Monumental Propaganda (38 page)

95

Immediately, a crackling loudspeaker announced that it was time to board the bus.

“Allow me,” said Fyodor Fyodorovich gallantly, and took Aglaya by the elbow, either to support her or to support himself against her. He limped quite noticeably, and in an extremely interesting manner, setting his left foot down gently, but smacking his right foot down hard, as though he were driving home a nail. “Old wounds,” he explained to Aglaya, although he'd never been wounded in his life. He went right through the war without a scratch; the only thing wrong with his legs was old age.

At the door of the book depot the redheaded girl and the young man were now handing out what they called agitational accessories to everyone who wanted them. These were portraits of Lenin and Stalin, but mostly of Stalin (no one took Lenin), and for those who were a bit younger and stronger, banners with communist and revolutionary slogans such as GLORY TO LABOR! or COMMUNISM IS INEVITABLE! or negative oppositional slogans such as NO TO THE ANTIPOPULAR REGIME! or ZIONISTS OUT OF THE GOVERNMENT! and something else about wages and pensions. Fyodor Fyodorovich didn't need anything. He always had his own banner with him, but Aglaya had forgotten to bring her own portrait and had to use one of the cheap official ones. It showed Stalin in uniform with all his orders in place and wearing a peaked cap, but somehow the image completely lacked majesty. The subject looked less like a glorious generalissimo than a local policeman due for retirement.

96

Waiting outside in readiness were four big Hungarian Icarus buses with Yaroslavl license plates, but the passengers easily fitted into one. Aglaya and Fyodor Fyodorovich found themselves on the front seat. He sat with his banner clutched as usual between his knees, telling Aglaya how that time back in Sochi he'd been courting her with absolutely serious intentions, since he was a widower and he needed a companion in his campaigns. And since on that occasion his romance with Aglaya had come to an end unexpectedly, he had been obliged to seek another candidate. And just then his front-line comrade General Vasya Serov had died. So Fyodor Fyodorovich had married the general's widow.

On Sushchevsky Embankment Street they got stuck in a hopeless traffic jam, and Fyodor Fyodorovich explained to Aglaya that jams like this appeared every time the president drove through Moscow.

“So he's just driven by somewhere near here?”

“Not necessarily,” replied Fyodor Fyodorovich. “No matter where he drives, the traffic is backed up all over Moscow. He drives down this street, so they close all the connecting streets. Those streets are closed, so there are jams on the others. Those create more problems, and the whole of Moscow is paralyzed. It's like a coronary thrombosis.”

“That's our people's president for you,” commented the Cossack with the crosses, who was sitting behind them. “I served in Brezhnev's bodyguards— we used to stop the traffic too. But only as he drove along the route, not in advance.”

“But they have to stop the traffic,” said Fyodor Fyodorovich. “He doesn't travel alone. There's the lead car in front, then the bodyguards, then him, then the escorting cars, then the reanimation unit. He's a very old man,” the general reflected, forgetting that the “very old man” was twenty-something years younger than he was.

The bus stopped outside the left wing of the movie theater Russia. The doors opened and the passengers began jumping out and opening their umbrellas at the same time, so that all in all they looked like paratroopers on a raid. The cold, thin, sticky rain was still falling, and Aglaya had no umbrella.

A marshal in a cloth coat swollen by the damp, with a gleaming-wet bald patch and a nose the same red color as his armband, asked the new arrivals to walk across to the statue of Pushkin.

There were two crowds at the monument: the participants in the meeting, and policemen. The latter were standing in their wet, baggy greatcoats on the corner close to the offices of the newspaper
Izvestiya,
smoking and glancing at the demonstrators every now and then without any particular curiosity. As though they'd just turned up here to stand around in the rain.

Aglaya looked around curiously. Although she had often been in Moscow recently, she kept on being surprised. Everywhere there were signs of a life that wasn't ours. The McDonald's restaurant, the advertisement for Renault automobiles, a poster for a foreign film described as an erotic comedy and one with a portrait of a sad old woman with the plea PLEASE, PAY YOUR TAXES. The slanting rain inundated the poster, turning the tears running down the old woman's face into a living stream.

