War and Peace. One of the best scenes in Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita also takes place there, precisely in that restaurant; Walter Benjamin dined there frequently during his stay in Moscow. On subsequent occasions, I was invited by writers and translators, or by employees whom I befriended, like Yuri Greyding, from the Spanish-American section, who on numerous occasions took me to little known neighborhoods of old Moscow or to visit writers he thought would interest me. On one occasion, we spent the morning, which I recall as one of the most remarkable of my life, in the house of Viktor Shklovsky, where he, with his more than eighty years, spoke passionately about the book he was writing at the time, Energy of Delusion, “The one I have most wanted to write, and has given me the most pleasure,” he told us, and then he talked to us at length about the morning Tolstoy died, when he was a student in Petersburg. The press has been ordered not to publish anything, not a single line about his death in the papers. Shklovsky walked out his front door and suddenly saw people vanish, businesses were closed in a matter of seconds, the carriages stopped. There was a majestic, sacred silence, as if the world had died, as if the earthly globe had stopped in its orbit, and then, suddenly, everywhere there appeared an inconsolable weeping multitude, ill with mourning, orphaned because their father had abandoned them. The churches had closed their doors so no one could enter; Tolstoy had been excommunicated many years before. But the crowd surrounded them, drowned them, rendered them trivial before the mighty oak that had fallen, the earth had died and Russia was in mourning. My visit with Shklovsky is one of the most intense, most lyrical, most exciting moments I can remember. Much later, on two occasions, when speaking of Tolstoy to my students, I began to repeat Shklovsky’s words, but I could not finish them. My eyes welled with tears, my voice cracked, and I had to take out my handkerchief and pretend to blow my nose, clear my throat, blaming it on a cold, allergies, because it seemed grotesque to announce the death of a Russian writer and start to cry. They arrived for me at one-thirty. For years the Union has been run by a handful of Stalinists, cynical, obtuse, and rapacious. They serve as the armed wing of the Party leadership. Having said that, almost every writer and translator is listed as members of the Union: the good, the bad, the terrible, the noble, and the vile. I was received by the capo, an elegant man, very European, some sixty-odd years old, along with five “writers” whose names I did not know. We waited for over half an hour for the minister from the embassy, killing time, talking about the weather, my experiences in Moscow as a cultural advisor, my travels at the time through some Soviet republics. They were all very convivial, but were annoyed by the delay of the Mexican diplomat. The time came when we went into an elegant private dining room in which I had never entered, we drank various kinds of vodka, all excellent, and like birds of prey we swooped on the delicacies — the zakuski—that the Russians devour as a prelude to the actual meal. A waiter removed the plate of the absent guest. Several details indicated that my prestige had fallen through the floor as a result of not being accompanied by any embassy official. Markov did not even hide his contempt; he barely spoke, and only indirectly, to his people, on matters related to the Union. I think when I said something he yawned. The others asked me about my favorite writers: I mentioned Gogol and Chekhov above all, then Tolstoy, Bulgakov, and Bely. They made the obligatory comments — expendable and interchangeable — and fired off the appropriate quotes. Then, suddenly, there was movement, a young woman came in — it was the Mexican cultural attaché, apologizing for arriving late and bearing greetings from the ambassador, from the minister, from the entire staff of the mission of Mexico. The capo forced a cold smile, greeted her soberly, and gave her the cold shoulder throughout the meal. Little by little we inched toward the elephant in the room. I feigned absolute innocence, I treated them as if they were key agents of change and they shared my enthusiasm with equal zeal. I congratulated them. “It’s a big change, the whole world applauds it. The Soviets’ decision to take such a decisive step toward openness is being celebrated on Czechoslovakia and all over Europe. The Czechs informed me that your Union has played a significant role in the transition.” I continued talking, as if sure that perestroika and glasnost were their doing; as if they felt that the changes that had taken place would make their lives fuller, their work more productive, and their literature, their beloved literature, their true raison d’être. Not a single muscle twitched in their faces. I added that yesterday in Moscow I had heard that they were on the eve of a conference of the utmost importance, which would undoubtedly be as important as the one the filmmakers had held recently. The director was evidently furious, the others looked at each other, puzzled, not knowing what to say. Markov finally responded to my provocations, saying that in the USSR cinema and literature inhabit different spheres, their infrastructure is not the same, nor is their space of reception. Russian literature did not require transformations, it was very rich in form and in content. Foreigners had managed to introduce germs of debauchery, distortions, a cloud of dangerous anarchy to the country; but fallacies like these would not prosper at any time. “Of course,” he underscored with emphasis, “we do not defend the anachronistic, society would not allow it; we are current, we know we must be, but in our own way and not that of others who think they know better than we what we need.” Now truly furious, he added, addressing the writers present, as if reprimanding them, that fortunately the Ukrainian delegation would be the largest at the Conference, so he was sure that Soviet literature would never be defeated, that it would maintain its dignity, its noble mission, its commitment to the nation, as in its best moments. And with that we stopped drinking our coffee, he stood up, said goodbye with distant civility and left, accompanied by three of his retinue, who were so outraged that they did not even extend their hand as they said goodbye. The other two escorted us to the door. One of them told me that he had written a book on Gogol and that he found it interesting that a Mexican was so enthusiastic about him, the most Russian narrator of all. “About Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, and Chekhov one could understand: they are so very Russian, of course, but their problems are universal. Gogol is also, but less obviously so; he’s like a snail stuck to the most recondite wall of the Slavic labyrinth. The best book on Gogol is Bely’s,” he added. “He published it in 1933, it was a miracle that it appeared even then, the year in which socialist realism became indispensable, and the book by Bely, fortunately, was completely the opposite, an explosion of imagery, discoveries. Hopefully,” he added, “now that taboos are beginning to fall the book will reappear.” We parted on friendly terms. I imagine that these two members of the leadership will not join the Ukrainians. I took a nap. I woke up depressed; perhaps I was too rude. If someone is invited to eat and accepts, he should be polite. If someone participates in a conference, a symposium, a roundtable, then he is entitled to say what he thinks, even if it proves to be annoying to others. But then I remembered Markov, those career inquisitors, profiteers, petty tyrants, the heirs of those who tortured and killed Babel, Pilnyak, Mirsky, Mandelstam, the great man of the theater who was Vsevolod Meyerhold, and persecuted Pasternak horribly, and Akhmatova and Platonov and so many others, and I felt a sense of satisfaction for having said what I said, and I thought it was not enough. Perestroika is beginning to work on me.