The Longest Pleasure (15 page)

Her breathing was suddenly deeper. 'You are the first gentle Englishman I've ever met. Most of them are positively abrasive.'

He propped himself on his elbow to look down at her, at the sweat gleaming on her neck and shoulders, at the rhythmic rise and fall of her belly. 'As you are the first quick American I've ever met. I see a remote possibility of us accomplishing something unique, given time. But talking about Hungary ...'

Her eyes were closed. 'We won't, you know. It never happens. Never, never, never. Never
just
so. And we weren't talking about Hungary.'

'We were. I suddenly remembered a piece of information we monitored out of Moscow the other day. Do you remember your chess-playing hero with the Scottish lineage? He's gone round the bend. He was reported missing, in Buda, on
22nd
October, and presumed killed. But apparently he was captured by the patriots, and knocked about so much he's in a psychiatric hospital.'

'For Jesus's sake.' She opened her eyes, squinted to focus on his face. 'Say, that really cuts you up.'

'Funny about people. He was one of those I assumed I'd run into again, or at least hear of again. Just instincts, you know. Nine times out of ten they're wrong.'

'You did hear from him again. From me. Poor old A. P. Galitsin. Although he probably had it coming to him. You know, I can't help going along with old John Foster Dulles in thinking there's no room for gunboat diplomacy in the second half of the twentieth century, but hell, you people were trying to protect a lifeline, and you have to respect that. But the Russians smashing down that poor little country, ugh! And yet
...
he really did look like a decent boy. You know what ? You've quite put me off.'

He got up, picked up their glasses. 'Me too. I'll pour, shall I, and we'll drink a toast to Alexander Petrovich and his mind, wherever it may be.'

III

Darkness, given a sufficient quantity of it, has a quality of hardness. Too much darkness is like being enclosed in solid air, not necessarily claustrophobic to the lungs, unless you are already given that way, but claustrophobic to the mind. To think great thoughts, you need great horizons, endless expanses; you need to be in a desert, on a grassy plain, at sea on a clear day. To think even coherently you need a fair-sized room, preferably with an open window, out of which you can lean from time to time, not for the fresh air, but for the change of scenery. Utter darkness makes thought impossible.

Galitsin the philosopher. 'Have you never read A. P. Galitsin, comrade? One of the really original minds thrown up by the Soviet regime in its early days.'

Dreams, yes. Strange dreams, startling fantasies. Darkness aids those. Brilliant lights, exploding and carving through the midnight. Drooping lips, glowing red, parted. Swelling breasts, some uptilted, some sagging, all tumescent. Slender groins, gently carpeted. Long legs, a wealth of thigh and calf. Definitely dreams, because none of those could truly be applied to Irena, except perhaps the thrust of her nipples. Irena's nipples never receded. She had learned the secret of longevity in nipples.

And he could not imagine backsides. He could
remember
Irena's backside. But memory was fading, with every hour, every second of darkness. Memory not only of backsides. He said, 'My name is Alexander Petrovich Galitsin.' This was important. 'I was born on January
4th, 1927,
when there was snow on the ground.' This was important. There was snow on the ground now. But it was less important than his name. What was a year here, a year there ?

'I have been in this cell for three weeks.' Perhaps this was the most important thing of all. Whether one is approaching one's thirtieth or thirty-first birthday is not relevant Whether one has lived with oneself for three weeks or four, for twenty-one days or twenty-two, for five hundred and four hours or five hundred and five hours, this is important. To become uncertain about time is the first step on the road away from control, and in the darkness only control is sanity.

Because in the darkness other knowledge is lacking. Why are you here? Why have you been here for three weeks, asked no questions? Not even punished, except by loneliness, after the first day. The first day had been bad. He could still feel the boot in his ribs. But that had quickly ended. At first he had presumed this
was
punishment, never knowing when the door would open and the boots would come tramping down the stone steps. Instead the light had gone off. After a week of unending glare, unending publicity, it had gone off. Off, off, off. Never had an event been so blessed. Fourteen days ago. Twenty thousand, one hundred and sixty minutes of darkness, of silence, except for the twice-daily scrape of the plate being thrust through the hatch, and even the hatch admitted no light. Once he had tried hanging on to the plate, because it was connected with the hatch by a steel rod, and thirty minutes after it appeared it was withdrawn again. So he had held on to it, allowed himself to be dragged across the floor, had his hands and head bashed against the iron hatch. And the plate had gone, into the darkness. But here, in the darkness, one could live like an animal, without disgust, whereas in the light it had been impossible. In the darkness constipation was unknown, and so was continence. There was no necessity.

But what happened when the light went on again?

Tigran Dus straightened his collar, adjusted the lie of his shoulder belt. Contrast was always important. He had had his uniform pressed especially for this morning, had shaved with special care, cleaned his teeth twice. He walked up and down the small room, stood at the window and looked down at the snow-piled yard, sat at the desk and crossed his legs. He could almost see his face reflected in his own boots. He rang the bell on his desk.

It occurred to him that he was nervous. There was much more at stake here than the life of Alexander Petrovich Galitsin. Much of what was at stake he would not admit even to himself. His own career was involved, certainly. And why? There were other equally important plans to be made, other plans to be disrupted. But Galitsin was important to
his
plans. He wished he could be sure how important were a pair of unusually slender Ukrainian legs.

Knuckles played across the door. 'Come!' Tigran Dus leaned back in his chair, lit a cigarette.

A soldier opened the door, allowed Galitsin to enter. Another guard marched behind the prisoner.

'Leave him,' Tigran Dus said.

