The Summer Guest Page 16

Léo. Not in La Paz or Lille but right here in London.

  Ana liked to think she did not believe in coincidence. It had played no significant role in her life, although she did know of friends who had suffered, mostly in their relationships, from untimely coincidences. Meeting someone—an erstwhile lover—where he had no business being, when you were in the presence of your partner; more happily, missing a plane at an airport halfway around the world only to run into a long-lost friend. No, thought Ana, this was logical: In the small world of literary translators, you were bound to run into your colleagues if you went to professional events.

  As for Isobel being his partner, that, too, did not seem implausible. Networks were formed between authors and translators. It was odd that Ana had not seen his picture before now, but it was less common in France, the author mug shot, and she tended not to read crime novels, or watch the literary programs on television or the Internet, where he probably appeared on a regular basis.

  But she still felt stunned: targeted, mocked.

  She remembered Léo’s awful novels. The earnest workers, the long-suffering farmers’ wives. So he’d found his niche at last, moving a layer deeper into the dissolution of late-capitalist British society. He had always been something of an Anglophile, Ana remembered; he’d followed the cricket and regularly faulted Ana for her Americanisms. Gotten. Elevator. Say Tewsday, not Toosday. It had amused her at the time, the Marxist student who wanted his cream tea at Liberty or Harrods whenever they went over to London for the weekend. He assured her it was only what Engels would have done.

  Naturally, he would have chosen to use a nom de plume. He must have broken other hearts besides Ana’s, and made not a few political enemies; already when Ana was with him, he was constantly feuding with those who were supposed to be his comrades. He would not want their Gallic scorn, the Marxist turned trendy crime writer. How convenient to vanish, then resurface as the perfect gentleman with Burberry and brolly. And cashmere scarf, of course. Autres temps, autres mæurs.

  She pushed the book back on the shelf as if it might contaminate her. She tried to recall the blur in the doorway: Yes, there had been a whiff of cologne, too. She had been staring straight ahead, his head was turned, the flash of gray. The raincoat, the scarf. That was it.

  Does it matter, thought Ana, am I sorry?

  She found herself staring at spines in the Russia section, dear, familiar names dancing before her while her thoughts raced and then tripped over sluggish, unchanged emotions. She no longer felt the love, but she knew it was rooted inside her as historical fact, both to treasure and to regret. Yes, she had been young and naive. Yes, he had been sardonic and far more experienced. Yes, he had diddled her along for two years or more because she was tall and leggy and faintly exotic in those days (La Californie? C’est trop loin!), and despite the Americanisms, she improved his English, while her French languished. Yes, she had been devastated when he left her for an older woman who had a farmhouse in the Pyrenees and wove ponchos and bedspreads. It didn’t make sense, then or now. After that, his trail had gone cold.

  She had thought of him more often since the breakup of her marriage, and not just when she went skiing: wistfully, with a nostalgic curiosity, as if trying to imprint what had been recurring spells of euphoria and physical transport more sharply upon her yielding memory; to imprint them over the failure, ultimately, of her life with Mathieu. True, there were the things she had forfeited in order to be with Léo—she did not go back to California, to the master’s program at the Monterey Institute, where she’d been accepted; she had not been there when her mother died; she had lost touch with friends. Yes, Anton Pavlovich, I ran into the night without my bonnet.

  And if there had not been Léo, would there have been Mathieu? Did Mathieu not rescue her, in a way, from her disappointment? Did she not trust him where she had been betrayed by Léo, respect him where she had loved Léo? Until he betrayed her in turn?

  It was easy, with hindsight, to analyze and condemn, to see one’s errors or apportion blame.

  But standing there gazing blankly at a volume of Tolstoy’s short works, Ana briefly mourned the girl who had lived for her belief in a kindred spirit, in a shared life beyond the mere transports of youth. Léo had sent her back out into the world with that faith damaged; and while she had thought that her belief would be safe in a life with a husband, perhaps it had been hollow from the start.

