Despite the Falling Snow (28 page)

Estelle feels a jolt at her husband’s acuity – occasionally, she mistakes his absorption in his work, and his lack of attention to any detail outside the walls of his study, for a lack of perception. And then she is invariably caught out.

“Why, do you prefer ready-grated?” she asks.

He gives a grin at her side-stepping, and lets her know he has recognised it by not bothering to answer. They continue to eat in silence for a few minutes. He is conscious of the high, metallic scratch of her fork on her plate; she is trying not to listen to the liquid sound of his chewing.

“What’s that?” he asks finally. With his knife he points to a book that lies on the counter behind her. She glances around, playing for time, even though she knows what he is gesturing at.

“It’s a book,” she says.

“Ah, so it’s going to be one of those evenings, is it? If you want me to stay quiet, just say so.”

She looks up at him, repentant suddenly. She did not mean to be dismissive, but is not sure she has the courage to carry through the conversation that will result from a proper reply.

“Sorry.”

“It’s all right.”

“It’s a book about the cold war.” She takes a breath, steeling herself just a little. “I’m reading it as research for my novel.”

He makes no comment for a moment, while he chews another piece of meat. He always eats the contents of his plate one item at a time – he will first eat all the steak, then the pasta.

“For pity’s sake, Estelle,” he says when he has finished. “Not the whole writing lark again.”

Now it is her turn to concentrate on her food, although the last thing she feels she can do is swallow it. But she attends to the strands of spaghetti winding around her fork as though there is nothing else of interest to her at this moment, for she cannot bear to look up and let him guess how much he has hurt her. When the fork is loaded with pasta, she finds she cannot raise it to her mouth, and so she lays it gently down next to the remains of her steak.

“Yes, the ‘writing lark’ again.” She picks up her plate and takes it to the sink, feeling the anger rising through her body. “Is it so terrible, that I have something that I enjoy doing, and want to do?”

“No,” he replies, evenly. “But it must be done well.”

“By whose standards?” She turns on him, and comes straight back to the table, standing with her arms crossed. But he does not reply. He looks down at his plate where the parmesan-coated pasta lies untouched.

“Are you the divine authority on all literary matters, Frank?”

“I have trained and read a lot. Literary criticism is my life’s work.”

“Believe me, I know that! If anyone knows it, I do.” She picks up the volume on Soviet Russia and moves away as if to leave the room, but something holds her back. If she walks out now, there will be an end to it, there will be an impasse between them, the same impasse that has never yet been crossed. She wants him to understand her, for once. If he can. If she can explain. She sits back down at the table, holding the book against her chest like a heavy talisman.

“Listen, Frank. We always argue about the same thing, and in the end it’s beside the point.”

“I don’t agree,” he begins, but she cuts him off.

“Just listen to me for a minute, can you? It doesn’t matter if I write like Shakespeare, or if I turn out the worst sort of badly-written romantic trash. Because I’m happy doing it. And I am your wife.”

“So our relationship should excuse poor writing?”

“No. Our relationship means you should support me, and be happy that I’m happy in whatever I’m doing. And then, if you feel I need help, then help me to improve. Not by being sarcastic and dismissive, but by showing me how to change, helping me with what to read, how to phrase things. You do it with your students for goodness’ sake. Be kind, Frank. That’s all I’m asking.”

“Be blind, you mean.”

“Goddamn it!”

He cannot resist the impulse to be facetious, but there are moments when she feels he must try. She gets up, wanting to bring the book down on the table with a crash, to vent her frustration, to jolt him from his sanctimonious attitude. She is at the door when he almost shouts, which is unnecessary, since she is no more than two feet away from him.

“Estelle, wait!” He reaches for her hand, but it is clutching the book, and she will not give it up to him.

“I’m sorry. That was a stupid thing to say.” A pause. “Don’t go away to Russia.”

“I want to.”

“To be with him?”

She is taken aback, had not considered the fact that he would probably assume Alexander would be going too.

“To research,” she replies. And then, although she does not feel he deserves the comfort, she adds, “He’s not even going.”

He looks up at her, his hair dishevelled and his eyes pouchy with exhaustion. “Thenwhy didn’t he say that yesterday?”

Estelle takes a step back into the room.

“What do you mean?”

Her husband pushes his plate away. “He came to see me yesterday. At the university. I asked him to come.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He waves a hand. “I didn’t want to make a song and dance about nothing.”

“Well, you are.”

As if he has not heard her, he continues. “It’s strange. I really liked him. He kept me at a distance – very proper and correct, and reserved. But I liked him, even as I tried to dislike him because he is attractive to you.”

Is his slight pause hanging there, waiting, hoping for her denial? She says nothing, and he speaks again:

“Under that polished veneer, in his eyes, I could see that he has a gentleness to him, and also great passion about many things. A passionate man. Attentive, kind.”

“He is.”

“And I am not, of course.”

For a man of such advanced age and intelligence, he reminds her of a wheedling child too frequently.

“You’re a good man, Frank,” she says quietly. “But attentive? Kind? Passionate, except maybe about your books? No.”

They are the harshest words she has ever spoken to him, and she feels badly, but relieved, as though something shameful has finally been revealed. He is watching her, unflinching.

“You knew who I was when you married me. And you have known for the last thirty years. Why are you only complaining now?”