They saluted, withdrew, closed the door. Galitsin stood in the centre of the room, blinking, unaccustomed to the light. His shaven head glistened with water, and his uniform, if rumpled, was clean. Of course, he would not have worn it for three weeks. He swayed.

‘
You may sit down, Alexander Petrovich,' Tigran Dus suggested.

Galitsin lowered his gaze, slowly, to the figure behind the desk. He looked older than his thirty years. His face was tired. He took a step forward, groped at the back of the straight chair, drew it to him with the utmost caution, sat down with a sudden movement, as if his knees could support him when standing straight but not after they commenced to bend. 'I thank you, Comrade Colonel.'

'And where have you been, the last three weeks?' Tigran Dus asked, with some jocularity.

'Alone, Comrade Colonel. Alone in the darkness.'

'Then you will have had ample time to think.'

'One does not think in the darkness,' Galitsin explained, with great patience. 'It is not good for thinking. One is alone, with one's excrements, and one's needs. One feels.'

Tigran Dus frowned. 'For a professional soldier, Alexander Petrovich, you are in many ways confoundedly fastidious. But they came for you this morning.'

'Yes, Comrade Colonel. They stood me beneath the shower baths for an hour. Do you think they will also wash out my cell?'

'Undoubtedly,' Tigran Dus said. 'And they gave you back your uniform.'

Galitsin looked down at himself. 'It no longer fits.'

'It still has its ribbons, Comrade Captain. And they also gave you a good meal?'

Galitsin raised his head. "Yes, Comrade Colonel. They gave me a good meal. I will undoubtedly have diarrhoea.'

'Then they will give you something for that as well,' Tigran Dus said. 'And apart from the offence to your nostrils, you have been well treated?'

'I have not been treated at all, Comrade Colonel.'

Tigran Dus smiled. 'Your brain is still working, and that is good.' He stubbed out his cigarette, leaned forward. 'Has it occurred to you that you are an uncommonly lucky young man, Captain Galitsin? You are a deserter in time of war. You attempted to deceive your own comrades. You stole an army vehicle. All for the sake of a tart. I sometimes wonder if you have not gone mad.'

Galitsin gazed at Tigran Dus. 'I should have been shot, Days ago. Why was I not shot, Comrade Colonel?'

'I agree that you deserved it. But heroes, army chess champions, shooting men like that is a bad business. Bad for morale. Bad for discipline. Bad for comradeship, too. It makes one wonder who in all the world is to be trusted. So you have had a breakdown, while we decided what to do with you. What to do about you. It might help us to understand your motivatio
n. Tell me why, Alexander Petro
vich. Tell me about this woman, Irena Szen. Most officers from Budapest smile when they speak of her.'

'She was a whore,' Galitsin said. 'It is possible to love
a
whore.'

'Presumably. And is it also possible for a whore to love
a
soldier? A Magyar whore to love a Soviet soldier? In Budapest? In
1956?'

'We had met before.' Galitsin raised his head. 'In Pest. In
1945.'
He frowned. 'But you were there, Comrade Colonel.'

Tigran Dus got up, walked to the window, looked down at the line of prisoners taking their morning exercise, padding through the snow. He allowed his memory to roam over a pair of pale, perfectly formed legs, breasts to be cupped in a man's hand. He thought, What an amazing place this world is. And what a fool I am. He said, 'There were two girls in that house in Pest. And you were helping two women to escape from Buda.'

'That is correct, Comrade Colonel.'

'And the other woman? Was she also your mistress?'

'No,' Galitsin said. 'She was a friend of Irena's.'

'A girl with yellow hair,' Tigran Dus said softly. 'And I thought her of no account. You see before you something of a failure, Alexander Petrovich, and I had expected to admit that to no man. Did this other woman have yellow hair?'

Galitsin was gazing at him, no longer blinking, but frowning. Yes, Comrade Colonel.' 'And she wore a white raincoat?' Yes, Comrade Colonel.' 'And she was from England?' "Yes, Comrade Colonel.'

'And she once lay on the floor before me,' Tigran Dus said sadly. 'There was blood all over her face. I wanted to wash her face, to look at it, and I did not do so.'

'She had a beautiful face, Comrade Colonel. Her face is still beautiful, but bitter.'

'I am sure of that.' Tigran Dus returned to his desk, sat down, leaned forward. 'Tell me the truth, Alexander Petrovich. You went to Madam Csank's, and you met this woman Irena Szen, and you discovered you were falling in love with her . . .'

'I discovered that I had always been in love with her.'

'And did you discover that she was also in love with you? Had always been in love with you?'

'I do not think so. Perhaps she was flattered. Perhaps she just wanted a rest.'

'Perhaps. So she left Madam Csank's. For good?'

'She told Madam Csank that she was not well. She knew our arrangement could not be permanent'

'Of course. And she lived off of what you gave her. Your pay is what? Two hundred roubles a month? A prostitute like Irena Szen could earn that in a single night at Madam Csank's.'

'It was sufficient.'

'And you, of course, have no dependants. And so you spent all the leave you could obtain in Buda. No doubt Szen asked you certain questions?'

Galitsin shook his head. 'No, Comrade Colonel. She was not a fascist agent. She asked me nothing.'

'And the blonde woman? She was there too?'

'No.'

'But she was there at the end.'

'That is correct, Comrade Colonel.'

Yo
u knew she was coming to Buda?'

*No. When I got to the apartment, on the Tuesday night, she was already there. Even Irena had only just been informed she was coming. By telegram.'

'Did you
see the telegram?'