“I wonder what—” Frank stopped, his eyes fixed over Simon’s shoulders. “Jo,” he said, apprehensive.
“The old cow didn’t want to let me in. So I had to tell her Boris was Lubyanka. That fixed it. That’s all right, isn’t it? I mean, it’s not a secret—” She looked over. “Simon,” she said softly.
“Jo,” he said, rooted, not moving. The long Rita Hayworth hair now stopped at the shoulders, brushed back in an I-don’t-care way, all of it gray, like one of those doctored pictures that show you what you’ll look like old. A pencil skirt a few years out of style, the eyes tired, not as bright, or as ready to laugh. Not just an older version of herself, someone else.
“Simon,” she said again, and now he saw her lying on a bed, dark hair spread out behind her, one leg raised, the hotel in Virginia, their one weekend. You never see a woman the same way afterward, knowing the body under the clothes, the way her skin feels. Someone you know, even years later, the look of her the same in your mind. One weekend, sweaty sheets, their secret, eating room service in robes, her throaty laugh, the way she gasped when she came, a whole weekend, just them, no one else. And then she met Frank.
“I thought you weren’t feeling well,” Frank said.
“I made a leap into health,” she said, waving her arm a little. “Actually, a nap. That’s all it took. So I thought I’d come. I couldn’t wait,” she said to Simon. “My God, how nice to see you. It doesn’t seem real. Here, I mean.”
She came up to him and hugged him, an awkward embrace, Simon not ready for it. Something off, lipstick not quite right, an edge to her voice.
“It’s not fair. You look just the same. Except for these,” she said, touching his glasses. “Very distinguished. All the better to see us.”
“And you,” he said, holding her shoulders, studying her face, her eyes moist.
“Liar,” she said. “I look like hell. Always the gentleman. Oh, look. Zakuski. At this hour. Boris, would you pour me a drink?”
Boris looked over at Frank.
“Another?” Frank said gently. “It’s getting late—”
“Are you counting them?” she said, almost snapping at him. “He counts them,” she said to Simon, who now heard the slight slurring. “I’m no help. I never count. So he has to do it. Did he tell you that I drink too much? What else did he say? I’ll bet he’s been ‘preparing’ you. He does that. I thought I’d better get over here before he poisoned you against me.”
“He could never do that.” Intending to be light, but betrayed by his voice, like a soft hand on her cheek.
“Oh,” she said, rearing back a little, catching it.
“He hasn’t said anything,” Simon said, covering.
Joanna looked at him, then went over and poured a vodka. “Maybe that’s worse. Make me a nonperson. That’s a specialty here. Lock me up in the attic. Like Mrs. Rochester.”
“Jo—” Frank said.
“Jane Eyre,” she said. “Not something you’d read. You know, I was an English major.” She looked at her glass. “Now I’m just—whatever I am.” She ran her hand along her blouse, as if she were taking stock. “And I wanted to look nice.”
“You look fine.”
She laughed. “Don’t overdo it. I’m still steady enough to look in a mirror. Later it gets a little blurry, but we probably won’t make it to that point. Frank will get me home, won’t you, dear? Before I say anything. He worries about that. I don’t know why. I mean, we never see anybody. Except the other spies.”
“They’re not—” Frank started, an involuntary wince.
“No, that’s right, not anymore. Former spies. They hate the word. Agents. It’s nicer. Not spies. But that’s what they were. Busy as bees.” She pursed her lips and made a series of whispering sounds, a kind of buzzing. “Spying on everyone. You,” she said, nodding to Simon. “He spied on you.”
“He didn’t get much.”
“Oh, is that what he says? In the book?”
“Haven’t you read it?”
“No. I don’t have to read it. I lived it.” She sipped her glass.
“Maybe we should go,” Frank said. “It’s been a long day for Simon. Boris, would you call for the car?”
“I never thought you’d come. Why did you?”
“It’s easier than doing it by mail. Working on the book.”
“No, I mean why did you agree to do it? After he spied on you. Do you need the money?”
“So far the money’s only going one way,” he said, trying to be light, move away from it.
“No. I know you,” Joanna said, holding up her glass, a pointing finger. “Something else. I’ll bet you were curious. You couldn’t wait to see—what a mess we made of everything.”
“Joanna—” Frank said.
“I’ll bet that’s it. What happened to them? After all that? I know I’d be curious. But why come? Isn’t it all in the book?”
“Not all of it.”
“No. I’ll bet. Just the good days. That’s what the comrades like.” She lowered her glass. “Well, who doesn’t? So now you can see for yourself. How we’re holding up.” She stopped. “I thought you’d never want to see him again. But here you are. What did he say about you? In the book. That must have been strange—seeing the truth. Finally.”
“I’m not in the book.”
“No? Well, you’re his brother. I guess there are rules about that. What about wives?” she said, half to Frank. “Any rules about us? What did he say about me? I’ve been dreading it, but I guess I’ll have to know sometime.”
“You’re not in the book either. It’s not like that. Personal.”
A thin laugh. “So. Mrs. Rochester. Stuck up there in the attic.” She looked at Frank. “Just think what you’re leaving out. A real saga. The loyal wife who follows you to Russia. Russia. Maybe you should lock me in the attic. Anybody’d be crazy to do that.”
“You’re not crazy,” Frank said, mollifying, familiar territory.
“No, just drunk. You can say it. Who knows us better than Simon?” She stopped. “Except you don’t anymore, do you? What it’s like. In the beginning it wasn’t so bad. You know, I had Richie to take care of, so I was busy—”
“I’m sorry about that,” Simon said.
Joanna waved her hand. “I know, I know. Everybody was. But it wasn’t that. Frank likes to explain me. He thinks I blame myself. But I don’t. Well, you always do in a way, but I know it wasn’t anybody’s fault. We did everything we could. The hospital too. It was just—he died. And we didn’t. So now what was there? Make dinner? We have someone for that. Do the shopping anyway. Shopping takes all day here. Lines. Anyway, who do you have over? The other agents?” She underlined the word. “One cozy evening after another. Scrabble with the Macleans. Gareth throwing up in a taxi. He’s downstairs, by the way, did you see him? He wanted to gossip. Of course. Don’t worry,” she said to Frank. “I didn’t say a thing.” She turned to Simon. “You have to keep in mind who these people are, what they’re like. It’s their nature. Gareth gets people to talk—he’s such a loose cannon people think he must be safe—and he reports them. That’s what he does. Perry was all right. Poor Perry. He didn’t notice things. What it’s really like. But he had Marzena. Has Frank told you about Marzena?” A look between them. “No, he wouldn’t. But you should meet. You’d like her. Perry did. Of course the question is—I’d love your take on this—does she work for the Service or not? They’d have to approve the marriage, but did they actually arrange it?”
“Arrange it?”
“To keep Perry happy. They like to keep their old boys happy. And keep an eye on them. This way they’ll know his every waking thought. Even what he says in his sleep. They got Gareth a boyfriend. Why not a loyal wife? Mostly loyal anyway. They like doing that. Using someone close.”