The Longest Pleasure (25 page)

'I went to see him, you see,' Irena said.
‘I
didn't tell you, because I knew it would only upset you. But we had quite
a
long talk.'

‘
You went to see Galitsin? At Hastings?' Irena drank port. 'Yes.'

'I told you not to go near that place under any circumstances.'

Irena drank some more port. 'I am not your servant, Kirstie. I wish you would understand that. You helped me to get out of Hungary, and I am grateful. I have shown you my gratitude a thousand times. But I am not your servant. I do not even need you any more, Kirstie. I am
a
wealthy woman, so you tell me. Give me notice to quit. I will find somewhere better.'

'And the fact that you were endangering my life meant nothing to you?'

'Oh, what nonsense you talk. You have lived in the world of agitation for so long it is your brain that is addled.
I
just went, to the tournament. Hundreds of people were there, watching the chess. I went to. watch Galitsin. Who was to know the difference? I wanted to see him for one last time.
I
did not mean him to see me.'

'But he did. How remarkable. What
a
tremendous coincidence that he should see you, merely because you happened to be in the same room.' Kirsten Moeller threw her cup on to the table, scattered brown liquid across the linen tablecloth. 'So what did he do?'

'He left his game and followed me.'

'Never! I don't believe it.
I
just don't! Why in the name of God should Alexander Galitsin do so remarkable
a
thing as follow Irena Szen.'

'Stop it,' Irena shouted.
'I
hate you when you make fun of me. You know that'

'Tell me what happened when he followed you.' Kirsten Moeller stood up.

Irena finished her port 'We walked along the esplanade, and we talked. Not for long. But he told me that you were right, and he was the bait, and that I had made a mistake in going there. You see, Kirstie, he agreed with you, and said that I must stay away. I was upset, of course. Because he still loves me. After all this time, and everything that has happened. Isn't that marvellous? Nothing like that has ever happened to me before.
I
wish another drink.'

She stood up, and Kirsten Moeller placed her hand on her chest and pushed her back again. Then she took the glass from Irena's fingers, dropped it on the carpet, and stepped on it. 'Go on.'

'If you hit me, Kirstie, I'll... I'll hit you back. I swear it.'

Kirsten Moeller thrust her hands into Irena Szen's armpits, pulled her to her feet, released her and slapped her across the face. Irena stepped backwards, struck the table, lost her balance and sat down, carrying the tablecloth with her. The teapot struck her on the shoulder, and tea cascaded down her suit. A plate of toast landed in her lap.

Kirsten Moeller stood above her, kicked her in the thigh. 'Go on.'

Irena drew up her legs. 'That was all. But he said he would try to see me, when it was safe.'

'So then you parted. How romantic! How was he to see you again, Irena, dear one? He doesn't know where you live. Or does he?'

'I gave him the address. Kirstie! You must believe me. He loves me. That is all.'

Kirsten Moeller swung her hand, once, twice, three times. Irena Szen's face shuddered with each blow, and her head swung to and fro. 'You stupid, God-damned, Hungarian moron.' Kirsten Moeller pronounced each word with great care. 'Oh, you need a drink, all right.' She went to the sideboard, picked up the decanter. 'Open wide!' Irena gasped and ducked. The crystal struck the table above her head, and port dripped on to her face. The door opened, and Barnes looked in.

'Boy!' Kirsten Moeller shouted. 'Come in here. Shake down that bitch.'

Barnes crossed the room.

'Kirstie!' Irena shrieked. 'No!' She attempted to crawl under the table. Barnes caught her by her hair, stretched her on her back on the floor with a single tug. Irena's head struck and her eyes glazed. Her left arm fell away from her body, and her fingers extended. Barnes placed his booted foot on her hand, slowly eased his weight forward.

'No!' Kirsten Moeller said. 'Wait a moment.'

