Doctor Gavrilov (7 page)

Dmitry said, ‘He's a journalist. He's nosy. Besides, he fancies you.'

‘Oh Mitya, whatever makes you think that?'

‘I saw the way he looked at you. Besides, you are very beautiful. What man in his right mind would not want to make love to you?'

They lay for a moment in silence, then Katie rolled over and suddenly, hungrily, he began to kiss her. She responded eagerly, wanting him, needing to connect with him, wanting to dispel all the bad feeling between them so that they could feel close again. He was aroused, excited; she put down her hand guide him into her, and as she touched him he gave a moan of pleasure and opened his eyes wide to her.

And then the baby started crying.

The bank manager was young, a brash, eager man who made quick, jabbing movements with his hands to illustrate his points in a manner which annoyed Dmitry. He had a file open on the desk and looked through it, turning the pages with care. Dmitry had seen this technique before, used as a means of intimidation; it did not impress him. He sat, in his best suit and tie, and waited.

The manager cleared his throat. He said, ‘Now, we seem to have a few problems with your account… it seems to be rather a long time since any money has been paid in… You informed us last month that there would be a reasonable sum of money coming in but this has never materialised…'

‘I sent you a copy of the contract from the publisher. The rest of the money is payable on completion…' Dmitry could not bring himself to say that the publisher had gone bankrupt and the money wasn't coming.

‘Yes, we have it here… but even this will mean you can barely make the mortgage payments and then there's the question of the overdraft, which is now up to the limit.'

The desk in the meeting room was bare except for the telephone, the in-tray, and the file. Dmitry looked at the sunlight gleaming on its polished surface. The bank manager was looking at him with something which was not exactly pity, though no doubt he would have felt pity had he had the imagination. Dmitry felt humiliated.

‘You realise that you now can't make any more payments unless we renegotiate this overdraft. We've already extended this twice and we can't keep on doing this indefinitely when we can't see any money coming in… I'm afraid this time we will have to say no.' He sighed. ‘Of course, I suppose this is all quite new to you. I don't suppose you are used to this kind of thing in Russia.'

Dmitry said, ‘No, but now I believe we are beginning to enjoy all these new benefits of the capitalist system; unemployment, low pay, mortgage arrears, and bankruptcy.'

The manager, taken aback, gave a short, dry laugh. He glanced again at the file. ‘Have you any ideas, yourself, how you would like to solve this problem?'

‘Well, I have been offered a job, I don't particularly want to do it, but now, I see, I have no choice. Don't worry, I'll be paying in some money very shortly.' Dmitry could not help enjoying, for a moment, a secret sense of satisfaction in the knowledge that the manager would have felt nothing but abhorrence at being instrumental in forcing him to do this dreadful thing. Dmitry slowly stood up; the bank manager shook his hand as he left. As the door closed behind him, Dmitry was sure he saw him shaking his head.

The notebooks Dmitry had wanted were up in the attic, among dusty piles of papers and notes going back for years. He brought them downstairs and sat at the table, going through them. Soon he became utterly absorbed. When he looked up at the clock he and realised that it was nearly three-thirty; if he didn't hurry he would be late to pick Anna up from school.

On the way he stopped at a phone box and dialled the number Rozanov had given him. A voice answered him and asked in English for his number. The woman said he would call straight back. Dmitry glanced impatiently at his watch; a train ran past on the viaduct, drowning out any sound. When the noise faded, the phone was ringing.

Dmitry turned instinctively away from the road so that no passer-by could see him, as if he half expected that somewhere there would be somebody who could read his lips or divine what he was doing. He knew as he did it that he would regret this; if anyone else had asked him if he should do such a thing Dmitry would have said, ‘No, don't touch it, don't have anything to do with it.' He knew it was himself he was betraying, not a country or ideal; he could see that it would end badly. But it was too late; he'd made up his mind, he needed the money now and would deal with the repercussions later. He didn't waste any time introducing himself or on any caveats or justifications; he simply said: ‘I'll do it.'

A
T THREE in the morning, the baby woke again. Katie stumbled from the bed, lifted him from the cradle, and put him to the breast. The bed beside her was empty; she called out, ‘Mitya?' softly, but he didn't reply. Sasha fed rhythmically, gulping the milk, his tiny hand gently stroking and kneading her breast; Katie lay back on the pillow, staring into his eyes, losing herself for a moment in the intensity of this experience. Only as the feed came to an end did she find herself wondering where Mitya had gone.

As soon as Sasha came off the breast she returned him to his cradle and went to the top of the stairs. She could see the light shining in the room below and started to go down, puzzled and annoyed that what little sleep she would have had was now further disturbed. Dmitry was sitting at the kitchen table, sheets of paper and notebooks in front of him, in the light of the lamp. He was writing swiftly, his pen jumping from sheet to sheet, jotting down figures and words in a hurried sequence. She noticed the way that he wrote with both his hands, transferring the pen from one to the other and making notes with both of them. His concentration was so intense that he didn't see or hear Katie coming down the stairs and only looked up with a sudden start when she came to stand right behind him. She put her hand on his shoulder and he put down the pen, put his hand to his forehead and then rubbed his eyes, and said, ‘Katie, why aren't you in bed? Let me finish this.'

