The Russian Interpreter

Romm was on his feet, holding up his glass. Another toast. ‘The London School of Civic Studies.’ How did the London School of Civic Studies come into it, so far away around the bend of the world? Never mind. Pick up the little vodka glass. Lift. Clink against Mrs Skorbyatova’s glass on his left, and Mrs Loyeva’s on his right. Mumble. Tip draught down throat in one blazing, fuming stream. Hold breath. Drink mineral water before the suffocating fumes rose and choked him. Already the waitresses were recharging the glasses for the next toast.

He took a deep breath, and began to examine the faces around the table. Rubeshchenskaya was talking to Korolenko. Her plain, honest face bobbed up and down, wagged from side to side, raised its eyebrows, talked and talked. Korolenko listened in silence, motionless and expressionless. Now Rubeshchenskaya had stopped, and was looking at Korolenko interrogatively. The spasm lifted the right-hand corner of his mouth for an instant. As if it were an acknowledgement she smiled and nodded, and went on talking.

On the other side of Rubeshchenskaya sat Proctor-Gould. Then a little sharp-faced woman with grey hair, who was probably Mrs Korolenko, and next to her, Sasha. Proctor-Gould and Sasha were leaning forward to talk to each other across Mrs Korolenko. Sasha was listening anxiously, blinking a little, as if frightened of missing a word. Proctor-Gould was speaking with little smiles, and chopping motions of his right hand. Occasionally he turned his head a little more sharply, and directed one of the smiles at Mrs Korolenko. She acknowledged each of them with a small, unamused smile of her own, making no attempt to understand the English conversation.

Manning realized that Mrs Skorbyatova was looking at him, a humorous expression on her large, oval face.

‘Don’t you think so?’ she was asking.

Manning laughed politely.

‘I suppose I do,’ he said.

He couldn’t take his eyes off Proctor-Gould’s face. It was as familiar as an old sock, so familiar that it embarrassed him. It was like seeing one’s mother at a school speech day. How could anyone take that homely face seriously? At any moment Proctor-Gould would pull his ear. As if by telepathy, he pulled it at once – a long, surreptitious, caressing tug. Oh God, it was shaming to watch!

Among the flowers on the table in front of Proctor-Gould lay four books, neatly stacked. He had come to Manning’s room in Sector B just before the dinner and selected them from the suitcase which Manning had brought back from the station.

‘Thank you, Paul,’ he had said. Manning had shrugged. Proctor-Gould had looked as if he was going to say something else about Manning’s decision to cooperate, then changed his mind and glanced perfunctorily about the room instead.

‘Nice place you’ve got here.’

‘Yes.’

‘Your own bathroom?’

‘Shared with the room next door.’

‘Very well arranged. A bit different from poor old John’s.’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s odd, really, Paul. I’ve never seen your room before. You must invite me out here some time and show me over the whole building.’

A formal occasion. But now, in public Manning felt that the burden of intimacy was not quite so easily laid down. Proctor-Gould had humiliated himself in front of him with his deceit. It made a continuing claim upon him.

Ginsberg was on his feet, proposing a toast to friendly cooperation in the field of human administration. Up glass. Clink Skorbyatova, clink Loyeva. ‘Field of huministration.’ Down vodka. Gulp mineral water. Ah. Belch. Excuse me. Ah.

Korolenko was standing up. Another toast? Scarcely – glasses not yet recharged. Speech, undoubtedly. Was indeed already speaking. But what was he saying? Manning found it almost impossible to focus his mind on the words.

‘… sometimes falls to our lot to have the pleasure of welcoming into our midst one whose aims and aspirations are entirely in accord with the spirit of peaceful co-existence. Such a one is undoubtedly our distinguished and respected guest Proctor-Gould….’