The new production was superb. Ann did not think she had ever heard Tchaikovsky’s music sound so wonderful nor seen dancers appear so weightless and so synchronised. During the break there was more champagne and on their way to the bar they passed an exhibition of the history of the Imperial School, with prints and photographs of legendary figures like Marius Petipa and Enrico Cecchetti and of principal dancers like Mathilde Kschessinka and Olga Preobrazhenska and Anna Pavlova and Tamara Karsavina. Ann succeeded in identifying them all without having to see the notations and as she talked she became aware she knew more about ballet than Brinkman. The knowledge excited her because in the cloistered, formalised embassy life into which she had been thrust directly after her marriage she found she rarely knew anything more than anyone. She showed off, on purpose, and Brinkman let her, isolating another indication of her unhappiness by the thrown-away admission, as she talked, that because of her interest in dancing she’d studied the Russian art soon after she arrived in Moscow, ‘to fill the days’. She chattered on about the Summer Gardens performances in St Petersburg and the origin of the Moscow school based on children from the city’s orphanages and Brinkman recognised he was enjoying himself. There was still the ulterior motive in cultivating the friendship with the couple in the first place, getting himself next to someone whom Ingram designated the best. But it had moved on from the initial reason: he genuinely liked them now, better than he liked the Harrisons or anyone else in the Western enclave. And he liked Ann. He guessed Betty Harrison and her intimates might think Ann was gauche and he supposed she was, which was her charm. Despite what he now knew to be her inner feelings at being in Moscow, she had about her a freshness, of being genuinely interested and wanting to be involved with everything she did and everyone with whom she came into contact doing it. She held his arm as they wandered through the theatre, an unthinking gesture for her and Brinkman decided he liked the touch. Not only a freshness but a softness, he thought.
The conclusion surpassed the commencement. He stood, matching her enthusiasm and the enthusiasm of everyone else, clapping as loudly as anyone for the succession of curtain calls that went on and on. When the curtain finally came down they left the Bolshoi unhurriedly, as if reluctant to sever the moment absolutely by leaving the place.
‘Wasn’t that exquisite!’ said Ann. ‘I actually feel I’m floating, just like the chorus.’
‘Why the chorus?’ he said. ‘Why not a prima ballerina?’
She giggled, pleased with his lightness. ‘I could never be the lead; only ever the support.’
‘You can be my prima ballerina.’ Wasn’t he being gauche now?
‘I accept,’ she said.
She still had her arm in his. Immediately outside the Bolshoi they stopped together, not sure what to do and she said, ‘Let’s not go home straight away; let’s walk.’
‘OK,’ he said.
They went without positive direction, along Sverdlova, slowed by the crush of people near the metro entrance but almost inevitably went towards the Kremlin. Ann strained up at the huge illuminated red stars on top of the towers and said, ‘I’ve never been able to understand why they’ve done that.’
‘It is sort of odd,’ agreed Brinkman.
‘Looks like the biggest circus attraction in the whole world.’
‘Sometimes a good description,’ said Brinkman.
‘Want to know something?’
Damned right I do, thought Brinkman. He said, ‘What?’
‘Tonight I like Moscow.’
‘About time.’
‘ Tonight I said,’ insisted Ann. ‘Just tonight.’
They returned in the direction of the theatre, near which his car was parked, as slowly as they had set off on the outing and Brinkman even drove slowly back to the complex. Brinkman had left wine on ice, flat this time because he felt there was a limit to the amount of champagne it was possible to drink, particularly before a meal. He’d arranged cold food, fish which was good in the concessionary places and caviar because, as he kept reminding her, it was his birthday. With the caviar he served vodka, deeply chilled, taking it the Russian way, down in one. She obeyed the instructions and laughed and coughed at the same time, protesting that she would get drunk. While they ate he tried to guide the conversation to Blair but Ann appeared reluctant to bring her husband into any conversation, insisting instead of talking about the Cambridge they had known, most of which they had already talked about. For Ann it was part of the evening, still gripped by the beauty of the performance and edging into reverie, wanting to find other, special memories. For Brinkman it was a confirmation of something by now he didn’t need confirming. He didn’t think, either, that Ann could help him, even inadvertently: consummate professional that he was, Blair wouldn’t have allowed Ann the mistaken opportunity of letting anything drop. There was a small but unexpected feeling, the thought that he could now relax and be completely comfortable with her, not forever alert for openings. He was finding Ann very comfortable to be with. After the meal they left the table uncleared and Brinkman played more Tchaikovsky, not Swan Lake because that wouldn’t have been right, but The Sleeping Beauty, which he thought would compliment Ann’s mood. He sat beside her on the couch, his arm stretched behind her along its back. Ann settled into the crook of his arm as unthinkingly as she had earlier held him walking from the theatre.
