levin spent most of his time; Bowden had left for the day only an hour before.
‘I’ve just written to Natalia,’ said Levin.
‘When’s Proctor collecting it?’
‘Some time this evening.’
‘Would he take one from me as well?’
‘Of course.’ Levin was curious, detecting the absence of the animosity to which he had now become accustomed from the boy.
As if in confirmation of his father’s thoughts, the boy said: ‘I want to talk to you.’
‘About what?’
‘Mistakes: my mistakes.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Behaving as I have.’
Levin smiled, hesitantly but hopefully. ‘It hasn’t been easy, for any of us,’ he encouraged.
‘I haven’t made it easy for anyone,’ confessed the boy. ‘I want you to know that I’m sorry.’
‘I didn’t expect this,’ admitted Levin.
‘I’ll never lose the feeling about being Russian,’ said Petr in apparent qualification. ‘I’ve just come to realize that my attitude is ridiculous. What’s happened has happened.’
‘I never expected it to be so difficult for you,’ said Levin in further admission. ‘You always seemed to like everything about America: clothes, television… things like that.’
‘Because I’d never known it before,’ explained the boy. ‘I used to fantasize what it would be like, going back to Moscow with things that none of the other boys had: imagine the impression I would create.’
‘Now you can have them permanently,’ reminded Levin.
‘I’ve apologized to my tutor as well,’ disclosed Petr. ‘Did you know he used to teach at Forman School in Litchfield, that little town we went to the other day?’
‘No,’ said Levin. ‘I did not know.’
‘He says I’m doing well now.’
‘It’s good to hear,’ said Levin. ‘In fact everything’s good to hear. Your mother will be pleased.’
‘Natalia will be able to come one day, won’t she?’
‘I promise she will,’ said Levin. He wished he were sure.
‘Why did you do it? Defect, I mean.’
Levin hesitated, wondering if there would ever be a time when he could tell the boy the truth. One day, maybe: but not for a very long time. Inadequately, he said: ‘I felt it was best.’
Petr appeared about to speak when David Proctor entered the room, earlier than Levin had expected. Levin said at once: ‘Petr and I have been having a conversation. About his being here.’
‘I’m apologizing for the way I’ve behaved,’ came in Petr, unprompted. ‘I’d like to say sorry to you, too, Mr Proctor. I haven’t been very pleasant.’
The FBI supervisor began his habitual spectacle cleaning, smiling short-sightedly in the boy’s direction. ‘I’ve been waiting for you to accept things,’ he said. ‘Took longer than I expected but I knew you’d get there, in the end. Well done.’
They were stupid, all of them, thought Petr. He wasn’t the least bit sorry for the way he’d behaved. Just that it had taken him so long to realize the restrictions he was imposing upon himself, by the constant opposition. From now on he was going to be the best son and the best pupil imaginable, until he was able to get away from this prison of a place to a proper classroom that the Forman lecturer had said, three days before, was essential if he were to learn properly. And he was going to be the ideal student until the first day they relaxed. Then, knowing now where he was, he was going to catch the first train from the first station back to New York and to the Russian delegation at the United Nations there. His fool of a father might have defected, but Petr Levin hadn’t. And they were going to know it – his father and Bowden and Proctor – when he denounced them all, as publicly as the Soviet mission would allow him to denounce them.
23
Yuri was astonished how few of his father’s personal possessions there were to remove from the dacha: from the bedroom a jacket, two pairs of trousers, some underwear and a smock, the photographs of his unknown mother; some winter boots and a frayed greatcoat, also for the winter, which he found in the outhouse. Truly a transient occupation, decided Yuri, recalling his impression the last time they had been there together: the last time he had seen his father alive. There was no mark of the man whatsoever, anywhere: as if he had never existed. Caught by the thought, Yuri wondered if at Kutuzovsky Prospekt there would be any photographs of his father: he couldn’t remember there being. If there weren’t, there would be no tangible memory of him at all: the pictures here were all that he wanted to keep. Everything else could be thrown away: hardly worth the trip out of the city.
Yuri bundled everything, even the greatcoat, into a single suitcase and stood above it, gazing around the main room of the country house. Who would be the next occupant? Would he – or they – make it a home, rather than a temporary resting place? He looked back to the suitcase. So little, he thought; not enough.
It was almost without thought that he mounted the stairs to make a final search for anything he might have missed, checking first the cupboards and drawers of the room he’d occupied and finding nothing apart from the government-supplied linen, and after that his father’s room and finding the same. It was when he left the second bedroom that he glanced upwards, again without thought, and guessed from the slope of the ceiling above him that there was probably a loft: certainly a space between the peak of the roof and the covering above his head. Curiously, with closer concentration, Yuri looked for a trap door throughout the length of the landing but there was no evidence of one. He went back, staring upwards this time, into both bedrooms but there was no entry from either.
If there were an attic it was sealed, Malik concluded, going out again on to the central corridor: another aimless search. He was practically at the head of the stairs when he stopped, parallel with the door to the narrow storage cupboard which he’d already checked and knew to contain only more government-owned material, mostly bedcovering. He opened it again, looking for something else this time.
It was a narrow hatchway, seeming to be tightly cut from the planking after it had been laid, so that only by looking positively was it possible to detect the likelihood of an opening. And impossible to reach anyway because of the serried layers of slatted shelves upon which the sheets and towels lay. Yuri removed the contents and after the contents the wooden strips, which was difficult because they were sized differently. At first he took them all out but then realized he would have to replace one at each level, to provide some sort of ladder to reach the entry. He had to climb with his back pressed against one wall, with no handhold, and strain to push the overhead hatch open, so snug was its fitting into its surround. He had not thought of the need for illumination until the planking moved and then saw he would not need it; there was a window, invisible from the ground, actually set into the roof.
Yuri hauled himself through the gap, sitting with his legs dangling over the edge. His immediate thought was that it had been a wasted effort and that the angled room was as empty as everywhere else in the house. And then he saw the trunk, quite compact but with a curved top, wedged into the darkest corner, at the furthermost point from the window’s light.
It was a small room, restricted by the roof’s drop, so Yuri crawled towards the box, pulling it out directly to be under the window. There was a stir of dust and a cobweb snagged across his face, but the container appeared quite clean. For several moments he gazed down, not attempting to open it, the strange reluctance to intrude briefly stronger than his absorbed curiosity. There was a lock, but no key. To have to break it open seemed… he didn’t know what it seemed but he didn’t want to do it. But he didn’t have to: the lid lifted quite easily and held, kept up by hinged metal struts. His initial reaction was one of disappointment. Yuri had expected it to be full – of what he didn’t know – but it wasn’t: only a third, maybe less, was taken up. There were several stacks of papers, all appearing to be aged. Tentatively he reached out, feeling their brittleness to his touch. He lifted the topmost document cautiously, conscious of tiny cracks at the edges, knowing it would be most fragile at the fold, so he was even more careful straightening it.
