The Russian Interpreter

‘No, no. I’m still opposed to the principle of the thing.’

After the opera they strolled about the streets, pleased with each other and unwilling to break the evening up. The night was mild; summer was undoubtedly drawing on. It was, thought Manning, in the evenings that the approach of summer first showed itself. On the night that the amputated man had laughed at him outside Komsomolskaya Metro there had been that sense of desolation in the air which makes itself felt as the light fades at the end of even the most brilliant winter day. But tonight there was no tinge of sadness or loneliness at all. Already you could feel the first suggestion of the excitement and anticipation that comes down with the twilight in early summer.

The mood seemed to have affected Raya.

‘You know what everyone’s talking about in Moscow?’ she asked. ‘It’s the local hooliganism. You can’t possibly leave without taking part in it. Come on, let’s all hold hands. That’s uncultured for a start.’

She took their hands. She made them run across the road at a place where pedestrians were not allowed to cross. She spat on the pavement – they had a spitting competition, which she won. She got Proctor-Gould to sing the ‘Internationale’. They trotted, hands still linked, through a grocery store on Gorky Street, barging against the late-night shoppers. Proctor-Gould caught Manning’s eye. He pulled his ear with his free hand and giggled.

‘It’s good for the system to behave childishly sometimes, Paul,’ he said.

She trotted them all the way down to the Nikita Gates, then pulled them up short, and pointed at a bed of tulips behind a low railing in the public gardens.

‘That would be real hooliganism,’ she said, ‘to steal a municipal tulip.’

Manning hesitated.

‘I think that might be going a bit far, honestly, Raya …’ he began dubiously.

‘What does she want?’ panted Proctor-Gould.

‘A tulip.’

Proctor-Gould pulled his ear once, then trotted across to the railing, clambered awkwardly over, and snapped one off. Manning watched him as he trotted back with the flower. He had never noticed before that Proctor-Gould’s body was long and his legs were short – when he ran his bottom seemed to be almost resting on the ground. Manning wondered if he would look impressive placed on a pedestal in Gorky Street opposite the Statue of Yuri Long-Arm, the founder of Moscow, labelled as Gordon Long-Bottom, the finder of people.

Proctor-Gould presented Raya with the flower, then suddenly seized her hand and kissed it.

‘Oh, Gordon!’ said Raya, laughing. ‘Oh, Gordon!’

She held the tulip up, and looked at it carefully. Then she put it in her mouth and ate it, crunching it up like raw cabbage.

‘In this health-giving and nutritious way, Gordon,’ she said, ‘I conceal the evidence of your crime against the state.’

14

Manning could not help being pleased that Raya had made such an impression on Proctor-Gould. Proctor-Gould invited them both out to dinner again. Throughout the meal he behaved with a sort of archaic vulgar gallantry. He proposed toasts to Raya’s bright eyes, and to the ladies, God bless them. He asked Manning to ask Raya if there were any more at home like her. He leant forward as he waited for Manning to translate, so that his head got down near the tablecloth, and he had to look up at her with his great brown eyes as if he were an adoring dog looking over the edge of the table. Manning felt that Proctor-Gould’s compliments were indirectly compliments to himself. He translated them fully, wherever possible improving upon them and making them more fantastic in the Russian. Raya watched Proctor-Gould gravely as he spoke, and continued to watch him gravely as Manning translated. Sometimes she would laugh, and Proctor-Gould would at once pull his ear and giggle. He had undoubtedly fallen for her. Manning found it amusing to watch.

It was while they were waiting, interminably, for the last course to arrive that a note of discord was struck.

‘Tell Raya,’ said Proctor-Gould, ‘that she has the most beautiful natural blonde hair I’ve ever seen.’

Manning told her, raising one eyebrow to show that he appreciated the unconscious irony of the compliment. But Raya replied:

‘Tell Gordon I have Finnish blood.’

‘What’s this about Finnish blood?’ said Manning. ‘I thought it was bleach?’

Raya frowned.

‘You think my hair’s bleached?’

‘That’s what you told me.’

‘Look at it with your own eyes! Do you seriously believe that’s not natural blonde hair?’

‘What’s the argument,’ demanded Proctor-Gould.

‘Oh, nothing,’ said Manning.

‘Tell him,’ said Raya.

‘She says her hair’s fair because she has Finnish blood. But she told me the other day that it was because she bleached it.’

‘Ask Gordon what he thinks,’ insisted Raya. She pulled a handful of hair forward for him to feel. He rubbed it between finger and thumb, smiling foolishly, and touched it against his lips.