Free Face Me When You Walk Away by Brian Freemantle Page B

Josef. ‘Yes,’ he recited. ‘It’s a wonderful book. And it will become recognized as such.’
    â€˜When will we know?’
    â€˜Soon, I hope,’ said Josef. He pressed his fingers into his forehead. Would the bloody pain never dissipate? He yawned.
    â€˜Now that Pamela and 1 are back in Moscow,’ he said. ‘There doesn’t seem a great deal of point in your staying all the way out here …’
    He nodded towards the little-used desk.
    â€˜â€¦ particularly as it seems to hamper your writing.’
    â€˜I refuse to share an apartment with anyone,’ announced Nikolai, sharply. ‘I want a place by myself. I am one of Russia’s foremost writers. I have a right to certain privileges. I want you to make that quite clear.’
    The boy gradually becomes a man, thought Josef. Amused at the writer’s posturing, he said lightly, ‘All right. I’ll let everyone know.’
    â€˜You’re laughing at me,’ erupted Nikolai, suddenly. ‘There was a sneer in your voice. I will not be laughed at.’
    Josef’s humour evaporated. ‘And I won’t be addressed like that,’ he snapped. ‘You stand a very good chance of having more honour and money bestowed upon you in the next few weeks than most men dream of in their lifetimes, certainly in Russia. You’ll be exposed for weeks, maybe months, before people just waiting for you to behave as you did a few moments ago. As long as I am with you, entrusted with seeing no disgrace comes to you or to Russia, then you won’t behave like that. And don’t you forget it, for a moment.’
    â€˜Perhaps someone else should have the responsibility,’ retorted Nikolai, still defiant.
    â€˜I wish there were someone else,’ said Josef, sincerely. ‘There isn’t.’
    â€˜We’ll see,’ Nikolai tried, unconvinced.
    â€˜No,’ corrected Josef, too experienced to be angered by rudeness. ‘We won’t see. We go abroad on my terms. Don’t ever imagine I’m a servant, Nikolai. Never make that mistake.’
    â€˜I thought you were my friend,’ complained the writer, edging towards capitulation.
    â€˜I will be,’ undertook Josef. ‘I’ll make you one of the most famous Russians in the world. But on my terms.’
    â€˜You don’t understand strain,’ said Nikolai, subsiding further.
    Initially, Josef could not reply. Oh God, he thought, do I understand strain. I live with it, exist on it, like a machine running on electricity. Without strain, I’d wind down and stop. How good it might be, just for a short time, to be able to wind down and stop.
    â€˜I’m not going to try to understand it,’ he said, taking up the argument again. ‘With me, there will be no tantrums of genius.’
    The telephone concluded the argument. Both men were relieved.
    â€˜You’re elusive,’ rebuked Devgeny, when Josef took the receiver from the housekeeper.
    â€˜It seems to be a sudden development in both our lives,’ replied Josef. Tired and ill, he felt drained by the surprising argument with Balshev. He couldn’t compete today with Devgeny. The meeting had to be avoided.
    â€˜I have other duties to perform, you know,’ said the Minister. He was relaxed, his attitude rehearsed. ‘Sometimes I envy you, able to detach yourself completely and devote your undivided attention to just one project. You’re a lucky man.’
    He waited, but Josef did not respond.
    â€˜We’re anxious about Stockholm,’ said Devgeny. ‘We thought of convening this evening, around seven o’clock.’
    Pamela had been excited when he had left the apartment, happy at the thought of personally preparing their first meal together.
    â€˜I’m at the dacha, as you know,’ countered Josef. ‘I can’t make it tonight.’
    â€˜Oh, you can, Josef,’ insisted Devgeny.