Barnes rocked backwards, lifted his foot, stood to attention. Irena gazed at him, shook her head, raised her left hand and held it in front of her face. She looked at it as if she had never seen it before, moved the fingers to and fro. Blood dribbled from the corner of her mouth.

Kirsten Moeller sat down, rested her elbow on her knee, her chin on her hand. She stared at Irena Szen, and Irena Szen, like a mesmerised rabbit, gazed back at her, slowly rising to a sitting position.

'You gave Galitsin your address ten days ago,' Kirsten Moeller said. 'And nothing has happened. That is very odd.'

'Not odd, Kirstie. Not odd,' Irena gasped. 'I told you he would never do anything to hurt me. To risk hurting me. He will wait until he is safe from the Russians, and then he will come to us.'

'Yes,' Kirsten Moeller said, suddenly soft-voiced. Yes. That must be it. I am crediting those moujiks with more
intelligence than they possess. Yes.' She held out her hands. 'I am sorry I lost my temper, Irena. Help her, boy.'

The chauffeur assisted Irena to her feet Irena smoothed her jacket. 'It is ruined. These stains will never come out'

‘
Your face is all bruised, too,' Kirsten said. "You had better go into the bathroom and have a good wash, and then Barnes will drive you home, and you can go back to bed, dear one. And tomorrow you and I will go shopping for some new dresses. We'll go to Fortnums. Wouldn't you like that?'

‘I
can buy my own dresses, thank you, Kirstie,' Irena said. 'I wish you would learn to remember that.'

'I would like to give you a present' Kirsten Moeller stood up, took Irena's hands, drew her close, kissed her on each cheek, and then on the mouth. She held her close for a long moment, released her. You should not sulk. It does not become you.'

'I will wash my face.' Irena left the room.

Kirsten Moeller lay down on the day bed, kicked off her slippers, wriggled her toes. She gazed at Barnes, the tip of her tongue protruding through her lips. Barnes bent over her, took the tongue into his mouth, stared at her eyes. His left hand flopped forward, stroked the hard nipple pushing against the silk.

Ki
rsten Moeller moved her head. D
o you enjoy beating up women, boy?'

Barn
es smiled.

‘I
might want you to beat up Miss Smith. She enjoys being beaten, on her terms. She might not like it so much were you to satisfy yourself. But you will not touch her until I say so, boy.'

Barnes nodded.

'So now I wish you to drive her home. And then you will go to Dickson, and tell him I wish him to put a very good man on to watching Miss Smith's apartment, day and night, until further notice.'

Barnes nodded.

'And when you have done that, boy, I wish you to come straight back here.'

Barnes stood above Kirsten Moeller, heels together, fingers loose at his sides. He looked down at her, at the pale white of the legs sliding through the silk dressing gown.

'And when you get back,' Kirsten Moeller said, smiling
at
him, 'you can assist Maisie in cleaning this place up.'

To paint you must first draw. Surely. Galitsin stood in front of the canvas, looked from it, through the bedroom window at the sea. But not direct on to the canvas. On to
a
sketching block. So Nancy had said. Make
a
sketch. Of what? He wished to paint the sea, and you cannot draw the sea. The sea is a mood. You throw out your mind, and see what part of the sea you can scoop up into the grey cells, and you translate that very quickly to the canvas, while the mood is on you.

Besides, Galitsin knew nothing of drawing, of perspective. He held up his pencil, close to the window, measured the height of a distant wave. Half a millimetre. He wondered how much that was, out there in Lyme Bay. There were whitecaps, today, because there was
a
wind. More than half a millimetre.

But if you cannot draw, there is no need to despair. Because surely the secret of painting is colour. And you cannot be taught colour sense. You either possess it, or not. He squeezed a tube of blue, dipped his brush, drew it across the canvas, a long wavy smudge from left to right. The surface of the sea? No. It remained a long, wavy blue smudge. From left to right. But he liked the colour. Blue was the most evocative of colours. No. Red was the most evocative of colours. Deep red. Blood red. But blue was certainly evocative. Blue was the colour of depression. So Alexander Galitsin had chosen it instinctively. Now he must add red, quickly. But red was even more of a mistake. Red was the colour of blood, dripping down the canvas, away from
a
torn navel, seeping into a tangled forest. Red was a disaster. That had not happened for years.

