The Longest Pleasure (21 page)

The young man moved. Galitsin had known for some minutes what his move must be, made his reply without hesitation, noted it on his score pad, leaned back again. He allowed his attention to wander over the room, the other players, the anxious officials, the smiling, whispering onlookers, each trying to prove himself a better player than his neighbour by noticing some hidden strength or weakness in one of the positions, their girl friends, some glowing with interest, most frankly bored, dragged all the freezing way from London to look at a lot of old fogies and silly schoolboys pushing pieces of wood around a chequerboard, one standing by herself, a faint air of surprise surrounding her, as if she were not sure how or why she had come into the sun lounge in the first place, gazing at Galitsin.

His heart began to pound; he could feel the blood swelling into his arteries, the heat reaching outwards to his flesh. She was tall, and thin. The thinness, and the elongation, reached upwards to the face, all cheekbones and wide mouth, pointed nose and chin. What pretensions she had once had to beauty had disappeared, and the still-youthful, long brown hair framed a tired, haunted face. Yet suddenly there was no other woman in the room.

She wore a brown fur coat, mink, he thought, and high-heeled boots. Her left hand was covered with rings, and a strand of pearls slipped downwards from her neck, lay on the breast of her grey woollen suit. A leather handbag hung across her left arm. And now she smiled, very slightly, held his gaze with her own for a moment, and turned away. He watched her leave the room.

The young man had moved, started Galitsin's clock, was gazing at him with a puzzled expression. Galitsin looked down at the board, saw the tall, thin figure moving slowly through the next room. She would climb the steps, out into the snow and the ice, catch a bus . . . no, the mink coat suggested that she would either have a car of her own, chauffeur-driven, or would
call a taxi. She had done well,
but she was still only a moth, who had allowed herself to be sucked into the flames. Except that Rauser had moved across the room, was discussing the prospects of the grandmaster who seemed equally certain to win the Premier Tournament. There would be no risk in taking a walk in the snow. This smoke-filled room depressed him at the best of times.

He held out his hand. "You will accept a draw?'

The young man's mouth opened, and his gaze dropped to the board. Then he snatched Galitsin's hand. 'A draw,' he said. 'Yes. Thank you.'

Galitsin stood up, glanced down at the board. 'A difficult position,' he remarked. 'An interesting game. Good afternoon.'

He walked between the tables, paused at the door, looked back. A crowd had gathered around the board, and the young man was attempting to explain his amazing good fortune in terms of chess logic. The buzz, which defied even the controller's plea for silence, had disturbed Rauser. He was attempting to get through the crowd. But he supposed Galitsin was still seated at the table, hidden by the milling people.

Galitsin hurried through the coffee lounge, up the stone steps, collecting his greatcoat from the hook and shrugging it on to his shoulders as he reached the freezing air. The promenade was deserted. It would soon be dusk, and almost no one walks along a seaside promenade on a January afternoon. But a mink coat is warm enough even for a January afternoon.

He thrust his hands into his pockets, walked behind her. His boots hit the concrete, and her pace slowed. She turned away from him, stood by the rail, looking down at the shingle. He walked past her, very close, so that he could inhale her scent, his left hand just brushing the arm of her coat. But here they were exposed. He kept on walking, went down some steps, reached the shingle beach. Now he was eight feet below the level of the promenade, lost to the sight of anyone not actually on the beach, and there was no one on the beach.

He gazed at the steps, watched the high-heeled boots, the thin, nylon-clad legs, the flutter of the skirt, the gentle contours of the coat. She stood on the bottom step. 'You should not have followed me, Sandor.'

'I know. I'm sorry. I wanted to warn you. They are using me as a bait.'

She gazed at him, her eyes very deep. 'To catch me, Sandor?'

'To catch Kirsten. But you will be involved.' 'And you agreed to do this?'

'There was no alternative.' He kept his hands in his pockets, watched her leave the steps. Her heels slipped on the shingle, and still he kept his hands in his pockets. She recovered her balance, stood against him.

'My feet hurt. Is that not a confession for a whore? My big toe is so swollen it is just agony.' She smiled. 'And they were so sure that I would come to see you?'

'I am to advertise. In
The Times
newspaper. They are composing the advertisement right now. I am to stay in England after the tournament.'

'And they were right,' Irena said. 'I would have answered an advertisement from you, Sandor.'

'I would still have found a way to warn you.'

‘
Did you not wish to see me again, Sandor ?'

'I have dreamed of you every night for more than a year.'

'Then touch me.'

He shook his head. 'You said in Buda, that last morning, that we must remember. That is all we must do now.'

She reached up with her mouth, thrust out her tongue, stroked it across his lips. 'You see that I have been successful. In London prostitution can be very rewarding.' She smiled. 'I have become a capitalist. Kirstie looks after me, invests my money on the Stock Exchange. Soon, perhaps, I will retire, and go to live in Majorca, or perhaps the Bahamas. This is the English pattern, the English dream. Perhaps one in every ten thousand makes his dream come true, Sandor. But they all dream. This is the freedom they talked about, in the West. The freedom to dream. But is it not strange, to dream of leaving your country when you have not even been persecuted ? And if I do not answer your advertisement what will become of you?'

He shrugged, and licked his lips, to taste her tongue. 'They cannot punish me because you do not take
The Times.
Or perhaps you may be dead. Nobody knows.'

She nodded. 'Then we shall say goodbye. We did not have an opportunity to say goodbye the last time. So, after all, fate is kind to us, Sandor. I would like to sleep with you once more. I will add that to my dreams. Will you not touch me once?'

