“That’s why I had to come. I want to understand what makes them tick—the men of power and violence. And that Venus with her mysterious, scornful grey eyes is at the center of everything.”
“Ahhh, I see. You want to understand the essence of our times and write a Comédie Humaine or a War and Peace on our Revolution, starring our princess Sashenka from the mansion on Greater Maritime Street? We writers are all the same. My niece’s life’s a spectator sport, eh?”
“Well, it’s quite a story, you must admit. I’ve met them all—marshals, Politburo members, secret policemen. Some of the killers were as delicate as mimosa; some of those who were crushed by them were as coarse as tar. At Gorky’s house, I met the sinister Yagoda, you know, and I once played the guitar with that insane killer Yezhov, at the seaside.” Benya was no longer smiling. He looked anxiously at Gideon. “But the meat grinder is over, isn’t it?”
“Comrade Stalin says the Terror’s over and who am I to disbelieve him?” answered Gideon, who really was whispering now. “Do you think I’ve survived this long by asking stupid questions? Me? Of all people? With my family background? I do what I have to—I’m the licensed maverick—and I console myself in holy communion with drink and flesh. I’ve spent the last three years waiting for the knock on the door—but so far they’ve let me be.”
“They? Surely Comrade Stalin didn’t know what was happening, did he? Surely it was Yezhov and the Chekists out of control? Now Yezhov’s gone; that good fellow Beria has stopped the meat grinder; and, thank God, Comrade Stalin is back in control.”
Gideon felt a lurch of fear. Although he regarded himself as a mere journalist, he had, like all the famous writers—Benya himself, Sholokhov, Pasternak, Babel, even Mandelstam before he disappeared—praised Stalin and voted for the Highest Measure of Punishment for Enemies of the People. At meetings of the Writers’ Union, he’d raised his hand and voted for the death of Zinoviev, Bukharin, Marshal Tukhachevsky: “Shoot them like mad dogs!” he had said, just like everyone else, just like Benya Golden. Even now he was aware of his rashness in discussing such sensitive questions with the overexcitable Benya. He pulled Benya close, so close his beard tickled his ear.
“It was never only Yezhov!” he murmured. “The orders came from higher…”
“Higher? What are you saying…?”
“Don’t write that book on the Organs and don’t tease my niece about Komsomol cakes and the ‘furnaces’ of female steelworkers! And Benya, you need to write something, something that pleases. We’re off to Peredelkino—Fadeyev’s having a party and he hands out the writing jobs so you’d better be polite to him this time, and don’t hang around here anymore if you ever want to work again!”
“You’re right. Shall I say good-bye to Sashenka?”
“Do you want a kick in the balls? I’ll get the car and you go and get my girl and tell the frisky little minx we’re leaving.”
As they left, two black Buick town cars purred into the drive.
“Was that the Georgians?” hissed Benya from the back of Gideon’s car. Masha sat silently in the front, lighting a cigarette.
“Don’t look back,” bellowed Gideon, “or we’ll turn into pillars of salt!” He put his foot down and sped away with a screech of tires.
5
The party was over. The half moon poured a milky light into the well of warm darkness outside. Mendel, chain-smoking and coughing up phlegm in guttural thunderclaps, and Satinov, who both worked at Old Square, were talking about rebuilding cadres at the Machine Tractor Stations. Sashenka and Vanya started to tidy up.
Apart from the uneasiness with Benya Golden, it had been a successful evening, Sashenka reflected. In the half darkness a figurine of alabaster nakedness appeared. “Mamochka, I can’t sleep,” said Snowy, waving her cushion so winningly that Satinov cheered.
Sashenka felt a surge of love. She could not help but indulge her daughter, perhaps remembering her own mother’s coldness, but the truth was that she was always happy to see her. “Come and have a quick cuddle! Then back to bed. Don’t overexcite her—especially you, Hercules!”
Snowy vaulted into Sashenka’s arms.
“Doesn’t that cherub ever go to bed?” growled Vanya.
“Mama, I’ve got to tell you something.”
“What, my darling?”
“Cushion woke me up to give Hercules a message!”
“Whisper it to me quickly and then back to bed—or Papochka will get cross.”
“Very cross!” said Vanya, who caught them both in a hug and kissed Sashenka’s face while Sashenka nuzzled Snowy’s silky cheek.
“Mamochka, what are those ghosts doing in the garden?” Snowy asked, pointing over her mother’s shoulder.
Sashenka turned and peered through the window.
The “ghosts,” four crop-haired young men in white suits, were stepping up onto the veranda.
“Communist greetings, Comrade Palitsyn,” said one, as the phone rang in Vanya’s office—the one connected to the Kremlin, its tone high-pitched and distinctive.
A few minutes later Vanya returned, his rumpled forehead a little puzzled. He called over to Satinov. “Hercules, that was your friend Comrade Egnatashvili.” Sashenka knew that Egnatashvili was a senior secret policeman in charge of Politburo dachas and food. “He says he’s coming with some people. We might need some Georgian food…”
Satinov looked up from the sofa. “Well, he said he might come. Who’s he bringing?”
“He just said Georgian friends.”
“Some Georgian food?” asked Sashenka, thinking fast. “It’s only midnight. Razum!” The driver appeared, swaying a little, his uniform crooked. “Can you drive?”
Razum had entered that stage of embalmed drunkenness known only to the Russian species of alcoholic: he was so soused he was almost sober again.
“Absolutely, Comrade Sashenka”—and he burped loudly.
“I’ll call the Aragvi Restaurant,” said Satinov, heading for the phone in the study. The restaurant was in town off Gorky Street.
“Comrade Razum, speed into Moscow to the Aragvi and bring back some Georgian food. Scram!”
Razum leaped off the veranda, lost his footing, nearly fell over, righted himself and made it to the car.
“Wait!” Satinov shouted. “Egnatashvili will bring something. He’s got all the best food in Moscow.” There was a pause as he and Vanya looked again at the young men in white suits guarding the gates, the suits glowing as if the moon had painted them silver.
“Who’s coming, Mamochka?” asked Snowy in the silence.
“Silence, Volya! Bed now!” said Snowy’s father, his eyes flashing. He did not use her real name unless he was deadly earnest. “Sashenka, we’ve got to give that child some discipline…”
“Who’s coming, do you think?” Sashenka asked Vanya, with a twinge of concern.
“Maybe Lavrenti Pavlovich…”
“I think I’ll be going. It’s been a nice evening,” said Mendel, whose wife and daughter had left hours ago. Sashenka noticed he was one of the few leaders who still sported an ill-fitting bourgeois suit and tie, never having embraced the Stalin Party tunic. Mendel pulled out his pillbox and placed a nitroglycerin tablet under his tongue. “Let me call my driver,” he muttered to himself. “Can’t take those flashy Georgians and all those toasts! Ugh. Too late!”
A convoy of cars drew up at the gate, their powerful beams illuminating the greens and reds of the lush garden. A pall of dust darkened the starry sky, reaching for the moon. The ghosts in the white suits opened the gates to reveal several black Lincolns and a new ZiS.