We walked across hot sand–I’d kicked off my shoes–past the restaurant and up to the second of the two shacks built at an angle to the sea. We still haven’t touched each other, I thought. The door to the shack was unlocked and Finn pushed it open with his foot and threw the case down. Then he took off his jacket and his jeans to reveal a pair of faded blue floral swimming shorts. He ran down the beach and into the sea, not stopping until the water became too deep and he fell forwards into it.
He looked round when he’d come up from under the surface and shouted.
‘Come on, it’s beautiful.’
I changed and joined him.
That was how it was, our first meeting in over a year. Finn never said hello. He didn’t kiss me. He never asked me how the flight was, if I was tired, what my departure from the Forest had been like. It was as if I’d just come back from a visit to the shops, rather than that we hadn’t seen each other for over a year.
And all this suited me, I realised. Everything I’d half prepared in my mind before our meeting, and that was so inadequate, faded away, and with it went all my awkward anxiety.
We drink beers sitting in the sand, swim again, and then go to bed in an extremely uncomfortable wooden structure that Finn tells me is the bed. Later we eat out at a table in the sand in front of what Finn insists is the restaurant as the sun starts to sink into the sea.
There is only fish, Finn informs me. The owner of the shacks is a Hungarian who came over in 1956 after the uprising against the Russians there failed. He’d taught himself to be a fisherman. Back then, when these things were still possible, he’d built the shacks illegally, constructed from driftwood in this isolated place where few people wanted to come and which he’d never left.
He is now seventy-odd years old, Finn tells me, and whatever there is for lunch every day depends on what he’s caught that morning.
‘I didn’t tell him you were Russian, by the way,’ Finn says. Finn has a curious, self-deprecating and ultimately deceitful habit of apologising for who he is and expecting others to as well. In Moscow, when anyone asked him if he was English, he would always say, ‘I’m afraid I am.’ It was a peculiarly English deceit, I thought.
‘This is just about the only spot for nearly fifty miles that hasn’t been developed at all,’ Finn says. ‘They can’t build on the saltpans. There’s nothing at all in either direction for several miles. To the left you eventually come to Marseilles’ industrial wasteland.’
I can see the ugly belching smokestacks in the distance.
‘To the right there’s a tourist beach, empty of buildings, three miles along from here. Sometimes you see someone who’s walked it but not often and they don’t do it a second time. It isn’t a pretty place except when you look out to sea.’
‘Fast work to find it in three days,’ I say.
‘Yes, you didn’t give me much warning, Rabbit.’
But of course Finn has known the place for years. I find later that the Hungarian, whom Finn introduces as Willy, has some connection to the Service. At any rate Finn persuaded Willy to throw out some hippies from our shack when he received my message that I was coming.
‘We’ll be fine here for a while,’ Finn says later. ‘And this place is always here when we need to get away.’ And then, on our first night for fourteen months, he finally falls asleep with his arm around my stomach. I lie and watch the stars and listen to the thin-lipped waves that slip quietly on to the edge of the sand. Some gypsy music is playing from a hippy tent further down the beach. It is as if we’ve never been apart; as if we’ve known each other long before we ever met. It is the same as it was.
For nearly three days we say nothing about the reason I’m here and slowly the burden of it recedes. Finn ensures that we concentrate just on ourselves. We talk a lot about the distant past, about where we’ve come from, things that aren’t recorded in Finn’s file we kept at the Forest, things we never knew. And I respond with little stories of my own upbringing. It is like the games we used to play in Moscow, teasing each other with what we knew about the other, except that these are revelations, background that neither of us knew before, and we aren’t taunting each other with them any more.
Finn tells me one evening how he was recruited, or at any rate how they made the initial moves towards his eventual recruitment. He speaks about the past, as we all often do, as if it is something from another life altogether and he was another person then. And I suppose, in Finn’s case more than most, he was another person back then.
‘At the beginning of my second year at Cambridge, I was invited to supper by a gay French professor who drank much too much whisky,’ Finn says on this evening, and a smile plays around his eyes at the memory. ‘I remember on one occasion he chased me round his flat begging me to allow him to beat me with a hardback copy of Balzac’s Passion in the Desert.
‘I didn’t particularly want to accept his invitation to supper. But I was flattered to be asked, even though the reasons for it were fairly obvious. He was always inviting pretty men to his rooms. And I was always easily flattered, Anna,’ Finn says, looking into my eyes so that I see right through them. ‘Even alcoholic pederasts with only one thing on their minds had the power to flatter me in those days, as long as I sensed there was the prospect of mixing with those in high places, or of lifting myself away from my past, or of getting away from myself as I knew me.
‘I was hugely impressed by the fantasy of Cambridge as it seemed to me then, and always in my mind I referred back to the commune in Ireland to reassure myself of how far I’d come. I was always looking for something and expecting to find it in the admiration of others. I needed people to be interested in me. So I accepted his invitation and went to high table at Magdalene College on a wet Friday evening, as usual looking for someone or something to tell me who I was.
‘There was a full table, about twenty or so of us, and afterwards we went to the French don’s rooms for a bottle or two of port. In our party there was the professor of Philosophy from Oxford, Freddie Ayer, the playwright Tom Stoppard, a Russian specialist from London University, the French don and me.
‘The sixth person was Adrian. I remember Freddie Ayer and Tom Stoppard talked for nearly an hour about how far away from earth the Virgin Mary would be now if she’d been travelling at the speed of light. It was bizarre, funny, exciting, stupid, and, most of all, different. It was my fantasy of how university life should be.
‘As usual I wanted to be like the people I was with. But all of them, not one individually. I thought I could piece myself together with bits of everybody, like a jigsaw. As usual I wanted to be everybody and felt nobody. I’ve always been good at being whatever the person I’m talking to at the time wants me to be. They like that, in the Service.’
Finn picks up a stone and throws it beyond the edge of the lazy surf and the ripples shimmer in the moonlight. It seems to me like a gesture of controlled anger, anger at his own behaviour when he was a young man and had been the blotting paper that soaked up the admiration and, perhaps worse, the suggestions of others.
‘Anyway, I performed as usual,’ Finn says. ‘And as usual I felt I was at the centre of everything, of the universe itself, and at the same time completely apart. I immersed myself in the talk that went around the room, trying to impress, and apparently I did. At the end of the evening, Adrian offered me a lift back to my college, but we went and had a drink at his hotel instead. He asked me how I was enjoying my course and wouldn’t it be better to do something rather more useful than Classics. Some living languages, for example.