"We have a chance of picking up his traff again. So I want you to go to Oxford." "Ohl" Hassan had not seen where the conversation was leading, and now was boxed in. "Dickstein might have just called on the phone. . ." "He might, but that kind of inquiry is easier to make in person. Then you can say you were in town and just dropped by to talk about old fines ... It's hard to be that casual on the International telephone. For the same reasons, you must go dim rather than call." "I suppose you!re right," Hassan said reluctantly. "I was planning to make a report to Cairo as soon as we've read the printout. . That was exactly what Rostov was trying to avoid. "Good idea," he said. "But the report will look so much better if you can also say that you have picked up Dickstein!s traft again." Hassan stood staring at the view, peering into the distance as if he was hying to see Oxford. "Let's go back," he said abruptly. "I've walked far enough.- It was time to be chummy. Rostov put an arm around Hassan!s shoulders. "You Europeans are soft" 'Won't try to tell me the KGB have a tough life in Moscow." "Want to bear a Russian joke?" Rostov said as they climbed the side of the valley toward the road. "Brezhnev was telling his old mother how well he had done. He showed her his apartment-huge, with western furniture, dishwasher, freezer, servants, everything. She didn't say a word. He took her to his dacha on the Black Sea-a big villa with a swimming pool, private beach, more servants. Still she wasn't impressed. He took her to his hunting lodge in his ZU limousine, showed off the beautiful grounds, the guns, the dogs. Finally he said, 'Mother, mother, why don't you say something? Aren!t you proudr So she said, Ilts wonderful, Leonid. But what will you do if the Communists come backr " Rostov roared with laughter at his own story, but Hassan only smiled. "You don't think it's funny?" Rostov said. "Not very," Hassan told him. "It's guilt that makes you laugh at that joke. I don't feel guilty, so I don't Imd it funny." Rostov shrugged, thinking: Thank you Yasif Hassan, ishm% answer to Sigmund Freud. They reached the road and stood there for a while, watching the cars speed by as Hassan caught his breath. Rostov said, "Oh, listen, there's something I've always wanted to ask you. Did you really screw Ashford!s wife?" "Only four or five times a week," Hassan said, and he laughed, loudly. Rostov said, "Who feels guilty now?"
He arrived at the station early, and the train was late, so he had to wait for a whole hour. It was the only time in his life he read Newsweek from cover to cover. She came through the ticket barrier at a balf-run, smiling broadly. Just like yesterday, she threw her arms around him and kissed him; but this time the kiss was longer. He had vaguely expected to see her in a long dress and a mink wrap, like a bankees wife on a night out at the 61 Club in Tel Aviv; but of course Suza belonged to another country and another gen eratim and she wore high boots which disappeared under the hem of . her below-the-knee skirt. with a silk shirt under an embroidered waistcoat such as a matador might wear. Her face was not made up. Her hands were empty: no coat, no handbag, no overnight case. 'Mey stood still, smiling at eaclk other. for a moment Dickstein, not quite sure what to do, gave her his arm as he had the day before, and that seemed to please her. They walked to the taxi stand. As they got into the cab Dickstem said, "Where do you want to go?" "You haven't booked?" I should have reserved a table, be thought. He said, "I don't know London restaurants." "Kings Road," Suza said to the driver. As the cab pulled away she looked at Dickstein and sad, "Hello, Nathaniel." Nobody ever caffed him Nathaniel. He liked it. The Chelsea restaurant Ae chose was small, dim and trendY. As theY walked to a table Dickstein thought he saw one or two familiar faces, and his stomach tightened as he strove to place them; then be realized they were pop singers he had seen in magazines, and he relaxed again. He was glad his reflexes still worked like this in spite of the. atypical way be was spending his time this evening. He was also pleased that the other diners in the place were of all ages, for he had been a little afraid he might be the oldest man in sight. They sat down, and Dickstein said, "Do you bring all your young men hereT' Suza gave him a cold smile, 'Thats the first witless thing you've said." "I stand corrected." He wanted to kick himself. She said, "What do you like to eat?" and the moment passed. "At home I eat a lot of plain, wholesome, communal food. When I'm away I live in hotels, where I get junk tricked out as haute cuisine. What I like is the kind of food you don't get in either sort of place: roast leg of lamb, steak and kidney pudding, Lancashire hot-pot" "What I Eke about you," she grinned, "is that you have no idea whatsoever about what is trendy and what isnl; and furthermore you don't give a damn." He touched his lapels. "You don't like the suit" "I love it," she said. "It must have been out-of-date when you bought it." He decided on roast beef from the trolley, and she had some kind of sauteed liver which she ate with enormous relish. He ordered a bottle of Burgundy: a more delicate wine would not have gone well with the liver. His knowledge of wine was the only polite accomplishment he possessed. Still, he let her drink most of it: his appetites were small. She told him about the time she took I.M. "It was quite unforgettable. I could feel my whole body, inside and out. I could hear my heart. My skin felt wonderful when I touched it. And the colors, of everything ... Still, the question is, did the drug show me amazing things, or did it just make me amazed? Is it a new way of seeing the world, or does it merely synthesize the sensations you would have if you really saw the world in a new way?" "You didn't need more of it, afterwards?" he asked. She shook her head. "I don't relish losing control of myself to that extent. But rm. glad I know what irs like." "That's what I hate about getting drunk-the loss of selfpossession. Although I'm sure it's not in the same league. At any rate, the couple of times I've been drunk I haven't felt I've found the key to the universe!' She made a dismissing gesture with her hand. it was a long, slender hand, just like Efla!s; and suddenly Dickstein remembered Eila making exactly the same graceful gesture. Suza said, "I don't believe in drugs as the solution to the world's problems." "What do you believe in. Suzar' She hesitated, looking at him, smiling faintly. "I believe that all you need is love." Her tone was a little defensive, as if she anticipated scom ~ "Tbat philosophy is more likely to appeal to a swinging Londoner than an embattled Israeli:' "I guess there's no point In tying to convert you~" "I should be so lucky." She looked into his eyes. "You never know your luck~" He looked down at the menu and said, "It's got to be strawberries." Suddenly, she said, "rell me who you love, Nathaniel." "An old woman, a child and a ghosV' he said immediately, for he had been asking himself the same question. 'The old woman is called Esther, and she remembers the pogroms in Czarist Russia. The child is a boy called Mottle. He likes Treasure Island His father died in the Six-Day War~" And the ghostT' "You will have some strawberries?" "Yes, please." "CreamV "No, thanks. You're not going to tell me about the ghost are YOU?" "As soon as I know, you'll know." It was June, and the strawberries were perfect. Dickstein said, "Now tell me who you love." "Well," she said, and then she thought for a minute. "Well She put down her spoon. "Oh, shit, Nathaniel, I think I love you.