The translator, p.12
The Translator, page 12
“No. And my wife and I are divorced.”
“I’m sorry. I really am.”
Marina poured more wine, then tended to the fire, finding a big log and placing it carefully in the middle. There was an outburst of spluttering and crackling, and new flames leapt up. Satisfied, she turned and faced Clive and waited.
“So how did you end up in Moscow?” he asked. His voice had softened.
“I was summoned… Of course, I should have said ‘no’. Alexei warned me to keep away from Moscow and above all to keep clear of Serov. He said it over and over again when he was dying.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“How could I? The president was in Saint Petersburg for the Economic Forum and the mayor had put me in charge of translation. Alexei was dead. I was alone. And there was Nikolai Nikolayevich, telling everyone how much he’d loved my father, that I was like a daughter to him. The next thing I knew, I was told to pack my bags and move to Moscow. I had landed the plum job: personal interpreter to the president. It was a huge privilege, a very great honour – or so everyone kept telling me. How could I turn it down? What excuse could I give? Nikolai Nikolayevich has always been kind to me. There was no personal animosity. And the regime? Well, I thought I could keep all that at arm’s length. Bury myself in language and syntax.”
Ulysses let out a big yawn and stretched out his long, shaggy limbs in front of the fire. Marina pushed him away with her foot.
“Don’t say anything, not yet… I know I’m throwing a lot at you, out of the blue… And why should you trust me?… No reason… No reason at all… Still, there are some things you have to know. When I accepted the job in Moscow, I thought I knew what I was doing. Being an interpreter, going to conferences, sitting next to the president and whispering in his ear. But it didn’t turn out that way. Serov wanted my help in all sorts of areas… Secret areas where he was investigating people he didn’t trust: a politician, an oligarch, anyone he saw as a threat. It turns out that languages are very, very useful… Talking French to Swiss bankers in Geneva, or English to lawyers in the British Virgin Islands, or German to disgruntled ex-Deutsche Bank employees with an axe to grind… I helped dig up the dirt. And there’s lots of it, Clive, believe me. And some of it has rubbed off on me. I accepted presents. Big ones. Like a villa on the Black Sea.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I want you to understand how I’ve arrived at this point… this point of betrayal… My God, Clive, do you think this is easy for me? Do you think I don’t know what I’m doing?”
“Our people won’t believe you, Marina. They’ll think it’s some sort of trap.”
“I know your people won’t believe me. And you probably don’t either. Why should you? I dare say you think this meeting is a set-up. Well, it’s not. And I’m no spy. I’ve been trying to put myself in your shoes. ‘Why now?’ That’s what you must be thinking, isn’t it? That’s what anyone would think… So let me explain…”
“A Damascene moment?”
“Not at all. On the contrary, it’s been a slow, gradual process. I don’t know how to explain this… In the end, it was the lying. The bare-faced lying. It got to me. It still gets to me. I feel ashamed. I feel dirty.”
Marina picked up the iron poker and poked this log and that, although there was really no need. Ulysses watched her as he lay stretched out, his head on his paws.
“I thought about this culture of lying,” Marina went on. “I tried to understand how we in Russia had got to this point. The whole administration lies, from Serov down, and they’re proud of it! They have the perfect excuse: ‘Everyone lies, the US, the UK, everyone – it’s all a game.’ But that’s the sticking point for me, because it’s not true. Every country does not put lying at the heart of its policy, at the heart of its thinking.”
Clive sat forward on the sofa, holding his drink with both hands, staring down at his feet. His boots had lost their shine in the muddy woods.
“But Marina,” he said, keeping it formal, avoiding “Marisha” in case she got the wrong idea. “Forgive me, but you must have known what you were getting into when you accepted the Moscow job… You of all people!”
“Nothing can prepare you for what happens inside the Kremlin. Nothing. I knew I had to get out, but how? Then you came along.”
With a crack like a pistol shot, the fire spat out a burning ember, which landed on the wooden floor. Instantly Clive was on his feet, grabbing the shovel, tossing the charred wood back into the grate.
