‘Where does that come from?’
‘It’s a poem by Edgar Allan Poe – Annabel Lee. Daniel sent it to me in one of his last letters. Ironic, really. The poem tells of the death of the beautiful Annabel Lee, but it was his death that followed soon after.’
‘So you kept writing to each other for all those years?’
‘Not exactly; for five years I neither saw him nor heard from him. Then, when I was twenty and at college I got a letter from him. He had been drafted and was about to be sent to Vietnam. I think he was suddenly lonely and wanted someone to write to. Also, he said he had to make peace with himself and with me.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘For allowing himself to be bullied. You know, my parents made a huge fuss when they found out what was going on. They wanted to have me examined to see if I was still a virgin, which I categorically refused to consent to – can you imagine the humiliation?’
‘So what happened?’
‘Well, the police interviewed Daniel and cautioned him and threatened to arrest him if he tried to continue our relationship. Really, though, there was no need for the moral panic of my parents or the threatening behaviour of the authorities. I was in no danger of losing my virginity. He was too scared to fuck me, and I was too innocent to give him any encouragement.’
‘Did you try to stay in touch?’
‘I wrote to him at college but I never heard back. I later found out that my parents had intercepted his letters. He also tried to send letters via his sister Betsy but she was still furious with me over the whole business and never passed the letters on.’
‘That’s so sad…’
‘Yes, we disappeared from each other’s lives. I became a diligent student and then, when I was at college, we started this correspondence which lasted for over a year. It was like another love affair. I mean, I was about twenty by then and I had had other boyfriends, but during all that time we corresponded he was the only man in my life and for a time it really seemed that perhaps we had been meant for each other.’
‘That was pretty harsh of your parents not to let you see him at all.’
‘Perhaps, but don’t forget this was the 1950s – pre-pill days, when a pregnancy for a young teenager would be a disaster for the whole family. Most importantly though there was the age difference. I was not yet fifteen and he was twenty-one. Also, my mom had a certain amount of Catholic baggage from her early life in France.’
‘I forgot that your mother was French.’
‘Yes, I was born in France at the end of the war, you know, Marianne – symbol of France. That’s why my mother chose the name. When I started college, my parents went to live in France with my little sister Claire. They stayed nearly ten years before heading back to Vermont.’
‘You don’t look that French. Fair skin, blue eyes.’
‘I get that from my father.’
‘How did you end up in America?’
‘My mother went with my father to America when I was a baby – he was a doctor in the US army. He wasn’t my biological father, but that’s unimportant…’
‘Who was your real father – the one who gave you your blue eyes?’
‘A product of the war, was all my mother would say. German, I’ve always assumed – a case of collaboration horizontale.’
‘So you grew up speaking French.’
‘Yes.’
‘And the Russian?’
‘The Russian was learned. I had to choose a second foreign language and so I chose Russian.’
‘Why?’
‘So I could become a spy.’
‘Well, obviously…’
‘My early training…’
‘Such forethought.’
‘It was the literature: Anna Karenina first – I read it in the back of a car all the way to Florida with my parents one winter. Then it was Crime and Punishment, I was right inside Raskolnikov – there seemed to be something so dark but at the same time so profound in the Russian hero, or antihero, which appealed to me as a seventeen-year-old, so I decided that I had to learn the language. I was a pretty studious girl in those days.’
‘Aren’t you still?’
‘Sometimes. When I’m not distracted by other things.’
6
The legendary Russian winter, destroyer of invading armies and prop for a thousand movie-makers, was finally coming to an end and in its place came the season of mud. For some days now the ice had been cracking in the Moscow River and everywhere the melting snow made small rivers of mud and slush. In the meantime, Marianne’s parallel universe had not yet imploded. She continued to meet Larry regularly at the Minsk hotel; hurrying along the slippery pavements, splashing in the slushy puddles, hot with excitement.
That evening, though, it was different: she was going to his apartment for the first time. She had pestered him to know why they always had to go to the hotel, the small stuffy room which never seemed all that clean. ‘Or is it that you’ve got a girlfriend you are hiding from me?’ she said.
‘Sure, a gorgeous, long-legged Russian girl, but I’ll make sure she’s out when you come… The thing is, Marianne, it’s likely that I am being spied on – and as you are married that could be bad for both of us.’
He had finally consented to her coming that evening when the cleaners had gone home and it was too dark for the security guard to get a good look at her face. Edward was working late and she had arranged for Lyudmila to baby-sit, but as she climbed the stairs to his apartment she began to wonder if it had been a good idea after all; she felt nervous. Back in their hotel room there was no hesitation; they would be stripping the clothes off each other almost before the door was closed behind them. Now, she slid past him as he opened the door and started to walk around the apartment in her overcoat.
‘You can check the drawers if you like, you won’t find any women’s knickers.’
‘Hey, come here. I know – it’s just, well, it feels different being here. But thank you for letting me come.’
‘It’s a pretty standard Moscow apartment.’
‘I know – but at least there is something of you here…’ she said, looking at the soft brown leather sofa, the extensive bookcases and the huge number of LPs stacked against the wall. ‘You must get a generous shipping allowance to have all this stuff brought over?’
‘There are some advantages in being looked after by Uncle Sam.’
‘Tell me about these photographs,’ she said, looking at a large framed montage of family snaps.
Despite having wanted to see where Larry lived, Marianne didn’t find it easy to relax. He told her about the photos, his brother, sisters, parents, friends – and, of course, his ex-wife. They sat on the sofa while she drank a glass of wine and he had a whisky and they chatted about some of the curiosities of Moscow life, and the people at the university she had been trying to contact for him, but when she finally slipped into his bed, she turned her back to him, unable to look him in the face.
They lay there in silence; his body close against hers, his breath warm against her neck. Slowly, he started to caress her, whispering things in her ear. But she couldn’t respond. She could feel his arousal against her thighs and not wanting to disappoint him she turned to kiss him. He responded energetically and moved to go down on her but she took his head and brought it back up.
‘Slowly tonight, it’s just… it feels different here.’
‘Sure, let’s take our time.’
Larry was a skilful and considerate lover, but despite trying his best he couldn’t make it work for her that evening – and she couldn’t make it work for herself. Part of her was watching from a distance: how do I fit into his life – or he mine? Is he using me – and am I risking too much? She resolved not to come to his apartment again until she had figured out these issues – though she knew there was only one answer.