Monumental Propaganda (36 page)

90

Sitting there on the sofa, she fell into a doze and was visited once again by those little cockroaches or mice or something halfway between the two. They made faces at her, grinning and laughing, and when Aglaya asked them who they were, a little Divanich appeared and said: “Yids.” And the cockmice's laughter became really insolent then, and Divanich banged his glass on the table and sang “La donna è mobile . . .”

The mouseroaches disappeared and Divanich evaporated into thin air, but the knocking continued. Aglaya tiptoed up to the door and asked in a quiet voice: “Who's there?”

The answer came back: “The Yids.”

“Who?” she asked in amazement.

“The Yids,” a male voice repeated. Aglaya took the chain off and saw a young man standing there in a long, thick woolen coat, holding a velour hat in his hand.

She glanced over his shoulder and asked: “Where are the others?”

“Who?” asked the visitor, puzzled.

“You said you were . . .” she said, and faltered to a halt, unwilling to pronounce a word which she avoided using.

“Zherdyk,” said the visitor, introducing himself. “Alexander Petrovich Zherdyk, secretary of the district Party committee.”

“Which party?” Aglaya inquired cautiously.

“The Communist Party, naturally, Aglaya Stepanovna,” Zherdyk said impressively.

“Does the Communist Party still exist?” she asked.

“Of course it does,” Zherdyk assured her. “It's growing stronger by the day. May I come in?”

She went through into the sitting room and he followed her. She felt embarrassed about the mess.

At the sight of Stalin her visitor didn't freeze and gape as others had done. He inspected the statue respectfully, bowed briefly toward it, turned around and bowed to Aglaya.

“Thank you,” he said quietly but with feeling. “Thank you. Soon we shall restore Comrade Stalin to his rightful place.”

Even these words failed to make any impression on her. He sat down on the stuffed arm of the sofa and, stretching his hat over his knee, began in an embarrassed voice: “Aglaya Stepanovna, we know all about you.”

She didn't react to that either.

“We know all about your heroic past, your commitment to principle, your incorruptibility.”

“Aha,” she said, nodding.

“We may be at a bit of a low ebb right now, but you are not to blame for that,” Zherdyk said passionately. “It's the times we live in. The uncertainty is enough to undermine anyone and bring them down. Elements alien to Russia have seized power. Snatched out of our hands what you devoted your life to fighting for. And what are we going to do about it?”

“What are we going to do about it?” Aglaya echoed.

“There is something we can do, Aglaya Stepanovna,” Zherdyk said with conviction. “There certainly is something we can do about it. Just think. When we were in power, people didn't like us. But now they compare and they see how things were under the communists and how they are today. Poverty, prostitution, unemployment, a ruined army, striking miners, hungry teachers. Stealing, corruption, armed conflicts and terrorism. The people are coming back to us, Aglaya Stepanovna.”

“Good,” she responded indifferently.

“But we need your help.”

“Mine?” she said in feeble surprise.

“Yours, Aglaya Stepanovna! Your help. Your immense experience of life and politics, your indomitable energy.”

“Energy?” she protested. “What energy? I'm an old woman. Very old, weak.” She looked her visitor in the eye, thought for a moment and confessed: “A drunk.”

Zherdyk nodded sadly. “Yes. I've heard. You overdo it a bit. But we'll cure you. Of course, it will take determination to succeed from your side.” Zherdyk jumped to his feet and ran across to Stalin, as though enlisting him as an ally: “Aglaya Stepanovna, remember who you are. Shake off this lethargy and join our ranks. The motherland and the Party are waiting for you!”

“Oh, don't do that,” she said with a wave of her hand. “Don't say such things.”

“I have to!” Zherdyk protested resolutely. “Aglaya Stepanovna, there's a war going on in the world. The forces of good have entered upon the final battle with evil. The struggle is taking place absolutely everywhere. Including our own district. And we have a very good chance of being victorious. But to win the victory we have to gather all of our forces. Aglaya Stepanovna, our organization, the Party and the people are begging you to rejoin the ranks. Join us and we will win, this time forever.”

“And what am I supposed to do?” she asked disinterestedly.

“Address workers' collectives, take part in meetings and demonstrations . . . We'll send you to Moscow to take part in All-Russian events, in picket lines and street marches. Do you agree?”

