Free The Defector by Evelyn Anthony Page A

flower-beds. It was a still, sound less night. They didn’t touch each other; there were no steps and they could see the garden quite clearly.
    “I hope this was a good idea,” Davina said at last.
    “If you want to go early tomorrow I can make an excuse…”
    “I’m enjoying myself,” Sasanov answered.
    “It’s a new world to me. I find it interesting. Everything about the way you live is different;
    the way your family thinks and talks, the customs here. It’s like another planet to a Russian. “
    “I wanted you to see a little of what life in England could be like,” she said quietly.
    “You and your wife and daughter could have a place in the country. Or in a town if you prefer. You could all be happy here. They could be free too.” He stopped and looked down at her.
    “I wouldn’t know what to do with your freedom. Nor would my wife and child. Russians have never been free. We need a strong hand over us, if we’re going to be happy. You wouldn’t understand that. You wouldn’t understand that in Russia men like your father don’t talk about their government. They never have done. Not in Tsarist times and not now.”
    “You’re closing your mind,” she said.
    “You’re prejudiced because my father talked politics to you after dinner.” Sasanov protested.
    “That’s not true; I was expecting it. I like political discussions; but there was no challenge, no risk.”
    “Now that / don’t understand,” Davina said.
    “I don’t see any fun in being frightened to speak your mind, and I don’t think you do either. You’re just being bloody-minded! ” They faced each other in the middle of the path.
    “And you are trying to pick a quarrel,” Sasanov said.
    “Why?” Because it’s not working out, she wanted to say; because I’ve made a mistake bringing you down here. You can’t see yourself or your family fitting into English life. And I know you’ll go to bed with my sister before the weekend is over, unless I can get you away. And that I cannot bear. A bank of cloud covered the moon. Suddenly they were in darkness.
    “I’m going in,” she said.
    “I hope you sleep. Maybe you’ll be in a better mood tomorrow.” She began to walk away, and promptly tripped over the edge of the path. She heard him laugh behind her. He caught her by the elbow.
    “Don’t be stupid,” he said.
    “You can’t see.”
    “Nor can you!”
    “I didn’t fall over,” he remarked. She tried to pull away but he wouldn’t let go. They proceeded slowly and carefully back towards the lighted windows of the house. Then the moon slipped free and she broke away from him. He barred the way to the house. She couldn’t see his face.
    “Wait, Vina. Don’t go in. I miss my wife,” he said slowly.
    “More than ever. I don’t want to be alone tonight.” She answered before she could stop herself. She felt frozen and empty.
    “You won’t be, if I know my sister.” He put both hands on her shoulders.
    “I don’t want your sister,” Sasanov said. There was a little clock on her dressing-table; the dial was luminous and the hands showed five minutes to three. It was impossible to sleep in her narrow bed, although they had both dozed for a time and then awoken. She had never felt so exhausted in her life. She had slept with her fiance, Richard, and found sex tender and fulfilling. There had been a lot of love in their lovemaking. At least on her part. But it was a poor preparation for going to bed with Sasanov. She didn’t want to remember Richard, but he came into her thoughts, and with the Russian’s heavy arms around her the memory was of a feeble, ineffectual lover. It was a strange revelation, and the implications were disturbing. She would consider them tomorrow, she decided, and then realized that tomorrow had become today, and the man beside her was stirring and active again. Sasanov leaned over her and kissed her afterwards.
    “Are you all right?”
    “I feel I’ve been run over by a bus.”