The Prince of the Soviets

33. THE FESTIVAL

On the 7^th of November, Alov was meant to go on the demonstration to commemorate the anniversary of the Bolshevik Revolution, but all morning, he had been feeling unwell.

“So, there’s something going on between your wife and Babloyan?” Valakhov said to Alov while Dunya was out getting water for the tea. “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you. These actresses are all tramps. Still, it’s a bit late now to be crying into your porridge.”

Alov froze in the center of the room, his eyes staring out of his head and his body trembling all over.

“Don’t get yourself so worked up,” Valakhov said good-naturedly. “Babloyan has no interest in stealing women. He’ll have his fun, and then he’ll drop her. And you never know. The whole thing might be to your advantage.”

Alov threw his greatcoat over his shoulders and headed for the door. “See you at the demonstration.”

A moment later, Dunya came back.

“What’s going on between you and Babloyan?” demanded Alov, his teeth chattering like an old dog’s.

Dunya took him by the shoulders. “Oh, Lord… you’re having one of your turns again! Sit down! Sit!”

Alov tried to hit her, but he had no strength left. His fist merely glanced off her cheekbone.

“Have you lost your mind?” squealed Dunya, clapping a hand to her face. “I have a performance today!”

“I’ll show you a performance!” wheezed Alov, but he was immediately overcome by a frenzied bout of coughing.

Swearing, Dunya pulled him over to the bed. “Lie down, you jerk! Lie down, I tell you!”

Alov was racked by coughing until he was almost sick. At long last, as the agonizing spasms subsided, he burst into sobs, crushed by humiliation, weakness, and the fear that Dunya would take it into her head to leave him.

She sat down beside him, her hands clasped between her knees.

“There’s nothing between me and Babloyan,” she said. “And don’t worry—there won’t be. The girls told me he had a dose of venereal disease when he was young, and he’s impotent as a result. He doesn’t even sleep with his wife. Why do you think he’s always surrounded by women? He’s hoping somebody will ‘cure’ him.”

“What bitches you actresses are,” Alov whispered, “gossiping about things like that among yourselves!”

“Anyway, he liked my dancing, and he promised to get me work at one of the big state movie studios,” said Dunya.

“I forbid it!” howled Alov. “I will not allow you to disgrace me!”

Dunya looked at him with narrowed eyes. “Have you ever thought about the fact that you disgrace me? I’m ashamed to admit I’m married to a man who works for the OGPU. I don’t want everybody avoiding me like the plague.”

She went up to the mirror and made a great show of inspecting her cheekbone to see if there was a bruise.

“You rat!” she shook her fist at Alov. “You raise a hand to me again, and I’ll hit you over the head with the iron. I hope they fire you from your lousy job—maybe then you’ll have some chance of becoming a decent man.”

She went out, slamming the door behind her. Alov lay for some time on the bed, too weak to pull himself up.

On the way to Red Square, Alov felt so bad he decided not to go to the demonstration, and instead, he set off to Lubyanka.

As soon as he reached his office, Alov put three chairs together and lay down to try to get some rest, but he slept fitfully and felt no better. From time to time, he was racked with fits of coughing and eventually developed a terrible migraine into the bargain. It was as if a metal ball was rolling around inside his skull.

In his pocket, wrapped in a piece of paper, Alov had a pill from Denmark, which, he knew, could relieve his symptoms for a while. Zharkov had once brought a whole packet back for him, and Alov had done his best to make them last.

Should I take the pill now, he wondered, or keep it for when the purge begins?

Alov smoked two cigarettes one after the other and then set to work clearing his desk. There were all sorts of stupid letters, reports, and nonsense of all sorts. Last in the pile was an unsealed envelope from Minsk. “Urgent. For immediate attention,” was written on it in Drachenblut’s handwriting.

It was a report of the interrogation of a man by the name of Elkin. He had tried to cross the Soviet border and had been attacked and robbed by his guide. A border patrol had discovered Elkin the next morning and dispatched the offender to the Minsk OGPU where certain facts had come to light during his interrogation.

Elkin had said that he had been sent across the border by Klim Rogov who claimed to be a correspondent for the United Press but was actually working for Chinese intelligence. Having heard it, the Belorussians had contacted Moscow at once.

As he read the document, Alov felt a shiver run down his spine. Good grief. He had found out about this business in the nick of time: Klim Rogov was planning to leave Moscow tomorrow. Luckily, Drachenblut had gone off to the celebration of the Bolshevik Revolution, so today, he would not summon Alov to come to him with the report on the situation. A failure in such an important case as this could have warranted immediate dismissal from the OGPU.

Grabbing the receiver, Alov contacted the duty officer.

Mr. Owen himself arrived for the celebrations of the eleventh anniversary of the Bolshevik Revolution, and Klim handed over the documents and keys for Mashka to him. The new correspondent for the United Press was due to arrive in Moscow in two weeks’ time.

Klim arranged a farewell party for his journalist friends, went to see Weinstein and the censors, and looked in on the Volga Germans to tell Father Thomas that he could expect some good news in the near future.

