The Good Terrorist - Doris May Lessing [57]
She walked firmly up the path, prepared to be examined by whoever was there and was interested. She knocked. She waited a goodish time for the door to open. She caught a glimpse of the hall, the twin of theirs, but it was stacked with cartons and cases. There was a single electric bulb. So they did have electricity.
In front of her was a man who impressed her at once as being foreign. It was not anything specific in his looks; it was just something about him. He was a Russian, she knew. This gave her a little frisson of satisfaction. It was power, the idea of it, that was exciting her. The man himself was in no way out of the ordinary, being broad—not fat, though he could easily be—and not tall; in fact not much taller than herself. He had a broad, blunt sort of face, and little shrewd grey eyes. He wore grey twill trousers that looked expensive and new, and a grey bush shirt that was buttoned and neat.
He could have been a soldier.
“I am Alice Mellings. From next door.”
He nodded, unsmiling, and said, “Of course. Come in.” He led the way through the stacks of cartons into the room that in their house was the sitting room. Here it had the look of an office or a study. A table was set in the bay window; his chair had its back to the window, and that was because, Alice knew, he wanted to know who came in and out of the door; he did not want his back to it.
He sat down in this chair, and nodded to another, opposite it. Alice sat.
She was thinking, impressed: This one, he’s the real thing.
He was waiting for her to say something.
The one thing she now knew she could not say was, “Have you been telling Jasper and Bert what to do?,” which was what she wanted to know.
She said, “We have just got permission from the Council; we are short-term housing, you know.” He nodded. “Well, we thought you should do the same. It makes life much easier, you see. And it means the police leave you alone.”
He seemed to relax, sat back, pushed a packet of cigarettes towards her, lit one himself as she shook her head, sat holding a lungful of smoke, which he expelled in a single swift breath, and said, “It’s up to the others. I don’t live here.”
Was that all he was going to say? It seemed so. Well, he had in fact said everything necessary. Alice, confused, hurried on, “There’s the rubbish. You’ll have to pay the dustmen.…” She faltered.
He had his eyes intent on her. She knew that he was seeing everything. It was a detached, cold scrutiny. Not hostile, not unfriendly, surely? She cried, “We’ve been given a year. That means, once the place is straight, we can give all our attention to”—she censored “the revolution”—“politics.”
He seemed not to have heard. To be waiting for more? For her to go? Floundering on, she said, “Of course not everyone in our squat … For instance, Roberta and Faye don’t think that … But why should you know about them? I’ll explain.…”
He cut in, “I know about Roberta and Faye. Tell me, what are those two new ones like?”
She said, giving Reggie and Mary the credit due, “They were once members of Militant, but they didn’t like their methods.” Here she dared to offer him a smile, hoping he would return it, but he said, “She works for the Council? On what sort of level?”
“She doesn’t take decisions.”
He nodded. “And what about him? A chemist, I believe?”
“Industrial chemist. He lost his job.”
“Where?”
“I didn’t ask.” She added, “I’ll let you know.”
He nodded. Sat smoking. Sat straight to the table, both forearms on it, in front of him a sheet of paper on which his eyes seemed to make notes. He was like Lenin!
She thought: His voice. American. Yes, but something funny for an American voice. No, it was not the voice, the accent, but something else, in him.
He didn’t say anything. The question, the anxiety that were building up in her surfaced.