Ben had to smile. Putting the question that simplistically, Ben could not argue the concept or the method-thus far-but he could argue and question the ideology.
The Russian returned the smile, viewing the American through cold eyes. “As the Americans used to be fond of saying, General, I’m being quite “up front” with the people. At first I was not; I will admit-openly-to some initial deceit. But no longer. I am telling the people who I was and what I have now become: a communist who has now shifted a bit to become a pure socialist in thinking and actions.”
“And of the caste system you advocate?” Ben was not letting him off the hook that easily.
But the Russian was full of surprises. “But of course! Stupid and shallow people are very often quite vain, General Raines. You are a very intelligent man; I don’t have to tell you about human nature. Oh no, General, I am now-much to Sam Hartline’s disgust-being quite open and honest in my dealings with the people. But what is amusing to me is this: Not one of the people who now embraces my form of government actually believes he will be placed in the lower levels of the system, even though I intimate they certainly will. That, I believe, is the dubious beauty of the naive and the arrogant man who knows not that he is either. And would not believe it if he was so informed. You know those types, General Raines. The world is-or was-full of them.”
The man was anything but a fool, Ben reluctantly conceded. And he would be a formidable adversary. If it came to that.
As if on some invisible signal, an aide brought them coffee-real coffee. Ben savored the rich smell and taste. He had to ask where in the world General Striganov got the coffee.
“Call me Georgi-please. And may I call you Ben?”
“Certainly, Georgi.”
“Stockpiled it, Ben. Hundreds of tons of the finest coffee beans in the world, although I can’t personally guarantee each bean was hand-picked by that fellow on your American TV.”
Ben smiled in remembrance of that commerciaclass="underline" a coffee bean picker with manicured fingernails.
“And also some of the finest tea in the world, as well,” Georgi concluded proudly.
“But none of that will be shared with the, ah, lower classes of your system?”
“Certainly not.”
“I could attack that, Georgi.”
“But of course you could! However, Ben-was the Russian leaned forward, pyramiding his finger tips in a vague gesture of praying-“do tell me this: Does an ignorant person appreciate the beauty and talents of a Renoir, a Van Gogh, Cezanne, Caravaggio?” He smiled in anticipation of an easily won verbal victory. “We both know the answer to that. If an ignorant person had a choice, which would you envision him hanging in his hoveclass="underline" a print of a famous master, or some hideous cloth depicting dogs playing billiards or poker?”
Ben had to laugh at that, for in that, he shared the Russian’s philosophy. But he felt compelled to say: “They could be taught to appreciate fine art; are you in agreement with that?”
Striganov waggled his left hand in a gesture of comme ci, comme ca. “I can attack that, Ben. Back in the eighties, before the world exploded in nuclear and germ madness-which brought us to this point today-which TV program do you think drew more viewers, Hee Haw or a special from the Metropolitan Opera?”
Ben could but smile. Again, he agreed with the Russian. “We’re speaking of personal choices, Georgi; that is the price a society must pay if said society is to live in freedom.”
“Nice safe answer, Ben. So you are admitting that freedom can sometimes bring mediocrity to the forefront?”
“That’s an interesting way of putting it,” Ben said.
“And you’re hedging the question.”
“I learned a little about politics, Georgi.”
“Of all music, Ben, which do you want to endure through the ages?”
“I think you know the answer to that, Georgi. I was listening to a tape of Tchaikovsky’s Serenade for Strings and Capriccio Italien on the way up here. But I still maintain it is all a matter of free choice.”
“We could argue for quite sometime about this, Ben.”
“Yes. But what would be the point? Unless one of us wanted to play devil’s advocate?”
Georgi laughed. He leaned back, sipping his coffee. “I forbid the yowlings of hillbillies and the jungle throbbings of black music among my people.”
“I don’t,” Ben said. “But I don’t have to listen to it, either.”
“You are very agile at sidestepping, Ben. But I think we are of like mind on many-no! perhaps a few-issues.”
“Probably.”
“How many sides do you possess, Ben?”
“Personalities?” Ben shrugged. “Several, I’m sure. I think you and I are both music snobs, Georgi.” “Yes,” the Russian said. “Q. And you are an honest man, Ben Raines. A truthful man. Diogenes the
Cynic would have enjoyed speaking with you, I believe. Ben, let me be quite open and honest with you. When I first… when this plan of mine was first conceived-and it is not original with me, I assure you-I thought at first… well, that I would find Americans to be more compassionate than we Russians. But do you know what I’ve found, Ben? The majority of the Americans I’ve encountered are no more compassionate than my people. So for the past few weeks, I have been very honest with those to whom I speak. I tell them up front: We are going to have a pure white race-colorless. There will be no concentration camps, no gas chambers, nothing of that horror. No torture, no starvation, nothing of that sort. Now … history may well perceive me as-to use a movie term-the bad guy, but historians, if they exist at all a hundred years from now, will not portray me as some sort of modern-day Vlad the Impaler or Hitler or Amin. Selective breeding-yes. It will take many, many generations, and of course, I shall not see the end results of my work, certainly, but I will die with the satisfaction of knowing I started a pure race.
“And Ben, eighty percent-at least that many-of the people to whom I have approached agree with what I’m doing. You don’t appear to be startled at that news, Ben.”
“No, I’m not, Georgi. I have thought for years that Americans are some of the most arrogant people on earth. But I also think, in spite of, or perhaps because of, that arrogance, we have done more for the world than any other nation in history.”
Georgi reminded Ben: “You also helped to bring about the world’s downfall.”
“That, too.”
“More coffee?” the Russian offered. “Ah-good. I shall have another cup with you. Must we fight, General Raines?”
Ben sugared his coffee. Real sugar too. “General Striganov, the historians might well condemn me for what I’m about to say and do, and I may-probably will-have second thoughts about it. But from what you have told me so far, at this moment, I don’t want a war with you. For several reasons. I think what you are planning is wrong; I think it is monstrous. But I just don’t have the troops to beat you. At least I don’t believe I have. I think you carefully surveyed the situation before you came in, and you know all we would accomplish, at this time would be to annihilate each other. And I won’t do that, General. I have plans and hopes and dreams for what remains of this nation. Besides, you’ll fail, General, with or without me. If you think the surviving minorities in this land will just roll over and let you wipe them out as a race, you, sir, are very badly mistaken.”
“They are not organized, Ben, with the exception of that little group out in South Carolina and that other group in the Southwest. And those groups are of little concern to me. You are a man of organization. I am a man of organization. And we know that without organization-a central government, a man in power, in full control-all is lost. How many blacks and how many Hispanics and Indians are left? Let’s say a million. Spread out over more than three-and-a-half million square miles. Nyet, Gospodin Raines, they will present no problem. You present the immediate problem to me.”