Yet, he thought, the photograph betrayed some inner discontent of the confused and the undedicated. He replaced the photograph with a sense of regret. He could help her if she would let him; but would she let him?
He remembered that when he had set about her political education, she had rebuffed him with: ‘I cannot endure organised thought,’ and, having taken up that position, refused to be moved from it.
Before she married, she had worked in an art gallery and been the friend of artists, mostly poor and unrecognised. He had pointed out to her that were they working in the Soviet Union they would be honoured and rewarded. She said: ‘Only if they conformed.’ He had argued that in every country everyone had to conform in some way or other. She said: ‘But artists must remain a privileged community if they’re to produce anything important. They can’t just echo what they’re told. They have to think for themselves. That’s why totalitarian countries can’t afford them.’
He had to admit that she, too, thought for herself. She would not be influenced. Feminine and intolerant though she might be in particular, she could take a wide general view of things. Coming from the narrowest, most prejudiced class, she had nevertheless declassed herself. The more the pity, then, that she had rejected the faith which gave his own life purpose. He saw her muddled and lost in anarchy and a childish mysticism.
What did she want? The question was for him the more difficult because he was content. He wanted nothing for himself. Possessions he found an embarrassment, a disloyalty to his family that had to survive on so little. While he was taking his degree, he had worked as a part-time teacher. His mother had also worked. Between them they had paid the rent and kept the family together.
He had envied no one except the men without responsibilities who had been free to go and fight in Spain. These men of the International Brigade had been his heroes. He would still recite their poetry to himself, with emotion:
The marching Guardists that morning had brought to his mind the Blackshirts and their ‘Monster Rally’ in his home town. That was when his friend Simon had been beaten up and he had recognised the fact that one day he, too, would have to pay for his political faith.
Simon had arrived late and sat by himself. When the rest of them, sitting in a body, attempted to break up the meeting they were frogmarched into the street. Simon, left alone, had with a fanatical, almost hysterical courage, carried on the interruptions unsupported. The thugs had had him to themselves. They had dragged him out through a back door to a garage behind the hall. There he was eventually found unconscious.
At that time the stories of fascist savagery were only half believed. It was a new thing in the civilised world. The sight of Simon’s injured and blackened face had appalled Guy. He told himself he knew now what lay ahead – and from that time had never doubted that his turn would come.
While he sat now at his desk, confronting his own physical fear, his door opened. It opened with ominous slowness. He stared at it. A tousled head appeared.
With playful solemnity, Toby Lush said: ‘Hello, old soul! I’m back again, you see!’
Harriet, walking home with all her fears intact, allayed them with the determination to act somehow. If she could not surmount one danger, she must tackle another. There was the situation at home – at least she need not tolerate that.
She must make it clear to Guy that they could not keep both Yakimov and Sasha. He had brought them into the flat. Now it was for him to decide which of the two should remain, and to dismiss the other.
When, however, she entered the sitting-room and found Yakimov there, awaiting his luncheon, she decided for herself. Sasha was the one who needed their help and protection. As for Yakimov, only sheer indolence kept him from fending for himself. And she was sick of the sight of him. Her mind was made up. He must go. She would tell him so straightaway.
Yakimov, sprawled in the arm-chair, was drinking from a bottle of ţuicǎ which Despina had brought in that morning. He moved uneasily at the sight of her and, putting a hand to the bottle, excused himself: ‘Took the liberty of opening it, dear girl. Came in dropping on m’poor old feet. The heat’s killing me. Why not have a snifter yourself?’
She refused, but sat down near him. Used to being ignored by her, he became flustered and his hand was unsteady as he refilled his glass.
Her idea had been to order him, there and then, to pack and go, but she did not know how to begin.
His legs were crossed and one of his narrow shoes dangled towards her. His foot shook. Through a gap between sole and upper, she could see the tips of his toes and the rags of his violet silk socks. His dilapidation reproached her. He lay back, pretending nonchalance, but his large, flat-looking, green eyes flickered apprehensively, looking at her and away from her, so she could not speak.
He tried to make conversation, asking: ‘What’s on the menu today?’
She said: ‘It is a meatless day. Despina bought some sort of river fish.’
He sighed. ‘This morning,’ he said, ‘I was thinking about blinis. We used to get them at Korniloff’s. They’d give you a heap of pancakes. You’d spread the bottom one with caviare, the next with sour cream, the next with caviare, and so on. Then you’d cut right through the lot. Ouch!’ He made a noise in his throat as at a memory so delicious it was scarcely to be endured. ‘I don’t know why we don’t get them here. Plenty of caviare. The fresh grey sort’s the best, of course.’ He gave her an expectant look. When she made no offer to prepare the dish, he glanced away as though excusing her inhospitality with: ‘I admit there’s nothing to compare with the Russian Beluga. Or Osetrova, for that matter.’ He sighed again and on a note of yearning, asked: ‘Do you remember ortolans? Delicious, weren’t they?’
‘I don’t know. Anyway, I don’t believe in killing small birds.’
He looked puzzled. ‘But you eat chickens! All birds are birds. What does the size matter? Surely the important thing is the taste?’
Finding this reasoning unanswerable, she glanced at the clock, causing him to say: ‘The dear boy’s late. Where does he get to these days?’ His tone told Harriet that, having been dropped from Guy’s scheme of things, he was feeling neglected.
She said: ‘He’s started a summer school at the University. I expect you miss the fun of rehearsals?’
‘They were fun, of course, but the dear boy did keep us at it. And, in the end, what came of it all?’
‘What could come of it? I mean, so far from home and with a war on, you could not hope to make a career of acting?’
‘A career! Never thought of such a thing.’
His surprise was such, she realised he had probably looked for no greater reward than a lifetime of free food and drink. The fact was, he had never grown up. She had thought once that Yakimov was a nebula which, under Guy’s influence, had started to evolve. But Guy, having set him in motion, had abandoned him to nothingness, and now, like a child displaced by a newcomer, he scarcely knew what had happened to him.