“I don't know,” said Aglaya, hesitating. “It's a bit unexpected. But won't they . . . won't they put us in jail for that?”

“What?” Zherdyk responded in amazement. “Aglaya Stepanovna, you're a partisan! A fearless warrior! What are you talking about? Jail a distinguished individual of your, I beg your pardon, age . . . What for? We have democracy now, after all.”

“Democracy?” she looked at him doubtfully. “And you say they don't put anyone in jail?”

“Aglaya Stepanovna,” said Zherdyk with a smile, “it's a corrupt democracy.”

91

On April 16, 1995, Dr. Pleshakov made the following entry in his register of patients: “Aglaya Stepanovna Revkina, 80 years of age, referred with a case of chronic alcoholism. Complains of general weakness, debility, headaches and pains in the region of the liver, as well as a sour taste in her mouth, lack of appetite, hallucinations and loss of interest in life. In view of her advanced age it was decided to employ psychotherapeutic methods of treatment. A false blocking procedure was carried out with an intravenous infusion of physiological saline. The patient has been warned that for the next year the intake of even an insignificant amount of alcohol could result in fatal consequences.”

The outcome of Aglaya's visit to Dr. Pleshakov was that she gave up drinking. And smoking too. She gave up both completely and was amazed herself at how easily she did it. And after only a few days she had already noticed that a sober life had a lot to recommend it. She was more aware. She no longer received visits from cockroaches, mice and little members of the Politburo. She began to find her bearings in time and space. She began to feel that life had some meaning and she wanted to do something; she felt once again that she was needed by the Party, the homeland and the people. And she loved Stalin with a new strength and hated those she had hated before with renewed vigor.

Delighted with her new condition, she made an effort to eat regularly, went walking for half an hour before breakfast and after lunch and took cool showers. And she made arrangements to travel to Moscow at the Party's bidding and expense, to take part in meetings, demonstrations and picket lines, where Stalin's portrait was always on show. Not the one that hung in her room. A color portrait. With Stalin in a forage cap and a military tunic with shoulder straps and decorations.

You might say that she had been reborn.

92

Evening was drawing in as a gentleman imperceptible against the twilight in his mouse-colored coat and fur cap (natural reindeer, article
4
/
₆
approached the building at 1-a Komsomol Cul-de-Sac, carrying a smart briefcase with two number-coded locks.

“Tell me, Grannies, is this where Ivan Georgievich Zhukov lives?”

“Ivan Georgievich?” one of the old women queried. “You mean Vanka the bomb maker, do you?”

“The bomb maker?” The gentleman raised his eyebrows. “Does everyone know that he's a bomb maker then?”

“How could they not?” said the old woman. “We all live together here, neighbors, aren't we? Know all there is to know about each other.”

“Yes?” he said in surprise. “You know, Grannies, what you know could be very useful to some people.”

“You what?” said the second old woman, putting her crooked hand to her deaf ear.

“I was asking,” the stranger said, raising his voice, “where he lives, this bomb maker of yours.”

The old grannies immediately began talking across each other in their haste to explain to the stranger that Vanka lived in the semibasement, turn right as soon as you got downstairs, managing in the process to narrate to the stranger the entire story of Vanka's life. When and in what circumstances he was born and who his parents were, what a handsome boy he was before the army and how ugly he'd become afterward. And they told the stranger about Vanka's parents, and about his granny, who looked after him: cooked for him, did his laundry and was always going off somewhere on his business with great big bags and bringing him back things that they called spares.

“You mean his granny's there with him too?” asked the stranger.

“His granny's not there,” said the first old woman. “She went to Moscow for spares. It's three days now since she left and she's still not back.”

“So there's nobody looking after him right now then?” said the stranger.

“Oh yes there is,” the same old woman answered. “We're looking after him. We go to the shop and do his washing and he pays for it all.”

“Is he rich?” asked the stranger.

“Well he's certainly not poor. He does well out of those bombs of his. His customers come calling in those whatchamacallits . . .”

“Serdemesses,” put in the second old woman.

“Not serdemesses, merdesesses.”

“Six of one, half a dozen of the other,” responded the second old woman.

“And in jeans and scallywags too,” added the first old woman, meaning jeeps and Cadillacs, so putting the second old woman in her place.

