Doctor Gavrilov (22 page)

Dmitry snatched it up, and said, ‘We have to meet.'

Rozanov said, ‘Of course,' and named the time and place.

As Dmitry walked down the Bayswater Road on his way to the appointment a bizarre sensation took hold of him. He felt as if he were made of some different substance from everyone else, that he must be standing out from them; as if what was happening inside him was so extreme that it must be visible to the outside world. It was hard for him to resist the idea that the people who passed him on the pavement were looking at him closely, that they turned and stared after he had walked past, that the cars were slowing down as they came up behind him and that people were watching him out of the dark windows of the great mansions. He was able to dispel these feelings only with an effort. He crossed the road into Hyde Park, and walked down to Kensington Gardens. He had arranged to meet Rozanov at the Round Pond; he became more and more agitated as he approached. He sat down on a bench, looking at the dark green trees and the wide expanse of sky above; he thought how unusual it was to see so much sky in London. Grey clouds moved steadily across from north to south; the sun went in, leaving the pond suddenly grey and lifeless. Nannies pushed their babies in pushchairs, a couple of old ladies threw bread to the ducks; the wind, slightly chilly, scuffed the surface of the water, sweeping across the pond, bearing the occasional drop of rain.

Dmitry watched the passers-by carefully, wondering if they were following him. A woman seemed to nod at him as she went past and he wondered for a moment whether this wasn't some prearranged signal. Then suddenly he saw Rozanov on the path in front of him, smoking a cigarette. He was looking up anxiously at the clouds, walking slowly, unhurriedly, with his slight limp. Dmitry rose to meet him and they began to walk, together, around the pond, Dmitry, silent, wondering how to begin, Rozanov silently enjoying his cigarette.

‘Well? Why have you asked to see me? Have you changed your mind, Dmitry Nikolayevitch? Have you decided to go back to Libya?'

‘They won't release me from the contract… they have threatened me.'

‘Have they?' Rozanov assumed an expression of concern; but was it his imagination, or did the briefest smile cross the corners of Rozanov's lips for an instant?

‘I told them you were on to me. I told them you were having me watched.'

‘Did you?' Rozanov looked at him sideways, tossing his cigarette end into the water. ‘Well, you are playing a very dangerous game, then. I hope you can handle it.'

‘I am not handling it at all. I am going to pieces. Look at me.'

Rozanov did look at him, for a moment; his eyes expressed a faint contempt. Then he continued with his serious study of the sky.

Dmitry grabbed Rozanov's arm and forced him to turn and face him. ‘You must help me. You got me into this; all right, I shouldn't have done it, I knew what I was getting into, but I can't go any further. I can't go back to Libya. There must be some humanity in you somewhere, there must be some way you can help us. You said that you would, you told me that you would help me “extricate myself.” Those were your exact words.'

Rozanov walked on, pulling himself free. ‘Were they? I don't recall. I would be glad to help you, Dmitry Nikolayevich, indeed I wish I could help you, but what can we do? We can try to protect you, but… that is very expensive, and as you know, there isn't much money for that sort of thing these days.'

Dmitry made a sound of disgust. ‘There is always money when you want something.'

‘Well, there is money if we can produce results…. but for what you're talking about, round-the-clock surveillance and protection… this is not possible. There is no point in our even discussing it… I would never get permission from my superiors.'

‘But suppose we went back to Russia…'

‘Even there we wouldn't be able to help you. You would have to take a risk. Maybe it would not be worth it for them to pursue you…'

‘But you could help my wife and children. You could give them a new identity… passports…'

‘And you would go and live in some remote Russian hamlet… do you really think this is possible? Would your wife agree to it? You told me before she didn't want to live with you in Russia… come, grow up, be reasonable, Dmitry Nikolayevich. This is just a wild fantasy to help you escape from the painful reality of your situation… you would do much better to face up to it.'

The sun had come out, dazzlingly bright. Dmitry stood still, looking at the shadows now stretching out across the grass. What was the force which made him stand and take this mutely? Why did he bother to struggle to remain in control, dignified? He was bigger than Rozanov, he could overpower him easily, he could pick him up and with one thrust throw him into the pond. The desire to do so was so strong that Dmitry had to put his hands in his pockets. He knew that if he lost control, his anger would quickly turn to despair; he was much more likely in fact to weep, and as he thought this, he could feel the tears starting to well in his eyes and had to blink rapidly to stop them spilling down his face, turning his face away from Rozanov for a moment. He must stay calm; he must not react; he must not make a ridiculous scene, it would get him nowhere.

Rozanov said, ‘It is a mistake to think that we make choices, Dmitry Nikolayevich. It just leads us to torment ourselves. Isn't it much better just to accept the inevitable?'

Dmitry said, ‘You want me to go back, don't you? Why? I haven't produced much intelligence worth speaking of. And my research project… it might even work.'

Rozanov lit another cigarette, passing the lighter backwards and forwards across the tip with a caressing movement. He inhaled, turned his head aside to blow the smoke away from them. ‘That would be… a pity. But I'm sure you can make sure that it doesn't.'

