drained his
glass and added: "Schubert - overrated, I'm afraid. Far too flighty for
me." The bellicose laugh moved away with him, into the crowded room.
Massinger finished his wine, and listened. The room applauded as the
song ended, and there were calls for others - Mozart arias which the
singer would be wise not to attempt, Schubert again, Wolf, Victorian
fireside ballards. Massinger propelled himself through his wife's
guests in search of the Aloxe-Corton. A young man hired for the evening
by Stephens, the butler, refilled his glass. He turned towards the
sound of the soprano, now singing a modern pop song.
The way we
were
. She followed Streisand's floating and swooping more than
adequately.
The KGB Rezident at the Soviet embassy was standing in front of him,
smiling and raising a glass of cognac in salute.
"Pavel!" Massinger exclaimed in surprise, almost with pleasure.
Pavel, ostensibly the Russian Cultural Attache, was usually drunk at
social gatherings, and often amusing. Massinger had found him attached,
even bound, to Margaret's musical and cultural set almost from the time
he had met her. Everyone seemed to know his real position. Massinger
believed that Pavel used Margaret's parties and occasions not for
intelligence-gathering but for relaxation, under the pretence to his
masters, no doubt, that important people, people with secrets and with
influence, frequented Margaret's
salon
.
"Paul, my good friend!" Pavel exclaimed thickly. It was evident that
he was drunk again. Yet he was neither aggressive nor morose in his
cups. Only louder; the Russian beneath the Party man.
The girl in the next room caressed past and present without touching
them.
"You're enjoying yourself, Pavel?" Massinger enquired archly,
nodding at the brandy balloon.
"Of course, of course! Your parties are always splendid -splendid!
So good for spying!" He burst into laughter again. His English was
good, cosmopolitan and assured like his slim figure and expensive
clothes. He was urbane, amusing, passionate. His appearance was
deceptive, and Massinger suspected the ambitious Party functionary
beneath the silk shirt and the skin. Pavel drank more cognac, then
passed his glass to the young man. It was generously refilled. More
applause, then immediately another Schubert song, one of overblown
romantic longing.
I have that, Massinger told himself. I have achieved what that song
aches for. The sensation was warming, like drink. Pavel silently
toasted Massinger once more then ostentatiously sniffed the cognac and
sighed with pleasure. And I daren't risk losing it, Massinger added to
himself.
"Did you enjoy the opera?" he asked.
"Enjoy - what is
enjoy
? It is - so pale, so Western, my
friend. I lived it,
lived
it!"
"Good for you."
"And this song is like the opera, mm? So unreal. A romantic dream."
Massinger had forgotten that Pavel spoke German as well as French and
English. "Operas of power interest me more. Like Wagner. Though I trust
you not to report me to the Central Committee for my pro-Nazi
sentiments!" He roared with laughter, creating little whirlpools of
re-assumed conversation as guests were distracted from the singing in
the next room.
"Power - yes," Massinger murmured. Then he saw Margaret at the door,
having detached herself from the party around the piano. Her finger
made circulating motions in the air, and he nodded, smiling. He was
neglecting his duties as host. Escort, he thought, might have been a
more accurate description. Nevertheless —
"And falls from power," Pavel added as Massinger was on the point of
excusing himself. "Like that of your poor friend Aubrey."
He watched Pavel's eyes. Slightly glazed, the pupils enlarged. His
trim figure was unsteady, beginning to rock with the current of the
alcohol.
"Yes."
"Tears, idle tears," Pavel quoted.
"Quite." Massinger's back felt cold, his mind as icy as the pendants
of the chandelier above them. "Maybe we ought to shed tears, even for
an enemy?"
Pavel shook his head and
glass and added: "Schubert - overrated, I'm afraid. Far too flighty for
me." The bellicose laugh moved away with him, into the crowded room.
Massinger finished his wine, and listened. The room applauded as the
song ended, and there were calls for others - Mozart arias which the
singer would be wise not to attempt, Schubert again, Wolf, Victorian
fireside ballards. Massinger propelled himself through his wife's
guests in search of the Aloxe-Corton. A young man hired for the evening
by Stephens, the butler, refilled his glass. He turned towards the
sound of the soprano, now singing a modern pop song.
The way we
were
. She followed Streisand's floating and swooping more than
adequately.
The KGB Rezident at the Soviet embassy was standing in front of him,
smiling and raising a glass of cognac in salute.
"Pavel!" Massinger exclaimed in surprise, almost with pleasure.
Pavel, ostensibly the Russian Cultural Attache, was usually drunk at
social gatherings, and often amusing. Massinger had found him attached,
even bound, to Margaret's musical and cultural set almost from the time
he had met her. Everyone seemed to know his real position. Massinger
believed that Pavel used Margaret's parties and occasions not for
intelligence-gathering but for relaxation, under the pretence to his
masters, no doubt, that important people, people with secrets and with
influence, frequented Margaret's
salon
.
"Paul, my good friend!" Pavel exclaimed thickly. It was evident that
he was drunk again. Yet he was neither aggressive nor morose in his
cups. Only louder; the Russian beneath the Party man.
The girl in the next room caressed past and present without touching
them.
"You're enjoying yourself, Pavel?" Massinger enquired archly,
nodding at the brandy balloon.
"Of course, of course! Your parties are always splendid -splendid!
So good for spying!" He burst into laughter again. His English was
good, cosmopolitan and assured like his slim figure and expensive
clothes. He was urbane, amusing, passionate. His appearance was
deceptive, and Massinger suspected the ambitious Party functionary
beneath the silk shirt and the skin. Pavel drank more cognac, then
passed his glass to the young man. It was generously refilled. More
applause, then immediately another Schubert song, one of overblown
romantic longing.
I have that, Massinger told himself. I have achieved what that song
aches for. The sensation was warming, like drink. Pavel silently
toasted Massinger once more then ostentatiously sniffed the cognac and
sighed with pleasure. And I daren't risk losing it, Massinger added to
himself.
"Did you enjoy the opera?" he asked.
"Enjoy - what is
enjoy
? It is - so pale, so Western, my
friend. I lived it,
lived
it!"
"Good for you."
"And this song is like the opera, mm? So unreal. A romantic dream."
Massinger had forgotten that Pavel spoke German as well as French and
English. "Operas of power interest me more. Like Wagner. Though I trust
you not to report me to the Central Committee for my pro-Nazi
sentiments!" He roared with laughter, creating little whirlpools of
re-assumed conversation as guests were distracted from the singing in
the next room.
"Power - yes," Massinger murmured. Then he saw Margaret at the door,
having detached herself from the party around the piano. Her finger
made circulating motions in the air, and he nodded, smiling. He was
neglecting his duties as host. Escort, he thought, might have been a
more accurate description. Nevertheless —
"And falls from power," Pavel added as Massinger was on the point of
excusing himself. "Like that of your poor friend Aubrey."
He watched Pavel's eyes. Slightly glazed, the pupils enlarged. His
trim figure was unsteady, beginning to rock with the current of the
alcohol.
"Yes."
"Tears, idle tears," Pavel quoted.
"Quite." Massinger's back felt cold, his mind as icy as the pendants
of the chandelier above them. "Maybe we ought to shed tears, even for
an enemy?"
Pavel shook his head and
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