That night, when Viktor was alone in his room, he thought:
'Oh God! Why don't I write a letter of repentance? That's what everyone else does in a situation like this.'
21
It was several days since the article had first appeared. Work in the laboratory was going on as usual. Sometimes Viktor sank into depression; sometimes his spirits revived and he paced animatedly up and down the laboratory, tapping out his favourite tunes on the windowsill and the metal pipes.
He said jokingly that an epidemic of shortsightedness had broken out in the Institute; people he knew looked straight through him and passed by without so much as a word. Once, on the street, Gurevich caught sight of Viktor in the distance; he looked thoughtful, crossed to the other side and started reading a notice. Viktor had seen all this; he and Gurevich then looked round at the same moment and their eyes met. Gurevich waved at him, pretending to look pleased and surprised. All this was far from amusing.
Svechin said hello when they met. He even made an effort to walk more slowly. But from the look on his face he might have been greeting the ambassador of a hostile power. Viktor kept count of who turned away, who just nodded and who shook hands with him.
As soon as he got home, he would ask his wife: 'Has anyone rung?'
And Lyudmila would nearly always answer: 'Only Marya Ivanovna.'
Knowing what he usually asked next, she would add: 'And there's still no letter from Madyarov.'
'Do you see?' said Viktor. 'The people who used to ring up every day now only ring occasionally – and the people who used to ring occasionally have stopped altogether.'
He even thought he was being treated differently at home. On one occasion he was drinking tea and Nadya walked past without saying anything.
'You might say hello,' he called out. 'Do you think I'm an inanimate object?'
He looked quite pathetic. Instead of coming out with some harsh retort, Nadya said hurriedly: 'Dear Papa, I'm very sorry!'
That same day he asked: 'Listen, Nadya, are you still seeing your great strategist?'
She simply shrugged her shoulders.
'I just wanted to warn you. Please don't talk politics with him. All I need is to be criticized on that count too.'
Again, instead of replying sarcastically, Nadya said: 'You don't need to worry, Papa.'
On his way to the Institute in the morning, Viktor tried to avoid meeting people; he would look round to assess the situation, then walk either more quickly or more slowly. When he arrived he would make sure the corridor was empty and then rush down it as quickly as he could, his head bowed. If one of the doors opened, his heart almost stopped beating. As he reached the laboratory, he would heave a sigh of relief – like a soldier regaining his trench under enemy fire.
One day Savostyanov came into Viktor's office and pleaded with him.
'Viktor Pavlovich, I entreat you, we all of us entreat you: write a letter, say you repent! I can assure you that will help. Just think: you're throwing away everything – and at a time when an important – no, a truly great – work lies before you, a time when all that is genuine in our science looks to you with hope. Write a letter, admit your errors.'
'What errors? What do you want me to repent of?'
'Who cares? It's what everyone does – writers, scientists, political leaders, even your beloved Shostakovich. He admits his errors, writes letters of repentance – and then returns to work. It's like water off a duck's back.'
'But what do you want me to repent of? And who to?'
'The director, the Central Committee… It doesn't matter – as long as you repent! Something like this: "I have committed errors and I admit my guilt. I am now conscious of this and I promise to mend my ways." That sort of thing – you know what's expected. That's bound to help; it always helps.'
Savostyanov's bright, laughing eyes were for once quite serious. They even seemed to be a different colour.
'Thank you, thank you, my friend,' said Viktor. 'I'm grateful to you for your concern.'
An hour later Sokolov said:
'Viktor Pavlovich, there's going to be an open meeting of the Scientific Council next week. I think you should say something.'
'What about?'
'I think you need to make some explanations. To be more precise, you must make a confession of error.'
Viktor paced up and down the room. Suddenly he stopped by the window, his eyes on the door.
'What if I write a letter, Pyotr Lavrentyevich? That would be easier than spitting at myself in public.'
'No, I think you need to make a speech. I spoke to Svechin yesterday. He led me to understand that they…' Sokolov made a vague gesture in the direction of the cornice above the door, 'require a speech rather than a letter.'
Viktor turned round to face Sokolov.
'No, I'm not going to make a speech and I'm not going to write a letter.'
In the patient voice of a psychiatrist talking to someone mentally ill, Sokolov said:
'Viktor Pavlovich, for you to remain silent is the equivalent of suicide. There are political accusations hanging over your head.'
'You know what torments me most of all?' said Viktor. 'Why does all this have to happen at a moment of victory, a moment of general rejoicing? Now any son of a bitch can say that I openly attacked the foundations of Leninism at a time when I imagined the Soviet regime was about to collapse. As though I attacked people when they were down.'
'I have heard that opinion expressed.'
'No,' said Viktor. 'To hell with it. I'm not going to repent.'
That night he locked himself in his room and began to write the letter. Suddenly overwhelmed with shame, he tore it up – and began writing the text of his speech to the Scientific Council. He then read it over, thumped his elbow on the table, and tore that up too.
'Well that's it!' he said out loud. 'If they want to arrest me, they can.'
He sat there for a while without moving, mulling over the import of this decision. Then he had the idea of writing a rough draft of the letter he would have sent if he had repented. There was nothing humiliating about that. No one would ever see it. No one.
He was alone, the door was locked, everyone in the house was asleep, and it was quiet outside. There was no traffic, no car horns.
But an invisible force was crushing him. He could feel its weight, its hypnotic power; it was forcing him to think as it wanted, to write as it dictated. This force was inside him; it could dissolve his will and cause his heart to stop beating; it came between him and his family; it insinuated itself into his past, into his childhood memories. He began to feel that he really was untalented and boring, someone who wore out the people around him with dull chatter. Even his work seemed to have grown dull, to be covered with a layer of dust; the thought of it no longer filled him with light and joy.
Only people who have never felt such a force themselves can be surprised that others submit to it. Those who have felt it, on the other hand, feel astonished that a man can rebel against it even for a moment – with one sudden word of anger, one timid gesture of protest.
It was for himself that Viktor wrote this letter. He intended to hide it away and never show it to anyone. Deep down, though, he knew that it might come in useful. He would hang on to it.
Next morning, as he drank his tea, he kept looking at the clock; it was time to go to the laboratory. He felt a chilling sense of isolation. It was as though no one would ever come round to see him again. And it wasn't simply fear that stopped people from ringing him up; it was the fact that he was so dull, so boring and talentless.
'I don't suppose anyone asked for me yesterday,' he said to Lyudmila. Then he quoted the lines: 'I'm alone at the window, I don't expect guests or friends.'
'Oh yes, I forgot to say. Chepyzhin's back. He phoned and said he wants to see you.'