The year is 1922. I'm already the general secretary. That was one thing I didn’t hope for: no such post existed. Lenin thought it up especially for me. So that I could bring the party together. And he was right: what’s the point of it if it’s not together? If the party isn’t together, then it isn’t a party – it is an assemblage of people. And so, I brought it together. And in addition, I surrounded it with the halo of mystery. The way the Teacher used to do. Not Lenin – he didn't know how to do that, but – Jesus. Meanwhile, I knew that the Lenin was hopeless. I don’t mean only his health. His morals as well. He offered me to take his sister as my wife, he asked me to supply him with snake poison, but it was me he wanted to sting. “Mountain eagles”, to whose ranks I relegated him during the graveside oration, don't behave in that manner. Incidentally, it was than that it dawned upon me that when Lenin passes away, I would also think of a post for him, which doesn't exist. I would make him into a god in the Mausoleum. It would be good for him and for the party. For the sake of further unity. I decided that everything should be kept in him exactly the way it is, even his overcoat, and make flowerbeds in his profile. The only thing I couldn't fathom was that the brain of the new god would be torn into 30 thousand shreds.
А здесь мне 40. Хорошая фотография, хотя я не люблю, когда меня фотографируют в профиль. Тем более – если я об этом не знаю. Шапка не моя. Ворошилова. Смешная. Как будто из головы что-то растёт. Конкретное. Мы с Климом тогда дружили. Относительно. Ибо дружба – как и Клим – понятие зыбкое. К тому ж она требует свободного времени.
And here, I'm already 40. It’s a good photo, although I don’t like to be photographed in profile. Especially, if I am not aware of it. The hat is not mine. It’s Voroshilov’s. It’s a funny one. It’s like something is growing out of the head. Something concrete. Klim and I were good friends at that time. Relatively speaking. Because friendship – just like Klim – is an unsteady notion. Besides, it requires free time.
А тут мы с тем же Климом и нашими жёнами. В свободное время. Не помню года. Не помню даже – кто это с его женой сидит рядом. Точно, однако, что – не Коля Бухарин. Тот подсел бы к моей, к Наде. Точно и то, что мадам Ворошилова – еврейка. Хотя Клим разлёгся тут не из презрения к ней. И не из барства. У него геморрой был…
And here, we are with the very same Klim and our wives. During the free time, I don’t remember the year. I don’t even remember who that is, sitting next to his wife. One thing is sure, though – it’s not Kolya Bukharin. He would have sat next to my Nadya. And another sure thing is that madam Voroshilov is Jewish. Although Klim didn’t recline here out of contempt for her. He had hemorrhoids.
А этот, лысый, Коля Бухарин. С кем? С Машей Ульяновой. Сестрой Ильича. Почему? Потому, что Ильич предлагал её мне в жёны. По принципу: на тебе, боже, что никому не гоже…
And this bald one is Kolya Bukharin. With whom? With Masha Ulyanova. Lenin’s sister. Why? Because Lenin offered me to take her as my wife. Following the principle: take what’s not good enough for anyone else…
Кирова я считал братом, и после его убийства враги назвали меня Каином. Но его кончину я переживал тяжелее, чем – Ильича. Мне без Кирова труднее, чем ему без меня. Вообще – мёртвым быть психологически легче, чем живым…Что касается Микояна, не понимаю – зачем ему шляпа? Чтобы на армянина не походить? Но это невозможно! И потом: что в том дурного, – быть армянином? Никакой чести, но и никакого позора. Так уж испокон веков ведётся: одни рождаются армянами, а другие нет.
I considered Kirov my brother, and after his murder, the enemies started calling me Cain. But I took his death harder than Lenin’s. I am having a harder time without Kirov, than Kirov – without me. In general, from a psychological point of view, it is easier to be dead than alive…And as for Mikoyan, I don’t quite get why he needs that hat? So that he doesn’t look Armenian? But that’s impossible! And then: what’s so bad in being Armenian? Not any great honor, but no shame either. That’s how it goes from the very beginning: some are born Armenians, other are not.
Нельзя не признать, что Микоян – мужик ответственный: хотя молод, сознаёт, что каждый человек, даже армянин, ответственен не только за выражение своего лица, но и за головной убор…
One can't but admit that Mikoyan is a responsible person. Although he's still young, he knows that every man is liable not just for the expression of his face, but the kind of hat he chooses to wear as well.
Это Надя. Незадолго до ухода. Я, кстати, так и не выяснил – кто фотографировал. Или – кто там стоит сзади неё, подбоченясь. Я не люблю – когда люди стоят подбоченясь. Для этого нужен особый душевный настрой. Нехороший. Ни с того, ни с сего подбоченясь не стоят. Нашёл я эту карточку в домашнем альбоме. Такое впечатление, что Надя тут – наоборот – придти хочет, а не уйти…
This is Nadya. Not long before she left. By the way, to this day I don’t know who took this photo. Or – who's standing behind her, with hands on the hips. I don’t like people standing with hands on their hips. There’s a specific emotional attitude needed for that. A bad one. People don’t just stand with their hands on their hips. I found this photo in the family album. There’s a feeling I get here that – on the contrary – Nadya wants to arrive, not leave…