Making Enemies (38 page)

I sat alone in the apartment with the blinds drawn. It seemed safer that way. When the telephone rang I ignored it. I wanted to be alone, out of sight, left to myself.

Twenty-four hours ago Matti Sigrin had sat in the chair opposite me. Tanya had been right. Her gamble brought me to my senses. But it had been too late. Soon after I had lost the woman I loved to my own madness and my father to the Russians. I was full of self-contempt for the way I had behaved towards Tanya. I loathed myself. There was no one else I could blame for what had happened. I reached for the whisky and poured myself another glass.

An hour later – perhaps it was more, I had no idea of the time – the doorbell rang. I awoke with a start and stayed put, hardly daring to breathe. It rang again, a longer blast this time, then the letter box was rattled. Then silence again, leaving me to my misery.

I had failed in everything I had tried to do. I had been unable to control my anxieties about Tanya, I had not persuaded my father to leave Helsinki, nor had I protected him while he was there. Was there nothing I could do properly? Helsinki was the city of my humiliation and I wanted to get away from it as fast as I could.

Where to? Home? To do that I would have to go past the mocking stares of the embassy officials, run the gauntlet of the suspicions of the Finnish police – I must know more than I had let on, why else would I have been in Helsinki at the same time as my father? Then back to what? The sneering hostility of the British press, grave-robbers of my father’s reputation. It was an appalling prospect.

I must have dozed again because the next thing I was aware of was the door opening and a shadowy figure creeping into the apartment.

‘Danny?’ A whisper. Fingers lightly touching my hand. ‘Are you all right?’ The voice I thought I’d never hear again.

‘Yes.’

‘I heard the news. I’m so sorry.’

Was that why she’d come back? She’d heard about my father and had felt sorry for me. I bit my tongue and stopped myself saying the first thing that came into my mind.

How long did we stand there like that? A second? A minute? An hour? I wanted her in my arms, I wanted to hold her and to feel in her touch that the past was erased, that I was forgiven for my unforgivable behaviour.

‘I went because I was not sure of you any more,’ she said. ‘I did not know what you might do or say. I stayed away because I was afraid you would not be here when I returned.’

‘I’m here,’ I said. ‘I’m never going away again. Never.’

‘Never without me,’ she said, her fingers tightening around mine. ‘Never without me.’

She was in my arms, kissing me, giving herself to me. I knew then that what she had told me was true. The past is nothing because it’s dead. What matters is the present and the future. Her present and her future were mine, and mine hers.

I will not ask you to understand what I have done. I can explain my motives. What judgement you make is up to you.

I believed that I could do some good. Saving Ruth’s life became a metaphor for saving the world from nuclear disaster by arguing the case with the scientists here. What is science if not the only true international language? We have the power to destroy our civilization, I told them. I thought I could face them with the dire consequences of our mutual folly and get them to change their minds. I thought I would speak to men and women of like mind, members of the same community. I thought individual opinion might become a chorus.

How wrong I was. There are no grounds for argument here because argument is forbidden. There is only one truth, and that truth is dependent upon the Central Committee whose decisions cannot be questioned because they are the logical deductions of the principles of Marxist-Leninism. The process of debate has been dismantled. Scientific enquiry does not exist. The answers to everything are to be found in Marxist theory.

Scientists who honour truth have been dismissed from their posts, some denied their academic degrees; they have vanished or are in prison camps or work at menial jobs. All opposition has been crushed. Reason is dead. Time-servers rule. I am surrounded by men and women who owe their positions to the fervour of their Marxism, their belief in socialist reconstruction, not to any inherent ability nor any objective truth. They are dangerous evangelists of a corrupt dogma and such is the depth of the corruption that surrounds me here, their gospel cannot be challenged because its political origins are considered to be without blemish. Their truth is the new faith. These men and women are the ruling elite here.

Surrounding them are the sullen masses who close their ears to every noise in the night, who avert their eyes from the realities of life around them because they are frightened. I have never before seen a society built on fear. I have never understood how fear of your wife, your husband, your son, your daughter, your neighbour, your teacher, your employer can shrink your humanity to nothing, annihilate your responsibilities to others, erode your sense of self until all that is left is the will to survive, a pure animal instinct and nothing more.

We have been betrayed in the West by so many who came here in the years before the war and saw what they wanted to see, heard what they wanted to hear and proclaimed the new socialist dawn. But in reality it is the blackest endless night imaginable.