“You can tell your people,” and here Marina switched to English, “about the straw that broke the camel’s back. By the way that’s a tricky proverb. There’s no equivalent in Russian, as you must know – you, the master of idioms. We say ‘the very last drop’, meaning the drop that overfills the cup.” Marina paused and switched back to Russian. “Well, for me there was such a moment. It was the murder of a twenty-year-old boy. My foster son, Pasha. Not officially, but… well, I loved him. He was like a son to me. And I love his brother, Vanya.”
In a voice that thinned, now and then, to a whisper, Marina told Clive about her years with “her boys”, about the responsibility, the love and, above all, the guilt she felt over Pasha’s death at the hands of Grigory Varlamov.
“‘Vengeance is mine’,” said Marina. “The first page of Anna Karenina… Right at the top, remember?”
Clive was shaking his head.
“Marisha…”
“You’re the only person who’s ever called me that,” Marina said quietly. “Alexei called me Marinochka. So does the president.”
“Marisha, what exactly do you want?”
“I want a new life somewhere far, far away. For me and for Vanya.”
“They’ll come after you.”
“Not if your people protect us. Not if we get a new identity.”
“They’ll keep on looking for you, you understand that? And if they find you, they’ll kill you. To Serov you’d be a…”
Clive broke off but Marina finished the sentence.
“…a traitor. Don’t be afraid to use the word. I know what I’m doing. I know the risks I’m taking. But the trick is not to get caught, don’t you agree? Listen to me, Clive. We can outsmart them. They’re not so bright. Believe me, I know.”
“Marisha, it’s not a game.”
“It is. It’s all a game, my dear, dear Clive. I need your help. I can’t do this on my own… I can’t take even one step out of Russia without official permission. I’m a security risk, you see. But I’m not asking for charity. I know how these things work. That’s why I said to you, ‘Ask your people what they want.’ Did you? Or did you make it up, all that about the satellites? You came back to me so fast. Maybe too fast…”
Clive got to his feet, pushed his hands deep in his pockets and paced the bare floorboards, away from the fire.
“I didn’t ask ‘my people’, because I didn’t need to. On the flight over I had a long talk with Martin Hyde. He wants to know exactly how many micro communication satellites Russia has launched and why all at once.”
“Ninety-four,” Marina said. “We’ve launched ninety-four microsatellites this year. My source is the deputy prime minister, Viktor Romanovsky. But as for ‘why’, I’m not there yet. But Hyde is right to wonder… There is something going on. The president keeps dropping hints about landing a knockout punch. Serov’s words, not mine.”
Clive looked at Marina standing there against the crackling, leaping flames. She was a shadow of her former exuberant self, washed out, too thin, but it didn’t matter. He felt an overwhelming tenderness for her disillusioned Russian soul. Then, once again she took him by surprise.
“This doesn’t have to be about me,” Marina said, struggling with each word. She was crouching beside Ulysses and stroking his head. “I don’t deserve your trust, your friendship. I get that. I have no right even to ask for it… But think of your country. You’re a patriot. My country wants to do you harm, and you can prevent it, if you help me. Think of me as… nobody. I’m offering you a deal. Take it or leave it.”
Marina spoke the last words almost in a whisper.
Clive was staring at her, frowning, trying to read between the lines, trying to understand what she really meant.
“So, you did love me in New York?” he said. “I want to hear you say it… I have to know.”
“Yes, I loved you, Clive,” she said, looking at him, her eyes full of sadness. “But I kept myself in check, held back because I knew it was useless… I was destined to marry a Russian. That was my fate, my sudba, and I accepted it.”
Marina stood up and arched her back. “Anyway, it was all so long ago. That was then. Now we’ve got more serious things to think about…”
“Is there anything more serious than love?”
Marina was sitting in her armchair, resting her hands on the arms, breathing quickly.
“Don’t make this so difficult!” she begged. “I know how these things work, Clive. I need to put something on the table now, something that will make your people take me seriously. I can get you a stack of General Varlamov’s private emails by Wednesday, the day after tomorrow. Thirty-six hours. Will that do?”
