The Russian Interpreter

‘Now,’ said Proctor-Gould, ‘somebody else – I don’t know who – arranges for the manuscripts to be got out. I’m part of a chain which brings the royalties back to the author. That may sound mercenary to you, Paul, like everything else, but these people are no different from any other writers – they have to live. I don’t know the author in question myself – I don’t even know his pen-name in the West. All I know is that I’m given a book with a number of 100 dollar bills made up inside the binding, and that I’m due to hand it over to the next link in the chain tonight. I believe there are some cuttings of reviews with the money, too. I don’t know whether you think this sort of operation is worthwhile, Paul?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘It seems so to me, I must say. I’m glad you agree. I’d be very grateful, Paul, if you’d go to the Kiev Station some time before the dinner this evening and get that case out of the left luggage office for me.’

Manning sipped a little of his beer. It tasted like dilute Syrup of Figs.

‘I’m afraid I don’t believe you, Gordon,’ he said.

‘I think you do, Paul.’

‘Why did you tell me the other version?’

Proctor-Gould sighed.

‘Once I’d admitted that one of the books contained something – which I should never have done – I had to go on and complete the story. At the time it didn’t seem to matter what you thought of me as a result, provided only that (a) you believed the story, and that (b) it wasn’t the truth. I obviously made rather too good a job of it; you not only believed the story – you struck moral attitudes about it. Now that you’ve forced me to tell you the true version I want your solemn oath that you will not divulge it to anyone – not hint at it – not even refer to it obliquely when you are back in England. Will you give it me, please?’

He was leaning close to Manning. It reduced his height, so that he was looking up into Manning’s face, his earnest brown irises underlined by the whites and the pink rim beneath them. On either side of the two Englishmen the line of jawbones champed up and down, the guzzling Adam’s apples wobbled stolidly on.

‘It’s ridiculous to give my word,’ said Manning, ‘if I don’t believe the story.’

‘I want your word whether you believe it or not.’

‘All right, then,’ said Manning reluctantly. It seemed to him that in giving his word he was also implying his acceptance of the story. He would have liked to make it clear to Proctor-Gould that he reserved his opinion, but it seemed a hopelessly complicated point to explain to those straightforward brown eyes.

‘You swear?’ said Proctor-Gould.

‘Yes, yes.’

‘“I swear”?’

‘I swear.’

Proctor-Gould straightened up.

‘Even if you’re not convinced,’ he said, ‘I hope I’ve managed to sow doubts. In any case, Paul, I don’t think you’d really give your pal Konstantin the means of blackmailing me, would you? After all, come wind, come rain, we are fellow-countrymen. In fact we’re fellow-Johnsmen.’

He smiled at Manning ruefully.

‘I’m not coming the old blood-is-thicker-than-water, I assure you,’ he said. ‘All the same, one does have a certain undeniable leaning towards one’s compatriots, doesn’t one? One doesn’t deliberately set out to sell them into the hands of foreigners.’

Manning swallowed the rest of his beer. It made him shudder. Proctor-Gould, he noticed, had not even touched his.

‘I’ll think about it,’ he said.

36

The faculty looked curiously unimpressive around the dinner table, thought Manning. Ginsberg, Romm, Rubeshchenskaya, Skorbyatova, even Korolenko himself – they all seemed tamed and domesticated among the starched napery, the ranks of crystal glasses and the podgy wives. The personalities which were so distinctive on the dusty lecture rostrum each day had faded, the repertoire of famous mannerisms laid aside. For one thing, they were all dominated by the architecture of the room. It was in one of the banqueting suites of the university skyscraper. Pillars of veined blood-red soapstone supported complex funereal urns. Fluted gilt columns flowered into clusters of flambeaux. Triple-tiered chandeliers hung down from the dark upper air. Amidst it all, mere lounge-suited flesh and blood looked pallid and unsatisfactory.

Manning felt as pallid as the others looked. He was very tired, brought low by the strains of the last few days. Mrs Skorbyatova was saying something to him. He could not be bothered to take it in. He would have liked to lower his head until his chin was resting discreetly on his chest, and then close his eyes for five or ten minutes. It occurred to him that he was starting to get noticeably drunk. Well, to hell with it.