Face Me When You Walk Away Read Online Free PDF

Pamela recalled.
    â€˜I tried a trolley bus,’ went on Nikolai. ‘And it went five kilometres the wrong way before I realized it. So from then on I walked everywhere. I got very tired. I nearly always got lost, so I would begin journeys hours before any appointment.’
    Pamela felt a great sadness for the man. How could anyone so naive create such beauty with words, she wondered.
    â€˜It was marvellous when I got back home, though,’ he reminisced. ‘I wasn’t the village idiot any more. I was important now. People who a year before would have slammed the door in my face welcomed me for some vodka or to share their borsch.’
    He stopped again. His finger was in his glass, stirring. He looked up, suddenly, staring directly into her eyes.
    â€˜I liked it,’ he admitted. ‘It will be the fame that I’ll enjoy. I could manage it. It was enough, really. I’d been to the big place. They were not quite sure what I had done, but they knew it was something special. The fame wasn’t mine, really. It was theirs.’
    Pamela pretended the cheese she had been nibbling had caught in her throat and coughed, so that she was able to bring the napkin to her eyes. He stretched over the table, taking her hands.
    â€˜I am a selfish person,’ he confessed. ‘I don’t mean to be. But I haven’t the experience to behave otherwise. I know I’ve intruded upon you and Josef … I’ve cluttered your honeymoon even …’
    â€˜No, please …’ protested Pamela, automatically.
    â€˜I have,’ he said, ignoring her protest. ‘And I know there are other things that must offend you …’
    He motioned with his hands, helplessly.
    â€˜Stop,’ demanded Pamela. She felt numbed. It was like watching somebody inject themselves with a local anaesthetic and then perform their own autopsy.
    Nikolai sat waiting. He looked very small, she thought, just like the nephew who’d wet his pants. The child had done it to draw attention to himself, she remembered, because his sister had a new dress and was earning all the praise. In England, she recalled, there had been a quiz programme where contestants had to rearrange words on magnified boards. She had never been able to understand their difficulty as they scrambled around, aware of the enormous clock which timed their progress. She was like one of the contestants, she thought. She knew the words, could see the sentences even, but she couldn’t put them into the right order.
    â€˜I’m sorry …’ she started. Why did every sentence begin with an apology?
    â€˜â€¦ if I’ve hurt you,’ she started again. Then I’m sorry. I didn’t understand … strangely, it seems we’re very much alike – two very frightened people …’
    The silence grew brittle between them. There was no clock. No fawning compère with lacquered hair and plastic teeth was going to suddenly appear and apologize because she had run over time. Why couldn’t she arrange the words in their proper order?
    â€˜Perhaps we could help one another,’ she said. That uncertain feeling bubbled at his look.
    â€˜I just want to know everything,’ he stated. He was looking away from her, tracing imagined patterns on the table.
    â€˜Everyone says I can write. They use stupid words, like brilliant and genius, which have no value. How can I write about things when I don’t know about them?’
    He looked at her pleadingly.
    â€˜But Walk Softly on a Lonely Day is a wonderful book,’ she said.
    For once the accustomed flattery didn’t work. ‘How can you write about love without knowing what it is?’
    â€˜But …?’
    â€˜I am a virgin,’ he announced, flatly. He drank again, avoiding her eyes, ashamed by the admission.
    Pamela strained for something to say.
    â€˜I tried once,’ he wandered on. ‘I really did.’
    He was