'Me?'
'We'd'be partners.'
'What would we make advertising for?'
'When private enterprise gets off the ground,' the producer explained, 'they'll need advertising. No ads, no business. Ads will be good biz, and TV ads will be the best biz of all.'
'Advertising isn't my speciality.'
'That's all propaganda is — just advertising.'
'You think what I do is propaganda?' he asked defensively.
The producer mumbled something into his towel. He didn't like to argue and he didn't like direct questions.
But Sokol was right, he thought. Their films were commercials for a way of life that no one would buy if it were for sale, including him. And it would be good business.
'It's never even crossed my mind,' he said. 'There's no private enterprise — how could there be any advertising?'
'Suppose things change?'
'If things change, the two of us won't be making any money out of it.'
'Why not? It will only depend on what you can do. And who is more skilled than you? That's all advertising is, ideas and skill.'
If it only depended on what he could do, he would try to apply his skill somewhere else in some other way. He would film his own screenplays. He knew they were better than the ones that were being made and given prizes.
They came out of the showers, had a glass of vodka and chatted for a while about how things might change. Sokol had a scenario of his own. He thought there would be a series of gradual changes that would begin as official policy but quickly gain an unstoppable momentum. The initiators of change would be swept aside, and the world in which they lived would collapse.
Pavel listened carefully, wondering what kind of role his colleague imagined for himself after the collapse. He remembered that long ago, he too had been obsessed with ideas of change. He had even dreamed of it. In prison, his dreams became so intense that he almost believed it would happen. But now he could no longer imagine it and preferred not to think about it.
When they parted Sokol said, 'Don't forget, next week we're filming in the Castle.'
Apparently he did not expect the changes to happen in the immediate future. Otherwise he would surely have found a way to send someone else to the Castle in his place.
4
The filming was over. Pavel wasn't sure if they had anything they could use. They had had to work magic with the lights to hide the fact that the old man could no longer move his left arm and to soften the ingrained harshness in his face. And Pavel's job was the easier. Sokol, who was conducting the interview, had the worst of it. It was no small task to coax lively and interesting remarks, let alone original ideas, out of the head of state. For years he'd been repeating the same thing over and over again: vague hopes
that people, ignoring their own experience, would accept the aims and values he still espoused. At one point he appeared to be on the verge of saying something heartfelt. 'In religious instruction they used to teach us that if we believed, our faith would save us. We changed that old-fashioned doctrine: believe only what stands the test of reason. But. . ' He stopped, then waved his hand dismis-sively. It must have been frustrating for Sokol. Half a thought was useless. A president dismissing his own idea with a wave of his hand was something they would never allow him to show on television.
If only the man who had been the president for so many years could do something genuinely appealing, something they could capture on film — ride a horse, play tennis, levitate. It was said he had been a sheet-metal worker when he was in prison. No one, of course, had filmed him doing it, and today they preferred to remain silent about that period of his life. There were miles of old tapes in the archives, but they were all the same: a gloomy old man standing behind a microphone, making a speech, shaking hands with one group of statesmen, kissing another, inspecting a guard of honour, boarding or getting off an aeroplane, embracing the comrades — now seeing him off, now submissively awaiting his return. There were also shots of the leader waving to cheering crowds, accepting ceremonial offerings from villagers in folk costumes, and bouquets from terrified little girls. In some he still looked young, full of energy and authority. But it all amounted to desperate and uniform tedium.
What was tedium?
Time filled with encounters that leave no mark on us.
If only the president had some special objects around him that were really his, like a terrarium with snakes, or a stuffed bear, or a parrot in a cage. Or if he'd had some dynamic and interesting people in his entourage. But the only people he could bear to have near him were an ancient maid, who had been with him since his youth and survived both his wives, and two valets. And somewhere in the background, you could still sense the presence of a whole cabal with whom he had once conspired to gain
control, and from whom he could never completely dissociate himself, bound as he was to them by common actions and crimes.
The lighting technicians rolled up their cables and carried away their lamps and reflectors. Once more, the room became a pristine and aristocratic antechamber. Though Pavel would not have admitted it, it made him feel good to be here, able to move about freely in this setting. The double doors leading into a series of adjoining chambers remained open, and he observed that enormous crystal chandeliers were prodigally ablaze throughout the entire wing of the castle.
The old man stood up, walked over to them and shook hands, first with Sokol and then with him. 'Thank you. For your efforts,' he said, attempting a smile. He was clearly wondering whether to go on. 'Would you like to stay for a drink?' he said finally.
The invitation was a surprise and clearly impossible to refuse. The old man motioned to them and they followed him into an adjoining room where an obliging waiter was standing with a tray of glasses ready to offer them. The president sat down in an armchair, which meant that they too could sit down, and even speak to him. The old man who now sat opposite them had the power to grant any of their wishes, though why should he use his power for that?
'To your health, comrades!' said the president, raising his glass.
And what did Pavel wish for? To gain a top position in his profession? It was hardly the best time for that. To film his own screenplay? It wasn't the right time for that either. This particular leader would hardly understand his screenplays. Should he mention that his superiors had recently banned his innocuous documentary on life in a psychiatric hospital? The president had more important things to worry about than a film about the mentally ill. The most he could do would be to appoint someone to investigate; Pavel's bosses would be interrogated and eventually the whole thing would be turned against him.
'So, what do you think of the present situation?' asked the old man, peering at them through his thick glasses. His
question caught them off guard. What did he want to hear? The truth? Or another one of the comforting cock-and-bull stories he must hear every day?
'What do people think in your line of work, in television?' Fortunately, he either didn't expect an answer or he immediately forgot that he had asked a question. The president reminded him of his mother, except that his mother was not in power, and she had no maid and no valets to wait oh her hand and foot.
'The situation isn't exactly ideal,' the old man went on. 'Unfortunately, it would appear that we haven't been able to maintain the standards that our people have come to expect. You know, a man may be on top, but he can still be helpless. I do everything in my power. Sixteen hours a day. I would need three lives, not all of this.' He waved a finger in the air, as if to rebuke the luxury around them. 'To serve a good cause and change the world, that is what we must do. But who still wants that? And who can carry it off? When we were young, we had a different kind of enthusiasm. We were ready to suffer, even to go hungry, but we knew we were fighting for a cause, for an order that was more just. Sometimes we didn't have enough for supper, but I managed to save enough for the train that took me to meet the comrades who were waiting for me that evening.'