Despite the Falling Snow (32 page)

“We should go, Alexander. We’ll be late for the show.”

He offers her his arm, and she takes it, as he points upwards. From the heavy, late afternoon sky, soft curls of snow are just beginning to tumble down. She blinks her eyes against the sudden fall of flakes, but the change in weather gives her a sudden sense of satisfaction. The snow adds a new sensation of quiet, dulling their footfalls and the sounds of traffic below, and gives a feeling of intimacy, as if the two of them are the only people left in the world. Together they walk down the street, where the thin lamps are spreading fingers of diffuse yellow light above their heads, catching the soft swirl of snow in their beams, until they find a taxi. He holds open the door for her, listens to her voice giving the driver the theatre name. As he walks around to the other side of the car, something makes him stop and look back for a moment, up the winding street at the tall brick houses, but still, no clear memory comes back to him.

They have to wait a few minutes for a table for supper after the show, and while they wait, Estelle pulls out her mobile phone and calls home, as Alexander tries valiantly not to listen.

“No, we’re just having some supper, Frank. Won’t be long. There are cold cuts in the fridge, and there’s fresh bread on the counter.” A pause. “On the counter. No, the other one. By the stove.”

She smiles thinly at Alexander.

“Okay. See you later.”

They are shown to their table, and as he waits for her to sit down, Alexander asks the question that has been in his mind for the whole day.

“Does he know you’re with me?”

She nods.

“And he doesn’t mind?”

“Oh, I’m sure he does.” She smiles at him. “You look confused.”

“Do you blame me?”

His eyes are clear and warm as they watch her; the soft lights thrown by candles and wall-lamps suit their deep brown colour and the firm contours of his face.

“Let me ask you something. Why didn’t you go to Moscow?”

She sighs. “Don’t get all logical on me. I don’t know what I’m doing any more, or why. If you really want to know, all I can tell you is that a few days ago, we had a blow-up, Frank and I. No broken plates or anything…” She pauses, conscious that she is rambling slightly. This depth of revelation about her marriage does not come easily to her.

“Anyway, he was upset about my writing ambitions, and about the trip to Russia, even though I told him you weren’t going. And most of all, he was upset about you.”

He waits for her to continue.

“So, ever the understanding wife, I told him I wasn’t sure I really cared about writing the damned novel. Not enough to fight with him all the time. Or have him carping and criticising over my shoulder. And that if he really begrudged me the trip to Moscow, I’d rather cancel it. And I told him that you had never been planning to go with us anyway.”

“And how much of all that is true?”

She laughs, but without humour. “Just the last bit. That you were never part of the trip. And here’s the funny thing. I think that’s the only part he didn’t believe. Because you didn’t mention it to him when you met, and he sees you as an honest man.”

Alexander nods. “Ah yes. We met at his office last week.”

“Yes, thanks for getting around to telling me. He only mentioned it in passing, almost by mistake. Quite a secretive couple, the two of you. Anyway, the irony of the thing was that he liked you. A lot. Meaning, I think, that he could see why I like you. He thinks you’re a passionate man. He’s just concerned that you’re becoming passionate about me.”

She can hardly believe she has said it, but those last words hang in the warm air between them like echoes. He looks to her, and she sees him swallow, follows the constriction of his throat as he decides what to say. A waiter has approached them, has introduced himself, and is waiting for a response that does not come, for Alexander cannot look away from her. She glances up at the waiter and says something, she is not sure what, and he goes away. And then Alexander’s hand is reaching across the table for hers, and she sees it as though watching the whole scene happening in a movie. Perhaps a script that she has written, or would wish to write. His fingers are reassuring and tentative at the same time, and she holds them back, for just a few moments. And then she pulls her hand away. He takes his hand back, too, and picks up his menu.

“So, if you agreed to stop writing, and cancel Moscow, why are you sitting here with me?” His tone is slightly curt. “Surely cutting off our friendship was part of the deal too?”

“It was, in an unspoken kind of way. But then, having made all those concessions…”

“Sacrifices.”

She raises an eyebrow in acknowledgement, and continues.

“Anyway, as soon as I’d said all that, in fact, even while I was saying, I realized it was all complete lies. I still wanted to write. I sure as hell wanted to go to Moscow. And I didn’t want to lose you. As a friend.”

He feels tossed about, rocked emotionally, like a man struggling to control a small boat on a rough sea. A moment of bliss is followed by a fall from grace, and the pattern is repeated. They have talked about other things for a while now – the play, the theatre in general; it is his way of trying to get back on an even keel, but it seems that nothing can restore his equanimity tonight. He is not happy with the food either. The scallops are overcooked, and over-seasoning has killed their inherent sweetness. He toys with them, as she finishes her meal.

“Will Lauren call you from Russia?” she asks.

He is not sure about this. Usually she would keep in touch, but she knows of his antipathy to the whole trip, and she may take that as a signal to lie low for a week.

“You know, she really just wants to help you. To maybe help you see that you were not the cause of Katya’s death.”

“Lauren is a very kind person. She loves me, and hates to think of me suffering, and I think that has clouded her thinking up to now. The facts are that I defected, and left Katya there, in mortal danger.”

“Did you have a choice?”

“I could have stayed with her.”

“But I thought they would have caught you both?”

He nods. “Probably. But it was such a long shot, to try and get out the way we did. I was swept along, I never had time to think things through. She was so excited, and so desperate to leave, and I couldn’t see another way. Neither of us could.”

He finishes his wine, and re-fills both their glasses.

“I do remember well feeling so confused during that whole time. I was struggling – not only with the dangers we were facing, but with the fact that she had been betraying me, that the woman I trusted and loved had concealed a double life from me.”

“Were you angry?”

