The Alien (9 page)

Two days later Boris again paid an afternoon call at the Brentwoods' house in Fawcett Street. This time he arrived a little before three and not by arrangement.

Louise was out at her English class and Mrs. Ogden was out shopping. The door was opened by Ogden in his shirt-sleeves, not very cordial in his greeting, for he had been reading the newspaper with his feet up, not expecting any callers until after his master's return, which he had been warned would take place at three-thirty. In fact Boris might have had no reply to his repeated ringing of the bell had not Ogden lowered his feet, moved to the area window and peered up at the unwanted interrupter of his rest. When he saw who it was and that the visitor was smiling down at him, he retreated swiftly and went upstairs while Boris, who would have been quite content to enter by the back door, waited with as much patience as he could command.

“Is Mr. Colin expecting you, sir?'' Ogden asked, when he had allowed the visitor into the hall. He was puzzled by the apparently changed order of the time-table.

“No. No one is expecting me. That is, Mrs. Brentwood has kindly given me what I think you call an open invitation and having to pass this way I stopped in case I should find one of them at home.''

“Mr. Colin will be back at the half-hour,'' Ogden told him. “I was to expect him. He has an appointment here, he said.''

“I see. And Mrs. Brentwood?''

“Is in the garden, sir. If you will come this way.''

The old man began to move off towards the drawing-room door.

Boris said gently, “Do not disturb yourself, Ogden. I know my way.''

“Yes, sir.''

Ogden did, however, open the drawing-room door and though he went no farther, he waited until he saw Boris move down the iron steps into the garden before he turned away to resume his interrupted read and smoke.

Margaret, having no particular errand or engagement for that afternoon had decided to get even with her correspondence. She took the formidable back-log of letters, petty bills, invitations, circulars and picture postcards from travelling friends to her usual retreat behind the rose fence and spread it all out on the day-bed. But the afternoon was a particularly sultry one, with a hot yellow sky overhead, no sun and no wind, not even a gentle breeze to stir the drooping dusty leaves of the trees or bring her the scent of roses to improve the heavy air. Where there was no sun there was no shade, no demarcation line to give her satisfaction and the make-believe of escape from burning rays. There was merely a slight darkening, a heavier oppression, an increased irritation of flies. She stared at her papers for a long time before she was able to rouse herself at all. She had finished only one letter and begun another when Boris walked round the corner of the screen.

At once she felt the air lighten, the day become endurable.

“You of all people,'' she said, when they had exchanged a brief greeting. “I had no idea.''

“Nor had I,'' said Boris, taking out his handkerchief to wipe his face. “But I am sent to Kensington and I lose my way so I think I will ask you and perhaps rest to become cool, if that is possible.''

“Of course it is,'' she said, with emphasis. “You like a deck-chair, don't you?'' She began to get up, pushing her heap of papers to one side. “Will you have something cold to drink?''

“No. No, thank you,'' he said, quickly, stopping her. “Too hot to move. I will sit here, if I may.''

She pushed her letters still farther along the day-bed and he sat down near her, noticing her increased pleasure with rueful acceptance.

“You will direct me first, please,'' he said, to counteract any unfortunate impression he might have made. “So that I do not forget and go away as ignorant as I came.''

They both laughed. He stated his supposed difficulty and had a lucid, admirably brief answer to it. This was more like the old Margaret, intelligent, well-informed, lively; not the sad dreamer who had so often embarrassed him since his return. He began to feel relaxed, confidential.

“You do not object if I continue to cool off for a little?''

“As long as you like. Colin will be at home presently. He would like to see you, I'm sure.''

Doubtful, thought Boris, but she has to say that, though she does not believe it. To avoid any discussion of Colin's attitude, of Colin's views, which could lead so dangerously into her past, he plunged into his own memories.

He had found, to his great relief and joy, that much of their bitterness had drained away from them. As after a surgical operation, he remembered the sequence of events, but the accompanying pain had vanished and with it the terror caused by the pain.

“This day is like many in the high summer when I was in forced labour at the mines. But then I was working. The sweat dried as we worked. There was only thirst. Bad thirst and no water. No relief till the end of the day when the sun went down.''

“You were not working underground, then?''

“No. I was not a miner. Not skilled. I was above. We build new sheds, new offices. We make roads. All heavy, unskilled labour.''

“Was this in Siberia? I didn't know it was as hot as that so far north.''

“No. In the Ural Mountains. Central Russia. One of those Russian colonial states they took in the last century when you British were doing the same in India and other places of the east.''

“This was after you had been released from Siberia, then?''

She did not want to lose the personal thread in a discussion of comparative empires, however contemporary.

“Yes. When my hope of being allowed to join the Army had gone for ever. When it was impossible, because the steppe is endless, to escape to the south and find a way to Egypt.''

“You could live without hope?''

She was staring at him with great compassion but also with immense surprise. She is still the complete romantic, he thought, smiling at her tenderly.

For a brief moment, seeing the smile, feeling it pierce her heart, Margaret renewed her youth. His next words shattered her dream quite finally.

“I was without hope,'' he said, “but not alone. I had my wife.''

“Your wife!''

Margaret heard her own cry and was profoundly shocked by it. But Boris did not seem to have noticed anything unusual. She sat, white-faced, shaking, feeling the uncontrolled tears begin to run unchecked down to the corners of her mouth, but listening against her will as he went on talking about his marriage. As she listened she began to feel that she had never known him at all, that everything he had seemed to be had lived only in her own mind, that she had put on to a stranger a costume of her own making in which he had been content to play the part of prince to her own childish princess. But had he really been content? He had left her in the end. When the war was upon them he had pulled off that play-acting costume and gone away. To forget her as if she had never existed. To marry this woman – this—

“Was she a Russian?'' she asked, when she felt she had enough control of her voice.