  With a start and a rush of anger, Ana realized Isobel must have known who she was—though that assumed that Franck had told Isobel about his former girlfriends, which he was unlikely to do, let alone tell her their names if even he was hiding behind a pseudonym. Or had Léo been the pseudonym all along—a nod (without the final “n”) to a certain revolutionary? He must have seen Ana’s name on the prize shortlist, although there, too, he would have kept it to himself. What a dirty little thrill it must give him. What were the odds of such a thing?

  As for Isobel’s relationship with Franck, she was young, very young; they had a child together; her generation was tougher, women were stronger, more assertive. Or so Ana assumed from hearsay. She did not know those women.

  And Franck was older. Perhaps a certain gentleness came with well-aged cynicism.

  Ana stared at the books in front of her. Crime and Punishment. The Brothers Karamazov. The Idiot. Her eyes filled with tears; she shook her head. In the end, it had not been given to her to meet Franck, because Franck was not her Léo; whoever that Léo was, he existed only in her memory. That was how she must leave it.

  She started taking books from the shelf and nearly filled the small basket. A thick new biography of Tolstoy; two novels by Turgenev that she had never read. She was pleased to see that she already had everything on the shelf by Anton Chekhov. She found the Polish woman’s book of essays on a neighboring shelf. Back to the Russia shelf, irresistibly: Penelope Fitzgerald’s The Beginning of Spring—no, she wasn’t Russian, but the book was about Russia. Two novels by Andrey Kurkov, misfiled under Russia; he was Ukrainian. But wrote in Russian. About Ukraine. Living proof, if more were needed, of the tangle of historical and cultural ties.

  Appeased by the pile in her basket, she went up to the register. I have a question, she said to the young woman. Do you have any copies of a book called Go Through the Door, Turn Left, by Lydia Guilloux?

  The young woman typed on her computer, then shook her head. It’s on order. Would you like us to let you know when it arrives?

  No, I’m afraid I don’t live here, but thanks for checking.

  She left the bookshop with a smile.

  KATYA WAS ANNOYED: THE translator was worse than an agent. Not to worry . . . wonderful to discuss Zinaida Mikhailovna’s diary. They did not owe her anything other than the fee and a cursory appreciation for her work. They did not owe her tea and cakes—that was for authors, and even then.

  Or did they? Katya felt irritable, anxious. This wasn’t right. Peter had told her he hadn’t even paid the woman’s advance.

  I haven’t got it, Katya.

  But surely it’s only a few hundred pounds, Peter—

  I haven’t got a few hundred pounds. I haven’t got it.

  This scene, a few days earlier. Over a near-silent dinner of takeaway pizza. The cheese, growing cold, congealing. Her nausea. His words like something out of a film. Not a very good film, not one she’d watch, anyway. She had dug deeper, there was more to it, of course, complicated things about returns and distributors and a bookseller who’d gone belly-up. A cash-flow problem.

  Katya pleaded common courtesy. Could they not borrow such a small sum, put it on a credit card? What if, she said breathlessly, she refuses to finish the translation or to send it to us?

  Peter refused to discuss the matter further. He toyed with the pizza crust, banging it against the edge of the box. He lifted sausage pieces from the remaining slices, chewed on them noisily. Katya closed her eyes.

  So if she agreed to meet with this Anastasia Harding, what would she tell her? Where woul
d common courtesy be then? I’m sorry, I’m telling you politely that we have no money to pay you. Could you do the translation out of your love for Russian literature?

  Katya felt a burst of anger. This diary deserved the best translation possible, the best treatment possible. Nothing halfhearted or hurried or unfinished because the translator had been treated in an offhand manner.

  She would find the money; she would agree to see the woman. Not just tea and cakes: full Russian hospitality.

  SLEEP WAS RAGGED, UNFORGIVING. Léo strode through her wakefulness, larger than life, both tender and cruel. What if?, he shouted, causing a rush of anxiety to her stomach that seemed to shoot through her like caffeine. What if she had gone back to speak to him, to see him? Did Isobel mention their conversation to him? Would he ask about her, veiling his curiosity? Would Isobel say, Oh, she’s much older than I am, or something vaguely unkind, if he pressed her for a description? How she had spilled the wine? Would he lean over in bed and say, T’inquiète pas, chérie, you are by far the better translator, you will win the prize?