Although he still had a whole day left in the city, Klim had already packed up all his possessions. His apartment was almost empty with most of the furniture taken away. A few upholstery tacks lay scattered on the floor, and there were empty medicine vials and wire coat hangers on the window sill in the living room. Kapitolina was going to sell them to a rag merchant for a few kopecks.

Klim had given Kapitolina all his linen and tableware.

“My precious angel!” she cried, dashing about from room to room. “I’ll be a rich woman now! Rockefella will have nothing on me!”

Suddenly, she stood stock still. “Oh! I’ve just thought. I’ll have to give something to Galina. Should I give her a boot brush?”

“I’ll think of something,” said Klim.

Several times, he had begun composing a farewell letter to Galina—a ridiculous missive full of pointless wishes for good luck, good health, and all good things in the future. He wondered what, in fact, the future held in store for her. It seemed unlikely she would marry again—too many men of her age had been killed in the war. What “good things” could she hope for then? A jar of jam or a tin of meat bought on some special occasion? A free ride on a tram?

Damn it all, it would be far easier not to think about it!

But Klim could not stop thinking about it. In the end, he picked up the phone and gave the operator the number for Galina’s apartment.

A minute later, he heard her say, “Hello. Who is it?”

Klim flinched at the sound of her voice, which was hoarse and dull as if she were very sick.

“Galina,” he said, “I want to say goodbye. I’m going abroad tomorrow.”

“And you’re never coming back?”

“No.”

A second past in silence, then another, and another. Then, without saying a word, Galina hung up.

Klim pulled out two hundred-dollar bills, all that he had left, and put them in an envelope. That evening he had to go to the Bolshoi Theater for a political event in honor of the anniversary of the Revolution. After that, he decided, he would call in on Galina and leave the money in her mailbox.

All six tiers of the Bolshoi Theater were decorated with scarlet banners. On stage, under an enormous portrait of Lenin, a long table had been set up for leaders of the Bolshevik party.

On the podium, Comrade Babloyan, his voice trembling with heartfelt emotion, was reading out greetings from workers: “We hope that before long, a wave of proletarian revolution will sweep Europe and that the twentieth anniversary will be celebrated not only in our country but also throughout a European Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.”

Magda, Klim, and Owen sat in the box reserved for foreign guests, observing the spectators in the stalls through opera glasses.

“There’s a whole sea of Party bigwigs down there,” Magda whispered, gesturing toward the crowd of officials in service jackets and tunics.

“Not a sea—a swamp,” said Klim. “They’re all wearing swamp-green, at any rate.”

Magda eyed his dinner jacket and his starched shirt front. “Well, hark at you, Mr. Black-and-White.”

The next to mount the podium was the chairman of the state planning department, Gosplan.

“In the next five years,” he said, “we will put an end to unemployment and overcome all the economic challenges that face us. Workers’ wages will increase by sixty-six percent. Manual workers will eat twenty-seven percent more meat, seventy-two percent more eggs, and fifty-five percent more milk products.”

Klim translated the words of the speaker for Owen’s benefit.

“I wonder,” Owen said in a puzzled voice, “where the Bolsheviks will get all these percentages from.”

“They don’t care about the result,” said Klim. “It’s the ritual that matters. You and I are witnessing a prophecy. Do you remember the words from the Revelation of St. John the Divine? ‘And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.’”

Owen nodded. “Yes, I see what you mean.”

“The Bolsheviks began as materialists,” Klim said, “but without even realizing it, they’ve turned into a sect. They have taken all the old teachings about the end of the world and changed the names. The World Revolution is the Apocalypse; Marx and Engels are the Old Testament Prophets, Lenin is the savior who gave his life for the people, and Stalin is the high priest. Those who believe will be saved, and those who don’t will be punished as heretics.”

Owen put down his opera glasses. “So, you think that Soviet Russia is in the grip of some new type of Christian sectarianism?”

“It’s the natural reaction of a society at the dawn of a new epoch,” said Klim. “At times like these, people want to cling on to old teachings even while they’re in the process of changing everything else. They need an infallible leader too, endowed with some mysterious power; someone who will lead them fearlessly into the ‘bright future.’ It’s a classic example of a ‘reformation’—this is what happens when an uneducated people, with more faith in seductive promises and devils than in science, starts seeking a new path in life.”

“And how will it all end?” asked Owen.

Klim sighed. “I think it will end in the same way as the Taiping rebellion in China in the 1850s. There, a group of Christians created an independent state and began carrying out ‘fair economic reforms.’ After that, it was the same old story: battles against enemies within and without, redistribution of wealth, a god-like leader, and, as a result—wholesale devastation and millions dead.”

“Surely things can’t be that bad?”

Klim gestured toward the worker who had just got up on stage. In his hands, the man held a model broom made of metallic blades.

“That’s a delegate from the factory committee,” Klim said. “Do you know what he’s proposing to the leaders of the country? To sweep away all their enemies with that broom. It looks as if there’s bound to be huge bloodshed in the future.”