“Yes, of course I was. But you know, I never felt uncertain that she loved me. She went through a huge change to marry me. She had to find a way to balance her beliefs and her love for me. She was a brilliant, fearless woman. She questioned everything.”

“In what way?”

“In every way. She questioned the way things were run, the way people thought – and in the Soviet Union, anyone who questioned anything was a potential traitor. Because they were thinking outside the usual parameters. And those parameters were hard to escape. We were so cut off from the outside world. From different countries, different cultures and beliefs. It’s hard to imagine such insularity now. But, Katya thought for herself. That’s why she was always evolving, even at her young age. And that ability to think, to ask, to consider, is one of the great gifts that she gave me.”

He takes a drink of water. “And in return, I left her there to perish.” He knows this is harsh, and not true, but he is melancholy and angry, and in the mood to be brutally flippant.

“That could hardly have been the case,” Estelle says.

“It’s not far off,” he replies.

“What I did was unforgivable. A high-profile, total embarrassment for the government. And they wanted to punish me in the worst way, but I had asylum, and they had no way of touching me. Except for one.”

His eyes look older now, watery, and profoundly sad. Estelle does not know anything she can say to relieve him.

“They ruined your life,” she says, softly.

“They did for a long while. It was hard to let go of.”

“Have you managed yet?”

He looks up at her, uncertain of her meaning.

“To let go? Of Katya? Have you managed yet?”

“Does it matter?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. It may have stopped you moving on. It may still be stopping you,” she adds.

Once again, the lurch of sudden emotion in his stomach. Is she trying to tell him something?

“What do you mean, Estelle?”

“I mean that it may be stopping you from moving on with your life.”

He hears her, and hesitates, then decides that he must ask the question, that he must know her meaning, or her desire, once and for all.

“You mean…” he says gently. “With you?”

“With me?” she replies, and the negative tone of her voice is an icy shock to him. She shakes her head, trying to seem definite, and succeeding, for he is not in control enough to read her well. In truth, his reminiscences of Katya, her brilliance, her dedication, her youth, her daring, have left Estelle feeling more than a little deficient and completely inadequate. She feels that she herself has none of those qualities, and in a life that is passing by faster with each day, she feels little hope of cultivating them.

“No. I don’t think so,” she says, with a firmness that is overcompensating for the uncertainty that she feels inside. “What is happening between us must find a different ending. But,” she adds, in a voice whose brightness and banality she immediately despises, “there are plenty of fish in the sea.”

He leaves her at the table a few moments afterwards and makes his way to the bathroom. He feels unsteady, but forces himself to walk purposefully. At the mirror that is fixed over the row of frosted glass basins, he stops and examines himself. Why had he been so thrilled when Estelle had suggested that they go out together? Ostensibly, because he had felt like an afternoon of theatre and he had been pleased for a friend to share it with. There were other reasons, however, reasons he has taken care not to articulate even to himself. The fact that he feels his pulse race whenever he sees her; that the intense look of her startling, intelligent eyes watching him can make him lose his train of thought; that he wants to know more of the thoughts that live behind those eyes; that he has longed to spend more than just an hour or two in her company.

“Soap, sir?”

He looks across. Reflected beside him in the mirror is a young man, of about Alexander’s own height and weight. For an odd, head-spinning moment, he feels that he is looking at his younger self. He turns, hastily, to look behind, and the young man is there, in the flesh; no more an apparition than Alexander himself is. He shakes his head slightly.

“Excuse me?”

“Soap?”The young man indicates the basin next to him, which he has filled with warm water. He holds up the soap dispenser with an encouraging smile.

“Thank you,” Alexander says automatically, and holds out his hand. Methodically, he washes up, rinses his hands and takes the small towel that the attendant now offers.

“Cologne, sir?” the young man asks.

Alexander looks at him blankly.

“A splash of cologne, sir. For the ladies,” and he smiles.

“Ah.” Alexander looks down to see before him an array of colognes and fragrances lined up on a silver tray. The attendant waits a decent interval, then says kindly:

“My wife loves this one. Says it makes me irresistible.” He holds it up, poised to spray.

“Your wife?”

“Yes, sir,” he says, and under Alexander’s keen gaze, a little colour comes up to his cheeks and his dark eyes smile.

Instinctively, Alexander turns away, and leans back down to the basin where he splashes his face with cold water. Quickly, correctly, the young man puts down his cologne, and hands him another towel. Alexander rubs it over his face, holding it over his eyes for a moment, because just then he does not want to look at that boy and his flushed face and glowing looks. He can feel him waiting behind him, sensitive and aware, holding his breath, not wishing to disturb the troubled old man. Alexander removes the towel, and places it back into the attendant’s outstretched hand. He straightens his tie, and clears his throat. Quick as a flash, he picks up the scent again. Probably, Alexander thinks, he feels I can use as much help as I can get.

But Alexander simply holds up a hand and does his best to smile. “No, thank you. I just think…I think it’s best to just leave everything as it is.”

“Good choice. You look perfectly fine as you are, sir.”

“Thank you,” Alexander says. He hands the young man a five dollar bill, and walks out.

Estelle wishes that, just once, she could arrive home to a welcoming apartment. One where the hall light is turned on, where perhaps some music is playing in one of the rooms, where there is a welcoming smell of hot toast or even flowers. A home where there is a sign of some life other than her own. Throwing down her handbag, she flicks on the lights, deliberately walking from room to room, illuminating the whole place, except of course for her husband’s study. In the kitchen, she puts on a pot of coffee, and switches on the radio. She is irritable, and restless, and feeling badly for Alexander, and sorry for herself. She knows she is unlikely to see him again, and she feels deeply and surprisingly bereft, stripped of something vital.