They were laughing, nodding, and clapping him on the shoulder; everybody seemed to be having a jolly time and he was convinced that the questions about the factory had been forgotten. But no, now some jerk was asking questions about the reactivation of the factory, coming from who knows where to see the miracle in the shithole.
“Hold him off for a few minutes so I can think this over,” said Oleg. “Be polite, go easy. I’ll call you soon.”
Apparently, the whole Paloma Blanca act had been in vain. Plus, the editor hadn’t called him or asked any questions. He just sent a reporter. Not at all friendly. He probably woke up the next morning and thought that Oleg, to put it in the most bourgeois way possible, had been laying on the charm a bit too thick.
There’s no mercy for an overzealous showman.
So—he thought—the editor probably instructed his reporter to Google Oleg. The politicians in N. had bragged and had him pose with them for pictures. Damned Internet, everything is there. Admittedly, there wasn’t much on the Internet except that the factory was being renovated. Nothing about their labor organization. Still, Oleg knew how newspapers worked. The journalist had been assigned to unearth something. The editor was already working on a headline. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be sending a journalist out to the sticks in these hard times. So, if he came looking for something, it would be stupid if he didn’t find it, because his editors would tell him he was incompetent, or even redundant staff.
Oleg hoped the topic of the article could simply be their unusual system of organization. The fact that they were building obsolete turbines would lead to further amazement, maybe even questions about the buyer. If the tip came from the dinner party, the journalist knew nothing.
So: damage control. Why did he let the workers do such a thing? What should he say? That all this was fake? A practical joke? No, then the guy wouldn’t have a topic but he would have an enigma: What were they hiding? He’d need to beef up the cover story. Maybe call it a labor-social experiment, something almost artistic. Let their minds boggle, just keep them off the subject of turbines. He’d have to create a smokescreen, he thought, even if it made him look like a fanatic of workers’ democracy, or a visionary of a new form of efficiency, just in case they gave it a positive spin, which he found unlikely. The story would probably end up sounding bizarre.
Waiting for Oleg to call back, Nikola looked out the window.
The reporter was walking around with a photographer. They were taking pictures of the factory from the street. He imagined what the shot would look like. He thought the camera angle would make it appear as if something clandestine was underway here.
He didn’t want to wait any longer, so he phoned Oleg again.
“I think we should either get rid of him or let him in right now. He’ll wonder why we’re being so evasive. He might get the idea that we’re making an atomic bomb, and are stalling him so we can hide it.”
“Let me call you back in a second,” said Oleg.
He called him from another phone.
“Don’t say those words on the phone! There’s software that captures them,” he told Nikola.
“Which words?”
“What you said before. Never mind now. Tell him you’ll see him in an hour, during the break. As in he can’t come in while people are working. Just keep it cool, don’t let him see you’re nervous. Until then you’ll gather the workers and tell them a few things. Go and call him right now, and then we’ll talk.”
Oleg’s phone rang two minutes later.
“I told him. He said no problem, he’s heading for the Blue Lagoon.”
“Where?”
“To a nearby bar.”
“All right. A couple of important things. I’ll speak slowly so you can take notes . . . First of all, I doubt this journalist has a clue about the technology. He probably can’t tell the difference between the turbines from the Titanic and those from 1983. But in case he does ask questions, tell the workers, make sure they understand that they mustn’t say anything about us working with old technology. Tell them it would be bad for the factory, its image, and future business. If he asks you or the engineers, the answer is that we’re in the process of an accelerated modernization. If by any chance he asks about the market, the buyers—you’re the only one he can ask about that—make something up, Tajikistan, whatever. Actually no, no Muslims. Say China! China is huge, he won’t be able to Google that. If he asks more questions, say it’s an energy company. Don’t tell him anything else, that’s our business prerogative. I assume he’s come because of something else, but these are the most important things to remember. Have you written all that down?”
“I’ve taken notes. Got it.”