“Do you know what you’re getting into? Do you?”
Marina looked at Clive, her eyes desperate, pleading.
“You’re the only person I can turn to… Don’t you see?” she said. Then she got to her feet and stood in front of the fire. Clive did the same and stood inches away from her.
“I’ve made such a hash of things,” Marina whispered, and then, in a move he remembered so well, she leant forward and rested her head against his chest.
“Marisha,” he whispered. “Marisha…” He stroked her hair, her cheek, and, with only the slightest hesitation, they kissed with an intensity that took both of them by surprise.
It would take him days, even months to make sense of his feelings that evening in Peredelkino as he and Marina made love after so long. His feelings of then collided with the feelings of now, and he was overwhelmed. Lying on his back, he shut his eyes. Marina kissed his eyelids.
Later, in the darkness, Marina sat on the edge of the bed, her back to Clive, while he trailed a finger down her spine over the bumpy ridge of bones. A sliver of light came obliquely through the window from the lamp on Leo Tolstoy Street.
“You’ve got the body of an eighteen-year-old.”
“I’m a forty-year-old woman. Clive, listen to me. This is just a one-off. You understand, don’t you? We can’t meet here again. What time is it? You have to get back to Vera.”
Clive bent forward, kissed her back between the shoulder blades and said:
“It was the nightingale, and not the lark, that pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear.”
“It was the lark, the herald of the morn,” Marina answered, twisting round and laying the palm of her hand against Clive’s cheek. Then, with infinite sadness, she added, “Oh, Clive, this is all too little, too late.”
They talked on and on, and it was midnight by the time Clive got back to Vera’s dacha, where he found her asleep in front of the film they were supposed to watch together: Ivan Vasilyevich Changes His Profession. Clive turned the sound off and poured some white wine into one of Vera’s glasses – hand-painted with pink roses and surely a survivor from before the revolution. He had just sat down in the frayed red velvet armchair when Vera woke with a gentle snort. Clive muttered something about a lengthy supper with Alyosha, who then insisted on reciting Pasternak, but Vera cut him off.
“I don’t like it when you lie to me,” she said, looking sternly at Clive. “I’m no fool.”
Vera helped herself to a glass of Baileys, her favourite nightcap, and asked no questions. As they stood together outside on the veranda, Clive looked up at the stars, at half-hearted clouds scudding across the bruised face of an almost full moon, at the gnarled shape of the apple trees, which looked like old men. He felt so miraculously alive, born again. He wanted to reach out and pocket the night, whole.
“It’s all right,” Vera murmured, patting his arm. “You must lead your life the way you see fit. I’m not here to judge you.”
Clive took Vera’s small hands and kissed them. As he climbed into his Yandex taxi, the Ford Escort parked opposite came to life, and with it, the FSB tail, who closed his laptop. On the drive into Moscow, Clive leant back in the car and tried to digest the last few hours. What surprised him most was that she had felt so familiar: her smell, the softness of her skin, the way she let out an almost frightened gasp as he entered her. It was as if nothing had changed, nothing at all. And yet, Clive understood perfectly that the opposite was true: his whole life had been turned on its head.
11
“What is this fixation with Anton Chekhov?”
General Varlamov had walked into Marina’s office in the Senate Palace without knocking, one of his many irritating habits. Marina was sitting at her desk, her laptop open, correcting the spelling on menus for a reception the next evening in honour of the German ex-chancellor, now on the board of Gazprom. Reluctantly, she looked up and forced herself to smile.
“Yesterday morning,” said the general, sitting himself down in the chestnut armchair, “your friend Franklin took himself off to Novodevichy Cemetery and laid flowers at Chekhov’s grave, and then, right in front of the tombstone, he made a speech. Unhealthy, don’t you think?”
“He likes Chekhov,” Marina shrugged. “At the Bolshoi, he told me he was translating some of his stories.”
