Our Woman in Moscow(117)

“And you, everything by the head.”

“So maybe we’re perfect for each other.”

Iris tries to smile back.

“The kids will be fine,” Ruth says. “You know that, don’t you? They have each other. Even that Marina kid, she’ll come around.”

“And now you’re an expert on children?”

“Well, they have you for a mother, the lucky tramps.” Ruth shades her eyes and nods to the cottage. “And that terrific Beauchamp of yours. Arriving any minute to start up a round of cricket or something, I’ll bet. They’ll be fine. The question is you. Will you be fine, Iris Macallister?”

Iris studies the sketchbook in her lap. The sailboat is not quite right. It’s supposed to be a surprise for Philip, and also a little joke between them—how he loves that schooner more than he loves her. But Iris isn’t a born sailor. She hates the sea. How can you draw a sailboat if you don’t have some intuitive grasp of the physics of sailing? Anyway, sailboats remind her of that disastrous expedition to the Isle of Wight. Sasha, drunk and angry. She had almost forgotten how terrible he used to be, because he became a different man in Moscow. He became this sober, loving husband and father, and all along Iris had betrayed him—coldly, without mercy—photographing his papers and harvesting his memory and taking his children out for walks in the park, during which she would drop her bundles of photographs and coded reports into a hollow tree, say, or that ice cream vendor in Gorky Park. Then, after Burgess tipped her off—never realizing he was tipping her off, poor old thing—the most coldhearted manipulation of all.

Even now, when she thinks of that terrifying year—boxed in, trapped, exposure possible any minute—that final cache of vital information lying hidden in the apartment, month after month—unable to communicate to Fox and Philip except by their old, prearranged signals—her audacious plan, Sasha’s unknowing cooperation—Gregory growing at last in her womb, thank God, praying she wouldn’t miscarry, praying they wouldn’t catch her first—guilt, worry, desperation—she has to shake herself to understand she’s still alive. The children are alive. She has won her terrible gamble. She has this beautiful new baby, and she has Philip, and Ruth.

And Sasha has nothing.

“We have to assume he’s alive,” Iris says. “One of the labor camps, maybe.”

Ruth drops to the grass next to her and pulls the sketchbook away. “Don’t you feel guilty for a minute. Not a single goddamn second. He brought it on himself, and even if he did the right thing in the end—well, he’s only bought salvation for his own soul, maybe. It’s not nearly enough to make up for what he’s done to you. And the kids.”

“I know all that. You don’t need to worry about me. It’s just sorrow, that’s all.”

“You have room in your heart for that?”

“He’s their father.”

On cue, Gregory makes a series of desperate sobs that culminates in a howl. Ruth climbs to her feet and lifts him out of the pram to cradle him against her shoulder. Iris stares not at her son, but at the ring on her sister’s left hand, a plain gold band. She first noticed it a week or so ago. She didn’t say anything to Ruth, but she mentioned it to Philip. Why don’t you ask her? he said reasonably, and Iris recoiled. If she wants to tell me, she’ll tell me, she said, and Philip rolled his eyes just a bit and told her she was supposed to be a spy, for God’s sake.

Iris decides to speak up. “What about Sumner?”

Ruth whirls to face her. “Have you heard anything?”

Her blue, terrified eyes tell Iris everything she wants to know. She breathes out a zephyr of relief and considers whether she should tell Ruth what she knows, or whether such a tender fact would only make things harder for her sister if—well, Iris refuses to consider the If. There’s always hope, isn’t there?

“No,” she says. “But Philip’s in close contact with the Americans. He’ll give us any news, the instant he gets it.”

Ruth turns away to face the sea. Over the edge of her shoulder, Gregory’s red face stares amazed at Iris. She rises from the grass and comes to stand next to her sister, who vibrates with energy or emotion or something, Iris isn’t exactly sure what. Like a dam struggling to hold fast against a weight of mighty floodwater. Gregory’s clean, puppy scent gathers them together.

“You didn’t have to do it,” Ruth says. “You could have let Digby defect on his own. Washed your hands of him. You knew by then what the bastards were capable of. You could have stayed behind and married Beauchamp. You were already pregnant—you had the boys—you had every reason to stay safe in England.”

“Wouldn’t you have done the same, though?”

“God, no. Take the children and walk straight into the jaws of the lion? When I had a fellow like Beauchamp madly in love with me? You’re crazy.”

Iris runs her index finger along the perfect crest of Gregory’s ear. “Ruth, I spent most of my life just trying to be safe. Trying to hide from what scared me. Letting other people control what happened to me. Then I realized the idea of safety itself is just a delusion. Life is risky. And hiding isn’t living.”

Gregory starts to drowse against Ruth’s shoulder. His little head bobbles and rests against the soft green knit of Ruth’s cardigan. His eyes lose focus. There’s some connection between these two—the kind of atomic bond that would set most new mothers buzzing with jealousy, but instead gives Iris the same feeling she used to get when the priest at St. Barnabas laid his hand on the children’s heads and said Christ’s blessing be upon you.