Our Woman in Moscow(12)

By now my memory is jogged. Burgess and Maclean—of course. What a fuss that was. I recall—now, don’t laugh—my first thought was one of pity for poor Mrs. Maclean. At the time, it was perfectly clear to my dirty mind that the two missing diplomats had, in fact, run off together to liberate themselves from the disapproval of a Puritan world.

A year later, though, other details strike me. I don’t know, maybe I didn’t notice them before. For one thing, there’s something odd about this business of the passports, and the clothing and personal effects left inside the cabin of the good ship Falaise. Why not take them with you? And my God, what kind of monster skips out on two children and a wife so very pregnant as that, unless he absolutely has to? Sex is lovely, all right, but surely Maclean could not have been so deficient in basic decency, even if he was a diplomat.

I fold the paper back up and finish the milk, and it’s not until I wash the glass and return to the table that I turn my attention to the day’s mail. I’m not much of a correspondent, I’m afraid, and I tend to receive few letters of a personal nature. Just the usual brusque envelopes from banks and charities and insurance companies, the occasional missive from some government department of this or that, hardly the kind of communication you rip open with trembling fingers.

So I’m surprised to discover a slim, light envelope tucked between the usual correspondence, marked PAR AVION on one side. I flip it over and find no return address, just my own name in beautiful handwriting, and my own address. I don’t think to look at the postmark before I open it. Tug out a single, tissuelike sheet of airmail paper, folded over once, and unfold it. A square black-and-white photograph falls out, three children posing against a fence in what seems to be a zoo.

I return to the letter itself and begin to read.

Dearest Ruth,

I’m so sorry not to have written sooner. The time has simply slipped away from me. I thought perhaps you might like to see how your sweet nephews and niece are growing, so I took this photo of the children at the local zoo.

I’m writing to ask if you wouldn’t mind coming out here to lend me a hand with the baby’s arrival. I am so drained by the pregnancy, and as you remember, these ordeals are always difficult for me. I know you’re busy with your own work, and I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need your help so desperately.

Your loving sister,

Iris

P.S. Our apartment here reminds me so much of the one we shared in Rome, all those years ago. Do you remember how happy we were then? I was just thinking of what you said to me that last day. Am I too late to admit that you were right?





Iris





April 1940

Rome, Italy



Ruth was matter-of-fact, as you would expect. “All things considered, you’re pretty lucky. A broken ankle is nothing.”

“Don’t forget the stitches,” said Harry.

“Still, the ankle’s the worst part, because she can’t walk. Thank goodness that fellow was there to snatch her out of the way. What’s his name again, Harry?”

“Digby. Sasha Digby. Works in the visa section with me.”

“Well, I’ll be sure to write him a note.” Ruth patted the blanket covering Iris’s leg. “Where is he, anyway?”

“Digby? He’s gone back to the embassy. He’s a hard worker, stays late every night.” Harry took out his cigarette case.

“Put that away,” Ruth said. “We’re in a hospital.”

“So?”

“So what if you light up an oxygen container by accident?”

Harry flicked his Zippo lighter. “I’ll take my chances, all right? If ever a man needed a cigarette . . .”

Ruth turned back to Iris. “What were you thinking, pumpkin? I mean honestly. Isn’t it just like you to cross the street without looking first. Head in the clouds.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“Of course you didn’t mean to. You never do. Harry, what about this Digby fellow? Would it be all right to ask him to dinner or something? I feel something’s called for.”

“Sure, why not? He’s a good man. They say—”

A soft knock sounded on the door. A blond head poked around the edge.

“Hello? Mind if I join you? Nurse said it was family only, but I talked my way through.”

“Digby! Man of the hour. Come on in, it’s a real party.”

Sasha Digby stepped inside the room, looking exceptionally tall and golden. He lifted his hands, which both held bottles of champagne. “Managed to smuggle these in for the invalid. How is she?”

“Just fine,” Iris croaked.

“Broken ankle, sixteen stitches, and black and blue all over,” said Ruth. “Otherwise she’s just fine. Thanks to you.”

“Just grateful I happened along at the right instant.” Sasha looked tenderly at Iris with his ultrablue eyes. “Fright of my life when I saw you step off that curb.”

Possibly Iris was going to die of humiliation. She lay there on her white hospital sheets—in her green hospital pajamas—trapped beneath Sasha Digby’s sympathetic blue gaze. Thank God she hadn’t looked in a mirror yet. Meanwhile, Ruth was still wearing the tangerine dress from the fashion shoot, scarlet lips, blond hair curled and glossy.