He was standing near the window, and the scent of the roses was clearer than the cigar and cigarette smoke. Already, two or three people had spoken warmly to him of directorships; another had murmured an enquiry concerning an imminent Royal Commission and his willingness to serve; yet another had dangled the prospect of a lucrative Quango appointment. All of it had pleased Margaret immensely; all of it appealed to some hidden instinct in himself to increase his Anglicisation — to become, now that he was no longer a respected university teacher and merely an emeritus professor of King's College, London, a useful, even powerful member of the closed community in which he moved and lived. He felt a need to strengthen his roots in England, to give himself a more appropriate weight as Margaret's husband. Now, it was beginning to happen. Anything was possible now. Were he younger, and a British citizen, he might have sought, and found, a safe parliamentary seat. He was being courted. Everyone knew, and everyone was pleased with him. He smiled bitterly into his glass.
The scent of the roses was momentarily nauseous and the room too hot. Then Sir William Guest, senior Privy Councillor, formerly Head of the Diplomatic Service and presently security and intelligence co-ordinator in the Cabinet Office and Chairman of the Joint Intelligence Committee, was standing beside him.
Caviar speckled the corner of his mouth until the tip of a pink tongue removed it. Moselle glowed palely in his tall glass. He was beaming at Massinger with evident satisfaction. Of all people, of course, Sir William would know he had withdrawn from the contest — given Aubrey up. Sir William's eyes moved to Margaret, who waved over heads to him and Massinger. Margaret, waving to her godfather and her husband.
"You are blessed, my boy," Sir William murmured.
"I know it."
"Your continued — your uninterrupted happiness." Sir William raised his glass and drank off a toast. "My goddaughter's looking so well, so — happy these days." He sighed like a large dog before a blazing hearth.
"Yes, William."
"Lucky man — lucky to have been able to draw that much from a woman." Sir William chuckled. His jowls moved slightly out of sequence with the sound. Then he appraised Massinger. "Can't imagine how you've done it. It must be something you Americans have." He laughed. The noise seemed bellicose. "A great shame this business of her father ever reached the public domain," he continued. "Very upsetting for Margaret."
"I think she's coping," Massinger replied, studying his glass.
"Naturally, as her godfather, I worry about her. Her father was my closest friend, and he would have been a great man. A future head of the Diplomatic Service — he might even have kept me out of the job!" He laughed again, briefly. "A bloody disgrace—"
"If it's true."
"Oh, of course, if it's true." Sir William's heavy eyebrows almost touched above his nose as he frowned at Massinger. The expression was a warning-off. "Even so, very upsetting. As for the thought that one of our people… Still, this is not the occasion. Leave it to time, eh?"
"And Babbington?"
Sir William's eyebrows closed upon each other again. His eyes were hard as he shook his head slightly. "We'll leave that. It's out of our hands, mm?" He watched Massinger over his glass. A gold-rimmed Venetian glass, a little florid for his own taste. Apparently, Castleford had bought a set in Venice before the war. There were four left. Sir William might almost have chosen it deliberately to further his arguments and threats.
The piano sounded in the next room. A soprano began a Schubert song, slow and delicate and moving. An der Mond, Goethe's song to the moon.
"We must lunch soon," Sir William announced. "My bank requires one or two new directors — fresh blood, and all that. I want men I can trust." He smiled and patted Massinger's arm. What remained of the Aloxe-Corton in Massinger's glass stirred but refused to catch the light. An der Mond continued. One of the Covent Garden chorus singing, perhaps—? A small, sweet voice. The song became almost unearthly.
The noise in the room slowly stilled, as if every guest had been caught in the fine mesh of the melody — or because they wished to overhear the catalogue of Sir William's bribes.
"And that Royal Commission," Sir William continued, "just the sort of thing you should be seen to be doing at the moment." He drained his glass and added: "Schubert — overrated, I'm afraid. Far too flighty for me." The bellicose laugh moved away with him, into the crowded room.
Massinger finished his wine, and listened. The room applauded as the song ended, and there were calls for others — Mozart arias which the singer would be wise not to attempt, Schubert again, Wolf, Victorian fireside ballards. Massinger propelled himself through his wife's guests in search of the Aloxe-Corton. A young man hired for the evening by Stephens, the butler, refilled his glass. He turned towards the sound of the soprano, now singing a modern pop song. The way we were. She followed Streisand's floating and swooping more than adequately.
The KGB Rezident at the Soviet embassy was standing in front of him, smiling and raising a glass of cognac in salute.
"Pavel!" Massinger exclaimed in surprise, almost with pleasure. Pavel, ostensibly the Russian Cultural Attache, was usually drunk at social gatherings, and often amusing. Massinger had found him attached, even bound, to Margaret's musical and cultural set almost from the time he had met her. Everyone seemed to know his real position. Massinger believed that Pavel used Margaret's parties and occasions not for intelligence-gathering but for relaxation, under the pretence to his masters, no doubt, that important people, people with secrets and with influence, frequented Margaret's salon.
"Paul, my good friend!" Pavel exclaimed thickly. It was evident that he was drunk again. Yet he was neither aggressive nor morose in his cups. Only louder; the Russian beneath the Party man.
The girl in the next room caressed past and present without touching them.
"You're enjoying yourself, Pavel?" Massinger enquired archly, nodding at the brandy balloon.
"Of course, of course! Your parties are always splendid — splendid! So good for spying!" He burst into laughter again. His English was good, cosmopolitan and assured like his slim figure and expensive clothes. He was urbane, amusing, passionate. His appearance was deceptive, and Massinger suspected the ambitious Party functionary beneath the silk shirt and the skin. Pavel drank more cognac, then passed his glass to the young man. It was generously refilled. More applause, then immediately another Schubert song, one of overblown romantic longing.
I have that, Massinger told himself. I have achieved what that song aches for. The sensation was warming, like drink. Pavel silently toasted Massinger once more then ostentatiously sniffed the cognac and sighed with pleasure. And I daren't risk losing it, Massinger added to himself.
"Did you enjoy the opera?" he asked.
"Enjoy — what is enjoy? It is — so pale, so Western, my friend. I lived it, lived it!"
"Good for you."
"And this song is like the opera, mm? So unreal. A romantic dream." Massinger had forgotten that Pavel spoke German as well as French and English. "Operas of power interest me more. Like Wagner. Though I trust you not to report me to the Central Committee for my pro-Nazi sentiments!" He roared with laughter, creating little whirlpools of re-assumed conversation as guests were distracted from the singing in the next room.
"Power — yes," Massinger murmured. Then he saw Margaret at the door, having detached herself from the party around the piano. Her finger made circulating motions in the air, and he nodded, smiling. He was neglecting his duties as host. Escort, he thought, might have been a more accurate description. Nevertheless—