The Russian Interpreter

‘What’s he saying?’ Raya asked Manning.

‘Oh, he’s just asking us if we’d like to have a cup of coffee with him. I said we wouldn’t.’

‘Oh, but I would,’ said Raya. She turned to Proctor-Gould. ‘Yes, please,’ she said in English. ‘Kofye – yes, please!’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Raya! It’s far too late.’

‘Then you go home, Mr. Interpreter. But for me – yes, please, yes, please, yes, please.’

They rode up in the lift, Manning angry, Raya impassive, Proctor-Gould with a soulful light in his capacious eyes which Manning recognized as a sign that he was pleased with himself. Manning did not believe that the floor-clerk would allow Proctor-Gould to take guests to his room at this time of night. But when they got out of the lift and came face to face with the old woman behind the shaded light at the desk Proctor-Gould nodded familiarly to her, and she nodded amiably back.

Raya was intrigued and repelled by the room. While Proctor-Gould fetched the boiling water, she walked about, picking up heaps of socks and underwear from the floor, letting them trickle back through her fingers, then shivering, as if the cold loneliness of Proctor-Gould’s way of life struck chill into the marrow of her bones. Manning sat down in the chair with the lions’ heads and watched her, tapping his foot. She caught his eye.

‘Poor Gordon,’ she said, and began to clear the room up, folding the clothes away in drawers, hanging the dried shirts up in the wardrobe, and sliding the suitcases beneath the bed.

‘Oh, dear,’ said Proctor-Gould when he returned, looking round for the piles of clothing beneath which the Nescafé and the mugs lived. He dropped to his knees and pulled the suitcases out from under the bed.

‘I keep telling them not to touch anything,’ he said, ‘but they keep tidying everything away.’

Manning laughed, looking at Raya.

‘It’s an obsession some people have,’ went on Proctor-Gould, mistaking the reason for Manning’s laughter. Manning laughed again.

They watched in silence while Proctor-Gould levered the lid off the tin, measured out the apostle spoons of brown powder, and added the cooling water from the camper’s kettle. In silence they stirred their mugs and sipped at them, unable to think of anything to say to each other. Proctor-Gould took up his position with his back to the radiator, gazing sombrely down at the toe-caps of his shoes, moving his eyebrows thoughtfully up and down. Manning stared into space. Raya walked about the room, touching pieces of furniture, putting her head on one side and examining the stacks of English books on the table. Once she looked suddenly down into her mug after she had taken a mouthful and asked Manning curiously:

‘What is it?’

‘Coffee.’

Then they relapsed into silence again.

‘Well,’ said Manning at last, ‘we must be going. I should think Raya’s probably missed her last bus already.’

‘That’s all right. She can sleep here.’

‘What?’

‘Why not?’

In his astonishment Manning could think only of a practical reason.

‘What about the floor-clerk?’

Proctor-Gould laughed, and pulled at his ear.

‘I see,’ he said. ‘I thought for a moment that your indignation was based on moral grounds.’

‘It is. So will the floor-clerk’s be.’

‘Will you translate, please?’ said Raya. ‘I know you’re arguing about me again.’

‘I don’t think we need worry about the floor-clerk,’ said Proctor-Gould. ‘The authorities are much more sensible and understanding than you’d suppose.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘I mean they seem to realize that the sort of job I’m doing sometimes involves contacts with people in rather unusual circumstances.’

‘In other words, you’ve done this before?’

‘Done what before, Paul?’

‘Had women up here.’

‘Are you asking me?’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘That’s not the sort of question you usually ask your friends, is it?’

‘I’m just interested to know whether Raya’s the thirtieth or only, say, the tenth.’

‘Please,’ cried Raya, ‘what are you two jackasses saying?’

Neither of them replied. They were walking about the room not looking at each other.

‘Look, Paul,’ said Proctor-Gould in a concessive tone. ‘You know as well as I do that when a foreigner stays at a hotel in Moscow he’s rung up by prostitutes.’

‘You’ve had prostitutes up here?’

‘Purely for business reasons.’ He realized what he had said and gave a little giggle. ‘Perhaps that’s a rather unfortunate way of putting it. I mean, purely to see if they would do as clients for me.’

‘How did you make assignments with them? You can’t speak Russian.’

‘I know the Russian for “yes, please,” Paul.’

‘You’ve invited prostitutes up here late at night, sat them down in this arm-chair, given them cups of Nescafé, looked them over to see if they would do as personalities, then politely bowed them out again?’

‘More or less. I paid them, of course.’

‘But you couldn’t even talk to them!’

‘We just used to smile and make gestures.’

‘You sat here smiling and making gestures?’

‘Yes.’

‘Drinking Nescafé?’

‘Yes.’

‘In silence?’

‘I sometimes had the radio on.’

‘Well, God help me!’