The Russian Interpreter

‘“If you believe in the Revolution,” she used to say, “remain loyal to it, however its name is disgraced.” And the other thing she used to say was: “Know the truth, even if it goes with you in silence to the grave.” She used to sit bolt upright on a hard chair, and when she said these things she would tremble slightly, like tempered steel under load. People like that – not our generation, Paul. She didn’t speculate, as we must, whether the killing, and the lies, and the darkness were all inevitable once the violence had begun, and society had been unmade.

‘So I was always brought up to distinguish the truth, and to value it, without regard to its expediency. As a result I have a craving for it. I’m like a gourmet in a chronically starving land. I hunger not just for the mass of random facts with which some starving people stuff themselves until their brains are swollen. I want information that’s relevant to our condition. I want disinterested interpretations, honest commentaries.

‘Don’t think I reject my country, Paul. Or even reject what it has become. We can overcome our famine. I’m not cynical about Gordon’s activities. If I thought they would harm Russia in any way whatsoever I should do everything in my power to destroy him. But thorough mutual espionage is a blessing to both sides. How can we politick safely against each other unless we can be sure that our true strength and intentions are known?

‘Not that espionage works out quite so well in practice. The information that spies steal is always vitiated by the possibility that its sources are corrupt. Where the source of information is not open to inspection, the possibility always exists that the selection of material is deliberately misleading. Information on its own is not enough; one always needs to know its origin. Stolen secrets either confirm what their recipients already know, or they’re not believed.

‘And that’s the position that we are in, too. The supply of information is controlled in this country. The selection we get is distorted. So the value even of the information that does get through the filter is diminished. We know nothing worth knowing about what goes on outside our frontiers. Worse – we know very little more about what goes on within them. Beyond the light of one’s own personal experience – darkness. What are people thinking? What are they feeling? How do they behave? Messages of reassurance or exhortation come through. One reads between the lines. Friends pool their knowledge. But in general we live like animals, in ignorance of the world around us.

‘So in despair those of us who can do so turn to the West to learn about ourselves. We use our academic status to read Western publications in the closed sections of the libraries. Visitors smuggle us books. Such information as I get hold of is seen not just by Raya and me. It’s passed to a whole circle of trusted friends we have built up over the years. Our aims aren’t subversive, Paul. Don’t think that. Not one of us who isn’t a pure Leninist. There must be dozens of similar circles in Moscow alone.

‘What we’re always looking for is a regular channel for information from the West. Raya and I have approached a number of regular foreign visitors – journalists, businessmen, diplomats. None of them would help. They were all frightened of damaging their standing with the Soviet authorities.

‘All right, then. A man who can’t get food honestly must get it by other means. Necessity can’t afford scruples. So we resort to exploiting Proctor-Gould.

‘I want him to expand his activities, Paul, and act as a courier for us as well. On every trip he makes to Russia I shall want him to bring certain designated books and documents. I shall also expect him to use his own initiative in finding additional material. Since he has the confidence of the Soviet authorities he can help us with very little risk to himself. And I shall hold that suitcase of books as a warranty for satisfactory service.’

Manning gazed out of the window at the hurrying dark wall of the tunnel. It evaporated suddenly into the echoing white tiles of a station. Krasnopresnenskaya. They were on their second go round.

34

It had rained all night. A weak sunlight filtered through the shifting white and grey screens of cloud, making the little concrete copies of classical statues in the Park of Culture and Rest gleam sadly among the wet bushes. The bench on which Proctor-Gould and Manning sat was damp, and each time the breeze blew, droplets of water fell from the branch above their heads. From the loudspeakers among the trees came the slow movement of a violin concerto, austere and heartbreaking. On such a morning people walked gravely with a sense that the world was well-ordered and poignant.

‘That music, Paul!’ sighed Proctor-Gould. ‘The whole soul of Russia is in it.’

‘It’s Bach,’ said Manning shortly. He felt very tired, as though suspended a foot above the surface of the earth, and drifting past things without ever quite making contact.