He struggled up and felt dizzy. He had slept in his clothing. He felt tired and dirty. The pain in his throat made it difficult to swallow.
He fumbled to the bathroom, turned on the shower. The balm of water. He pulled his clothes off and climbed into the shower and stood still and let his mind sort out the confusion.
Elizabeth. In a picture.
Apparently, Denisov had left after Devereaux fell asleep; he could not remember.
The dining room of the hotel was immense and dismal, reflecting the nature of the hotel. It was also nearly empty. Commercial travelers, forced by mere industry to ignore war, sat at their tables alone, digesting their bits of food and bits of news from the Belfast Telegraph.
And Denisov, sitting alone. He would have to sort it out with him.
“Good morning,” said Denisov. “Your neck looks terrible.”
He gestured with his fork to the empty seat. Devereaux sat down and looked at Denisov’s plate: scrambled eggs and a tomato that had been squashed and grilled and some fatty bacon.
He realized he was hungry. Since he had been a child, he had not taken pleasure in food; it had only been fuel, added as an afterthought, taken for social reasons or when his body demanded it. He had not eaten since Edinburgh, more than a day before. The lack of food had not made him faint.
The thick waitress took his order and went away. Devereaux looked at the Soviet agent. Saintly eyes looked back.
“You put my envelope back in the same place,” Devereaux said finally. Actually, he had not checked the brown envelope.
“Yes. I am careful. You should be careful as well, Devereaux. All that American money. Why did you tear those dollars in half?”
“Not in half. Slightly larger. So I can still cash them.”
“Who holds the other parts of them?”
“Who is Blatchford?”
Denisov smiled, speared a fat piece of bacon and placed it in his mouth. He chewed slowly. “I do not understand why I am responsible for your life if I save it.”
“Because that’s the way it is.”
“It bothered me all night.”
“You have the conscience of a child.”
Pause. Chew. “Yes. It is useful. I think I understand what you say.”
“Who is Blatchford?”
“Was, my friend.”
Devereaux waited. The tea came and then the plate of food. He poured milk into the tea. It tasted nearly sweet. It warmed him. Curiously, the presence of Denisov warmed him as well. He understood the Soviet agent without understanding any part of him. They had been in Asia together. Not together. A friend; an enemy; it didn’t matter.
“I want you to trust me.”
“And I want your respect, so I cannot trust you.”
“I don’t understand that, Devereaux.”
“If I trust you, you will not respect me.”
“All right.”
They ate silently.
“Why are you here, Devereaux?”
“You know.”
“Perhaps.”
“Is that your way of saying nothing?”
Denisov smiled. “Why are we both here? We belong in Asia. In another time.”
Two Asia hands. Adrift in the West; the cold, unmerciful West.
“Why are you here?”
“To help you.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m entirely serious. You should be serious, too.”
“I cannot take you seriously when you say things like that.”
“I will put my cards on the floor,” said Denisov. “Blatchford was an agent. Of your government.”
“Good. Keep on.”
“We think we know who he was but we do not understand fully.”
Devereaux waited.
“He was CIA.”
He stared at the face of the Russian. It was not just the eyes but the shading of the skin and the broad, peasant’s face. Perhaps he was Saint Peter and not Saint Francis of Assisi.
“Well, what do you think now?”
“Nothing. I can’t think.”
“What do you think of the young woman?”
“What woman?”
“The one you took to your room in London. And you made love to, I would say.”
“Were you the one under the bed?”
“Joke,” he said, just as Hanley would say it. “Tell me jokes. Do you think that woman finds you so beautiful she says, ‘I must have this man’?” Now Denisov smiled. “You are become vain.”
“You have become vain.”
“Sorry. But you are. It makes me smile, Devereaux.”
“I can see that. Anything to provide amusement.”
“What if I told you that woman was here.”
“Where?”
“Here.”
“In the hotel?”
“No, in Belfast. Another place.”
“Do you ever sleep, Denisov? Or are there more than just you?”
He shrugged. “Just me. No, you know I do not sleep. Ever. Always watching.”
“It must be tedious.”
“What?”
“Your professional voyeurism. Not to mention the paranoia.”
“You’re not interested in the young woman?”
“Very interested.” He poured another cup of tea and dashed in the milk. “Very interested in you, Denisov. For your interest in me.”
“Wait. Too many. Interest in me because I am interested — oh. I understand.”
“I don’t.”
“You said that last night.”
“I know. It’s still true.”
“This is not a game, Devereaux.”
“Of course it is.”
They were quiet again. The waitress came and asked if they wanted anything more and they said no. Devereaux took the bill absently and scrawled his name and room number on it. Denisov watched him. In an odd way, Devereaux only felt able to speak with Denisov. He could go for weeks alone, in the mountains, without speaking, without hearing another voice, without turning on the radio or TV, without going down to Front Royal for supplies. Or he could sit silently for hours and listen, absorb information, without commenting. But Denisov seemed always to probe another place within him, the place where words waited to be said. He had to speak to Denisov; in that way, the Russian seemed stronger than he.
“Why did you come to Ireland?”
“For the climate.”
“Please, Devereaux—”
“No, no goddam please. Listen, you sonofabitch, you know I was being set up. That prick you killed was going to kill me. You know about my fucking and how many times a day I shit. Well, listen, I want you to tell me why you know everything and then maybe we can talk.”
All said quietly, with an edge of hissing menace, the language tough and from the streets. It had all been covered over by the years, by the veneer of education, of age, of distance from that kid who had been in the streets of the city and carried a knife in his boot and first killed someone by carving him with a straight razor.
Denisov stared, appeared shocked. And then he smiled. The calm smile embraced even the ugly face Devereaux made and his words.
“All right, my friend. It is good for you to become with emotions at last. It shows me that you are concerned.”
“Where my life is concerned, I am concerned.”
“Come. I don’t want to sit here. Let us take a walk. We can walk into the city. You should buy a turtle shirt so that your throat does not look ugly.”
“Fuck you.” But said quietly again, in the old voice. Why had he spoken to Denisov like that? The voice had been pulled out of him by the Russian.
The two men rose and left the immense dining room. Through the lobby, desolate in early morning. Into the foggy street. Devereaux wore only a sport coat of brown corduroy. They walked to the heart of the city. Around them, shop girls click-clacked in their heels along the sidewalks, bundled against the weather. There was an air of ersatz commerce to the city, as though the bombs and the deaths did not exist, as though only business were real.