“If he has come to see this miraculous system of organization, well, in that case, he can write whatever the hell he wants. Tell him we’ve allowed a form of self-organization because these people know each other well, and they know the work process. If he continues to press, tell him we first wanted to see how it would go and we’ve actually started a little experiment, which, for now, is going well. We had confidence in them and they haven’t disappointed us, and so on. . . . So everything is cool, rational, you have nothing to hide. And if he still asks why, which is not unlikely, because “rational” may not be enough for him, and he may find it boring, then blame it all on me. You don’t know a thing. But with me—and he’ll never be able to reach me over the phone—that’s a different story. Tell him that because of some health issues, I’ve become a vegetarian and a visionary who for no particular reason has decided to study Robert Owen and Prudhomme. Also tell him that I listen only to Lennon in case he hasn’t heard of the other two. . . . Feel free to complain about me. Say that I used to be normal, but when I began having these health problems and became a vegetarian that’s when it all started, as if I’m searching for redemption of some kind. They love psychological portraits. Anyway, stick to the worker miracle. I think that’s why he’s come and it has to do with, well, with some stories . . . I mean, I’m just guessing. . . . Yes, probably with stories about direct democracy and all that stuff, so now they want to fuck around with us. Let him wonder. Keep giving him something to think about for as long as he’s asking penetrating questions, and when he stops, tell him to visit the Haiduci restaurant and advise him in a friendly manner not to order the fish but the meat. That way he’ll see you’re reliable. If you’re in the mood, go to lunch with him, you know. But then again, I know you and your bribing abilities. . . . In short, just don’t let them think about the turbines. If you give him other things to think about, he’ll come to his own conclusions. And make sure the workers understand the technology part. As for the rest, since he’s already there, let him do what he has to so he goes home happy.”
• • •
Sobotka sat at home drinking beer, thinking about the journalist who was at the factory today and his questions. He had been among the first to talk with the man and he’d expected more questions about life here, about how they’d started production, what the factory used to be, what all of this meant for them. He didn’t know what he’d been hoping for, but he’d expected something from the journalist. When a journalist comes to your town, and on top of that he’s coming from far away, you think to yourself, this is important, the world should know about all of this, we have an opportunity.
But this journalist’s voice had a somewhat capricious tone, and, to Sobotka, he seemed to be a joker, fine, he liked jokers—but for some reason he’d expected a different kind of journalist, a serious one, one who was what Sobotka had imagined a journalist would be like. Perhaps he’d carried this image since the days when reporters approached them during the strike, or during the war, when a journalist had occasionally managed to fight his way through to them. Those journalists had always been serious, maybe because the times were serious, he thought. So this, this must be the time for jokers, because everything was resolved, everything was
clear. Except this self-organization, which was a curious problem, because the guy kept asking about it, although—it seemed to Sobotka—it was as if he had been asking questions about a children’s game that would end as soon as the parents came home. Sobotka understood the journalist’s perspective because he’d thought of this in a similar way ever since the two oddballs arrived. There was something off about this. Nikola was a fine young man; he was trying hard to be strong. The other one, Oleg, he was the shady character, there was something elusive in his eyes, like a sculptor who’d been here years ago, whose name was Nandor. He’d seemed to be a cheerful sort, and then one morning they found him hanging in the factory.
But Sobotka believed things were going well now, there was serious work underway, so what did the journalist find so funny about it? The fact that they’d voted to hire Slavko? The others had told him about this and the journalist had nodded three times, as if he really liked the idea. He’d stepped aside because the journalist seemed more interested in the others, and Sobotka couldn’t imagine why the journalist should have liked this idea so much.
“I see this is a true workers’ democracy,” he said, and the workers nodded somewhat proudly.
Then the journalist asked those gathered around Erol, the ones he was talking to in a mocking tone, “Tell me, do you address each other as ‘comrade’?”
“You mean like we used to? No.”
“Only from time to time. You know, ‘How’s it going, comrade, haven’t seen you in a while.’”
“As a matter of fact, since the war I haven’t seen any journalists in a while,” Erol said, teasing back.
“How’s it going, comrade journalist, haven’t seen you in a while,” said Skender to show he, too, was a joker.
Even the journalist seemed to be joining in. He looked toward the mountains with a smile on his face, trying to come up with another question, and then said, “What about Marxism and stuff? Are you familiar with that?”
“Well, we used to have it in school, but that didn’t go so well.”
“What are you talking about? No one ever failed Marxism.” They were trying to be funny.
“Well, have you read Marx and all?” the journalist asked, and everyone shook their heads.
“I’ve read Engels,” bragged Erol suddenly to show they were not so uneducated.
“You? You’ve read Engels?” said Skender in disbelief.
“Yes, I have.”
“Way to go,” said the journalist. “What did you study?”
Sobotka noticed the journalist had taken up a more informal tone.
Erol said, “I didn’t even make it through high school. What can you do, the war and all.”
“So Engels is readable?” the journalist asked as if he wanted to give it a try.
“Well sure, if you have the time . . . I sure did,” said Erol, laughing about something only he understood.
“He’s just fucking with us. Where would he get Engels from?” Skender butted in.
