Orlov hesitated at the actual moment of entering the office of Yuri Sevin, conscious – although he’d been aware of it before but not so intently, at the precise act of confrontation – that the deputy minister would be one of the minority, someone who knew him well and therefore whose first thought would not be instinctively nationalistic but personal; one of the ones who would shake his head and find words difficult and when they came be mundane and ill-fitting, like, ‘ Why! Why – how – did he do it!’ Orlov knew he had been chosen by Sevin, from the junior Party position in Tbilisi; nurtured up through the local levels and then brought to Moscow and protected still, every move in the upward programme considered before it was made, every posting chosen for a purpose. Orlov supposed it had to be twenty years. Twenty years during which Sevin had been his constant supporter and advocate, finally protecting him in the jugular-biting jungle of Moscow while he had been far away and exposed, in New York. Exposed to the one thing Sevin had not anticipated and eliminated. Orlov hoped he could protect Natalia; to protect Sevin would not be so easy. Impossible, in fact.
Sevin came forward, arms outstretched in effusive greeting, tears already starting down his face, an elderly bear of a man with the emotions of a rabbit. ‘Pietr!’ he said, a sob in his voice, someone unable to accept the good fortune of seeing again someone he loved. ‘Pietr!’
Orlov allowed the bear hug – what else from a man of Sevin’s size! – and the tear-smeared kisses on either cheek and a further bear hug, as if the first had been insufficient. And then underwent the arms’ length examination, as though he was being searched for physical flaws and blemishes from his prolonged exposure in the West. There is what you would regard as a flaw, dear friend, thought Orlov, but not one that is visible. To anyone.
‘Yuri,’ he responded. ‘Yuri, it’s good to see you!’
Sevin led him away from the desk, impatient – embarrassed almost – at the indication of rank or power; hardly any existed between them anyway. They went instead to a side area, where the windows overlooked the Senate building and where a low table between the chairs and the couch was already set with vodka and caviar. Sevin, the considerate host, had even included a samovar beside the couch; Orlov stared at it, wondering how long it had been since he’d seen one.
‘Pietr!’ said Sevin once more. ‘How good it is to see you. Really good.’
‘And you,’ said Orlov.
There was no doubt or uncertainty about what he intended doing – there couldn’t be, after all the planning – but Orlov knew that when it was all over and he was happily settled with Harriet and the fear had diminished as much as it could ever diminish there would still remain the regret at how he’d had to deceive his friends; this friend in particular. And an even deeper regret that there was no way he could attempt to apologise or explain. To attempt it now – to take someone he considered his closest, dearest friend into his confidence – would be suicidal for him. And to attempt it later, in some guarded, hopefully disguised message, would be as murderous to Sevin. So he could do nothing. Nothing except hope that in some way, somehow, Sevin would come to understand. Orlov doubted that the man would, though. How could he? How could anyone?
‘You return in triumph, Pietr,’ declared the deputy minister at once. ‘Absolute triumph.’
‘That’s good to know,’ said Orlov. The discomfort was like a weight, in his stomach.
‘You didn’t need me to tell you that,’ said Sevin, gently. He knew he’d made the right choice, in Orlov. The man was going to fulfil every expectation.
‘Sometimes it’s difficult to judge, from so far away.’
‘You never made a misjudgment, never,’ praised Sevin. ‘It’s an impressive record. One that’s been rightly and properly recognised as such.’
‘I’m flattered,’ said the uncomfortable Orlov. How much easier it had been to consider and plan what he intended to do in New York. And how much more difficult it was to carry it through, once he’d got back here.
‘You will be,’ predicted Sevin. He paused theatrically, pleased with his news and wanting to extract the maximum from it. ‘There’ll need to be formal votes and resolutions, of course. But they’re just formalities. The decision’s unanimous… you’re being elected to the Central Committee Pietr…’ When Orlov, shocked, didn’t respond, Sevin said, ‘Congratulations, my friend. You’ve earned it.’
The Central Committee! The inner sanctum, Orlov realised; the cornucopia of power, with the proper internal committee postings. Except that he didn’t want power any more. Once, maybe, when Sevin first plucked him from the provinces and hinted at what he was finally offering, today. But not any longer. Now he wanted freedom; freedom and Harriet. Sevin was obviously the sponsor, because he was being permitted to be the bearer of good news. In ancient Rome it was the custom to sacrifice the messenger bearing bad news; and this was going to become bad news, soon enough. Orlov said, honestly, ‘It’s difficult to express myself.’
The old man smiled, pleased, with no way of being able to understand Orlov’s problem. ‘It won’t stop there, Pietr. You’re the chosen one, the star. Being groomed. I’m too old and so are at least six of the others on the Politburo. Ivan Serada has been a disaster and everyone recognises it. You’re only forty – which is juvenile by Soviet ageing – but I’ve seen to it that you’ve had more international experience than most of the other contenders put together. All you need now is two years – three at the outside – to be able to show the proper understanding and appreciation of domestic issues and there won’t be anyone to stand in your way.’
Leader! thought Orlov, in a sudden, oblivious-to-everything mental lurch. The euphoria leaked away, as quickly as it came. He didn’t want to be leader and he didn’t want to be a deputy and he didn’t want to be married any longer to Natalia and he didn’t want to be in Moscow. All he wanted was Harriet. He said, ‘It’s an overwhelming prospect. Everything’s overwhelming, in fact.’
Sevin laughed in genuine amusement at the other man’s confusion, pouring large measures of vodka for them both. He raised his glass and said, ‘To you, Pietr Grigorovich Orlov. People are going to know of you; know of you and respect you and fear you. You’re going to break the mould of stagnating, senile leadership in this country, bury Serada’s mistakes and sweep away the blanket of nepotism that’s smothering our leadership and our progress.’
Ignoring the absurdity of talking of nepotism, Orlov guessed from the hyperbole that the man had practised and rehearsed the speech, like the politician he was. People were going to know of him, Orlov thought sadly. But not for the sort of reason Sevin imagined.
Sundays were always difficult.
Every other day of the week had its boxes and its compartments, regular fixed commitments around which everything properly revolved; even Saturdays. But definitely not Sundays. Sunday was a do-nothing day, without a peg upon which Ruth could hang her coat. She hated Sundays because they were a constant reminder; Eddie had usually been free on Sundays.
She fell back upon the Smithsonian, like so many times before, but halfway around the science exhibition their boredom and lack of interest became too obvious so she decided to cut her losses and run, taking a cab up to the Hill, to the American Cafe.
Paul, maybe because he was the elder of the two and saw it as his role, led the attack, when it came to ordering drinks to go with the hamburgers.
‘Bloody Mary,’ he said.
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ refused Ruth, too vehemently and in front of the waitress anyway: she could have turned everything aside if she’d treated it as a joke. With no other choice but to continue she said, ‘You know you can’t have a Bloody Mary. Ridiculous!’
The child reddened under the gaze of the patient, amused waitress who’d seen it all before. Shit! thought Ruth.
‘I want a Bloody Mary,’ insisted Paul.
Ruth retreated to the familiar defence of an adult with a recalcitrant child, invoking the support of another adult. To the waitress, she said, ‘My son is not yet fourteen. He’s not allowed alcohol, is he?’