‘This is heavenly,’ she said, her voice distant. ‘Heavenly.’
Brinkman put his face into her hair and kissed her, very lightly, hardly making any contact. ‘Wake up, princess,’ he said.
She didn’t react against his gesture. ‘I don’t want to,’ she said. ‘I want to go on sleeping for a hundred years, just like the story says I’ve got to.’
‘It’s a fairy story,’ he said.
She settled against him more comfortably and said, ‘I want to stay in the fairy story.’
He kissed her hair again, more positively this time, thinking how clean it smelled. Everything fresh, he thought. He said, ‘Thank you for tonight; for the icon and for getting the tickets, too.’
‘I’ve enjoyed it as much as you,’ she said. ‘Maybe more.’
The side ended. There was a slight distortion on the record arm, so that it made a loud sound clicking off. He said, ‘Do you want to hear the second half?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But I don’t want to move.’
‘It’ll only take a moment.’
Ann had to raise herself, for Brinkman to move his arm and when he did, making to stand, they were very close to each other. Briefly they stayed just inches apart, faces unmoving, eyes held.
‘I’d better change the record,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she said.
Brinkman turned the disc over quickly, fumbling so that he almost dropped it, glad that his back was to her and that she wouldn’t have seen his nervousness. He was reluctant, when the record dropped, to turn back to confront her. When he did her expression hadn’t changed. He went back to the couch, holding her eyes, and she had to move again, slightly, to let him sit where he had before. The settling back against him wasn’t as unthinking as it had earlier been and it wasn’t the same, either. This time her face was nearer his, not her hair. ‘Still a fairy story,’ she said.
He kissed her, high on the cheek this time, and she turned her head, bringing her lips up. There was a bird-peck hesitancy about them, each unsure of the other, each nervous and ready to pull back from danger. But the pecking became more fervent and they stopped being nervous. Brinkman twisted from how he sat, so that she lay back the full length of the couch and he knelt beside her, looking down, kissing not just her lips now but her face and her neck and her throat where her dress was open. He plucked at the buttons, trying to open it more and she made a token protest, whispering ‘No, no,’ several times but he didn’t stop and she gave up trying to stop him, actually twisting for the bra to become unclasped and then whimpering at the delicious pain when his teeth trapped her nipple. He played a long time and then she felt his hands move and she made another token protest, as ineffective as the first. He tried to make love to her actually on the couch but there wasn’t room enough so she rolled off on to him and they made love first on the floor, encumbered by clothes and as nervously as they had started kissing. It didn’t work, because of the awkwardness and the nervousness and he got up to go to the bedroom and she said ‘No’ again and again she did. The second time was much better. She was an experimental lover, more so than he was although he tried to match her, not wanting to be shown the more inexperienced. He thought, anxiously, towards the end that he was going to fail her but he managed to hold back just long enough and they came together, a mutual explosion. Ann didn’t let him move away from her. Instead she held him with an almost desperate tightness, fingers pressed into his back, legs encompassing his.
‘What have we done?’ she said, after a long silence. ‘What the hell have we done?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said.
She relaxed slightly, letting go her hold on him. ‘It never happened,’ she said. ‘It was all part of the fairy story.’
Could they sustain it, in the claustrophobia of their lives? ‘All right,’ he said. Feeling he should go further Brinkman said, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I suppose I should be.’
‘Aren’t you?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose so, yes. But I don’t know, not really.’
‘Neither do I,’ said Brinkman, changing the earlier automatic apology.
‘I wish I could sleep for a hundred years.’
