when they entered: Snow felt another snatch of breathlessness. The head of mission came to an immediate halt, a frightened man immediately expecting disaster: his head moved between Snow and Li, like a spectator at a tennis tournament.
‘You must be Father Robertson?’ said Li.
‘That is so.’ Only at the very end of the short sentence did the confirmation become a throat-clearing cough.
Hurrying to cover the awkwardness, Snow made the formal introductions, identifying the Chinese as his recent travel companion. ‘Mr Li asked if he could see our church.’
‘And the photographs?’ said Li, at once.
‘Photographs?’ The question rasped from the older priest. The whisky intake was discernible.
‘Souvenir photographs,’ elaborated Snow. ‘Reminders of the trip.’
Father Robertson remained where he had stopped, appearing lost in a church in which he should have felt most at home. Li gazed around at everything, tilting his head to look up into the organ loft, then closely examining the altar area. The day had faded even more now, much of the main church already dark, the two side chapels blacked out from view. The spiked stand for votive candles was empty, showing no sign of use, beside a confessional in which Snow occasionally went through the charade with Father Robertson, never once making a proper confession, satisfied the avoidance would not lead to eternal damnation because of the necessity of what he was secretly doing. Father Robertson must have extinguished the two larger, thicker altar candles before they entered: both still sent a tangled thread of smoke upwards, quickly to be lost in the expanse of the place. Li returned up the aisle from the altar, dragging his finger over the pew backs to make arrow trails in the dust. Snow realized the Chinese was looking for indications that the church was used for regular group worship, happy the man was going to be disappointed.
Li halted, beside them, and said: ‘It is a large building. This could be a home for many people.’
‘It was, in the past,’ scored Snow, immediately, careless of the tremor that visibly passed through Father Robertson.
‘That was a use of words that I don’t quite understand,’ complained Li.
Snow didn’t believe the protest. Before Snow could respond, however, Father Robertson said: ‘It is no longer used for worship! The government has agreed it can remain as it is, though.’
‘Yes,’ said Li, as if already aware. Looking directly at Snow, he said: ‘You worship here?’
‘I do,’ confirmed Snow, at once. ‘There is no official restriction upon our doing that.’
‘Quite so,’ agreed Li, again as if he already knew.
‘Is there anything else you would like to see?’ invited Snow.
‘Is there anything else I
Snow gestured around the vaulted building. ‘This is what there is. All there is.’
‘Thank you, for giving me so much of your time.’
‘You gave me so much of yours,’ said Snow, conscious of Father Robertson’s head swivelling worriedly back and forth again.
‘You won’t forget the photographs?’
‘I would not expect to hear back very quickly.’
‘It is not difficult for me to call.’ To Father Robertson, Li said: ‘I will probably see you again then?’
‘Yes,’ The quaver was scarcely noticeable.
Pointedly Snow said: ‘The front door of the church is permanently locked. I will guide you out the way we came in.’
Li fell into step with the priest without any attempt at conversation: at a turning, Snow saw Father Robertson at a hesitating distance. The chief of mission was hovering in the office corridor when Snow came back from the street exit, one hand clasped over the other.
‘What photographs?’ the white-haired man demanded once more.
‘Ordinary tourist photographs.’ Snow was not alarmed by Li’s visit, but for the first time he was prepared to admit, to himself, that the man’s interest was going beyond that of a normal tour escort: he didn’t want an additional inquisition from his superior.
‘Your trip has offended them! We’re under scrutiny.’
‘Which will discover what?’
‘I don’t want the mission closed down!’
‘The mission
‘We’re permitted to remain here.’
‘As what? It’s surprising we’re not officially part of group tours, as another aspect of Chinese history.’
‘A Jesuit mission exists as long as we are a presence here!’
‘We’re a joke!’ insisted Snow, utterly careless of letting the anger show. Careless, too, of upsetting the old man: welcoming, in fact, a target at which to direct some of the pent-up frustration.
Father Robertson winced, as if there had been a physical blow. ‘God’s work is not a joke.’
‘We are not
‘We are doing what we are told to do, by the Curia.’
What was the point of any discussion with this man? ‘There is nothing here that can cause any official difficulty. We both know that. The man is a busybody: that is all. I will get him his photographs. And that will be the end of it.’
‘I have personal experience of how they think!’
‘The Cultural Revolution is over!’
‘The official mentality is the same. I shall have to make an official report, to Rome. We should advise the embassy, as well.’
And Snow supposed he would after all have to tell Walter Foster: it was becoming difficult any more even to think of the journey through the southern and eastern provinces as a success.
‘We were sorry you didn’t manage to come last month.’
Charlie didn’t doubt the matron, whose name was Hewlett, had positioned herself at the door of her office to intercept his arrival. ‘Pressure of business, I’m afraid.’
‘She does so much look forward to personal visits, you know? Particularly now she is maintaining this improvement.’
‘I’11 come as often as I can.’
‘As long as you do,’ said the matron, bossily.
On his way back to London Charlie realized he hadn’t tried to confirm his inference of what Julia Robb had conveyed about Miller and Patricia Elder. Perhaps he would have time before he was assigned a new apprentice.
Seventeen
Patricia Elder used Miller’s discarded shirt as a dressing-gown to make the breakfast coffee, naked beneath. The apartment, the entire top floor of a period mansion on the edge of Regent’s Park, was owned by Miller’s wife and she used it when she came up from the country, so Patricia never kept any of her clothes there. The programme and ticket stubs for the previous night’s opera at Covent Garden were on the hall table, ready to be taken and disposed of when they left. So was the after-theatre dinner bill for two.
The breakfast alcove was in the bay of the window overlooking the park. Miller was already at the table, dressed apart from his jacket, when Patricia came in from the kitchen. ‘Do you want anything to eat?’
The Director-General looked up from his newspaper, shaking his head. ‘Last night’s got a bad review. I’ve certainly seen better performances. Glyndebourne, for instance.’
‘I wasn’t with you at Glyndebourne,’ reminded Patricia, pointedly. As with everything else, they took great care where to be together in public. It was at Miller’s insistence, not hers.
‘Believe me, it was better,’ he insisted, looking directly at her, guessing the mood in which she had awoken. His impression was that they had lately become more frequent. He hoped she wasn’t going to become difficult.
Patricia poured the coffee and said: ‘These are the good times, when we can spend two or three nights