When the speeches were over, Owen went to a banquet at the People’s Commissariat for Foreign Affairs while Klim walked Magda to the cab rank.

The damp paving glittered in the light of the streetlamps, and the air was thick with the sharp smell of horses.

“Send me a cable when you get to Berlin,” Magda told Klim. “Friedrich and I are coming to Berlin soon, I think. We just have to get our Germans safely on their way to Canada.”

“Is Friedrich planning to defect?” Klim asked in amazement.

“He thinks that there’s been a counter-revolution in the USSR,” said Magda, “but nobody has noticed. The state has gone back to the same sort of abuses of power and bureaucracy the Russians had under the Tsarist regime. If the Tsar had never been deposed, they’d have just the same situation, only under a different banner. Friedrich thinks the revolution would have fared better in another country—one without such strong traditions of monarchy.”

“You mean he wants to start all over again?”

“I don’t know. We’ll see when we get there, I suppose.”

They embraced in parting, and Magda set off to find a cab.

Klim decided to go to Galina’s apartment on foot. He wanted to say goodbye to Moscow.

The city felt restless, like an animal about to settle down for the night, tired, weary and shivering slightly under the first snow, which melted as soon as it fell.

Klim could not believe that in a couple of days, he would be in a completely different world. Living in the USSR sometimes felt like looking the wrong way down a pair of binoculars. The “bright future” seemed close at hand while neighboring Poland seemed as distant as Mars.

Klim stopped beside a shop window made of reflective glass to see if he was still being shadowed or if his spies had gone home for the night.

No, they were still on his tail. On the other side of the street, there was a tall young man in a coat with the collar turned up, and a broad-shouldered fellow was pretending to read a poster fixed to a gate.

Klim was about to wave to them when a covered truck stopped in front of him. A man in an unbuttoned greatcoat jumped out of the back of the truck, taking his red OGPU ID out of his pocket.

“Come with me, citizen!” he said.

“Where to?” asked Klim, bewildered.

A cabbie’s horse passing them by shied away as if sensing the smell of carrion.

Two more men came out of the truck and took Klim under the arms. “Get in the truck!”

From that moment on, Klim was no longer a human being: he had become an object that can be packed away at will, transported from place to place, and kept until required.

Tata could see that something was wrong with her mother. Before, her mother would go off to work for days on end; now, she sat about at home and ate almost nothing. She didn’t even scold Tata if she forgot to wash her plate after meals.

“Would you like some tea, Mommy?” Tata fussed around her mother.

“No thanks.”

“What can I get you?”

“Nothing.”

Her mother turned her face to the wall and told Tata to leave her alone.

Nowadays, they had no money, and Tata had noticed that things kept disappearing from their room. She guessed that her mother was selling them to the used-goods store to buy bread.

As soon as she came home, Tata would feel overwhelmed by melancholy and inertia, so she would stay late at school drawing posters and wall-newspapers even at weekends and on holidays.

Recently, she had read about a young worker who had composed a portrait of Lenin using grains of wheat and oats and had immediately been accepted into the Higher Art and Technical Institute.

Wouldn’t it be grand to do a portrait of Comrade Stalin from some material that had particular significance for society? Tata thought. For instance, she could make a huge picture out of screws and cogwheels and name it “Stalin’s factory.” Look closer, and you would see the workings of a complex mechanism, but from a distance, you would see a portrait of the smiling leader. And imagine if she could get the parts to move!

Tata had even made some sketches for this future masterpiece, but so far, she was having no luck with Comrade Stalin: every picture she drew looked like some iron monster with whiskers.

But Tata would not give up. She had to show everyone, and particularly the children from the boarding school, that she was capable of great feats for the glory of the working classes.

When Tata came home, it was already dark. She did not have a key and rang their bell again and again, but her mother did not come to the door.

At last, the door flew open.

“Listen now, just don’t start blubbing, all right?” Mitrofanych muttered as he let Tata into the apartment.

She looked at him bewildered. “Why would I start blubbing?”

“It’s your mother… she swallowed a whole lot of pills. I looked in on her to ask her for some tea and found her lying on the floor.”

“Tea?”

“Do you understand what I’m telling you?” Mitrofanych knocked with his knuckles on his head. “Your mother has tried to poison herself! If I hadn’t run out of tea, I don’t know what would have happened.”

Tata felt as if the walls of the apartment were caving in on her. She ran into their room, but there was nobody there. Only a piece of paper on the table in her mother’s handwriting:

“Where’s my mother?” howled Tata.

Natasha came running at the sound of her wails. “She’s been taken to a hospital.”

“Which one?”

“I don’t know. Nobody told us anything.”

Tata slammed the door shut. Without taking off her coat and hat, she fell on her knees before her mother’s icon and began to pray. “Dear God, I was lying when I said I didn’t believe in you. I know you exist. I’ll go to church every day of my life and stop wearing my Pioneer neckerchief. Please just don’t let my mother die!”

Tata fell to the floor and lay there for some time, her arms flung out as if she herself had just been killed.