“So long, Guryan, bear your heavy cross…”
I pushed the pretty pink button. A meagre woman of indeterminable age let me in. Without a word she ushered me into the adjoining room.
I saw a safe, a portrait of Dzerzhinsky* and brown drapes. Like the ones in the restaurant. So much so that I felt a little queasy.
I sat in an armchair and pulled out my cigarettes. For a minute or two, I sat in solitude. Then one of the curtains moved and a man of about thirty-six stepped out from behind it. With grave reproach, he said:
“Have I invited you to sit down?”
I stood up.
“Sit down.”
I sat.
The man enunciated with even greater reproach:
“Have I invited you to smoke?”
I reached for the ashtray, but heard:
“Smoke…”
He than sat down and gave me a long, sad and almost tragic look. His smile expressed the world’s imperfection and the heavy burden of responsibility for the sins of others. His face, though, remained ordinary, like an underwear button.
The portrait above his head seemed more inspired. (Only halfway through our meeting did I suddenly realize that it was Anton Makarenko* and not Dzerzhinsky.)
Finally he said:
“Can you guess why I invited you here? You can’t? Excellent. Ask me a question. To the point, soldier-like. ‘Why did you invite me here, Belyaev?’ And I’ll answer you. Also to the point, soldier-like: ‘I don’t know.’ I haven’t the slightest idea. I feel that something’s not right. I feel that the lad took a wrong turn. He’s been led astray by the snaking road. Believe it or not, it’s been keeping me up at nights. ‘Tomka,’ I say to my wife, ‘a good lad has gone wrong. He needs help…’ And my Tomka, she’s a humanist. She yells: ‘Vitalik, you must help. Have a character-building talk with him. It’s a shame, the lad is one of ours. He’s healthy on the inside. Don’t resort to harsh disciplinary methods. The organization does not only punish. The organization enlightens…’ And I yelclass="underline" ‘The international situation is complex. Capitalist encirclement is taking its toll. The lad has gone too far. Contributes to this… what’s its name… Continental. Like that Radio Liberty… He’s become a literary turncoat, a traitor as bad as Solzhenitsyn. And to top it all, he’s been geezed up to the eyeballs with that windbag Valera… So his wife played a dirty trick, decided to go to Israel… So what, is he to be lit now till he turns blue?’ In short, I’m confused…”
Belyaev continued to talk for another fifteen minutes. I swear I saw tears glisten in his eyes.
Then he threw a sideways glance at the door and produced glasses:
“Let’s unwind a little. It’s not bad for you… in moderation…”
His vodka was warm. We had cookies as a chaser.
The phone gave a shrill cry.
“Major Belyaev speaking… At four thirty? I’ll be there… And tell the cops to mind their own business…”
He turned to me:
“Where were we? Do you think the organization hasn’t noticed this bedlam? The organization notices everything, better than that academic Sakharov. But where’s the realistic solution? In what? In a restoration of capitalism? Let’s suppose I’ve read your vaunted samizdat. Just as much crap as in Znamya magazine.* Only everything’s turned on its head. White is now black and black is white… Take, for instance, the problem of agriculture. Let’s say we go ahead and abolish collective farms. We give the peasants their land and whatnot. But first, ask the peasants what they think. Do they even want this land? What the fuck do they need this damned land for? Ask that windbag Valera. Go to the villages around the Preserve. Old man Timokha is the only one who remembers how to harness a horse. And when to sow and what – they’ve all forgotten. They can’t bake a simple loaf of bread… Besides, any peasant will swap this land for a half a pint of vodka in the blink of an eye. Let alone half a bottle…”
Belyaev took out the glasses again once and for all. He turned pink. His thoughts deviated towards dissidence with blistering speed.
Twice the phone rang. Belyaev pressed the button on the intercom:
“Valeria Yanovna! Hold all calls.”
His speech became fast, temperamental and full of acrimony:
“You know what’ll bring on the end of Soviet rule? I’ll tell you. The end will come from vodka. Today, I figure, about sixty per cent of the workforce are soused by the time evening comes. And the numbers are climbing. There’ll come a day when everyone’ll be juiced to the gills, without exception. From the run-of-the mill private to the Minister of Defence. From the lowly labourer to the Minister of Heavy Industry. Everyone, except two or three women, children and, possibly, Jews. Which is clearly insufficient for building communism… And the whole merry-go-round will grind to a halt. The factories, the plants, the machine and tractor stations. And before you know it, we’ll be under a new Tatar-Mongol yoke. Only this time it’ll come from the West. Headed by Comrade Kissinger…”
Belyaev looked at his watch:
“I know you’re headed to Leningrad. My advice to you – don’t make noise. To put it politely – zip your trap. The organization may teach and teach, but then it may suddenly be fool enough to punish. And your dossier packs more punch than Goethe’s Faust. There’s enough on you for forty years… And remember, a criminal case is not like a pair of seamed trousers. A criminal case is stitched together in five minutes. Blink, and you’re on the front lines, building communism… So keep it down… And one more thing, about the boozing. Drink, but in moderation. Take a break now and then. And don’t get involved with that nut job Markov. Valera is a local, they won’t touch him. But your wife is in the West. Plus your opuses are in counter-revolutionary publications. And there are plenty of escapades to fill a dossier. If you don’t behave, things might take a bad turn… In short, drink with caution. And now, one for the road…”
We had another drink.
“You may leave.” The major switched to a more formal mode of address.
“Thank you,” I said.
Those were the only words I spoke in half an hour.
Belyaev grinned:
“The conversation was conducted on a high ideological and political level.”
At the door he added in a whisper:
“And one more thing, off the record, as they say. In your place, I’d bolt out of here while they’re letting people go. Reunite with the wife – and best regards… I myself have no chance. No one will let me out with my yokel’s mug… But you, that’s my advice. Think about it. This is just between us, strictly confidential…”
I shook his hand, nodded to the surly woman and stepped out into the sunlit street.
I walked and thought, “Madness has taken over the world. Madness is becoming the norm.” The norm brought on a sense of wonder…
I left the bicycle at the post office. I told them it was for Lyuda from Berezino. I climbed up the hill on foot. And finally, after waiting for an intercity bus, I left for Leningrad.
I fell asleep during the trip and woke up with a terrible headache…
Leningrad starts out gradually, with faded foliage, loud trams and gloomy brick buildings. In the morning light, the flickering neon letters are barely discernible. The faceless crowd cheers you up by its lack of interest.
Another minute and you are, once again, a city dweller. And only the sand in your shoes is a reminder of your summer in the country…
The headache stood in the way of my usual delight in the Leningrad clamour, the river breeze and clarity of the stone streets. The sidewalks alone, after the monotony of hills…
I got off the bus at Peace Square, hailed a cab, and fifteen minutes later I was home.
A laughing, unfamiliar woman in a sailor’s jersey opened the door:
“The Shakhnoviches sent you? You’ve come for the coffee percolator?”