  In the darkness Ana heard birds singing. It can’t be, she thought, maybe it’s just a dream, maybe I’ll wake up with Doodle at my feet and the sound of birds at dawn where they belong, in an ordered world.

  At breakfast she questioned her landlady: Did they have nightingales in their garden? She smiled at Ana indulgently and said, Not as far as I know. Blackbird, perhaps?

  Ana was already on her way to King’s Cross when she heard a cell phone ringing and realized it was hers.

  A woman’s voice, unfamiliar, somewhat breathless, her slight accent unmistakably Russian, inviting her to lunch.

  Ana turned around and headed back to South Kensington.

  She arrived early at the pub and sat back to read the newspaper at the table Katya had reserved, but she could not concentrate. The pub was Victorian but had been refurbished with a spare, luminous decor that was a nod to modernity and its status as a gastropub. The menu offered odd things such as kidney suet pudding and warm smoked eel with buttermilk chicken; Ana opted cautiously for the almond gnocchi with aubergine caviar.

  As people walked in, she watched and wondered if she’d be able to spot Katya. Somehow she could not imagine her. It was as if, should she even try, the woman would turn out to be just the opposite of her imaginings. A tall, elegant woman wearing no jewelry or makeup, with pin-straight brown hair tied back in a ribbon, stopped to ask for her table, then headed Ana’s way. Unsmiling, she introduced herself and immediately apologized for not having been in touch, for not having paid the advance, and for having called at the last minute.

  Though Ana smiled, she still felt raw. She said, The project itself more than makes up for any . . . practical inconvenience.

  Do you think so? I mean, do you like it?

  A faint smile, not so much encouraging as worried; to Ana, she seemed absent, as if her thoughts were with the place she had just left.

  It’s fascinating. And quite beautiful.

  Katya’s smile broadened.

  Where did you find it? asked Ana.

  At that moment Katya’s cell phone rang. Excuse me, she said. She rummaged around in her handbag—an expensive-looking leather satchel that seemed to overflow with tissues and receipts and small notepads—until she found the phone. She looked at the screen, then tapped it. Just my husband, she said, shrugging. I’ll ring him later.

  There was an awkward pause, then she said, Are you married, Anastasia? If you don’t mind my asking?

  Please call me Ana. No, no. I mean, I was, but I no longer have that privilege.

  It was a polite, almost ironic formula, but Katya took it quite literally.

  You’re very lucky. It’s not a privilege. You have your freedom, your own name, and none of the associated inconveniences. She dropped her cell phone in her handbag, then gave a heavy sigh as she zipped the bag shut. Let’s order, she said. Will you have some wine, Ana?

  Yes, that would be nice.

  Katya waved to the waitress, and they gave their order. Then Katya turned to look at Ana, scrutinizing her in a direct but not unfriendly way. She asked a few things about France and what other projects Ana had worked on recently. Ana told her about the Guilloux novel and its nomination for the prize. Katya Kendall was warm, effusive, in her congratulations. The waitress returned with the wine; they raised their glasses in a polite toast.

  Katya had a poised fierceness that Ana remembered from earlier Russian acquaintances. She could not say how old the woman was, probably in her late forties, but her simple elegance might be misleading.

  Without warning, she began to talk about the diary. You asked me in an earlier email how we plan to market the book. Part of our strategy will be a certain element of surprise—we don’t want word to get out before publication—which is why we’ve asked you not to talk about it. Because we are hoping—hoping—to publish the novel Anton Pavlovich was writing at Luka.

  Ana looked at Katya and put her wineglass down. Katya was looking not at her but at a point in the middle distance. We are working on it, she continued, more than that I cannot tell you. Obviously, if we cannot publish it, we don’t want to be left with egg on our faces. It’s a complicated business, legally, you understand, with Russia, and now with the situation . . . it may take some time, but yes, we will try.

  She smiled, but this time her smile was strained. When she turned to Ana, her eyes—gray, luminous—seemed to be almost pleading. There was something else, a personal edginess that Ana suspected had nothing to do with Chekhov or the diary. She noticed Katya was hardly touching her food—she’d ordered a bright pink risotto, which must have been made with beets.

  Forgive me for asking, said Katya, are you doing all right—the translation business, you know, with the economic crisis? And without a partner to help pay the rent?