‘It's not so easy. Look, if I go back now I won't even be able to pass you any intelligence, assuming I came across anything worth giving… I can't take the risk.'

‘I have told you, this is up to you.'

There was something about Rozanov's utter indifference which drove Dmitry inwardly wild. He said, ‘I would like to kill you.' He hadn't meant to say it; it had just come out, in a perfectly calm, measured voice, and now it hovered there, gathering power in the long silence. Rozanov did not seem to react to it at first; then he said, quietly, ‘That would do you no good at all, let me assure you. In fact, you do not know it, but I am protecting you already.'

‘What do you mean by that?'

‘There are certain people who would like your work to be at an end… people who have in fact some other use for you… people who are not without their influence. I do not want to bore you with the details, I think you may be able to imagine what I mean…' Rozanov looked sideways at Dmitry, and his eyes suddenly appeared soulful and sad. ‘You may not believe this, but I do have your interests at heart.'

‘What people? What use? What are you talking about?' Dmitry's hands jerked out of his pockets and it was only with a great effort that he kept them away from Rozanov's neck. ‘Are you also threatening me?'

‘No, not at all. You misunderstand.'

The sun went in again behind a cloud and all the colours faded. Dmitry stopped suddenly and sat down on the nearest bench. He said, ‘What shall I do? Please advise me.'

‘Well, perhaps this threat is a bluff, Dmitry Nikolayevich. That is a risk you will have to take. Or you can continue with your project. It's as simple as that.' He dropped the stub of his cigarette and ground it into the path with his heel. He looked at his watch. ‘I'm afraid I really must go. Do let me know what you decide, Dmitry Nikolayevich.'

Katie knew that there was something wrong the moment Dmitry came home, but he wouldn't tell her what it was. She waited till the children were in bed, till after supper, keeping her patience, hoping that he would say something, but he didn't. He seemed hardly to be conscious of being there at all; she would ask him something and he wouldn't even hear it; he struggled with his supper, forcing himself to eat. Finally he rose from the table and said that he was feeling ill, that he'd had a terrible headache all day, and was going to bed.

Katie followed him. He lay, the covers over him, pretending to be asleep; but she knew from his breathing, from the tension in his body, that he wasn't. She slipped into bed, turning her back to his, feeling the distance between them, and found herself crying; she cried as silently as she could but then Dmitry rolled over and put his arm round her. He said, ‘Please don't cry,' and she said, ‘I don't understand… why won't you tell me what's the matter. Something happened, in Russia, didn't it? What was it? You ask me again and again to trust you, and I try to, but why don't you trust me?'

Dmitry said, ‘Because I am not free to give you certain information. You know that; I know you don't like it, but you'll have to live with it.'

‘No, I don't. We talked about that, and we decided we didn't have to live with that, and that's why you weren't going to carry on with that kind of work.'

‘But it isn't that easy, is it, Katie? There is a lot of information – secret information – in my head which I will carry for the rest of my life. I can't get rid of it. It is part of me; it has made me what I am. Can't you understand that?'

Katie did understand. She understood it only too well; and she had the terrible sense, not for the first time, that because of it he was unknowable, that she would never really fathom him, that she could never be happy with him. She understood, too, perhaps she had known from the beginning, that there was something in him that was attracted to the secret, the forbidden. This frightened her; she felt now that he was involved in something which would bring disaster to them and he would never tell her what it was.

Dmitry, seemingly unaware of her long silence and what it might mean, went on. ‘I've tried, Katie, but you can see it isn't working out, I can't just be a translator. It doesn't work. I am not good at it, it makes me miserable. If I could use my knowledge to do something useful…'

‘Mitya, please, can't you tell me what is going on? Have you been offered some other work, in Russia?'

‘No, not exactly… I don't know.' He sat up, and ran his hands over his face. ‘You can't understand… there is no way I can explain it to you.'

Katie sat up and took hold of him, pulling his arms from in front of his face, trying to look into his eyes which he tried to shield from her. ‘No, I don't understand. You said things were better, you had this work… we got the payment last week.'

‘Yes, I know. But it's no good. It's only temporary. I don't think I can go on with it.'

‘But why? What is it?'

He didn't answer her. She felt desperate to understand, to get to the bottom of his depression. ‘Would you like to go back to Russia? Is that it? Because if that's what you really want, then of course we'll go. I'd go at once, I'd go anywhere, if only it would make you happy.' The words just came out of her, she didn't even know if they were true but at that moment she was so unhappy that she would have said anything to make things work between them.

He stared at her in the darkness. He moved towards her and then seemed to stop himself, said, ‘You are too good for me.' She turned and kissed him, small kisses, rapidly, on his face. He said, ‘Don't worry, that's not what I want. Don't talk about it now. Let's go to sleep.'

He rolled over and she lay on her side, pressing her back again his body. He must have been exhausted because he slept at once; but she lay awake and fretting for much of the night.