The stranger thanked the old grannies for the detailed information and walked on. The steps down to the semibasement were crooked and slippery, the lightbulb was missing and the stranger walked down carefully, pressing one hand against the damp, rough wall.

When he got down, he groped till he located the torn felt upholstery of the door, but before knocking he transferred the briefcase from his right hand to his left and, holding on his cap with his right hand, pressed his eye to the keyhole. In fact, he spied nothing of any great interest, apart from a damp, narrow room with tattered wallpaper, a table illuminated by a low-hanging lightbulb with an orange shade, a hunched back in a gray sweater and a head of gray hair.

Without removing his eye from the keyhole, the gentleman knocked twice, then three times, then once again, and on seeing the man sitting at the table turn around and start moving toward him in his wheelchair, he jumped back from the door.

When he had a clear view of Vanka's condition, the stranger experienced a desire to back away, but he had been taught to control himself no matter what the circumstances, so he controlled himself.

Zhukov aimed the plastic leg at his visitor and his one eye glinted with a glint expressive of doubt. “Are you from Ivan Ivanich?”

“No, no,” said the stranger, “let's just say I'm here on my own account. May I come in?”

“Then who sent you to me?”

“What makes you think somebody had to send me to you? Surely I can come on my own account?”

“But you found out from somebody what the secret knock is.”

“Well, you know, that's one secret that's not hard to figure out. All amateur conspirators invent exactly the same formula for the knock. First
tap-tap,
then
tap-tap-tap
and then
tap
again. Always the same. No variety at all. Do you mind if I come in?”

After a moment's thought Vanka wheeled backward to the table and only then said: “Come in. Put the latch on the door. Stand where you are. Who are you?”

“I'll tell you in a moment.” The unexpected visitor took off his cap, revealing a bald head with a sloping crown that was sunburnt and cracked like old tiles. “Only don't be scared and don't do anything hasty. I'm the official agent, or to put it more simply, the boss of the local branch of the FSB—a KGB man in your terms.”

“Have you come to arrest me?” Vanka asked in a quiet voice.

“Oh come now!” said the stranger with a smile. “If this were an arrest, I would hardly have come alone. Especially to this place. We have your laboratory listed as ‘Little Hiroshima.' How do you like that for a name? Anyway, I have no sinister intentions concerning you at all, quite the opposite, in fact . . .”

“You want me to tell you about my clients?”

“I can't pretend it wouldn't be interesting. But in this particular case I'd like to tell you about our clients. Or at least about one of them. As you know, we recently had local elections in our district. And united in a single expression of will, so to speak, our public elected a young, energetic—”

“You mean Sanka?”

“Well, you have the right to call our civic head Sanka because you're old friends, but for me he is now Alexander Petrovich, although in the distant years of our youth I also had the honor of his acquaintance. But this is all nonsense. I simply wanted to ask you how well you remember the time you used to rent a room from an old dissident woman in Moscow and Zherdyk used to come to see you there?”

“You want me to rat on him?” Vanka asked ironically.

“What a horrible expression! But it's taken root, I suppose. Well then, what I want to do is rat on someone to you. Would you really mind if I came a little closer?”

“Okay then,” Vanka agreed. “But just bear in mind—”

“I already am . . .” his visitor was quick to reassure him.

Having moved closer, he looked around for a chair, and not finding one, he sat down on a green crate like an ammunition box, put his hat on the table, his briefcase on his knees, took out a red cardboard file, untied its silk ribbons, took another file—yellow this time—out of the red one and handed it to Vanka with the words “I think you'll find this interesting.” It was a photocopy of some old handwritten texts. The reports, from an agent with the alias of La Donna, or LD in the abbreviated form, read approximately as follows:

. . . he gave me Orwell's book
1984
to read. When I gave him back the book, he asked how I liked it. I said it was a powerful book, but the horrors in it seemed far-fetched and implausible to me. He asked me if I didn't think that life in the Soviet Union was like the life described in Orwell's book. I said that I didn't, that there wasn't such total control over each individual here and there couldn't be. It could happen in Germany or England, but not here, where thanks to the character of the people there had always been and would be the kind of disorder that was the most effective form of unintentional sabotage. He agreed with that opinion, but insisted that Orwell's prophecy was a work of genius. He gave me
The
Gulag Archipelago
to read and asked my opinion about that as well. I said that it was a remarkable book as a documentary work, but some of the facts seemed dubious to me. He began arguing with me, saying that it was a book of exceptional artistic power, that perhaps in the entire literature of the world there was nothing to equal its power. I asked him if it was even better than
War and
Peace.
He said yes, it was better than
War and Peace.
I said that was going too far; he said if that was going too far he wouldn't give me anything else to read. But only half an hour later he offered me a book to read by the Yugoslavian author Milovan Djilas, saying that it was an extremely powerful book, even more powerful than
The
Gulag Archipelago.