“Where’d I get it from?” Erol puffed up his chest and glanced over at Sobotka. He thought of his late mother, remembered his captivity as if this was a happy memory, and said with a dreamy smile, “Well, that I won’t tell you!”
“A secret connection?” joked the journalist.
“Not important,” said Erol, noticing Sobotka frowning and thought something was wrong.
Then the journalist turned to Sobotka and asked him, “Are you in charge here?”
“Nah,” Sobotka said in a tone that deviated from the humorous atmosphere. “I’m just an old engineer.”
“So who’s in charge then?”
“Dunno. Nobody,” said Sobotka reluctantly.
“Is something bothering you, Mr. Engineer?” asked the journalist.
“To be honest . . . I’ve been listening to you, and I don’t really know what you’ll write.”
“That’s for me to worry about.”
“I know, but at least tell me, are you on the side of the workers?
“What do you mean?”
“You know—”
“Look, I’m not on anyone’s side. I write objectively.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. That’s journalism.”
“So what do you think of us, objectively?”
The journalist looked somewhere above him and said, “It’s very nice, all of this.” But you could still see that smile at the corners of his mouth. Then he asked Sobotka, “Do you think this is some kind of revival of workers’ self-management?”
“Mr. Journalist, you may be interested in labels. But I’m not. What I care about is the town, the people. I thought we might talk about that. I was working—and striking—during self-management, and I can tell you this: That was not the same. Everything was different. I have to go now. Goodbye.”
When Sobotka left, the others also seemed to lose the will to talk, so they started dispersing. Then the journalist went to talk with Nikola in his office.
Now Sobotka was mulling over everything. Come to think of it, the journalist reminded him of an anchorperson on a TV show who did nothing but report on stupid people. He regretted talking to the journalist. We’ll come off as gullible again, he thought, and he’d promised himself never again to come off as gullible.
This felt like taking a makeup exam.
Twice, he thought, he’d been offered to do things his way. Perhaps he should have accepted the first time, but back then he didn’t know what Veber knew—that the system was in collapse. The signs were there, he thought, but they’d had the habit of waiting, an incomprehensible belief that someone else would sort things out. Perhaps he should have taken over the factory with the workers during the mayhem between the two systems, but such a thing was alien to him. Why, he wondered. On the one hand I believed in the old system and waited, he thought, and on the other I believed that once capitalism came, it would look like it does in the West, with certain standards, progress. . . . Between these two beliefs there was nothing to do but to wait.
And now? Oleg has the money and he’s the boss, but we are the ones pulling all the strings production-wise, and we could blackmail him if he turns against us. He knows this, that’s why the work pays so well.
Sobotka had expected Oleg would bring his own men to run things, maybe create a top-down sort of union to divide the workers if they started complaining; as things stood Oleg was completely dependent on them. Not only was the way they were now working more agreeable, but this was their strength, he’d explained to Branoš the other day. The truth is Oleg hadn’t gone back on his word, he was just traveling so he could locate a market and partners, and Nikola was easy to handle. It was as if this capitalism—in which he’d already lost hope—was working for them in some unbelievable way. This time, he thought, he would be extra careful that nobody turned the workers against each other and nothing was mishandled.
We’ll see what happens if he finds a partner for modernization, he thought. Whoever gets involved will have to be tough, because we do what we have to do.
He waited for Slavko.
Now that Slavko wasn’t running away from him anymore, Sobotka had invited him to sleep at his cottage. Once he’d recovered, Slavko might possibly start fighting with those relatives of his who’d taken over his house. He wasn’t yet strong enough.
Slavko was still immersed in his own thoughts and gave terse answers, but he did communicate and he actually began coming across as normal. As if the normal people here were more normal than he was, thought Sobotka. At the factory he worked like a clock, absolutely focused and precise. People even started admiring him: crazy, yet working.
Admittedly, he’d still sometimes go off for a few hours—Sobotka had to discuss this with Nikola; he told him they needed Slavko, which was true. It was as if his memory had stayed frozen all those years, as if he hadn’t received any ne
w data to overwrite the old. He remembered every detail as if he’d been doing it only the day before. Sobotka, on the other hand, did need to search his memory in order to remember everything.
He opened a new beer. Now that he was eating normally, he felt he could drink almost infinite quantities of the local beer. It did make him a little dizzy in the evening, just enough to help him fall asleep, but at least he didn’t need sleeping pills anymore.
He began staring at the telephone on the small table and suddenly realized he did have something to talk about now, he wouldn’t sound apathetic and empty anymore. So he carried the chair to the table and dialed a long number.
No-Signal Area Page 20
