‘Did Raya?’
‘No. She was amused. She started to tease Sasha. When we got on the train to come home, for example she threw the rucksack at the rack so that it just missed and fell back on Sasha’s head. It probably sounds a bit silly. But it was the way she did it…’
‘I see.’
‘And she kept apologizing. “I’m dreadfully sorry,” she said. “I underfulfilled my plan, Alexander Timofeyich”.’
‘Timofeyich? Is that really Sasha’s patronymic?’
‘No.’
‘Were you amused?’
‘Well, I was. It may not sound very funny as I tell it, but at the time …’
‘Yes, I see that. Poor Sasha.’
‘Poor Sasha? But I thought you disapproved of him, Katya?’
‘Oh, Paul! We always have this conversation; I explain to you every time. Sasha’s good – how could I not approve of him? In fact I admire him. It’s just that I’m opposed to him, because he is on the side of the strong, and I’m on the side of the weak.’
‘I know. I know. But you’re able to feel sorry for him?’
‘It’s terrible when good people are teased by bad people.’
Manning danced with a burly man in a shabby blue overcoat, trying to pass to left and to right, then ran to catch up with Katya, who had not stopped or slowed down.
‘Raya isn’t bad …’ he began.
‘I didn’t mean that,’ she interrupted. ‘At least, I didn’t mean to mean it.’
‘You think it.’
‘I have no opinion. I have excised my opinion.’
After a little while she asked:
‘Is Raya good, then, Paul?’
‘I think so, Katya.’
‘When you asked yourself, as you must have done, whether she had attached herself to you for sincere motives or because she was told to, what answer did you find?’
‘Well, I’ve no proof either way. How could I have?’
‘You’ve no proof about my motives, either. But you’re sure of me.’
‘Oh, Katya, with you the question doesn’t arise.’
‘But it does with her?’
‘I think I’m satisfied.’
‘It’s a difference between us.’
‘Oh, yes.’
Katya was silent.
‘Is she perhaps good in the way that Sasha is good?’ she asked finally.
‘Katya!’ cried Manning. ‘You’re obsessed with goodness!’
‘No, no – I’m obsessed with God, of whom goodness is the physical radiance. When I ask if Raya is good, I mean, is she God-filled, in the way that Sasha is God-filled?’
‘Sasha God-filled? How can he be? He’s an atheist.’
‘Sasha’s opinions about himself are irrelevant.’
‘But, Katya, I don’t understand at all! You think that Sasha is strong. But you also think that God is on the side of the weak!’
‘Oh, Paul! God doesn’t take sides! It’s I who take sides.’
‘Against Sasha? Against God within him?’
Katya became very agitated. She began to walk more quickly, so that Manning had difficulty in keeping up. She flushed, and pressed her fingers to her lips. Manning wondered if she was going to cry.
‘I don’t know where my thoughts lead,’ she said at last. ‘Must I turn my hand against God? But my hand is God! God against God! What confusion! What problems we’ve been set!’
13
Manning took Raya to the theatre, to the cinema, to the ballet, and wherever they went people turned to look at her.
He had to get the tickets for these occasions from the foreign students’ allotment, through Sasha. Sasha produced them reluctantly; he could not conceal his uneasiness that the relationship was continuing. Under the stained portrait of Lenin in his office he had one of his ‘serious talks’ with Manning about the need for getting ahead with his thesis, particularly since he had already chosen to give up time to interpreting for Proctor-Gould. He insisted on taking them both out to dinner one evening, in the way that a possessive mother insists on inviting her son’s unsuitable girl friend home, in the hope that she will not survive the light of day. It was a tiring occasion. Whenever Raya spoke, Sasha frowned anxiously, strained by his determination to be scrupulously fair to her. But instead of being subdued by it, she was amused. Manning saw her mouth straightening at the corners with the effort of not smiling.
‘What’s your favourite dish, Raya?’ asked Sasha politely, as they discussed the merits of the food in front of them.
‘Young men, Sasha,’ said Raya, her eyes modestly downcast, ‘served by the half-dozen with flowers and chocolates,’
Sasha did not invite them again.
Proctor-Gould, as well, knew about the affair. Manning rapidly spent all the money he had earned from interpreting, and had to ask him for twenty roubles on account. Proctor-Gould disapproved, too.
‘None of my business, I know, Paul,’ he said, ‘but I shouldn’t get too serious about Raya, if I were you. I’ve known this sort of thing happen before. A chap over here, in your position, starts some sort of monkey business with one of these Russian girls, and it all ends up in the most unholy mess – usually with the man in question being deported. Then there’s always the possibility that you might find yourself being blackmailed. Have you ever thought of that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, take my tip, Paul – the game’s not worth the candle. A little light banter over the dinner-table, yes. Anything more – definitely no. I’ve made myself a rule, Paul – and I may say I’ve observed it scrupulously – never to get myself emotionally involved over here, however delightful the young lady may be.’
And he invited them both to the opera.
‘You won’t tease him, will you, Raya?’ pleaded Manning, who foresaw another evening like the one with Sasha. ‘He takes himself very seriously. Just listen to what he says and agree with it.’
‘All right,’ said Raya.
The opera was Khovanshchina. From time to time during the acts Manning turned to watch Proctor-Gould in the darkness. He was, he saw, trying to find some way of propping his head; the lids were coming down over his eyes. But between the acts, as the three of them paced about the buffet and the corridors, he was soulful and moved.
‘Wonderful singing!’ he said, shaking his head solemnly. ‘Wonderful singing!’
Manning translated this to Raya.
‘Tell Gordon I’m very pleased to hear him say that,’ she replied, ‘because it’s exactly what I thought.’
Manning translated. Proctor-Gould stroked his ear, lugubriously pleased.
‘Ask Gordon,’ said Raya, ‘if he didn’t think the soprano was a little harsh in the upper registers.’
‘Tell Raya that I did,’ replied Proctor-Gould. ‘Just a shade, in my opinion.’
‘Tell Gordon,’ said Raya, ‘that I think that’s a most perceptive judgement.’
Proctor-Gould lengthened his face judicially when he heard this.
‘Tell Gordon,’ said Raya, ‘that it’s very agreeable to have one’s intuitive feelings confirmed by a connoisseur.’
‘Oh, hardly a connoisseur, I’m afraid,’ said Proctor-Gould. ‘Just someone who enjoys a little fine singing when the occasion arises.’
‘Tell Gordon he understands fine singing because he sings himself.’
In the next interval Proctor-Gould insisted on standing them a bottle of champagne in the buffet. He toasted Raya. Raya toasted Proctor-Gould. Proctor-Gould toasted Manning and Raya jointly. They all became a little dizzy.
‘I must say, Paul,’ said Proctor-Gould to Manning in a low voice, ‘I congratulate you on your lady-friend.’
‘I thought you were rather against the whole idea?’ said Manning.
‘Oh, in principle, Paul, yes.’
‘You haven’t changed your mind about the principle?’
‘No, no. I’m still opposed to the principle of the thing.’
After the opera they strolled about the streets, pleased with each other and unwilling to break the evening up. The night was mild; summer was undoubtedly drawing on. It was, thought Manning, in the evenings that the approach of summer first showed itself. On the night that the amputated man had laughed at him outside Komsomolskaya Metro there had been that sense of desolation in the air which makes itself felt as the light fades at the end of even the most brilliant winter day. But tonight there was no tinge of sadness or loneliness at all. Already you could feel the first suggestion of the excitement and anticipation that comes down with the twilight in early summer.