Sasha’s pink face turned pinker. He stared at Burgess for a moment or two—flung his half-finished cigarette over the edge of the schooner—staggered to the champagne and found an open bottle.
The mood was ruined. The sun set, the Isle of Wight passed laboriously to port. The captain kept swearing at the tides and wind—Iris didn’t understand, she’d never liked sailing—and when Aunt Vivian offered advice, he swore at her, too. Sasha got drunker and drunker and brooded over the side of the boat. Iris tried to talk him out of it, but he snarled back and she retreated to Major Davenport.
Nine o’clock passed, then ten. The air grew chill and damp, and they hadn’t brought any coats. Iris sat on a cushion and wrapped her arms around her chest until Davenport gallantly offered his jacket. Sasha wanted to know what the hell was going on, why hadn’t they reached Abingdon’s place by now. He turned to Burgess, who reclined on the neat teak boards of the deck, smoking endless cigarettes and eating all the potted shrimp.
“You!” Sasha said. “This was your goddamn idea.”
“Seemed like a jolly sort of lark at the time. How was I to know about tides?”
“You pretend to know everything about everything else.”
Burgess shrugged. “Can I help being such a bloody clever chap?”
“Clever, my ass.”
The champagne was finished, all eight bottles. Burgess produced a bottle of gin. Aunt Vivian and Iris gave up on the weather and trooped into the tiny deckhouse, followed by Sasha, who slumped on a bench and closed his eyes.
“Iris, my dear,” said Aunt Vivian, “I’m beginning to think your husband’s some kind of Communist. You don’t suppose he’s an old friend of Mr. Chambers, do you?”
Iris glanced at Sasha. His eyes were still closed, his hands linked at the junction of his ribs. Her brain was too fogged by champagne and by the incessant cigarettes to think properly. “I doubt it,” she said.
“You’re sure about that?” Aunt Vivian looked at Sasha. “What do you think, cousin? Communist spies in the State Department?”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about this Chambers fellow. Ever meet him?”
“Oh, stop. He’s drunk, can’t you see?”
“Frankly I think Mr. Chambers is a very brave man. I imagine the assassination orders are going down from Moscow Centre as we speak. I hope he’s got a decent bodyguard.”
“Fucking rat,” muttered Sasha.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Sasha, don’t—”
Sasha struggled upward. The boat made some lurch and sent him spilling onto the deck—he staggered forward and caught himself on the edge of the small table—his eyes blazed. “He’s a snitch. Sell his soul for what? Approval from women like you—rich and idle—bigots—bluebloods—no idea what’s going on among regular people—”
“I imagine I know a lot more about regular people than you do, Sasha Digby. I was a typist when I met Charlie, and your kind never forgave me for it.”
“Not because you were a typist. Because you married him for his money.”
“Stop it!” said Iris. “Both of you, just stop.”
“And your mother married for money, Sasha, and her mother before her. Every woman does—she has to.”
“Because the system’s corrupt.”
“No, because humans are corrupt. We are all of us selfish, ignorant beasts, loyal only to ourselves and our own kind, interested only in getting a leg up on others, whether it’s money or status or moral virtue. That’s why we’ve got religion, to discover our better angels, and in the absence of religion I guess you’ve turned to communism. All right. I mean, you’ve got to believe in something. Some people are just born zealots. But you’re wrong, my dear. Argue all you want, but you’re wrong, and what’s worse is that you’ll never admit it. Like that fellow who combs his last remaining hair over the top of his head and tells himself he’s not bald.”
Sasha turned and hurled the bottle of champagne through the deckhouse window.
The captain dumped them ashore at the nearest possible landing, about a mile from Abingdon’s place by the water. They argued for nearly an hour about which direction to take, until Aunt Vivian settled matters by saying she would follow an army major over a diplomat any day, and anyway Davenport was the most sober.
Sasha was quiet. Iris would almost have said contrite, except her husband was never really contrite, was he? She walked alongside him to make sure he didn’t say anything else, didn’t expose himself any more than he already had. Burgess kept up a merry conversation with Aunt Vivian and Major Davenport as they picked their way along the shingled beach, carrying the picnic basket between them.