As for my own circumstances, I am a mixture of prisoner and celebrity. I have my own apartment, I am looked after, my clothes are washed, my food is cooked for me, I can see Ruth and Valery whenever I choose, I have been allowed to speak to scientists at the Institute of Nuclear Research. I have been paraded in front of the press, much against my will. Statements have been issued in my name which I have no knowledge of, praising the Soviet system. I have been betrayed at every turn, used by Andropov and his people as a pawn in a propaganda war. Whatever you may read about me, it is not true.

Is it worth it? Might some shred of goodness come out of all this mess that can save me from my own humiliation? The safety of Ruth and her son is, if not secure (is anything secure here?), at least possible but I cannot guarantee it. I have seen how Ruth has become another person here. When we are together my presence reminds her of what she was. She can only survive in this city of darkness by eradicating that woman and becoming another. These two selves are incompatible. I am a permanent reminder of what she has lost, and if I stay much longer I will drive her to despair. I cannot do that to her. Somehow I must get out of here before I do more damage.

Today I went for a walk. I am followed everywhere I go, there is no attempt at disguise. I looked out at the Moscow River and wished it were the Cam. A man came and stood beside me. At first I didn’t notice him. Then he spoke to me in English.

‘Professor Stevens?’

‘Yes.’

‘My name’s Williams. I’m a journalist here.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘I wanted you to know how much we despise you for what you’ve done.’

He looked at me with contempt and walked away.

Help me, Daniel. Help me. I thought I could do good and I was wrong. I have made a terrible mistake. I have gained nothing and lost everything. Help me. Please.

One night he wakes her and whispers that he is a prisoner in her city, that he cannot do anything without Andropov’s approval, that when he is not conforming to Andropov’s timetable he has to stay in his small apartment, reading, smoking, listening to the radio, for hours on end. Andropov’s guard sits all day and all night by the lift at the top of the stairs.

‘He smokes disgusting cigarettes.’

‘Red Stars,’ she says. ‘They always smoke Red Stars, the filthiest cigarettes in the world.’

He has been interviewed by officers of the intelligence service in a large yellow building in the centre of Moscow. She recognizes his description of the Lubyanka and wonders if their interviews have taken place in the same room. He has told them nothing. To his surprise they have accepted his right to keep silent and have not questioned him further.

‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’ She asks, at last understanding his strange restlessness.

‘I didn’t want to disappoint you,’ he says. ‘I didn’t want to add to your burdens. I have almost told you many times.’

Then, in the dark, holding her hand tightly, he pours out his misery and frustration to her. She has to remind him to whisper.

‘I am shown continuously round laboratories, scientific engineering works, model factories, apartment blocks under construction. I meet factory workers, builders, architects, I see plans for vast new workers’ cities, I am given instruction on the richness of resources in the Soviet Union by economists from government institutions. I am told of limitless budgets for scientific enquiry. It would seem I am on a conducted tour of the Soviet wonder-state.’

‘Do you believe what you see?’ she asks.

He hesitates before answering. ‘What no one will tell me is the price that is paid for it all. How can I believe anything until I know that?’

For an instant she wonders herself. How is this possible? Where do these resources come from? Her mind toys momentarily with the idea that within the state she knows there is another state, a mirror image, inverted, where freedom is slavery, day is night. This city is hidden somewhere in the endless Soviet deserts, cruelly dedicated to the ambitions of the men in the Kremlin; a hateful, cancerous secret in this kingdom of secrets, one that is too awful even to be whispered. She dismisses the thought.

His requests to speak to Soviet scientists (his old friend, Peter Kapitza) or to lecture to scientific students have all been refused.

‘If it weren’t for you and the boy …’ he says, and stops.

They lie in the dark, prisoners behind invisible bars, looking up at the pattern of light reflected on the ceiling of the bedroom. His sudden silence tells her he is learning to live in this strange country.

*

They are washing up when he surprises her with his question. ‘I have a day free. I would like to meet your colleagues. Can that be arranged?’

(When he asks, Andropov told her after she had finally pinned him down to a brief meeting, you must agree.)

‘Of course,’ she replies. ‘You must come to the Institute.’

That is why they are gathered now in one of the meeting rooms, Tomasov, Gromsky, Markarova, Lykowski. The sun pours in through the opened windows and it is very hot. Elizabeth Markarova has asked for a fan to be brought (the fan that usually serves the meeting rooms has disappeared while being serviced), but there are no spare fans in the building.

‘Would it be cooler,’ Tomasov suggests, ‘to pick up our chairs and sit outside under the cedar tree?’