She looks down. “Maybe I’ve changed. People can, you know. Sometimes it’s a desirable thing, to progress as a person. Maybe the ideal thing would have been for us to change together.”

“Spare me the popular psychology.”

But she hardly hears him. “Is there a statute of limitations on complaining? If you’ve put up with something for thirty years, is it too late to put in a request for a change?”

“Now you’re being facetious.”

She pauses and takes a breath which manifests itself as a long sigh. When she speaks again, her tone is calmer and less harsh.

“The truth is, what I just said hurt you, and maybe that’s why it’s taken me so long. It’s not an easy thing to say.”

She puts the book down, and touches his shoulder. There is no response and so she walks back around the table and sits down opposite him.

“Frank,” she begins, but she can get no further before he stands up and walks out of the kitchen, back down the dark hallway. She looks at the doorway where she seems to still see the large outline of his frame, and, stunned, listens to the thud of his study door, and the turn of the key in the lock.

K
atya hurries into the apartment, throwing off her coat, and walking straight into the kitchen.

“I have to hurry,” she says, kissing Alexander on the back of the neck. “I have to leave again in half-an-hour.”

He looks round at her; he is retrieving some butter from their new refrigerator. He taps the solid block unhappily, then looks again at the temperature dial.

“This refrigerator won’t just cool things,” he complains. “It insists on freezing them.”

He leans in towards her, butter in hand, waiting for her to kiss him again, on the mouth. She does so, smiling.

“At least it works,” she tells him. “What did Irina leave?” She lifts the lid on a pot of food that sits waiting on the stove. He looks across.

“Stew,” he replies. “She says we are keeping the place too clean, and that she didn’t have to work the full four hours so she left back some money.”

Katya is taking down two plates, and gathering cutlery. “The last honest woman in Russia,” she says.

“I gave it to her anyway,” says Alexander.

“And the last philanthropist,” she comments, hoisting the pot to the centre of the table.

He comes over to her, carrying several slices of dark brown bread, and two opened bottles of equally dark beer. They sit, and begin spooning out the stew, bowls full of steaming, scented sauce and small pieces of meat.

“Where are you going to, in such a hurry?” Alexander asks. He loosens his tie, and watches his slim, ravenous wife dipping her bread into her bowl.

“The school play, remember?”

“Ah, yes. And tell me, what does the school administrator have to do with the schoolchildren’s play?”

She sighs. She knows this light, bantering tone of his, but cannot enjoy it tonight, does not want to cope with the request for attention that underlies it.

“The school administrator has everything to do with it,” she says. “All the staff has to be there. To meet the parents, and cheer the children. You know how it is.” She looks up.

“How was your day at work?”

“Bad.”

“The same problem still?” Katya asks, concerned.

“We are losing a lot of valuable information. They have been watching all of us for weeks now, but I know it’s someone from outside.”

“Are you sure? Who else but an insider would have been able to get so much information to Washington for so long?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense. But they must be found. The atmosphere is becoming more and more paranoid. None of us trusts each other any more.”

“So you’ve told Oleg?”

“I’ve told everyone. At every level. They’re worried.”

“Ah,” says Katya, nodding.

“What is it, my love?”

“So the man who came to check the wiring in the building this morning – he was putting in more listening devices?”

Alexander shrugs. “Probably.”

“When they find whoever it is, they’ll kill them, you know.”

“Perhaps,” he says, without satisfaction. “Can I come with you?” he asks.

She rolls her eyes. “I’d love it, but I couldn’t let you sit through yet another version of
Peter and the Wolf
.”

He says nothing, and she continues. “They’re primary school kids. You’ll be bored. Won’t you?”

“Yes.”

They eat, and she feels badly that she has been so unequivocal in her refusal. After a few moments, he looks up at her and smiles, so that she should know that he is not upset about it.

“Do you really want to come?” she asks, gently.

He shakes his head. “I really don’t,” he tells her. “But I will miss you, that’s all.”

“I know. So will I.” She touches his hand across the table. “It won’t be long. I should be back by nine, at the latest.”

“Okay.”

When they finish, they both rise with their plates, but Alexander takes Katya’s from her. “Go and get ready,” he says. “You have to leave.”

Five minutes later she is back in the doorway to the kitchen, watching him wash up the dishes.

“Why don’t you leave them for Irina?”

“I don’t like the mess. And I don’t mind doing it.”

“Thank you,” she says.

“For what?”

“For doing that. And for being here.”

“Where else would I be?” He goes over to her, drying his hands, and kisses her. “Go on. You’ll be late.”

She nods and turns in the hallway, and tells him goodbye.

He frowns. “Are you going to be on the stage?” he asks, and she laughs, her head back and her delicate throat exposed.

“No way. I’m not an actress.”

She opens the door. He is turning to go back to the kitchen when something makes him stop and look again. She is still standing in the doorway, framed there, smiling at him, and when he turns to look, she makes a sweeping, faux-actress curtsey and blows him a kiss. He laughs, and she is gone.

He is lying on the bed, reading through the reports he has brought home with him, when the telephone rings. It is his mother. They want his help with a young man who works at the bank. The young man, it seems, is too talented to be working as a mere clerk, and they have asked Alexander to see if he can find a place for him somewhere as an assistant.

“He’s here now,” says his mother. “If you are not busy, come over with Katya and speak to him. Tell us what you think.”