Boris checked himself in surprise.

“But no,'' he said. “It would not be possible to me to marry a Russian. She was from the Ukraine, of Hungarian descent, I think. They are not Russians in the Ukraine. It is another colony.''

“I see. Was she a prisoner, too?''

“In a way. Her father and mother had been deported to forced labour. She was a child, then. It was a concession that she lived with them, but the father had not committed any political crime. She was just lucky. I was lucky too that they allowed me to marry.

But it was so far from Moscow. And they are not all monsters. The system is frightful but not all of those who work it.''

“How long ago was this?''

He did not answer immediately, but seemed to be considering. Could he have forgotten the year of his marriage, she wondered? Or was the whole tale a fable, invented to build a wall of discretion, of convention, between them? When he answered she understood how very far from the truth she had wandered. She was ready to believe anything thereafter.

“My son, if he lives, will be ten years old next month. My two daughters nine and seven.''

“Children! You have children?''

“Yes. I had three children.''

“Had?''

It needed this final shock to drag her from herself and release her true compassion.

“Oh, Boris, how terrible for you to have to leave them all behind! It happens too often in these escapes and we hardly take it in. What it means – the separation – the suffering. Will they be allowed to join you? Are they safe, even?''

Boris looked at her steadily with a small bitter smile lifting the corners of his mouth.

“How different is the life in this country! You do not understand. You could not imagine. But how can you when I have not told you.''

“They aren't – dead!'' She spoke hardly above a whisper.

“I do not know.''

Though the face before her was calm she could not bear to look at the pain in his eyes, so she turned her own to the ground and sat very still.

“When Stalin died,'' Boris began presently, almost as if he were reading aloud to her from a familiar book, “the labour camps were re-organized. It was discovered that my wife's parents, far from being enemies of the State, were most valuable citizens, since her father had been eminent in his profession and eminent professional men of experience are still rare. It was decided that I too might be more usefully employed, so we were transferred to Leningrad and given two whole rooms to live in.''

“Seven of you?'' Margaret could not help exclaiming.

“It was generous. The baby was only two months old at that time.''

“Yes. I suppose so.''

“At the camp,'' Boris went on, “we had been very isolated. Not many people to make friends. All very careful to say nothing. And my wife had been there since she was a child, you will remember. But in Leningrad – how different! No one to ask where we came from or why. Those questions one does not ask. But the people friendly – all working together – no more terror or not so much. My wife was – enchanted – flattered—Well, in six months she took a lover. He was the boss where she worked. Not so young as me, but he had privileges, he could make presents, give meals at the best restaurants. There was nothing I could do – an alien –
bourgeois
– with my history.''

“How appalling!''

Margaret spoke sincerely enough and felt a true pity, but Boris, who had turned away his head while he described his wife's unfaithfulness, turned sharply back to stare at her.

“It was not that which appals,'' he said, slowly, “but my stupidity.''

“How?''

“I kept my knowledge from her a long time. In the end it was little Alexei who gave her away to me, innocently – in her presence. Nothing could then destroy my knowledge or conceal it, nor her knowledge of my knowing. I could have stopped Alexei, taken him out, turned his attention. I did not. I sat and listened. Perhaps I was tired of my own deception more than of hers. I sat there and saw all that I had built with so much work and pain and grief melting away.''

“Did you get rid of her – divorce her? Do they have divorce?''

Boris laughed, a hideous laugh that made Margaret want to cover her ears.

“No, I did not divorce. She and her lover held the cards. I had none. It is simple in those circumstances. They had only to denounce me.''

“No! Oh, no!''

“Oh, yes.''

Boris was on his feet now, walking up and down the narrow strip of grass under the trees, talking passionately, incoherently, using words from any language that occurred to him, but never raising his voice nor using any violent gesture. His fury of despair burst from him like a flood hemmed into a narrow gorge by high rock walls, the walls of his prison discipline, his senseless, brutal years of conditioning. Margaret was too frightened to move and totally powerless to help.

But his outburst ended as abruptly as it began. He dropped down again on the day-bed beside her, took his handkerchief to his streaming face and said, shakily, “You must forgive me, Margaret. That is not usual for me.''

“Oh, my dear,'' she said, beginning to cry. “If there was anything any of us here could do!''

She laid a hand on his knee and he took it and lifted it to his lips.

“You have listened to me without trying to stop me or screaming for help,'' he said, smiling. “That is one of the advantages of being British.''

She tried to smile back.

“Now you know and I am glad you know,'' he went on. “I speak of it to no one else. You, too, please.''

“I won't tell anyone. No one at all.''

“Except Colin?'' His eyes were on her, smiling too. She felt herself flushing.

“No. Not Colin. I never repeat—'' She was going to say ‘gossip' but checked, horrified at herself. “I never repeat other people's confidences,'' she ended, awkwardly.

Boris looked away but said no more. After a short silence Margaret, whose curiosity had been growing steadily, asked, not without trepidation, “What happened to you, then?''

“Siberia – the second time. But for one year only.''

“They let you go?''

“They let me go.''

His answer was final. It was impossible to ask why they had let him go.

“And then?''

“I returned to Leningrad. My wife had gone and my children. My wife's parents had gone. My wife's boss had been transferred to Moscow. Perhaps they had gone with him – perhaps not. I do not know. I shall never know.''

“Haven't you tried to find them?''

He glanced at her quickly and away again.

“That was not possible for me. I had become a seaman.''