He also told me, Marina thought, staring steadily at Varlamov, and for once able to put her hatred of the general to one side, that he would help me get out of here and never come back. But everything depends on the level of intelligence I can provide. It has to be first-class. Then, and only then, will they get me out. This is what Clive promised after we made love.
Marina stared pointedly at her screen, hoping that Varlamov would take the hint that she wanted to be alone, but the general showed no sign of leaving; instead, he paced about her office, deep in thought. It was a particularly nice first-floor office, with a balcony, a high, corniced ceiling and windows on two sides, so the room was filled with light. The heavy nineteenth-century furniture was not to her taste, so she had ordered a black leather revolving armchair from Italy, which she called her “thinking chair”. Oh, and a Nespresso coffee machine. From her balcony, she could see Red Square and St Basil’s. Was that the reason General Varlamov kept dropping in? To admire the view?
“Yes, but flowers? A speech?” the general persisted.
“Maybe he’s just eccentric… That’s an English characteristic.”
Not in bed, she thought to herself, keeping her eyes fixed on her computer screen. In bed, he’s gentle and ardent. Last night, I felt desired… It was so surprising, so lovely… His touch, his kisses, all the things I’ve missed for so long.
Marina’s last years had been almost entirely celibate, except for a fling with a German interpreter, which lasted only a few weeks and ended when he wanted to take her to meet his mother in Worms. Otherwise, she had lived like a nun, caring for Alexei. Then, once he had died, she found that she had no appetite for relationships. But now, everything had changed.
“How do you translate soufflé?” Marina asked.
“Soufflé,” the general replied with a casual wave of the hand. His mind was on something else.
“That’s what I’ve put. In Cyrillic of course.”
Marina’s office was in the heart of the presidential administration, which filled most of the Senate Palace, a majestic eighteenth-century building, yellow with a green dome, inside the Kremlin. Just down the corridor from Marina, General Varlamov had a courtesy office, which he could use whenever he pleased, although everyone knew the general was happiest in his penthouse office on the top floor of the Lubyanka, the headquarters of the FSB.
“Maybe Franklin’s gay. What do you think?” Varlamov asked suddenly.
“He was married to a woman.”
“That could have been a front.”
“You’re too suspicious, Grigory Mikhailovich.”
“Yes, yes, I am… My wife says the same. I just thought you might know, that’s all. From your time in New York, when you were young and carefree.”
Marina searched the general’s face for suspicion, even mockery, but found none, which told her that he didn’t know about her affair with Clive all those years ago. It was not in her FSB file. In those days, she reflected, the FSB was strapped for cash, and I was a nobody, not worth the expense of a tail.
“In New York, I wasn’t exactly carefree,” Marina said slowly and with just the right hint of reproach. “My husband got cancer.”
“He was unlucky. I’ve had cancer and I’m fine.”
To Marina’s dismay, the general pulled out his vaporizer.
“May I?”
“Of course.”
The general turned back to his phone and to his operative’s report.
“Where were you this morning? I looked for you… No one knew where you’d gone.”
“I was running.”
At first light, she had driven from Peredelkino to Luzhniki Stadium and timed herself for a half-marathon pace run, pretending this was for real. She ran with a lightness that she hadn’t felt in years, completing 21 km in 2 hours 8 minutes 44 seconds. That was 6.1 km/h, a personal best for that year.
“At the Bolshoi, you gave Franklin your card… Why did you do that?”
“So he can call me, in case he changes his mind.”
“Changes his mind?”
“About running,” Marina said in a helpful, obliging voice. “You told me to ask Clive Franklin if he would like to go running. So I did. He said he was too busy, but you never know, do you? These trade talks might come to a grinding halt, and then he’d be as free as air.”
“May I see this card of yours? If you don’t mind?”
Marina pulled out her desk drawer, where she kept her business cards and a secret supply of cigarettes for Lev. With a patient smile, she handed Varlamov an ivory name card. He held it between his manicured fingers, read it and turned it over. On one side was Russian, on the other side English.
