The Alien (12 page)

When Louise had gone an uncomfortable silence filled the room, broken only when Margaret said she must bring her writing things in from the garden.

“I'll come with you,'' Colin said.

“Why?''

“Why not?''

The fight was on again, all the more bitter for the short armistice over tea, all the more savage that each knew Boris was only a catalyst, not a prime cause, in their fundamental difference.

Having put her papers together, Margaret would have gone straight back to the house, but Colin stopped her with a heavy hand on her arm.

“You've got to tell me,'' he said. “I can't stand much more of this. It's bad enough having to watch him for—''

He broke off, but too late.

“So you spy on him, do you?'' she burst out. “As if he hadn't enough to contend with you've poisoned the minds of the people who can help him or send him back to his death?''

“Nonsense. Hysterical nonsense. Much more likely he's trying to use me.'' Caution, once breached, collapsed as the flood poured from him. “I suspected at the start he came here as a spy. He was planted by the Russians. They often do it. So do we, for that matter. Every country does. It's standard practice. It isn't
that
I mind, so much. It's using you to worm his way in. You were ready for it from the start, weren't you? The long-lost lover. There's nothing in it for you, my girl. So don't think there is.''

“Let me
go
!'' Margaret panted. She struck at his hand on her arm, striking, tearing, until he dropped his hand, not noticing where her nails had started a thin red trickle from his wrist.

“You seem to want me to hate you!'' she cried. “Or can't you even see me, the real me, behind the poor misused self you look at all the time? I think you're mad. There's nothing between Boris and me but an old friendship, not very well renewed. He's changed a lot – as I've changed.''

But only just – only beginning – she cried to herself, weeping inwardly for her dying love, her dead girlhood.

Colin looked at her with dull eyes, hearing only the false note as she ended.

“You haven't changed,'' he said. “God knows I've waited and hoped. But you haven't changed. You never will.''

“You accuse him of attempting to use you,'' she swept on. “How? He practically never sees you. What can he get from you? You never bring anything home that matters. You aren't allowed to.''

“He knows too much. He knew Scziliekowicz would be here today. He came into the house exactly when he meant to. He's ruined our relations with that particular society. They'll never trust us again. I shall be on the mat for it. It was a serious interview.''

“I don't believe you.''

“You can believe what you like. It was Sudenic's doing.''

“Now,'' she said, beside herself with rage, grief and a new gnawing anxiety grown from his words, “now listen to me. Boris told me today about his wife and children, how he loved them. The woman betrayed him and he knows he will never see any of them again.''

“You believed this story?''

“Oh, you're impossible!'' she threw at him. “It's useless to tell you anything.''

She left him under the trees, walking quickly to the house. Mrs. Ogden, back at last, saw her from the kitchen window.

“She looks fair upset,'' she said. “What's been going on 'ere this afternoon?''

“Happen it's thunder we've got coming.'' Ogden answered, supported by a distant growl almost as he finished speaking.

Colin, sitting hunched up on the day-bed, heard the thunder, too, considering it fully appropriate to his mood and circumstances. He stayed, brooding miserably, until he noticed the thin line of dried blood on the back of his hand. At any rate, he thought,
I
did no violence to
her
. Morally, he felt one up on her for that and drew a faint comfort from the thought. When a brief spatter of heavy drops struck the leaves above him he got up, folded the day-bed, put it away with the deck-chairs and went back into the house.

The storm that was circling in a kind of moody, undecided menace over London that evening caused many people to dive into doorways for shelter when those first heavy drops fell. Among them was Louise, who turned to put over her mass of bright curls one of those unbecoming, strictly functional pieces of plastic material that are so much less cumbersome to take about than an umbrella. Her summer coat, which was showerproof and which she carried over her arm, she now pulled on. Her shoes, black for the evening with high stiletto heels would just have to suffer. She watched the large drops spread on the pavement and dry quickly. Before five minutes had passed she was on her way again.

Boris, too, lifted his head to inspect the sky when the first drops struck his nose. But he continued on his way. Thunderstorms, he decided, like so much else in England, seemed incapable of making up their minds. This attitude was confirmed by his recent business interview. He was late, but he was kept waiting all the same. If he had been punctual, he learned from the secretary, he would have waited longer. The delay was not at all a deliberate punishment for his own ineptitude.

However, the affair had gone well. Sørensen would be satisfied. He knew that the managing director suspected his double role and resented the fact that he himself was not admitted into his government's confidence. Though this was in no way Boris's fault it did not help Sørensen to regard him with any favour. But this afternoon's transaction, though of a minor nature, ought to persuade him that his curious translator and odd-job man was, at least in part, genuinely concerned to promote the business, whatever else he did.

Since he had less distance to travel and had not stopped on the way, Boris arrived first at the rendezvous. This was an insignificant restaurant in an area near Queen's Road. The whole district was a mixture of large old Victorian houses, for the most part run down, side by side with smaller slum property, in process of demolition, with new development springing up in patches, all height and glass and concrete. The demolition followed roughly those parts that had been bombed during the war and had thereafter been shut up behind hoardings. But some of it, bordering on the network of railway tracks finding their way to Paddington station, consisted of small, close-packed, old-fashioned railway workers' cottages, in terrace formation for the most part, with here and there a group of little shops, a pub, even a small enclosed square or cul-de-sac at the end of a narrow alleyway.

The restaurant where Boris found a table and sat down to wait was in the middle of one of these groups of shops and had been a general grocer's itself until it failed in competition with the local supermarkets. Then a Pole, who had been in the British army in the war, managed to scrape together enough money to buy the place, put in a new front at street level, though not above and opened it with the help of an Italian cook. Boris discovered it when he explored the neighbourhood of his most recent dwelling.