Vanka read the report, unable to believe his one and only eye, read about how he had listened to the BBC and Deutsche Welle, called Brezhnev a senile vegetable, believed that Brezhnev could not really have written his books for himself, been indignant when Brezhnev was awarded the Lenin Prize for literature and the Order of Victory, agreed with Reagan that the USSR was an evil empire, praised Levi Strauss jeans, expressed negative opinions about the collective farm system, claimed that Lenin had died of syphilis, asserted that Stalin was the illegitimate son of General Przhevalsky and joked that Stalin was a hybrid between Przhevalsky and Przhevalsky's horse and he looked like both of them.

Vanka went on to read about how he'd told jokes about the Civil War hero Chapaev, shown people photographs of Academician Sakharov, with whom he was supposedly in personal contact, had been pleased when the Canadians beat our national ice-hockey team and, most importantly of all, had built a photocopying machine on which he duplicated the
Chronicle of Current Events.

Vanka read holding his gray head low and twisting it around as his one-eyed gaze crept from the beginning of a line to the end and back again. He stopped reading halfway through, turned his face away from the manuscript and froze motionless for a while, closing his eye and even seeming to go to sleep.

The visitor waited patiently. Vanka opened his eye and turned it toward the visitor.

“Why did you bring me this?” he asked.

“I wanted to open your eyes to your friend's real character,” said the stranger, and suddenly felt an unexpected embarrassment at the thought that you couldn't open the eyes of a man who only had one.

“And that's all?” Vanka asked.

“Not entirely. Now you know that Zherdyk is a very bad man, but he is much worse than you know. A terrible man,” the visitor said with feeling. “He ratted on you. He ratted on everybody he could. It was because of him that you ended up in the war, because of him that you became a cripple. This is a man with no principles, no honor, no conscience. In 'ninetyone he burned his Party card in public. And then in 'ninety-four he rejoined the Communist Party, rose to high positions in our district and now he's aiming higher. I tell you as a democrat—”

“You're a democrat?” Vanka asked in disbelief.

“Yes,” his visitor said with dignity. “Basically, I'm a democrat. But I don't believe that democracy can be introduced and maintained with weak hands. The commies are willing to use any methods at all against us, and if we fight them wearing kid gloves, we'll lose. In other words, Vanya, I'm begging you to help—”

“I seem to have seen you somewhere before,” said Vanka.

“You have,” said his visitor with a nod and a smile. “You certainly have. And more than once. Roof is my name. Igor Sergeevich Roof.”

The room went quiet. Vanka was silent, struck dumb by the sudden revelation.

“But . . .” he said. “Then why did you . . . you say you're from the KGB, that is, from the—”

“I'm telling the truth,” said Roof. “Here, take a look.”

He held out his open identity card. Looking out at Vanka from the photograph was the same Roof, only he was wearing a uniform with a major's shoulder straps.

“Well, well, what a career!” said Vanka with a shake of his head.

“We live in a time when many things are possible,” said Roof with a laugh. “Bandits become secret policemen, secret policemen become bodyguards, Komsomol leaders become bankers, regional Party committee secretaries become governors, and Zherdyk becomes mayor. And hopes for greater things.”

“And does he still sing ‘La donna è mobile' like before?”

“Yes. When he's feeling happy about something.”

“And does he often feel happy?”

“More often than I would like. He won the elections and he's planning to put Stalin's monument back up . . .”

“When?”

“I don't know. Most likely on December twenty-first, the tyrant's birthday.”

“Okay,” said Vanka after a moment's thought, and turned his eye toward the visitor. “Generally speaking, I take a large fee for my work, but I'll carry out this commission for nothing. All I need is for you to tape him singing ‘La donna è mobile.' Can you do that?”

“What do you want it for?”

“A souvenir.”

“We'll do it,” promised Roof.