The Russian Interpreter

Sometimes Katerina spoke of the sufferings of people she knew, particularly those of her friend Kanysh, who had remained in Moscow for a year without police permission in order to be near her, unable to get a job because he was a Kazakh. He had been in despair and ill with hunger, and he had been deported to Ulan-Bator back in November, just before Manning had met Katerina at the door of the Foreign Literature Library, weeping because she had forgotten her pass and couldn’t get in. Katya collected Kanysh’s letters from Box Number 734 at the Central Post Office and read them as she walked about the streets. Manning had seen her. The letters were written in a close, sloping hand on thick wads of cheap blue writing paper, and she carried them round and re-read them until they wore out at the folds and fell to pieces.

How Katerina supported herself Manning didn’t know. He believed she lived with a widowed mother and an aunt, and that she had some connexion with the Philological Faculty. He felt it would have been overstepping the boundaries of their relationship to ask. He knew that she was translating Rilke’s Geschichten vom lieben Gott into Russian. But of course, it would never be published. He had no idea how far she had got with it. Sometimes her remarks seemed to indicate that she was revising a finished translation. Sometimes she seemed to suggest that it was beyond her even to start.

They walked down a long, straight avenue with factory chimneys smoking behind blind brick walls. The streetlights sprang on in the thickening dusk.

‘Shall I tell you a story?’ asked Katerina.

‘Yes, I’d like to hear one of your stories.’

She thought for a moment.

‘In a far distant land,’ she said, ‘there lived an old man with three sons. The old man was dying. He called his three sons around the bed and told them he had one last wish – to see before he died a man who had led a life of perfect happiness. So the three sons set off to search the world for such a man. The eldest son, Petya, searched the cold lands in the north. The next eldest son, Kolya, searched the hot lands in the south. And the youngest son, Vanya, took a boat and searched the Empire of the Sea-King.

5

Later they talked about Sasha.

‘I wish he’d lose his temper with me when we have these scenes,’ said Manning. ‘He just looks hurt, and then forgives me.’

‘It’s better to hurt someone who’s capable of forgiving you than someone who’s not,’ said Katerina.

‘It doesn’t seem like that at the time.’

‘There’s no point in having moral qualities if they’re not used.’

‘That sounds cynical.’

‘It’s not intended to be.’

‘But, Katya, you wouldn’t want me to hurt your feelings, just so that you could exercise your forgiveness?’

‘No, because I’m not strong, like Sasha. I’m weak, and I shouldn’t forgive you.’

They walked in silence for some minutes.

‘He took me to hear Shchedrin last night,’ said Manning. ‘He knows him – they were in an orphanage together during the war. We had dinner with Shchedrin and his wife afterwards.’

‘Did you like them?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘Was Shchedrin very modest? Did he make little jokes in a quiet voice, and make everyone laugh respectfully?’

‘Do you know him?’

‘No, but I can imagine him. A neat blue suit. A tidy, quiet face, with smooth skin filling out a little round the jowl.’

‘That’s a caricature….’

‘No, it’s a description. All Sasha’s friends are of a type.’

‘You’ve never met Sasha or his friends.’

‘You’ve told me about them. I know their sort.’

‘Their sort? Katya, why are you so contemptuous of them? They’re good people.’

‘Of course they’re good. They’re strong, good, able people, whose strength and goodness and ability enable them to rise above their brothers. Well, God be with them. But I want to make it clear that I am one of the others – the ones who are not strong or good enough – the ones who are risen above.’

‘Sasha and Shchedrin may be better paid….’

‘It’s not money, of course. Even if Shchedrin had to walk the roads and beg his bread, he’d still know that he could sing like one of God’s angels. That would be real riches.’

‘And you want to take that away from him?’

‘No! I just want to commit myself to those who have no such riches. That’s the real battle in life – the one between the strong and the weak.’

‘And you’re weak, Katya?’

‘Yes. I’m weak because I’m afraid of so many things. But I recognize my weakness, and I use it as my passport to where I want to be – in the ranks of the losers.’

‘Am I weak, Katya?’

‘Oh, yes. But you’d never admit it to yourself. You’d like people to think you were strong. So you put a good face on it and stay close to those who are strong – like a little boy who marches down the street with the soldiers.’

It was quite dark, and suddenly very cold. The feeling of spring had gone with the light.

‘I met someone last night,’ said Katerina after a long silence, ‘who said he was an old friend of yours.’

‘Proctor-Gould? Where did you come across him?’

‘At the desk in Sector B. I came to look for you.’

‘Oh,’ said Manning, ‘it was you?’