Harriet showed her identification at the security check and walked familiarly into the building. If only, she thought, everything wasn’t so damned difficult.
Which was precisely the reflection of Pietr Orlov, 6,500 miles away in Moscow. Natalia appeared resigned to the divorce – reluctantly agreeable even – and the guilt was lessening, but everything else was developing into a nightmare. Every week – every day – he was being inexorably drawn deeper and deeper into the inner workings of the government. Realistically Orlov accepted it would make his acceptance easier in the West, when he chose the moment, but his reputation from the United Nations would have been sufficient for that. More realistically he recognised what it would mean to Yuri Sevin when that moment came. Orlov suspected that it was becoming accepted by others now that Sevin regarded the grooming and eventual election of his protege to be his final achievement, the triumphant swansong of one of the last of the true Bolsheviks. And Yuri Sevin was a true Bolshevik, reflected Orlov, another guilt growing. The man had embraced and fought for the revolution, believing in it and in the true philosophy of Marx and Trotsky and Lenin and then seen Lenin and Stalin and Krushchev and Brezhnev and Andropov ignore any other sort of philosophy than that practised by the Czars, the right of the select few to rule. Orlov knew – without conceit – that Sevin saw him as someone who might, after far too long, initiate the change. He knew it because since his return he and Sevin had engaged in enough discussions, sweeping debates and arguments deep into many nights. Just as he knew that Sevin, a pragmatic realist after so long and so many disappointments, didn’t expect that change to be anything than simply initiated, for others to follow, like a major river eventually changes course because of the first, chipping erosion of an existing bank.
Already Sevin’s influence had manoeuvred him on to two committees, one the prestigious – and reputation-making – central planning body. And already – always – there was the preparation, the rehearsal and advice, the influential members identified, the fading ones pointed out, the recommended stances to take and the stances to avoid. Orlov thought he was a puppet and he felt like it: he felt that his arms and legs and head were tethered, so that he had to jerk and twist when someone else pulled the strings. He had to cut those strings soon. He had to cut them and escape before everything engulfed him.
There had been a committee meeting in the morning, where he had recited his lines and backed those he should have backed, and in the afternoon he tried to concentrate upon a policy paper on the agricultural difficulties that were going to bring Serada down. Orlov knew it was regarded as the most pressing difficulty of the moment and that while whole groups – in cases entire committees – of agronomists and experts were also trying to evolve fresh approaches, his appointment should have gone to someone more senior and more experienced. Sevin again, he thought.
His contact with the man had become predictable, summonses most evenings, about which he was ambivalent: while it enmeshed him deeper and deeper into things of which he wanted no knowledge, it created reasons to delay his return to the tense unnaturalness of life with Natalia.
The call came, that evening, and Orlov made his accustomed way through the corridors to reach the old man’s office, recognised now by the secretaries and attendants. They’d gossip, Orlov knew: had done already.
Sevin greeted him with the self-satisfied smile of a man in a position to know all that was going on below and around him.
‘The decision has been made,’ he announced, at once.
‘When?’ said Orlov.
‘This afternoon.’
‘Is there to be an announcement?’
Sevin nodded. ‘Within the week. It will be that Serada has been replaced, to be succeeded by Chebrakin.’
Orlov frowned. ‘What about ill-health?’
‘No,’ said Sevin. ‘Just that’
‘Publicly disgraced, like Krushchev,’ remembered Orlov.
‘He doesn’t deserve anything more,’ said Sevin. Impatiently he brought his hands together, in a tiny clapping gesture. ‘But Serada and his fate aren’t important, not any more. What’s important is you and the next two or three years.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Orlov, anguished at the repeated game.
‘How’s the agricultural policy shaping?’
‘It’s going to take a long time,’ avoided Orlov. ‘This time it’s got to be right.’
‘Exactly!’ said Sevin, someone seizing the truth. ‘It’s got to be right and it’s got to be seen to be right. It’s going to be the first step for you, Pietr.’