Outside is a dying wilderness. The long grass is uncut and burned brown in the drought, no one has bothered to clear away the dead flowers. Ruth wants to hide all this from Stevens (would he notice?) because she knows that in Cambridge the grass in the colleges is always green and well kept and the flowers are neatly arranged in narrow beds. (She remembers him telling her this all those years ago.) She is embarrassed by this example of Soviet neglect.

‘Couldn’t we pull down the blinds?’ she asks, adding defensively. ‘To keep out the glare.’

Tomasov, who is chain-smoking, gets up, cigarette between his lips, and draws the blinds. The room is cast into gloom. The heat is as intense as ever.

‘Now we can’t see a thing,’ Gromsky says.

Lykowski opens a bottle of mineral water using a penknife (there is no bottle-opener on the table, there never has been for as long as anyone can remember. Bottles of mineral water are seldom opened). He pours himself a glass.

‘Does your professor speak Russian?’ Elizabeth Markarova asks. She is smoking nervously. ‘If not, how will he know what we have to say?’

‘I will translate,’ Ruth says.

‘You’ve concealed your ability to speak English very well, Ruth,’ Markarova says, stubbing out her cigarette angrily. ‘What a clever moment to reveal it.’

She has felt Elizabeth Markarova’s hostility since this meeting was arranged. She suspects it is jealousy. Markarova was one of the group that went to Leiden. She remembers her disapproval then. Ruth is sure Markarova never imagined that Stevens would reappear in her life in this way. She is frustrated that there is no advantage she can gain from it.

‘When did you say he was coming?’ Pavel is strung up, more so than usual. ‘It’s half past now. If he’s going to be late—’

‘He is always punctual,’ she says trustingly.

The tension is worse than she imagined and she doesn’t understand why. They are restless, irritable with nerves, on edge, too ready to find fault with each other or with her. She is alarmed by their state of mind. What are they expecting from Stevens? Is there something going on she knows nothing about? Or has she miscalculated? Should she have warned Stevens? She is suddenly terrified that the meeting will slip out of her control.

There is the sound of voices in the corridor. The door opens and Stevens is shown in.

‘I hope I haven’t kept you waiting,’ he says. Ruth introduces him to each member of the group.

‘Professor Stevens of Cambridge University. This is a great honour for all of us.’

Did she ever imagine in all her dreaming that one day she would
see her English professor shaking hands with her colleagues in the main meeting room of the Institute?

‘May I sit here?’ He takes a seat at the end of the table. ‘Thank you for your invitation. It is a great pleasure to be asked to come here. I am sure you have questions for me. Why don’t you begin?’

He looks round at each of them while she translates his question into Russian. Gromsky and Tomasov nod self-consciously to signify that they have understood.

‘We have only one question and it does not matter which of us asks it,’ Lykowski says, spitting out the words in the urgency of his request. ‘Please tell us what we are all anxious to know. What has our protest achieved? Has it been successful?’

Ruth can see that this is not the question Stevens had expected. He has come prepared for a scientific discussion. Her stomach turns as she realizes that she has completely misread the mood of the group. She knows that around this table the questions will be largely political.

‘I am sitting here now among you,’ Stevens says. ‘My presence in Moscow is proof of your success.’

His remark does not receive the response he is expecting. There is bafflement and uncertainty around the table as they listen intently to Ruth’s translation.

‘I do not think Professor Stevens understands,’ Lykowski insists. ‘What we want to know is whether our actions have changed anything.’

‘It is too soon to say,’ Stevens replies. ‘But I can assure you the bravery of your stand is widely known outside the Soviet Union. The idea of renouncing nuclear weapons is now actively debated in the West. It is an idea with many supporters, some of them powerful men. There is a growing body of public opinion in favour of international, non-political control of nuclear development. Without your courage, perhaps this debate might never have started.’

Lykowski is shaking his head. ‘Please,’ he says, ‘you misunderstand my question. It is not the West I am referring to. It is our own Soviet leadership. Have we convinced them by our actions? That is the question you must answer for us.’

‘How can I answer that?’ Stevens asks Ruth. ‘I don’t know what your government thinks.’

‘You must tell them the truth,’ she says, feeling sick.

Stevens surveys the questioning faces in front of him. ‘I know
nothing about your government’s reaction,’ he says. ‘I cannot answer your question.’

There is silence in the room. The gloom deepens.

‘You have no idea?’

‘How could I have?’

‘Have you not spoken to members of the Central Committee since your arrival in Moscow?’

‘No.’

‘Have you not met members of the Politburo?’

‘I have met no senior political officials. Nor have I been presented with the opportunity to do so.’

