Charlie’s Apprentice

China,’ said Snow.

‘Are you happy here?’

Another intriguing question. Snow did not honestly know if he was happy or not: spiritually he was content, but to himself he admitted there was still sometimes a tug of apprehension about his other activities. ‘Very much so.’

‘Isn’t the philosophy of China in direct contradiction to your beliefs?’

Persistently trying until the very end, thought Snow. ‘My beliefs sustain me, as yours sustain you. I do not make a comparison. My vocation here now is as a teacher, as I have already made clear.’

‘I detect some satisfaction in your attitude at the collapse of communism in the Soviet Union?’

This was verging upon desperation, decided Snow. And was pleased: it had to confirm that he had not committed any indiscretion with which Li felt he could colour his report. ‘Then I have expressed myself wrongly. I have no satisfaction about that. The population of the Soviet Union have chosen a different method of government. That is their decision.’

‘No opinion at all of your own?’

‘My opinion is that people are free to make their own choice on how and under what authority they choose to live.’

‘Some counter-revolutionaries claim the people of China are not free to choose how they live.’

Snow decided he could be straying into a conversational minefield if he allowed himself to become ensnared in such a direct debate. ‘Do they?’ he said. And stopped.

Li stared across the restaurant table, waiting for Snow to continue. The priest busied himself with his rice bowl and when that was empty made much of refilling his teacup. Li had refused wine.

‘Do you?’ pressed Li, finally.

‘Do I what?’ questioned Snow, not finding it difficult to convey the false misunderstanding.

‘Consider that the population of China is not free to choose how it lives?’

Snow fixed the frown. ‘To believe such a thing would surely make me a counter- revolutionary! Which we both know I am not.’ For the first time, in any of their fencing conversations, Snow thought he detected an angry tightening of the other man’s face. The spectacles came off once again, for a disgruntled polish.

‘From someone trained as a priest I would have expected judgements.’

‘A priest who is now a teacher.’

‘Have you abandoned your God?’

‘Of course not. It is not my function here to be a priest.’

‘You live in the temple of your faith.’

‘Church,’ corrected Snow. ‘By the instructions of the Chinese government, who wish us to act as caretakers. It is no longer used for religious purposes.’

‘I would be interested to see your temple.’

Suspecting a reason for Li’s remark, Snow said: ‘I do not, of course, conduct my classes in the church. They’re in a quite separate building.’

‘Do you pray with your class?’ demanded the man, confirming Snow’s suspicion.

‘Never,’ replied Snow. ‘They only come to learn English.’ There had only ever been one Zhang Su Lin.

‘No one has ever asked about your religion, knowing you are a priest? Able to see you live in a temple, like other priests do?’

If he answered honestly – that some had – Snow guessed he would be asked their names, if not now then later in Beijing. ‘Never,’ he insisted, strong-voiced.

Li regarded him with open disbelief. ‘Maybe I will come one day.’

Snow answered the look, unflinchingly. Father Robertson would regard any visit as hostile interest from the authorities – which it might well be – and be thrown into panic. With no alternative, Snow repeated: ‘You will be very welcome.’

‘So we will probably meet again,’ said Li, increasing Snow’s discomfort.

‘It would be my pleasure,’ lied the priest.

Natalia finally gave way to her conscience, which she’d always known she would, and when she made the decision she became irritated at herself for needlessly delaying it. With so much authority at her unquestioned disposal, it only took two days to discover Eduard’s complete military record. After Baku – the last posting she had known about – her son had served briefly in Latvia and after that had been assigned to East Germany. It was there he had been promoted to lieutenant. His had been one of the last units to be withdrawn, after the reunification of Germany. His final posting, before the premature discharge brought about by the reduction in the armed forces, had been in Novomoskovsk. Eduard’s record listed one commendation and four convictions for drunkenness. His character was assessed as superior, an average classification. His Moscow address was given as the Mytninskaya apartment Natalia no longer occupied. The new occupants had been there for over a year: no one resembling Eduard whose photograph they were shown, had come there during that time believing it to be her home.

Natalia got up from her desk after receiving the report of the Mytninskaya enquiry, going to the window to gaze out in the direction of the city, wondering where her lost son was now. She’d tried, Natalia told herself. But Eduard hadn’t made any attempt to find her. So there was nothing more she could do. Or wanted to do. About Eduard at least.

How difficult would it be to find someone else: someone she wanted to see more than anyone else in the world?

Eleven

Gower was adamant they spend the weekend in Paris, calling it an anniversary of the time they had been living together. Both privately felt varying degrees of relief at how happy they were, although accepting it was ridiculously too soon to judge. Marcia still had to surrender the lease of her apartment.

Gower booked the George V, a room with an avenue view, and announced they were tourists. So they watched the promenade along the Champs-Elysees from a pavement table at Fouquet’s, cruised in a bateau mouche along the floodlit Seine on the Saturday evening and later ate at L’Archistrate. Marcia said she didn’t think they had that much to celebrate. Gower said they did. He was hopeful the excitement of the trip would provide the opportunity he wanted.

‘You’ve changed,’ she declared, suddenly. They’d finished the meal but were lingering over brandy bowls, with their coffee.

‘It’s just because you’re getting to know me properly.’

‘There’s a definite change.’

Gower shifted, disconcerted, using one of the many tricks he’d so recently been taught to avoid the impression of guilt, gazing directly at her but with a mocking frown, remembering to answer any accusation with a question. ‘Changed how?’

Marcia shrugged, disturbing the flowing blonde hair she was that night wearing loose to her shoulders: Gower thought she looked magnificent. ‘I can’t put it in words. It’s …’ The girl came to a halt. ‘Your clothes, for a start. It’s as if you’re dressing down. Are you dressing down, for some reason?’

‘You’re imagining it!’ Confronting uncertain points with ridicule was another dictum. Gower didn’t feel any difficulty, practising the lessons upon Marcia. It wasn’t cheating or misusing her: it followed the most repeated instruction, always to behave as if he were on duty until the denying innocence became instinctive.

‘Why aren’t you wearing the ring your father gave you?’

‘No reason,’ shrugged Gower.

‘And I liked the moustache.’

‘I didn’t.’

Marcia swirled the brandy in her glass. ‘And there’s an attitude. It’s like …’ There was another pause. ‘Like you’re more confident … you seem to do things now with more self-assurance. I know that sounds silly, but that’s the only way I can explain it.’