Louise was nearly ten minutes late.

“But you gave me very little time,'' she protested, when he told her of this. They spoke in French as they usually did in public places. “If I had not come back early today you would not have seen me here at all. I didn't know I should find you just leaving the house.''

“No. I didn't know, either. You can stay?''

“I told Mrs. Brentwood I was asked to a party of Swiss friends. A sudden invitation. That was true, at any rate. Made at my class today, I told her.''

“That was a lie.''

“Would you prefer me to tell Mrs. Brentwood I am having an affair with you?''

“Hush.''

“They are all English here, aren't they? Except the proprietor and his cook?''

“They were,'' answered Boris, shortly.

One of the two very sleazy waitresses came to their table with a couple of covered dishes.

“I ordered while I was waiting for you,'' Boris said, smiling. “After all, there are only two dishes on the menu worth eating and we had the other one last time.''

Louise laughed, then leaned forward.

“Why did you say – that – before the food arrived?''

“Because there are four men who are sitting now in the window alcove at the right side of the door, who are speaking Polish and who came in about three minutes after you did.''

She did not look round; Boris had trained her sufficiently for that. Besides, she was not really interested in the more puzzling side of his life. She was in love with him and that was enough.

But she noticed the thoughtful look on his face as he told her about his compatriots and felt a slight anxiety as she listened.

“They won't want to talk to you, will they? They must not spoil our evening together. I couldn't bear that. Such a wonderful surprise to be destroyed for no reason—''

“There would be a reason,'' said Boris, gently. “I think I know who they are.''

“Then we can just greet them as we go out. Must there be more?''

“I must not appear to avoid them,'' said Boris, smiling a little. “But I will tell you what to do. We shall certainly not miss our evening together, my darling.''

“Tell me, then.'' His voice, caressing her, commanded her full submission.

“When I hung up your coat for you just now I put in the pocket, the right-hand pocket, a key of my new flat and a paper telling you the address and how to get there.''

“Have you moved again?'' She was disagreeably startled.

“Need that upset you? Or even surprise? When we finish our coffee you will take your coat to the ladies' room here and put the key in a safe place. Then you will learn what the paper says and put that down the drain. You understand?''

It was the first time he had asked her to take part in the game he played with so much care, ease and familiarity. She giggled.

“It's like a film,'' she said, longing to turn round and stare at the four strange figures near the door. Did they carry knives – or revolvers? Did they wear hats pulled down over their faces?

“A film by Alfred Hitchcock,'' she said, still laughing softly.

“It is essentially rather boring,'' Boris told her. “But unfortunately necessary.''

His tone was grave and his bearing remote. She understood, as she had always suspected, that there were tracts in his life, factual and spiritual, where she would never enter, never be allowed to trespass. Perhaps, she told herself, with true Swiss sturdy common sense, she would not enjoy those aspects of him at all. As a lover he was wonderful. Wasn't that enough? More than she had ever hoped for during her stay in this curious, easy-going, indifferent country? Particularly in the circle in which the Brentwoods moved; so polite, so cold, so basically uninterested in her and her needs. But outside it, too. Everywhere. Foreigners were creatures apart, like animals, to be treated kindly, even indulgently, if they behaved well. But if they appeared to be harmful or vicious, on grounds perhaps solely of prejudice, then they must be removed or destroyed as pests were destroyed, without further question, without mercy, with complete self-justification.

“What are you thinking?'' Boris asked. He had never seen Louise in such a serious mood and did not like it. She was his present escape from reality. She must be gay, amusing, happy, as full of warmth and life in her speech as her body was in his arms.

“I am thinking about being a foreigner in this country,'' she answered, truthfully.

“A big subject,'' he answered. “I often think of it myself.''

“I bet you do!'' She was laughing again now, looking so young and so delightfully pretty that she made him laugh himself for pure pleasure.

“Now you must go. To the ladies' room, first. The bus fare will be ninepence. I will come to you as soon as I can, but don't wait for me after ten.''

“What d'you mean?'' She was suddenly afraid.

“That I may be delayed. I hope not, but I can't be sure. Now go.''

Louise got up at once. Boris rose to give her her coat, then sat down again to catch the waitress's eye and ask for his bill. Louise disappeared through the dingy curtained opening with ‘Ladies' above it in black on a white chipped china plaque. He did not move until she came out again and then only bowed, without rising, to acknowledge her lifted hand. She left the restaurant, turning to the right as instructed.

The waitress brought his bill. He laid the tip on the table and went over to the desk near the door. As he turned away after paying the bill he found two men in his path.

“Good evening, Comrade Sudenic,'' said one of these, in Polish. “Can we persuade you to have another cup of coffee with us?''

“You can, indeed,'' said Boris, evenly. “But there is more room at the table I have just left. And besides,'' he said, smiling faintly, “window tables are a little draughty, don't you think, even if they do command the door?''

He led the way back to the corner table he had occupied with Louise, not bothering to look behind him to see if the others were following. He sat down and at once they were all there on each side and opposite, their elbows on the stained cloth, their grave, humourless faces and hard eyes bent upon him. Boris beckoned to the waitress and ordered more coffee for them all.

“You know the name by which I live at present,'' Boris said, calmly, looking at each in turn. “But you have not told me yours.''

The man who had first accosted him made up for this deficiency. It was a meaningless gesture, as Boris knew only too well, but it gave him an opening for his next remark, keeping the initiative in his own hands.

“Two of you I have seen before,'' he said. “I thought then that it was not by chance. Now I know I was right and I can discover more, perhaps. But first, will you tell me to whom you owe allegiance? To the Party in Poland or to your master farther east?''