But not in the direction in which I want to walk, thought Orlov. Orlov had done nothing about getting another place to live, accepting the difficulty that it created between himself and Natalia because although the whole purpose of returning was to spare her later, he did not want to draw any wrong attention to himself and he feared trying to get separate accommodation might have created some curiosity. The guards and attendants and secretaries by whom he was now surrounded had other functions than to make his life easier, Orlov knew.
He and Natalia had settled into a formal existence, an attitude of acquaintances temporarily brought together beneath the same roof but knowing it would only be for a limited period. They were considerate to each other, in the way of acquaintances, neither irritated nor happy at anything the other did.
But they were very conscious of each other and immediately Orlov entered the apartment, late after the discussion with Sevin which had become a detailed examination of the agricultural options, Orlov was aware of a difference in Natalia’s demeanour.
‘I’ve been waiting,’ she said. ‘Waiting to see if you would change your mind. I still love you, you know.’
‘No,’ said Orlov, tightly. ‘I haven’t changed my mind.’
‘Then to go on like this is pointless, isn’t it? We might as well get the divorce.’
‘Yes,’ he said. He’d imagined a feeling of relief at the agreement. Instead he felt a deep sadness.
‘Will you make the arrangements?’
‘Yes,’ said Orlov. He looked around the apartment. ‘You’ll have this, of course.’
‘Thank you.’
‘It shouldn’t be difficult,’ he said.
‘Accepting it and not understanding why is going to be difficult,’ said the woman.
Chapter Twenty
The letter from home was as sterile as all the others that had preceded it, about as fascinating as a report of a meeting of the Mothers’ Union, her mother’s appointment as the secretary of which was the highlight of the note. Ann guessed her mother would have written the Mothers’ Union report first; and put more effort into it. Her father sent the usual regards. What would he have sent if he knew what she had done? Maybe he wouldn’t have been surprised. He’d called her a whore, when he learned of her involvement with Blair. Other words, too. Slut was one. She hadn’t felt like a whore or a slut then. She’d felt like someone who’d fallen in love with a married man – despite trying not to – and wanted the understanding she felt she deserved but which they felt unable to provide. Had she proven herself to be a whore and a slut now? Yes, she answered herself honestly. She didn’t feel like either, any more than she had the first time. She felt ashamed and remorseful and she wished it hadn’t happened but it had and so she had to face it. Face what exactly? All right, she’d cheated. She’d built up too much unhappiness – about Moscow and about not being pregnant although she’d tried and about not knowing how Blair really felt about Ruth – and she’d had too much to drink and it had been a beautiful, really wonderful evening and she’d let go emotions she shouldn’t have let go. That didn’t make her a whore. Or a slut. It made her a stupid woman who should have known better – known better about all of it – but who hadn’t. A stupid woman who’d made a mistake. Surely the important thing – the adult thing – was recognising it for that, a mistake? And nothing else. Was it nothing else? Ann tried to analyse it dispassionately – which was ridiculous as passion was what it had all been about – because it was important to get it all into the proper perspective. What had happened with Jeremy hadn’t in any way affected her love for Eddie. The opposite, in fact. It made her realise just how much she did love him. No danger then. No reason for making a bitterly regretted mistake into anything more important than it was. What about Jeremy then? Of course she didn’t love him. How could she? He was charming and made her laugh like Eddie used to make her laugh and was unquestionably more socially able than Eddie and if she were to be brutally frank, in bed… Ann jarred to a stop. Of course she didn’t love him, she thought again. You didn’t fall in love after sleeping with someone once. There had to be other feelings, feelings she had for Eddie and certainly not for Jeremy. Christ, why couldn’t she have stayed inside the fairy tale! Fairy tales had nice endings with everyone living happily ever after. She’d shared the fairy tale with the wrong man, she recognised, coming out of the fantasy.