The meeting didn't start for a long time—they were waiting for Glukhov. A marshal made a call on his cell phone, putting his hand over the top to protect it from the rain. He got an answer; he told them Comrade Glukhov was stuck in a traffic jam, but he was getting close. Finally, the leader appeared in his Mercedes with a flashing blue light and four bodyguards. One of the bodyguards leapt out while the car was still moving and opened the rear door, as though Comrade Glukhov were an invalid or a woman. Several other members of the core leadership emerged from the two Volga automobiles that followed the Mercedes, also with their bodyguards, which bulked up the crowd significantly. Glukhov, accompanied by a man with an umbrella advertising Coca-Cola, squeezed his way into the middle of the crowd, but still the meeting didn't start. After a while a Mitsubishi minibus drove up, and members of the Workers' Shield movement, who didn't actually work anywhere, tumbled out of it with their red banners. Their leader, Syropov, a thick-set man with a damaged lip, pushed his way through to Glukhov, trying to speak to him and grabbing hold of his elbow in a passionate attempt to persuade him of something. Glukhov kept turning away and pulling his arm free, until his bodyguards managed to push Syropov aside.

Fyodor Fyodorovich asked a marshal what they were waiting for. The marshal explained that they were waiting for the journalists. Two television channels had promised to send teams to cover the event. They waited for at least an hour, but no journalists arrived apart from Maxim Milkin, who rolled up in an armored jeep with security men of his own. Since he had had his face beaten in twice, Milkin rode around inside armor-plating, accompanied by bodyguards, just like Glukhov. On seeing before them such an illustrious representative of the fourth estate, the men surrounding Glukhov made way for him and Milkin stepped up to Glukhov, holding his Dictaphone.

“Tell me, Mr. Glukhov, what are you trying to prove with today's demonstration?”

“We,” Glukhov replied with dignity, “don't have to prove anything; life itself provides our proofs. The ideals of the revolution and communism live on in the people's aspirations, and the people honor the memory of our glorious past. As you can see, despite the opposition of the antipopular regime, despite the bad weather, thousands of people have come to the square today.”

“Well, I'd say hundreds,” Milkin corrected him cynically. “Or even tens. But tell me, I see your supporters are carrying portraits of Stalin. Don't you think your loyalty to that butcher drives away people who might share your ideals?”

“You know, as a historian, I take an unbiased view of the figure of Stalin. Under Stalin's leadership great mistakes were made. Mistakes, well anybody can make mistakes, but viewed against the course of the historical process, they naturally don't appear so significant. Especially, well, you know they say Stalin killed so many millions. But we're realists. We realize that if he hadn't, sooner or later those millions would have died anyway.”

“A final question. Do you intend to run for president?”

“In our Party we don't put the question like that. Our candidates at all levels, including for president, are nominated by the Party. But I won't indulge in false modesty. As you yourself know, I occupy an important position in the Party, and it is quite possible that the communists will nominate me.”

“But how do you feel?” Milkin persisted. “Would you like to be president?”

“Your question is posed incorrectly. We communists don't regard power as a way to get rich or fulfill our personal ambitions, but as a historical duty. Some of our politicians allow their heads to be turned by the desire to achieve supreme power, but I take a cool view of power. If I have to be president, I'll be working full tilt all the time, not just between the booze, the bathhouse and the intensive care unit,” he confided, with a dig at the current president.

At this point people standing nearby laughed and applauded loudly. Milkin made a note of the answers and drove away, leaving the crowd a bit thinner.

Then came another pause. Eventually, a team of four people arrived: a cameraman, a director, a sound engineer and a producer. They asked Glukhov to step aside with them for negotiations. He went across to them, only not alone, but with the umbrella-bearer. The talks were brief but furious. Aglaya couldn't hear all the conversation, but she heard Glukhov say several times: “I don't understand what the
problème
is. I repeat, we have a specific agreement, and you're breaking it. I'll be talking to your management, which is attempting to deprive the people of its right to be heard on the orders of a criminal regime.”

Without waiting for him to finish, the television men got into their Latvian RAF minibus and drove off. Glukhov looked embarrassed and disappointed. And in response to Fyodor Fyodorovich's glance of inquiry, he explained that the television men had demanded ten thousand dollars for a ten-minute slot and refused even to discuss half of that amount.

“Never mind though,” said Glukhov, “we have our own cameraman. He can shoot it with an amateur camera, and then we'll copy it to VHS.”

So saying, Glukhov once again mounted the steps at Pushkin's feet and addressed the people gathered there with a speech about how today our entire people was celebrating the holiday that the workers still regarded as the most important one in their calendar. Confused by the pseudodemocrats, a president who had dissolved his brain in drink, his criminal family and the oligarchs, the people had deviated slightly from the ideals of socialism, but the further it deviated, the more eagerly it returned to them, as our action today testified, with participation from the broad masses of the workers.

