‘For heaven’s sake, Oktyabrina. Let’s go home.
‘What’s the matter now?’
‘I was telling you something. You didn’t hear a word.
‘I heard absolutely everything darling, and I think it’s positively hideous. You must be awfully worn out.
‘I’m exhausted and I’m sick of this place.’
‘Only you do like to dramatize things a bit, don t you?
‘Wait a minute. I said that man didn’t utter a single honest word. That’s a statement of fact, not a dramatization.’
‘Of course it is, darling. But why torment yourself about it? Put down what you like - that man won’t mind.’
I assumed this was badinage - an offshoot of Kostya’s standard quips about Pravda journalism. But Oktyabrina was in dead earnest. She was offering me what she thought I wanted: advice to write up the interview with that ‘delicious diplomat man’ in the way that would best suit me. ‘After all, he’ll never read a provincial American newspaper, will he? He probably doesn’t even know English.’
‘Good thinking; that takes care of him. But unfortunately there’s still me. I’m a journalist you see, not a liar.’
She snickered. ‘If you ask me, it’s an actor your inner self is really seeking. You might do character parts. But I suggest a firm director: there’s a tendency to over-play the “oppressed-and-aggrieved” emotion.’
‘Most countries, you know, have the government they deserve. Lies are told because people want to believe them. The Vice-Minister didn’t say an honest word - you haven’t understood a single word.’
‘I’ve understood every silly syllable. Despite your sour innuendoes - what it does to your accent, Zhoseph. What I don’t understand is you: whom you’re trying to impress and why? Write your Very Important Article. Dash to your desk this instant if necessary; you’ve already ruined the evening. Only stop gnashing your teeth, the wounded-hero pose pushes you over the thin line into comedy.’
‘I’m trying to tell you that I cannot write the article.
Because I have no facts’
She lowered her voice and organised her shame-shame expression. ‘Really, Zhoseph, why shout? Posturings so unnecessary with someone who likes you/
‘When I try to write.
‘People particular about “facts” aren't in the habit of reading newspapers. Not to mention writing for them/
‘Why is this leaking out now? What are you getting at?' ‘First you spoil our day, then you invent a castle of self-imposed “professional” hardships. Really Zhoseph, it's so simple. Your newspaper wants a tsk-tsk story about dreadful Soviet pollution. The Vice-Minister won’t ever see the stuff you write.
Suddenly, I realised what she was driving at. What she’d been thinking - not just then, but ever since Kostya introduced us and she assumed the role of my coquette - ‘guide’. And throughout the months when she’d cooed about journalists being marvelously paternal. A stab of anger pinched my eyes.
‘Do you really think I’m a journalist like Soviet journalists? Do you believe newspapers are a pack of lies in civilized countries? That’s the worst of it: your newspapers he and it infects you all. You all assume everyone else tells them/ ‘Must you shout? Is that how people behave in civilized countries?’
‘I do not publish lies. I write articles about what I know, not what might make me look good. Or my newspaper or my government. You can’t understand that because in your country you’ve never learned the difference between fact, invention and pure lie.’
There was a momentary pause. I relaxed because she seemed to understand at last. But she answered in a harder tone.
‘I suppose your country is better. Yes. Very much better -at burning villages in Vietnam. Lynching innocent Negroes right in your own homeland. Sucking blood from the poor and the defenseless everywhere - and then being very superior, of course, because you have sparkling kitchens and 118
fancy cars/
‘We are talking about journalism. The pursuit of truth in newspapers.’
‘The pursuit of wretchedness , you mean/
‘The possibility of approaching the truth. And you are proving my point: a country’s shortcomings must be searched out and reported. By journalists - that’s our job. Otherwise, you’d know nothing about the treatment of Negroes or anything else that disturbs us both/
‘What a narrow view of truth you have. A collection of what you call facts, the uglier the better. Digging out other people’s mistakes and misfortunes, then shouting your head off about them with all that glee.
‘That is nonsense/
‘Yes, you’re secretly happy when you find something painful. Then you can parade your righteousness - although you’ve done zero to improve anything or help anybody/
‘The first step towards alleviating misfortune is knowing the facts. Progress is impossible without them/
‘Your sermons insult my intelligence.
‘Use your intelligence. Face the issue.
‘Face your own issue - I happen not to be fascinated by newspapers. I’m interested in something called life, the mystery of existence. Journalists think newspaper is a password that excuses every rudeness and selfishness. That they can invite people to dine one minute and abandon them the next. Be so very superior about.
4 1 see. What really bothers you is Maxim’s and nothing but Maxim’s. Your blather about people’s misfortunes is as synthetic as the line about my being your father. . . .
‘Find fault and be so very superior about a country that bled itself white to defeat fascism and keep carpers like you alive. Yet you preach about ‘ the truth as if you speak for humanity. It’s the people who suffered and died who have that right - and above all, that means the people of this country you hate so much/
‘Let’s end this farce. You’re up to your ears in sophism -
in propaganda. According to you Hitler attacked Stalin and people suffered terribly - which justifies continued suffering today. You confuse.
‘We don't need foreigners telling us what we confuse. Or how to run things. I'm sick and tired of all you Great-God Westerners coming in here like missionaries to tell us what we do wrong.'
‘That's a parody of my attitude and you know it.'
‘Preaching to people to do everything your wonderful Western way. The way you dropped the atomic bomb on yellow people. The way you yourself shake your head oh-so-mournfully if you must stand in some line for a minute -oh yes, we're backward , you feel so infinitely superior. The way you dole out your hallowed Camels and expect people to kneel in holy gratitude.
‘Camels? You must be ill, you know. Or simply can't tell right from wrong - you steal my cigarettes and then think you have a right to....'
‘Your cigarettes? You’re so wrapped up in capitalist morality that you don't know how to live. Your precious cigarettes - and let a million people in Hiroshima burn. I never stole cigarettes. I distributed a few to people who needed them. Who just happen not to be rich enough to afford them because they weren't bom in seventh-heaven America and raised on imperialist silver spoons.'
‘Why didn’t you ask me? I'd have given you a carton a day. Or ten cartons, if that’s patronizing - a hundred cartons. But try to be sensible. Taking someone’s things without asking is wrong - under Communism as well as capitalism.'
‘And by the way, if you were so certain you only write the truth in that fabulous newspapers of yours, you wouldn't be beating your breast about it. Why all the Hollywood speeches about facts ? I'll tell you: because you know somewhere that you don’t write the truth of truths.'
‘Please let’s stop. You can't follow the line of your own thought.'
‘It’s vou who won't follow. I said that without Russia. 120