you’re thinking of was Little Dorrit.”
“Yes!” he said leaning back in his chair. “Clever boy. I’ve missed our repartee.” He sighed. “But look at this place now. Just us tourists, overfoamed pints, soggy chips.” He reached for another. “Speaking of great works, how’s yours coming along?”
I wasn’t surprised he knew of my failing aspirations. After all, I knew many things about him, too—like that he was indeed recently married but had continued to sleep with his longtime clerk, Violet, without pause, except for the two weeks he spent honeymooning in Bali. It just annoyed me that he was familiar with my major weakness. “Very well, thank you,” I replied.
“Bloody fantastic,” he said. “Can’t wait to read it.”
“I’ll be sure to sign a copy for you.”
He put a hand to his heart. “I’ll surely treasure it.”
“Speaking of books,” I said, wanting to get on with it, “read any good ones lately?”
“Diamonds Are Forever. Have you read it? Bloody brilliant.”
“No,” I said. “Not my taste.”
“A Fitzgerald type, I suppose.”
“Compared to Fleming?”
“That Daisy! What a gal! I practically fell in love with her myself.”
“I think men are really more in love with Gatsby than they care to admit.”
“Not love. But we do want to be him. All men, all women, for that matter, secretly long for some great tragedy. It sharpens the lived experience. Makes for more interesting people. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Only privileged men romanticize tragedy.”
He slapped his meaty thighs. “I knew we had something in common!”
My fish sat cold on my plate, the breading soggy with grease, but I slowly cut off a piece and swallowed it. “I am looking to pick something up for the trip home, though. Know of any good bookshops around here?”
He stood up, downed his pint, and wiped away his foam mustache with his sleeve. “Fancy a game?” We headed to the back of the pub. I was terrible at darts but beat him handily, which I took as his way of saying he was willing to do business.
“Well, then,” he said after I bested him again. “Looks like I’m a little rusty.” He pulled out his pocket watch and I couldn’t help but smile at having called his choice of timepiece. “Have to be going. Taking the little missus to see Uncle Vanya at the Garrick.”
“I love a good Russian play,” I said.
“Who doesn’t?”
“Good reviews?”
“It’s closing in London soon, but should be in the States next year. You know how it goes. We Brits like to test things here before handing them over to you lot.”
Finally, we’re getting somewhere. “When does it open?”
“Early January.” He put on his coat and hat. “But they haven’t announced the exact date yet.”
“December would be ideal. I love taking in a good show around the holidays.”
“I don’t make the schedule,” he said.
“Well, I’ll keep my ear to the ground.”
“I know you will.”
He left, hurrying through the rain to an idling car parked out front. I went back in and ordered Bushmills, then settled up—Chaucer having left his bill to me, of course.
It started pouring as soon as I stepped outside. I arrived back at my hotel soaking wet and left a message at the front desk not to let any calls be put through to my room. “Tell them I’ve taken on a bit of jet lag and need my rest,” I said—code to let the Agency know the Russian Zhivago was as good as ours.
CHAPTER 15
THE SWALLOW
December came and a layer of fresh snow blanketed the District. I’d left Il dottor Živago in the designated confessional at St. Patrick’s the day I returned from Milan and had gone into a tempo office for debriefing the day after that. I told Frank everything—who’d attended, what the press was saying, what snippets of conversation I’d overheard, and, most important, what Feltrinelli had said in his speech. I went over every detail, except for the encounter with the man who’d managed to slip his card into my copy of the novel. Upon returning, I’d taken the card out of my cigarette case and placed it under a loose tile in my bathroom. Secrets were insurance in Washington, and a girl always needs a few in her back pocket.
Irina and I made plans to meet at the Reflecting Pool—to skate and then have dinner back at my apartment. After renting skates from a ski-masked man out of the back of his station wagon, we trudged our way through the snow toward the rink, but we never made it onto the ice.