He shook his head. He wanted to ask her, Do you still paint your nipples? Do you still prefer masturbation to coition? Can you still achieve orgasm at will? But her presence had hardened the nebulous resolve in his mind. 'It may be possible, one day, for me to visit you, Irena. Would you like that?'

Irena Szen smiled. 'To be loved by you, Alexander Petrovich, has been the only memorable thing that has ever happened to me. I will look forward to your visit. My name is in the telephone book, Renee
Smith, for the English. It is a
Mayfair number. It would be better for you to telephone first.'

He watched the coat recede, kept his eyes fixed on the steps, saw the thin legs, and then the boots. He listened to the sound of her heels on the concrete above his head. Once he thought they checked, as if to return, t
hen they went on, fading into th
e darkness.

Tigran Dus stood up, watched Helena Isbinska following the head waiter. His table was discreetly tucked away in the farthest corner of
the restaurant. It was permanentl
y reserved for Colonel Dus. The head waiter bowed as he

E

ulled out the chair. On
e took no chances with Colonel D
us's guests. They could all be agents of the Fourth Bureau.

Tigran Dus poured champagne. 'Ewfim did not object?'

Helena shook her head. There were pink spots in her cheeks, and she was breathless. She had just left Gorki Street, where the women were still sweeping away the snow left by the morning's blizzard, and the temperature remained twenty below. The cont
rast in colouring was delightful.

Tigran Dus sat down. 'Well, then, let us drink a toast to Alexander Petrovich.'

She sipped, and gazed at him. She had the most serious face of any young woman he had ever known. Her seriousness was the more unusual in a Russian woman, the quickest of all to smile. But it meant that when she chose to smile, the sudden lightening of her face was beautiful. 'He is well?' she asked.

'Very well. He has not written?'

'I did not expect him to. He is playing chess, and that * will take up all his time.'

'One would presume so, Helena Petrovna.'

She drank the last of her champagne, and he refilled her glass. 'There is something wrong?'

'I hope not, Helena. I am flying to London this afternoon. Officially it has nothing to do with Alexander at
all,
but I will make it my business to have
a
talk with him. May I give him your love ?'

'I should like you to.' She was drinking again, her cheeks flaming. 'What has happened?'

'Nothing has happened, Helena.' Tigran Dus lit a cigarette. 'But, as you know, Alexander is now working for me. His trip, in fact, is
a
professional one. You understand
all
of this?'

She nodded.

'Of course I cannot tell you what work he is engaged upon, but I assure you that it is a simple task, easily accomplished within the framework of his participation in the chess tournament. But now I have received a cablegram from my man in Hastings, suggesting that Alexander is behaving very strangely. He is refusing to put a simple advertisement in the newspaper, which is part of his task, and he is seeing a great deal of an American woman journalist. I wish I knew how his mind was working.'

'He is absorbed by the tournament,' Helena said. 'He is doing very well, according to
Schachmaty.
Surely there can be nothing more than this?'

'That would not explain this American woman. She is not a chess reporter. As a matter of fact, she appears to know nothing at all about the game, but she was in Moscow eighteen months ago, just at the time Alexander won the Army Championship, and they met on that occasion. Now she has apparently met him again in Hastings, by chance. If there is such a thing as chance in these affairs. It is all very disturbing. One can never trust the Americans.'

Helena Isbinska finished her second glass of champagne. She opened her handbag, took out a packet of cigarettes. Her hands trembled. Tigran Dus leaned forward to light it for her. 'You cannot be suggesting that Alexander is working with an American agent?'

'I agree the idea is incredible. But there are several things in Alexander's past that I find hard to explain. There are aspects of his character which are disturbing. That breakdown may have been more serious than any of us supposed. In any event, I am going to England to remind him of his obligations. It is so easy to forget that one owes a duty, to oneself, to one's country, and, most of all, to one's family.

Of
course, Alexander
's
only remaining family
is
you, Helena, but I feel his obligations are increased thereby. He
is
fond of you?'

Helena Isbinska finished her third glass of champagne, stubbed out her cigarette. She sat very straight in her chair. 'I think he is fond of me, Comrade Colonel. You must understand that in recent years we have seen very little
of
one another.'

'Nevertheless, I am sure that he loves you deeply. In all my conversations with him I have gained this impression. I would like you to write him a letter.'

'I am not sure that he would like me to write to him in England.'

'I would like you, to write it now, Helena, and I will deliver it personally. I am leaving this afternoon, as I said. Here, I have paper and pen. I want you to tell him how much you are all missing him, and what a splendid winter we are having, and how well you all are. Be very happy and bright and cheerful for me, Helena Petrovna, so Alexander will realise how much he has to come home to.' Tigran Dus leaned across the table, closed his fingers on hers. 'You understand how important this is, Helena. Not only for Alexander.'

Helena saw his eyes move, and turned in her chair to look at the next table. Two men sat there, drinking vodka. They wore dark grey suits, and seemed to be sharing a private joke. One of them saw her looking at them, and returned her gaze for a moment, then allowed his eyes to drop, to her shoulders and breasts, past her thighs to her boots. He made a remark to his colleague.

Helena Isbinska turned back to the table. Tigran Dus had spread a sheet of expensive notepaper in front of her, was removing the gold cap from his pen.

Suddenly she was breathless. The room seemed to be closing about her, stifling her ability to think, to plan, dissipating her courage. Helena Isbinska picked up the pen.