They applauded politely at “broad masses” and heard that they were once again girding themselves to struggle for what their grandfathers had once won.

“People,” Glukhov continued, “are flocking to our banners, and with great joy we are organizing communist cells for them right across the former Soviet Union . . .”

“Former and future!” came a shout from the crowd.

“And future,” Glukhov agreed.

“Including the Crimea and Sebastopol,” added Syropov, who had appeared beside him.

“Naturally, including them too,” Glukhov agreed. And he concluded his speech with the standard incantations: “Marx's teaching is all-powerful because it is true. Communism is inevitable because it is unavoidable.”

With these words he stepped down onto the ground and his place was taken by a marshal, who announced through a megaphone: “Demonstrators, form up into a column six wide. Standard-bearers walk at the front. We walk calmly without hurrying, ignoring any provocations. Comrades, I warn you especially, we will not give way to provocation either from the left or from the right. We walk as far as Vladimir Ilich Lenin's Mausoleum, lay a wreath and then move on to the tomb of the unknown soldier, lay a wreath and after a brief final meeting we disperse peacefully. Comrades, I especially want to say this: There are many policemen here at the moment. By agreement with the mayor's office they are keeping order. But of course, they may resort to the use of violence. We ask all participants to behave in an organized and peaceful manner. Maintain discipline.”

97

Everything was going well. Even nature had decided to smile on the demonstrators. The rain stopped, gaps appeared in the clouds and rays of sunlight poked out through them like bundles of straw. Pushkin's wet bronze head gleamed in the sun's rays, the big yellow
M
of “McDonald's glowed, the running neon slogan of the Renault advertisement dimmed a little and only the old woman asking people to pay their taxes remained sad, her drying tears a reminder to her fellow-citizens that the sun might have come out, but the taxes had still not been paid.

Somewhere someone shouted something. Aglaya couldn't make out what, but from the general movement of the assembly she realized a command had been given and in response people were moving out into the middle of Tverskaya Street, which was closed to traffic.

“Comrades,” the organizer with the gleaming bald patch called, running back and forth, “let's form into a column six wide. At least one step between the rows. Plenty of space between the lines. Lady with the portrait,” he said, turning to Aglaya, “don't be so timid! Stand over here. No, not in the middle, at the edge, so the people standing on the pavement can see your portrait.”

Aglaya stood where she was shown, but she was immediately spotted by Fyodor Fyodorovich, who came across to her, limping heavily.

“Come on, Glashenka, this isn't the place for you. Come with me, come on.”

The column gradually took shape and evened out. The front was taken by two heavyweights carrying an unfurled banner with an inscription in white on red: “The people are with us, we are with the people.” Then came Alfred Glukhov and other Party leaders with red bows of ribbon on the lapels of their coats, and in the next row Fyodor Fyodorovich, Aglaya and assorted veterans. Fyodor Fyodorovich took the place in the very center, immediately behind Glukhov, putting Aglaya to his right, and to his left he put another old woman, also with a portrait of Stalin. Afterward, incidentally, some sharp-eyed journalist spotted that there were about ten portraits of Stalin in the column, but not one of Lenin.

“Right then,” muttered Fyodor Fyodorovich, pulling the tarpaulin cover off his standard, “even the weather appears to be significantly, so to speak, favoring us.”

There was a wind, not a strong one, but enough for Burdalakov. The general unfurled the standard, raised it above his head, it fluttered in the wind and the words TAKE BERLIN! shimmered and danced like a running advertising slogan. And at that very moment Glukhov quietly gave the command to the heavyweights. “Okay, let's go!” They hoisted their proud banner still higher and set off, with the whole column following them.

Meanwhile, the weather improved even more, the sun shone for all it was worth and steam rose from their wet clothing. From the very first steps Aglaya felt more cheerful and warmer and actually quite well. They didn't walk fast, but the way they walked made it clear that although these people might be old they were accustomed to marching in strict formation. Fyodor Fyodorovich dragged his left foot slightly and smacked the asphalt hard with his right foot, but he kept up, gripping his martial standard firmly, his hatband, chest and mouth gleaming brightly with assorted metalware.

At first they walked in silence. Aglaya unintentionally overheard the conversation taking place behind her between a Cossack and an old man in a dark raincoat and hat. The Cossack was saying that he lived in Tuapse and had got rich by simply taking a riverboat that had been standing idle and ownerless, repairing it and ferrying shuttle-traders to Turkey and back, then he'd bought a big diesel-electric ship and started taking tourists all over Europe.