‘Do you not want to meet our leaders?’ Tomasov asks.

‘What could I say to them?’

‘Are you not here as an emissary from the West to persuade our government to change its policy on the manufacture of nuclear weapons?’

‘No.’

‘Then why have you come?’

It is worse than she has imagined it could be.

‘I’m here on my own account,’ Stevens replies. ‘My presence has nothing to do with the Central Committee or any political body, Soviet or Western.’

‘However important you may be in your country, what can you achieve here on your own?’

‘I come with messages of encouragement from the West. You are strongly supported by your fellow scientists in other countries. Many of us are solidly behind you. I represent that support. You have the protection of our voices. Now you can sleep easier at night.’

Gromsky turns away, shaking his head. ‘That is nothing,’ he says. ‘Nothing at all.’

‘I did not expect to find that people in the West worry about whether I sleep at night.’ Lykowski laughs contemptuously. He spits his remarks at Ruth. She is losing him now.

‘You must help me,’ Stevens says to Ruth. He is bewildered. ‘Your colleagues want me to deliver something that is impossible.’

Before Ruth can say anything, Elizabeth Markarova interrupts.

‘This is not the message we thought you would bring us, Professor Stevens,’ she says. ‘We understood you had been sent by your government to talk to ours. We expected you to report on the
success or failure of your meeting. We see that we were misinformed. You can understand our disappointment.’

‘He does not understand the truth about our socialist republic, does he?’ Tomasov says. ‘A man alone can achieve nothing.’

‘Tell him we are grateful for what he has done,’ Elizabeth Markarova says. ‘Don’t tell him the truth, that if his presence here has nothing to do with his government, then there is nothing he can do for us. Let him return home believing he has accomplished some good.’

Is that what they believed? That they could change their own government’s policy? Are they so insular that they care nothing about international opinion?

‘We have been defeated,’ Lykowski says. ‘Defeated, deceived and humiliated.’

‘What are they saying?’ Stevens asks.

‘Dr Markarova is grateful for your efforts,’ Ruth lies. ‘It is good to know that we have international support. We are sure this will influence the policy-makers on the Politburo.’

Elizabeth Markarova’s insistent nodding underlines the lie as Stevens smiles at her.

*

The boy’s expression is solemn. He stares at his father and says in Russian: ‘You cannot stay.’

She translates. Stevens asks, ‘Why not?’

‘Our lives are built on lies. Surely you know that by now.’

‘Valery, no.’ She wants to stop him before it is too late.

‘Please, mother. Translate for me.’

‘Why must you tell him this?’

‘I want him to understand. I want him to know that I understand.’

She translates and Stevens listens. ‘We live double lives here,’ the boy says. ‘We hide our true selves from discovery by the state or by our neighbours. Many of us have buried our hearts and consciences. We have forgotten who we are. That is why we behave like slaves, why we accept, succumb. We are a lost people, without morality, without courage, waiting for a day that may never come. Our lives are being stolen from us by stealth. One day the illusion will break and we will wake up. We will see the enormity of the crime in which we are passive conspirators. It will be too late then;
you cannot turn the clock back and relive your life by different rules.’

‘What are you telling me?’ Stevens asks.

‘You do not belong here,’ the boy says. ‘You must go home.’

*

An insistent rhythm penetrates her dreams, invading the floating world of her mind, forcing her to rise from its depths and wake up. She hears it again, edgy and sharp, alarming her. She gets out of bed and puts on her nightdress. She hears it again. A hand drumming urgently on the door of her apartment.

Nearly two o’clock. Surely it is too late for a visit, even though it is a hot night. (People are out in the streets, all evening she has heard the sounds of their voices through the open windows.) She unlocks the door, her heart pounding, and as she opens it, Andropov bursts in.

‘Is Stevens here?’ he asks, pushing past her.

‘It’s two in the morning.’

‘I want to see him.’

‘I was asleep.’ It isn’t what she means to say, but in her confusion and fright these are the only words she can say.

‘Get the English Professor out of bed.’

She looks at him blankly, her mind in turmoil. What is happening? Why is Andropov in her apartment at this time of night? Why is he shouting at her? She has never heard him speak like this before. His raised voice strikes fear into her heart.

‘Bring him to me.’

He takes her by the arm and shakes her. Horrified, she shrinks from him.

‘What’s going on?’

Stevens is standing at the door, an absurd figure, his hair uncombed, his body eccentrically wrapped in the sheet from the bed, like a toga. He is fumbling with his spectacle case.

‘We have a visitor,’ she says feebly.