—You don’t?

Jess answered:

—No, we don’t. You have no right to interfere with our mail.

Jesse had answered but Yates kept his eyes on Anna.

—I normally find you attractive when you’re being coy, Mrs Austin. Might even have worked twenty years back, when you strutted around town with your long fake eyelashes, attending galas and making the magazines. I might have fallen for it. I’m a sucker for a pretty lady. I would’ve struck a deal with the Devil and fucked you just to take the heat off your husband. I bet you would’ve enjoyed it but told yourself, as your nails scratched my back, that you were doing it for him.

Yates noticed Jesse’s fist was clenched. Anger was bringing the old man to life. He didn’t move, didn’t dare step closer. Yates said:

—Go ahead, Jesse. Stand up for her. Be a man. Take a swing. Might even make up for this shit-hole apartment you’ve forced her to live in.

Jesse’s face quivered with hatred, like a cello string being plucked. He managed to keep his cool, just about, repeating what Anna had already said:

—We no longer have any contact with the Soviet authorities. We know nothing about their arrival here, or their plans.

Yates nodded condescendingly.

—You don’t even read the papers? You probably don’t even know where Russia is, am I right? Soviets singing? What could be more your taste, Jesse, than a bunch of pretty young Communist girls singing songs? Am I right in thinking you used to sing? Didn’t you used to do something along those lines?

—I used to, Mr Yates, you put a stop to that.

—Nothing to do with me. It’s no crime to sing a song. Just so happens that some songs are popular and some songs, your Communist-loving songs, don’t seem to get any audience these days. Times change, tastes change: people are forgotten, don’t you find, Jesse? It’s sad. Don’t you find it sad? I could cry a river, there’s so many sad things going on in the world. Careers coming to nothing, talent going to waste, sad, sad, sad, so very fucking sad.

Anna flinched, her eyes on Jesse, sensing that her husband might say something imprudent. Yates certainly hoped so. She said:

—Why are you here, Mr Yates?

—I could almost be offended. I don’t think you’re listening to me very carefully. The Soviets have invited you to this concert. We might have intercepted a couple of their attempts to make contact but they don’t give up easily. They want you there. I want to know why. It’s my job to keep an eye on men like you—

Jesse interrupted:

—And what kind of man is that?

Yates grew tired of the playfulness.