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He calls Florence in the hospital twice a day.
Once in the morning, once in the evening. There’s no telephone in her apartment that he can find, so that time they spend together is spent with him in the cramped phone booth outside her apartment building.
The nurses at the hospital have gotten used to his calls, which come at the same two times every day, and no longer answer in Italian. His English, while not his best language (part of him would like to think his best language is Kazakh, but he knows by now that it is Russian, as that’s what he speaks the majority of the time), is certainly better than his Italian. Either way, they don’t speak to him for long before handing the phone off to Florence.
She’s improving, he knows that much, but he still worries. This whole situation is not what he expected it would be. He didn’t think it would go smoothly — defecting with the woman in love with his wife, the woman who falsely believed his wife would be coming with them — but he didn’t think he’d be alone in London. He didn’t think that the CIA and MI6 would show up looking for Florence, only to tell him that they’d known she was in a hospital in Rome the whole time. He did think that he’d feel guilty for what his wife is returning home to without him, but that guilt has lessened as he’s been in London. She’ll be better off in the long run this way, he’s sure of it. She won’t have to come home to a failure every day. That’ll make up for whatever temporary punishment they come up with for his leaving. It’s not like she loved him.
He hasn’t been able to tell Florence about his wife yet. He knows he needs to, because she deserves to know that she was manipulated just like he was, but he doesn’t have the heart yet. She’s in the hospital, and he knows that she’s mentally delicate. He’ll have to prepare himself for her to start hysterically crying when she does find out. He understands the feeling, but nothing so dramatic happened when he found out his wife (girlfriend, at the time) didn’t love him. He doesn’t show his feelings on his face like Florence does. There’s so much about her that she envies. He isn’t sure if that’s one of those things, the way her emotions turn on a dime, her fragility. Florence confuses him, sometimes.
At 4:57, he gets into the phone booth, already uncomfortable with the visibility and how boxed in he feels. He doesn’t like any sort of attention at the best of times, and being in London alone hasn’t helped much. He’s quite obviously not from there, and as soon as he opens his mouth it’s even more obvious. It’s something he has to be used to, though, for Florence. It’s the most significant human connection he usually gets, too, so he’s not going to miss it.
As soon as Florence is handed the phone, he can hear the smile in her voice. “Anatoly.”
“Hi, Florence.”
“I knew you’d call.”
“Of course. Every day.”
“Twice a day,” she replies.
“Would you like to play chess?” He knows she’ll say yes, since this is what they do every day.
“Yes, thank you.”
Time passes quickly and easily while they’re playing. Florence is a very good chess player. She’s a valuable second to have, and he understands Freddie Trumper’s decision to have only her on his team. She can mimic any play style, which he can imagine she used against him for the championship. And even though he worries about her mental state, she’s as sharp as ever when it comes to chess.
Once they’re done playing, and she won this time, she sighs. “How are you doing?”
“Me? Fine. How are you feeling?” It’s only partially true. He’s having a hard time adjusting on his own. He’s never done anything like this in his life and he didn’t think he’d be doing it entirely alone. Worrying her is the last thing he wants, though.
“Oh, you know… It’s getting better, really. You don’t have to worry about me.” He hears weakness in her voice, though, and he can’t help but worry.
“That’s good. I’m glad.”
“They’re saying I’ll probably be able to leave soon. I don’t know when yet, but soon.”
His heart leaps and nothing about his face changes. “Oh. Good. I can’t wait to see you.”
“Yes, me too.”
She sounds more lucid than she did in Merano now, that’s true, but the nurses tell him that she talks to people who aren’t there. That’s why they’re so happy that at the very least, he calls her. He is her only visitor. He’d assumed that once the American and their agent found out Florence was in the hospital that they’d make some effort to see her. They’d been close for most of Merano, hadn’t they? Maybe it’s his fault. More likely it’s his wife’s fault. Maybe they don’t even know that she’s in the hospital.
If he knew how to contact them, he’d tell the American, since it seems like something important to know – but, then again, the American would probably assume his wife put her in the hospital somehow. He doesn’t know how to contact them, though, so he’s the only person Florence has, now. That’s why he calls every morning and every evening. That’s what friends do, isn’t it?
“You’re sure you’re feeling alright?”
“I’m doing so much better, really. There’s no reason to worry.”
“And you’ll be able to come home soon.”
“Yes, exactly!”
He doesn’t dare ask her about the men who visited the apartment. There’ll be time for that in the future, when they’re in the apartment. Knowing his wife for so long has taught him more than he’d like to know about the ways people can be spied on, and he doesn’t trust the phone lines. He knows Florence is too smart to tell him anything important over the phone, too.
Suddenly he misses her so much his heart aches. He’s about to say goodbye, ready to go back into the apartment and away from the world, before Florence stops him.
“Anatoly?”
“Hm?”
“Has, um… Has Svetka called? Or come to the apartment? I know you said she wasn’t coming, but maybe she was stuck at the border?”
This again.
He doesn’t have the heart to tell her the full truth, and doesn’t think it would be wise to do so over the phone, but he doesn’t want to just lie to her. That’s not what friends do.
“She’s not here, no.”
“Of course. You said. Silly me.” Even over the phone, even with his difficulty telling how people feel, he can tell she seems embarrassed.
“It’s okay.” What else can he say to that? He doesn’t want to make her think he thinks she’s stupid, because he really doesn’t think that. Florence is smart, she’s just… sick. Like the American said.
“Anyway!” He can hear the false cheer in her voice.
“I should be going.”
“Yes, of course. Goodbye, Anatoly. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Goodnight, Florence.”
And then, as usual, the conversation is over. He goes back to the apartment, feeling lonelier than ever. He knows Florence is his friend, but it’s hard to feel like he’s her friend when they’re so far apart. He doesn’t feel like a particularly good friend, either. Florence understands that he can’t leave the country to visit her while applying for asylum, but he wishes that he could. It would make him feel better to be able to see her, and he’s sure she’d welcome the company.
It helps to think about her being here with him. And, now he knows she’ll be home in the near future. They’ll go to the aquarium together, and he’ll be able to tell her all about the jellies. She’ll be healthier then, he hopes, and she won’t shake so much. Maybe he’ll be able to hold her hand anyway. He’d like that.
But, for now, it’s just him and Florence’s little mole stuffed animal. Who is he to act like he isn’t used to loneliness? That’s been his mode of living for his entire life, for good reason.
He can cling to the thought of Florence, though. He has a friend, a real friend, even though she’s miles and miles away. That’s still more than he could ever ask for.