‘The possession of a weapon implies its use. How can anyone believe that an atomic standoff will make for a safer world?’ said Edward, looking into his glass as he spoke. It was not like him to make such a direct and contentious statement.
‘I guess people here don’t want to see the danger – Truman keeps telling us that it’s the only thing to keep us safe, and people are buying that line.’ In the embassy circle it was quite normal for British people to express anti-American feeling, but it was surprising to Laura that Joe was falling in with that critical tone, and even more surprising that Edward did not seem to think it strange. Was Joe imitating something he had picked up on in Edward, in the hope of getting him to say more?
As Laura drank her coffee, the surreptitious way Joe had poured away his drink replayed itself again and again in her mind. What was it that had brought Joe here tonight? Why was he trying to get Edward so drunk? Was it so that he could take the temperature of his anti-Americanism once and for all? Had he come to suspect him? Was it the crass reference to the revolution that Edward had made drunkenly in a midnight garden? Was it Edward’s desperate struggle with his role as the perfect Cambridge-educated civil servant, now refracted in a different light since Joe had watched the unmasking of Hiss, the perfect Harvard-educated civil servant? Or was it Joe’s desperate hope, finally, to have a real story, a meaningful journey for his own life, that led him to sit here pouring bourbon into Edward’s glass?
Was it, in some way, her own fault? Was it the sudden presence of Mrs Rostov beside her with her identical bag in the doorway of the uptown hairdresser? Was it the memory of Florence on the boat, something Joe had never mentioned since the first time they had met again, the memory of what her influence might have meant for Laura? Was it none of these? Was she going crazy? As Laura sat there, her stomach tense and her hands gripping her cup and saucer, Joe caught her eye and she thought she saw the smile that she had first seen, easy and sensual, in the tourist bar on the Normandie in 1939. Was Joe just wanting to get Edward a little drunk in the hope of spending some of the evening with his wife?
Although Laura was only on the periphery of the conversation, she could not leave the room. They went on for so long, drinking and talking. And although she hinted more than once that it might be time for Joe to leave, it seemed almost as though they were locked into some unbreakable dance, as the hours ticked on. Finally, Laura managed to force an acknowledgement of the late hour, and she made Edward offer to find Joe a taxi on the corner of the street. They went out together, and Laura went thankfully upstairs, and fell asleep as soon as she lay down, exhausted, not even waking when Edward came in. So when she woke to the tinny peal of the little alarm clock in the morning, she was horrified when he turned over and said, in a slurred, drink-tainted voice, ‘Sorry, he’s just on the sofa – couldn’t find a taxi for love or money …’
‘He’s here?’ Laura was shocked into the most sudden wakefulness. ‘Here, now?’
She went out into the corridor. The floorboards were cold under her bare feet, and the little nail that stood out of one of them caught her heel as it had done before. She crept downstairs and saw Joe lying on the sofa, covered with a blanket. Knowledge fell through her, and she went into the study, where the Smith Corona typewriter sat openly on the desk. In the drawer below were the documents she had been typing the previous night, and the drawer was unlocked. She pulled it open. Had she placed the documents like that? She had been in a hurry, forgetful for the first time, casual as she had never been before. How incriminating were they? She saw the top security stamp on them, the numbers, the revelations, and she shut the drawer again, locking it this time, too late, and putting the key into the pocket of her bathrobe. She turned back to the living room. She was almost sure, from the rigidity and self-consciousness of Joe’s body, that he was not asleep, but how could she really be sure?
There was no certainty left; the ground was slipping. She went upstairs, turned the shower full on in the bathroom, and stepped under it. When she came out of it, Edward was standing at the sink shaving, but she could not even meet his eyes in the mirror. She put on a plain skirt and blouse and went downstairs and made coffee and toast for Edward.
‘No need to wake Joe,’ she said when Edward came into the kitchen. ‘I’ll get him up in an hour or so. I don’t think they start so early at the newspaper.’ Then she put the radio on loudly, and ran the tap into the sink, and lowered her voice as she put a coffee in front of him. ‘I didn’t copy all the papers, but take them with you, don’t let them stay here another day – take them back. And don’t bring anything today – I had a word from Alex, we need to stop, wait something out, give it forty-eight hours.’