‘But what on earth are you doing? It's so late.'

‘I won't be long… Go and sleep.'

Katie hesitated. ‘No, I'm awake now. I want to talk to you.'

‘No, not now… please… this is not the time. I am in the middle –'

‘But this is important.' Frustration welled up inside her; there never seemed to be a right time to talk.

‘Katie, you know, when I'm working, I can't be interrupted. Now I have lost… Please, go back to bed.' He turned back to the papers on the table. Katie stood, watching him stare at them, now seeing that what was on the paper were strings and strings of calculations. The figures and the abstract symbols, together with his Russian scrawl, formed something so impenetrable and foreign that she felt herself completely shut off from him. For an instant she felt almost desperate. What was he doing? She had never seen him work on anything like this before.

‘What is it you're working on?'

He didn't answer, held up his hand to silence her. She sat at the table opposite him, watching him. He was back in his stride now; sometimes his thoughts moved so quickly that his pen could not keep up, at other times he stopped and stared, frowning, crossed something out. Finally he looked up. He said, ‘That's it, that'll do for now. Why are you staring at me like that?'

‘I just wondered what this is.'

‘Oh, nothing… just an idea… probably it will come to nothing.' He stood up, picked up the papers and crossed the living room, bending over to rake the embers of the fire. Katie watched him take some small pieces of wood out of the basket and put them on the glowing coals. He stood there for a long time, watching; when the wood finally caught he reached out and with a swift movement stuffed the papers into the flames.

Katie leapt up in astonishment. ‘What on earth are you doing?'

‘Burning it.'

‘Why?'

‘I've done it now. It's all in my head. I know how to do it again.'

Katie watched as the bright flames flared up and the papers charred and curled into snake-like shapes. There was something almost mystical, incomprehensible, to her about mathematics. Dmitry had told her that as a child he had been gifted, that he could work out complex calculations in his head. His memory, too, was remarkable, although she had often remarked how he could never remember to buy the milk or be on time to pick Anna up from school. Katie watched the flames die away and then Dmitry poke the fire, reducing the charred paper to tiny fragments. He said, ‘Come on, let's go to bed. You're getting cold, standing there. Look at your feet.'

She tried again. ‘Mitya, I wanted to talk to you.'

‘I don't want to talk. You are looking so lovely like that, in your gown, with your hair loose, in the firelight.'

When he paid her compliments he didn't say them teasingly, he said them flatly, as if he were simply making an observation, stating something that was the indisputable truth. She couldn't help being moved. She crossed the room, put her arms around him and he turned and kissed her gently.

She knew he would want to make love to her, perhaps as a way of avoiding having to talk to her. ‘Mitya, I wanted to talk to you about Anna's school. She's not happy –'

‘The school is all right.'

‘My mother said she would pay for a private school.'

‘We can't accept it.'

‘Why not?'

She could feel that Dmitry was angry; she knew his pride was hurt. Katie herself was torn on this issue, but she didn't want Anna to suffer; it was a rough school, and Katie felt she had been through enough.

‘Your parents don't like me. I won't accept their money.'

‘It's not for you. It's for their grand-daughter.'

‘Who is not my child. Is that what you were going to say?'

Katie felt herself harden. She said sharply, ‘I didn't say that.'

‘No, but you thought it.' He turned away from her and stared into the remains of the fire. ‘Well, don't bother to consult me then. Do what you want.'

Katie sighed. ‘They've invited us over on Sunday.'

‘I can't come.'

‘We'll have to see them sometime. They'll think something's wrong.'

‘Can't you tell them I have to work.'

‘Yes, but what is this work?'

He didn't answer her. ‘Anyway why should I see them. You know that they can't stand me. And they will just go on about the election next week and how wonderful this John Major is.'

Katie knew that she would get nowhere. She loved him, but he was so difficult. She was tired, was shivering with cold. She said, ‘Come on, let's go up to bed.' She went up ahead of him while he tidied away the remaining papers. She wanted to make love to him to mend things between them but she was too tired, she couldn't keep awake; as soon as she lay down sleep overcame her like a dark curtain.

At ten o'clock the next morning Dmitry left the house and walked down to the call-boxes by the underground station. As he reached the station, walking slowly, unhurriedly, Tim walked past, smiled cheerily and gave a little wave of his hand. Dmitry nodded his head in acknowledgement, forced himself to smile. But the sight of Tim had shaken him, made him feel transparent, vulnerable; it was almost as if Tim seemed to know what he was doing, as if his smile was mocking him. Dmitry looked all around him several times before going up to the call-box. The tiled walls of the tube station were grimy and streaked with nameless dirt; the phone smelt faintly of something unpleasant. He took the card Aziz Hattab had given him out of his pocket and rang the number. He didn't know if there would be any response at the weekend. It rang seven or eight times and Dmitry was just beginning to think with relief that nobody would answer it when a voice asked, ‘Hello?'