  Ana was startled by the change of topic, by its very personal nature. Her thoughts were all on Chekhov, not the practicalities of her profession. She saw him writing by the window in Luka; she saw him handing her a bound book; and for a moment her words escaped her, then seemed too loud, pretentious, false, for the sake of filling a resonant silence.

  Well, I don’t know, I . . . I’ve always thought that if the literary translation dried up—it’s all right at the moment—I’d specialize in oenology. The rich will always be around, they’ll always want French wine. And it’s a lovely vocabulary.

  She smiled; Katya gave a hearty laugh.

  Ah, yes, if only we could bottle our literature and sell it to oligarchs! Art is subversion, though, isn’t it. That is, art like literature and music that cannot be made into an object to be sold at Sotheby’s or in all these galleries in our fine town of Moscow-on-Thames. Can you imagine the pressure these days on young visual artists to succeed? It must be far worse than for musicians or writers, let alone poets. Do you like poetry? Of course you do, you studied Russian.

  Katya poured more wine, raised her glass, then switched to Russian and launched into a surprisingly bitter diatribe against the twenty-first century in general and the United Kingdom in particular. She seemed a different person when she spoke Russian, more self-assured and graceful, yet with a touch of the theatrical. Ana found herself blushing from the effort of speaking. The effect of the wine left her tongue heavy with consonants, her brain fuddled by declensions and lost words. She could not catch everything, the place was so noisy and Katya spoke quickly, telling of the lost opportunities in Eastern Europe, just after the fall of the Berlin Wall, that had led to chaos and confusion under Yeltsin, the consolidation of the mafia with Putin and a new repression, and now the situation in Ukraine . . . Ana nodded in agreement, and all the while she was thinking of what Katya had told her about Chekhov’s novel. The room buzzed with it; or was it the wine? Ana tried to read the subtext in Katya’s flashing eyes and waving fingers, and when Katya extended her blame to the men in government in general, Ana thought it would be safe to infer that she was blaming her husband, in parti
cular, the unhelpful Peter Kendall of secret marketing plans.

  Katya abruptly switched back to English. Have you got a title?

  A title?

  For the diary. Zinaida Mikhailovna Lintvaryova is such a mouthful for English speakers, no one will buy it. We need something pithy, catchy.

  Ana was nonplussed; she had assumed they would use Zinaida Mikhailovna’s name.

  Diary of a Russian . . . Confidante? My Summers with Anton Chekhov?

  Katya shook her head and laughed. Too bland, Ana, come on. Something more in keeping with the spirit, the atmosphere. Oh, I know it’s not easy. I suppose we want the word Russian in the title, too. Well, think about it. No immediate rush.

  After a moment she said, Your name—full name, that is, Anastasia—is it Russian? I mean, is your background Russian?

  Ana smiled and said, Only in the most indirect and sentimental sort of way. My mother was very fond of Ingrid Bergman, in particular of a film she made in 1956, a few years before I was born, perhaps you know the one. So I’m named for someone who didn’t really exist. For an impostor.

  Katya raised her eyebrows in amused commiseration, then said, Still, there was the real Anastasia—the grand duchess Anastasia Nikolayevna—and it’s a very beautiful name. It means resurrection, of course. You know that.

  Ana nodded, but she didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t help but think that Grand Duchess Anastasia of the Romanov clan had come to a rather sticky end, however lovely her name. Ana had a soft spot for the Ingrid Bergman character, Anna Anderson, the half-mad woman who had pretended to be Anastasia the miraculous survivor of the Romanov massacre. She had chosen such a plain name for her insane grab at an exalted destiny, because even that was a pseudonym: Anna Anderson’s true identity was not Russian but Polish, and her real name was Franziska Schanzkowska.

  They sat on, ordered dessert, then coffee. Ana wondered briefly whether she could share her story about Léo/Franck with Katya. All through the meal, she had felt somewhat spacey, at one remove, as if hungover from a surfeit of the past. Finally, she ruled it out as too personal, too intimate. Katya might chuckle, commiserate; or she might merely raise her eyebrows, as if to say, Why are you telling me this, what business is it of mine?