It was eleven o'clock. Time for a drink. Nancy's phrase. He was Nancy's man, now. Her shadow. Her creation. Her thing. He went downstairs, poured himself a whisky and soda, added ice. Not correct. The ice should have gone in first. He wondered if he would ever drink like an Englishman. Correction. Nancy drank like an American. Englishmen did not take ice in their whisky at all. That was a very bad thing to do, if you were an Englishman. But Englishmen only drank Scotch wh
isky, and this was bourbon. Did
Englishmen take ice with their bourbon? He wondered if he would ever get it straight.

He sat down, stretched his legs in front of him, sipped his drink. For four days he had been alone in this cottage. And up to this moment he had enjoyed every second of it. To be free, to think as he chose, and come and go as he chose. To pour himself a drink, as he chose. But this morning the magic had passed. Because man was a social animal? Or because the sheer power of Nancy Connaught was wearing-off, and he was able to think again, as a man, to understand what had
happened, what he had done. To
remember Mother, and, through Mother, Russia. And Helena.

He leaned back, gazed at the ceiling. It was a pale blue. But blue was not a colour one associated with Nancy Connaught. Blue was more the colour of Irena Szen.

Now that was the most serious error of all. For nearly two weeks he had not allowed himself to think about Irena. To think about Irena was to create tensions, awarenesses, and in this cottage there was no room for any awareness of the world outside. And Helena? Tigran Dus would by now have claimed his forfeit. Whatever that might ultimately be. But to begin with it would involve Tigran Dus, naked. And Helena, naked. That was what she wanted. Actually desired, for some reason of her own. No man ever really understood woman. Perhaps Ewfim was too kind, too gentle. Perhaps women wanted more than that. Perhaps Helena Isbinska, more than other women. Helena Isbinska had also watched the blood-filled navel. He had never before considered the implications of that. Alexander Galitsin, because of that incident in his youth, was a man of confused and sometimes terrible desires. Thus surely Helena Isbinska, because of that incident in her youth, must be a woman of confused and sometimes terrible desires. Helena Isbinska, mother of two, woman of the night.

He opened the back door, went outside. He wore only shirt and pants, and the cold swallowed him up. His nipples became little daggers, scraping the inside of his shirt. Breathing hurt his nostrils. But thinking was easy. In the cold, thought became pragmatic, and the cobwebs drifted away. Thus, Alexander Petrovich Galitsin was a traitor. To his country, to his regiment, t
o his family. And to his sister
most of
all.
Alexander Petrovich Galitsin had become
a
large fish, floundering on
a
crowded beach, regarded by
all
other creatures with amusement, or contempt. Alexander Petrovich Galitsin had nothing to offer any of those creatures. He was
a
man without courage, without decision, without talent. He possessed love, which in
a
soldier was absurd and contemptible. He possessed softness, which was worse. He possessed thoughts. Soldiers should never think. Neither should good communists.

But then Alexander Petrovich Galitsin was not
a
good communist, had never been a good communist. So perhaps it was logical for him now to be asked to be a good individual, in
a
world of individuals, all scrabbling their way to the top, treading on those who did not climb fast enough, did not hold on firmly enough to whatever place they had achieved. No doubt it was easy to be an individual, when one was educated to it, and had the talents to sustain it. When one's name, perhaps, was Nancy Connaught. It was not possible without that. And to live with Nancy Con-naught, in the shadow of Nancy Connaught, in the dominance of that pulsing mind, that mother-goddess body, was to disappear from view. Fishes, cast on the beach, drowned in oxygen. Communists, soldiers, cowards, separated from the motherland and from the regiment, drowned in freedom.