‘With me?’ he said, trying to lift her depression. It wasn’t the end of the world, not yet. A mistake and an embarrassment, but not the end of the world.
‘That’s something else I don’t know.’ said Ann. ‘I think the answer might be yes.’
Blair tried to anticipate everything, determined against any oversight. He went to see the parents of all the other boys who had been involved with Paul and found them as resentful and confused and bewildered as he had felt. Had felt. Blair left each meeting growing more and more convinced that he’d crossed more bridges with Paul than any of the others had with their kids. David Hoover, who was divorced like Blair was and had returned like Blair had done was convinced that the marriage break-up was the only cause and wouldn’t consider any other discussion. As well as all the other parents Blair saw again the two counsellors, knowing that Erickson was submitting a report to the court – and guessing maybe Kemp would as well – and wanting them to know all about his talks with the boy. Both seemed impressed and Blair was glad, not because of their praise but because they were supposed to be experts – more expert than him at least – and if they approved then maybe it was some sort of indication that he’d got it right.
He talked things through with Ruth at every stage and the day before the court hearing went over it all again, insisting that she try to find something he’d forgotten, while there was still time to put it right. She couldn’t.
‘I know I’ve said it before, but thanks for coming back, Eddie. I don’t know what I’d have done without you.’
‘I mean what I said, about staying as close as possible to the boys,’ said Blair. ‘I fouled up. Badly.’
‘We found out in time,’ said Ruth.
‘Let’s hope it’s in time.’
‘You were the one who used to reassure me, remember?’
She deserved the honesty, thought Blair: that was the new, inviolate resolution. ‘Something’s come up,’ he said.
‘Come up?’
Blair told her about the meeting with Hubble, not everything about the encounter because he was experienced enough to recognise the sensitivity about disclosing too much of what had happened as a result of his Moscow assessments but enough for her to understand why he was being asked to extend.
‘But there’s one thing,’ he said. ‘One paramount, overriding thing. If I accept then it’s only going to be when I’m completely satisfied it’ll enable the new situation with Paul and John.’
‘ Are you going to accept?’ she said.
‘I haven’t decided,’ ducked Blair. Invoking the convenient excuse he said, ‘I’m not even going to think about it until after the court case.’ He paused and said, ‘What do you think I should do, Ruth?’
‘I can only talk as far as the boys are concerned,’ she said. ‘And about them I think you should do whatever makes it possible for you to keep your promise. I sincerely believe that if we stand any chance of getting Paul back in line and preventing John going the same way then the most important thing is not letting them think – suspect even – that you’re not going to come through, like you’ve said. But that’s where my responsibility ends now, Eddie. Ann’s the person with whom you’ve got to talk the rest through. And then you’re the person who’s got to make the final decision.’
‘Yes,’ said Blair miserably. ‘I know.’
The instruction that he should personally address the Politburo came from Panov and Sokol realised at once how the KGB chairman was manoeuvring himself cleverly away from any position of direct responsibility. Sokol’s immediate reaction was apprehension but he quickly rationalised the attitude. He hadn’t caused the food shortages in the first place; they – and their policies – had. All he’d had to do was to try to clear up and contain the mess. So it would be quite wrong to appear apologetic, which was clearly Panov’s response. Sokol prepared carefully, personally visiting every affected area to see the situation for himself – well knowing that the Politburo would get separate, independent reports anyway – and satisfying himself that in every region but the Ukraine itself the famine was controlled if not solved. He prepared his address with equal care, writing and rewriting and actually rehearsing it, in the privacy of his own apartment. His demeanour in front of the Soviet rulers was respectful but forceful, the inference always there that he was attempting to correct the mistakes of others. His treatment of the various leadership attempts at revolt had effectively splintered any organised situation in any province and providing the transportation was maintained at its present level – and the foreign imports continued to arrive – he believed any further difficulties could be avoided. It was an impressive evaluation and Sokol knew it, as he spoke. And the Politburo accepted it as such. At the end Chebrakin thanked him for the depth of detail and said, ‘You are to be congratulated, Comrade Sokol.’
Sokol was happy at the thought that the KGB chairman would have his informants and hear what had been said. Sokol knew he had gained more than he had lost by the confrontation.