2 The story to which Pitol is referring is “Nocturno de Buhara” [Bukhara Nocturne]. —Trans.
3 Translated by David L. Frye.
21 MAY
The night before last, when I arrived at the hotel, a young man was waiting for me to hand deliver a very formal invitation from Georgi Markov, president of the Union of Soviet Writers, to lunch with him and other distinguished members of that institution on May 21, that is to say today. This morning, while eating breakfast, I ran into the same person. The first thing he said was that something terrible had happened. The Mexican ambassador had accepted the invitation days ago, but had suddenly cancelled, and sent word that he had another commitment at the same time. The young man asked me to try to convince him; with his presence, the ceremony would acquire greater importance. I told him, in a very cordial way, that none of that mattered. “In the invitation sent to Mexico, you noted that my visit had no official status; I was not invited as an ambassador nor as an official but as a writer. And I am very grateful for that gesture. What interests me most is literature.” “Allow me to inform you,” he interrupted, “that President Markov is the host. He rarely attends these events. His position, as you know, is of the same rank as Minister of Culture, surely you remember. The ambassador will have to attend. I can take you to the embassy.” “But how can you expect me to make that request? Did you not tell me that he has another engagement at that time?” “That is what he said, but we know he does not have another engagement. He will not tell you…” “No, look, I can’t help you. It would be an unforgivable impertinence. He is a very busy man, extremely busy, one of the busiest I know and I do not want to interrupt him. What interests me is to talk to the writers; rather, for them to tell me what is happening, what is being written now, what their readers think. In Prague there is enormous enthusiasm for this process. The government engages in self-criticism every day and every day there are new results. A Resurrection, thanks to your country.” Of course this was not true, in Prague the authorities were desperate. There was almost no mention of the USSR in the press or on television, but I could not resist the temptation to lie parodically. He wrinkled his face and returned to the charge. “What you are asking me to do is impossible,” I said. “I am an ambassador, but this is not my post, and the ambassador in Moscow could report me to Mexico for interfering in a sphere that is rightfully his. Do Soviet diplomats do things like this? You are the ones who can convince him. Talk to him politely, tactfully, why not ask the cultural attaché to intervene and convince him?” He left, and while I was finishing breakfast, he returned and said: “Your embassy’s minister, as chargé d’affaires, will represent the ambassador. Thank you for the suggestion.” We said goodbye. At noon, someone was coming to pick me up. I went out to walk the Gorky for a while. I read with interest the billboards of several theaters in the area. I bought newspapers at the Intourist, especially those from Italy, which cover this area better than any others, and returned to my room to make some notes. I have never met any of the high-ranking leaders of the Writers’s Union. Never was Markov present, not even when an important delegation arrived, Juan José Bremer as Director of Bellas Artes or Fernando Solana as Secretary of Education. I went several times to the Union’s restaurant, with the ambassador, a friend of many years, Rogelio Martínez Aguilar, who was interested in all aspects of that society, and fortunately in the world of culture in particular. Rogelio, as ambassador, was entitled to reserve a table there and invite writers, musicians, and filmmakers. I remember one occasion when he and his wife invited a married couple who were specialists in Mexican culture: Vera Kuteishchikova, a literature researcher, and her husband, Lev Ospovat, who had just published a biography of Diego Rivera, and me. The dining room was more animated than usual, normally there was no conversation at the tables, but they seemed to be unusually energized because of a literary scandal that had erupted a week or two before. A group of prominent writers, the most important of whom, if I remember correctly, were the poets Andrei Voznesensky and Bella Akhmadulina and the novelists Vasily Aksyonov, perhaps Fazil Iskander and Bulat Okudzhava, had edited a literary almanac. When the volume appeared a storm erupted. The Party ideologues considered it repugnant. Mikhail Suslov, the Torquemada of the Central Committee, expressed his rejection: in no way did that literature reflect the Soviet image; quite the opposite, it portrayed a decadent and perverted world. For neglecting the ideological aspect, the hammer fell on the Writers’ Union, whose leadership redirected it fiercely against the implicated writers. They threatened the youngest ones with branding them as pornographers. In every newspaper and magazine, articles appeared with the usual cowardice, letters to the editor, all written following the same model, expressing astonishment, horror, anger, disgust, at the poisonous fruit of that nest of stateless degenerates who published their malignant writings at the expense of the money of the working people. The differences (if any) were minimal between a pensioner from Arkhangelsk, a retired military official from Leningrad, an engineer in Baku, a group of construction workers in northern Moscow, a photography club made up of widows on the island of Sakhalin, a few teachers from Odessa, a club of hunters from Omsk, a cell of pioneers from an island in the Arctic: all demanded the authorities take action on the matter and impose the appropriate punishment on the group of outcasts. There were of course punishments, two of the youngest, those labeled pornographers, if I remember correctly, were expelled from the Writers’ Union. Vasily Aksyonov resigned his membership in the Union and went into exile. The aforementioned evening when the Martínez Aguilars invited us to dinner, a couple entered suddenly: a still attractive woman of a certain age, with a beautiful smile, on the arm of a young man who looked more like a Hollywood heart-throb or famous athlete than a writer; we were all susceptible to the surprise caused by the appearance of the couple there. There was a moment of silence, followed by a brouhaha and frenetic movement. Vera Kuteshikova told us that the woman was Bella Akhmadulina, the former wife of Yevtushenko. The poet paused to greet a few friends, while attendees at several tables rose to pay tribute to the couple. I imagine there must have been faces full of hate, but I don’t remember seeing any, it certainly wasn’t the rule. “Was she not one of those implicated in this recent literary scandal?” Rogelio asked: “She seems not to be worried, does she?” And Vera responded, “What does she have to be worried about when she’s holding hands with Georgia’s Minister of Culture?” Then she and her husband explained that Georgia was becoming a sanctuary for Russians from Moscow or Leningrad. “Painters, scriptwriters, playwrights, anyone worthwhile can find protection in Georgia. But that the Minister of Culture himself would come to the Writers’ House to support a woman who has fallen out of favor is unheard of. I think Akhmadulina has roots in the Caucasus, in Georgia certainly; it is a way of protecting her.” “But why in Georgia?” I asked. “Because the Georgians are the most formidable people in the world,” she replied, “even though they can also be worse than the devil, we Russians know that very well.” I enjoyed the venue immensely. It was the former Palace of the Rostovs, yes, the same Rostovs of