“Now I've got two diesel-electric ships, three pleasure cruisers and five launches.”

“So how come you've joined up with us?” the old man asked curiously. “All of us here have been screwed by the authorities, we're lumpens, but you've got a fortune.”

“That's right, a huge material fortune. But what good is it to me? I get no satisfaction out of it. I wanted to get married, but then I thought, No. As long as I'm rich, I'll never be able to tell whether she married me for love or for money. I used to be an engineer in the construction mechanization office, so Liudka wouldn't marry me, because I only earned a hundred and fifty a month. She took the director of a shop, who earned a hundred and stole a thousand. But now she says she's realized what her real feelings are. Now she's realized. I reckon it's my diesel-electric ships that have helped her make up her mind.”

The column moved slowly toward the former Soviet Square. Suddenly, Glukhov turned around and said: “Why are we walking along as if it was a funeral? Let's sing something revolutionary. Aglaya Stepanovna, you probably remember some revolutionary songs.”

Aglaya Stepanovna was embarrassed, but after a moment's thought she said that she didn't remember the songs because at the time of the October Revolution she was only two years old and the granny who rocked her in the cradle had not sung “Hostile Winds Circling Above Us,” but something like “Bye baby bunting, daddy's gone a-hunting.”

“Oh really?” said Glukhov, unable to imagine that this old woman had ever been a child, but then he realized this was nonsense and felt embarrassed himself. “Yes,” he said profoundly. “The distant, irretrievable time of childhood. It seems so long ago—I can hardly believe myself that I was once a little boy chasing barefoot after the pigeons and singing pioneer songs round the campfire . . .”

He made up his past out of his head on the spot, assuming that a childhood like that—proletarian and barefoot with pigeons—must be compulsory for a leader of the people. In actual fact, as the son of a Party boss, he had never gone barefoot and never chased pigeons and in general had been a well-nourished, plump, sluggish and rather stupid boy. It is possible, however, that he did some sitting around a campfire.

Once launched on his reminiscences, he couldn't stop himself: “Those were good times. Romantic. And the way people treated each other then! Such noble, joyful relationships. Everyone prepared to sacrifice his own life for his comrade! But life was hard, Aglaya Stepanovna. Sometimes there wasn't even a crust of bread in the house,” he lied again, and then said sadly, “But never mind all that. Let's sing something revolutionary anyway.”

“I can try something,” responded the owner of the diesel-electric ship from behind Aglaya, and launched straight into a song in a hoarse bass:

Exhausted by oppression and unfreedom,
In death you won fame and renown.
You fought for the cause of the people
And honestly laid your weary head down.

 

There had been times when Aglaya, thinking about the revolution, had regretted being born just a bit too late and missing the romantic period of the Party's struggle with the old tsarist social order—when young communists had turned out for meetings and demonstrations and walked along singing under the whips of the Cossacks and the bullets of the police. Of course, she had also lived in fascinating and eventful times, but she'd missed out on that revolutionary romanticism. But now . . . Even though, of course, many bad things had happened and the enemies of communism had seized power . . . Now she had been given the chance in her old age to experience the conditions under which the revolutionaries of former times had lived. She recalled the picture she had seen earlier that day,
Stalin at the Demonstration in Baku.
Soso Djugashvili walking at the head of a detachment of Bolsheviks in close ranks, wearing a Russian-style shirt with the collar unbuttoned, young and dark-haired, with his eyes open wide as they gazed ahead into the future. History repeats itself. Now she, Aglaya Stepanovna Revkina, was striding along in the ranks of her comrades, proudly carrying the portrait of their beloved leader.

Glancing back, she couldn't see how far the column extended. In actual fact, it couldn't extend very far because there wasn't very much of it, but it seemed to Aglaya that she was striding along at the head of a procession of the people. As she walked, she saw people on the side-walks along the edges of the roadway watching the column go past and imagined they were admiring onlookers. In fact, they were only casual passersby who were so well used to spectacles like this that they didn't even display any particular curiosity. Several of them actually felt uncomfortable and pitied these stupid, malicious, helpless and ridiculous old people. As people of the new generations, they thought they were quite different and could never become like them. But that is not the way things really are. The generations are no better or worse than each other; their beliefs, mistakes and behavior depend on the historical and personal circumstances in which they grow up. It doesn't take a prophet to predict that people will be blinded again, and more than once, by false teachings, will yield to the temptation of endowing certain individuals with superhuman qualities and glorify them, raise them up on a pedestal and then cast them back down again. Later generations will say that they were fools, and yet they will be exactly the same.