Mr Frankenstein

by Richard Freeborn

  Joe remained straight-faced. ‘I thought you’d ask that.’

  ‘So it all came from him?’

  Joe nodded.

  ‘And Mr Kamen paid you to do the translation?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And naturally he wants to know if it’s what? Authentic? Isn’t that what he wants to know?’

  ‘I reckon he does.’

  ‘And we both know why, don’t we?’

  ‘Yes, he wants to make money out of it.’

  Joe’s admission caused several quick nods of the head and then a momentary silence while the professor lifted a pen, twiddled it and let it drop.

  ‘Mr Kamen and I have known each other for years. He’s a shrewd operator. If he suspects there’s some, er, value in it, know what I mean? he likes to have it all to himself. Well, I think I can divulge this much. Yes, he did mention something about new material. And then I managed to contact Krestovsky. He’s the most secretive person I’ve ever come across! The long and short of it was he claimed he’d discovered something discreditable, but I simply didn’t believe him. Lenin’s private life was virtually beyond reproach by all accounts. There was the relationship with Inessa Armand, of course, but that has been thoroughly investigated. The only thing was a suggestion – made, oh, years and years ago – that he’d been involved with some woman in 1902. I think it was an accusation made in an émigré publication in the 1920s. Which brings us, of course, to your lady letter-writer, whose original English letters have been burnt, but who came to this country, to California, maybe in late 1902 or early 1903 where she married a Dr Hazell and gave birth to a child, a son, to whom she insisted on giving the surname Richter. Isn’t that odd? What does it mean?’

  ‘It means,’ Joe suggested, ‘that it wasn’t Dr Hazell’s son.’

  ‘Good point! So whose son was it?’

  ‘Given that the political title would have no legal weight, his surname would be Ulianov.’

  ‘Right! So right here in California he would have whatever name his mother gave him. So as Richter there would be no possible connection. He might be the son of Vladimir Ilych Lenin but no one would be likely to know it.’

  Joe agreed.

  The professor twiddled his fingers in a private semaphore that seemed to indicate he was about to look for something, only to lean forward suddenly and begin mouthing rather than whispering his words:

  ‘I’m bound to agree with you, except for one very obvious fact. Everything you’ve shown me apart from the first letter – and I have to suppose that this is the only evidence available to me or anyone else, for that matter – is your translation of Russian translations of English originals that have been burnt. As for the photograph, it is so old it means virtually nothing, but maybe some more research is required. What else is there?’

  ‘I’ve been to San Jorge.’

  Joe said it almost in self-justification and then regretted it. The professor, on the other hand, clapped his hands together in a spirit of acclaim. He leaned back in his high-backed armchair.

  ‘I didn’t know that. Thank you for telling me. So you saw something?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘I’m not going to ask what it was, though I have a good idea. If it took the form of an embalmed relic created or contrived into a living semblance by a very gifted eccentric, a Frankenstein de nos jours, as one might call him, that was supposedly Lenin’s only son, then it has had a very ambiguous role to play throughout the Cold War. Since Russian interests have bought into HE – you know what I mean, I imagine, the big electronics business known as HazelltronE Electronics Inc.? – well, since that rich oligarch Mr Goncharov has acquired a major stake in it, the role of whatever you’ve seen has become even more ambiguous. Because if it’s really alive? Well, is it really alive?’

  The question was a sharp reminder to Joe that what he had round his neck, hidden under his shirt, was the potential answer. Equally identifying was the brand on the inside of his left wrist. How many people in the world could give a convincing answer to that question? He doubted whether he could, but he made a nervous attempt.

  ‘Yes, I think it’s alive.’

  ‘You really think it’s alive!’

  ‘It seems to be.’

  The professor gave him a prolonged look of inquiry as he evidently debated with himself whether or not to believe the merit of this answer. Then a faint smile of conspiratorial agreement formed on his lips.

  ‘Yes, that was always the problem. “To be or not to be…” Could it possibly be real? And if it were, what would that mean? We know one thing.’

  The ‘one thing’ remained perched in the air between them for several seconds, in the exceedingly warm air of Dr Bob Reid-Sladek’s university office, kept at a high temperature, he had assured Joe, because recent illness had reduced his own body temperature and he was still convalescent; but it was the ‘one thing’ that mattered most.

  ‘You see, it was Mr Richter’s, alias Dr Hazell Jr’s secret, wasn’t it? He wasn’t going to divulge how he did it, but he did do it – or so he claimed! And he had to renew it, revive it…’

  ‘Revitalize it.’

  ‘Right! Thank you. Revitalize. Every six months.’

  ‘I know,’ Joe said.

  The professor drew back a moment. How the hell was he, Joe, likely to know that? There was another pause. Then the authoritative account resumed.

  ‘Well, okay. So it was Dr Hazell Jr’s private secret. But could he ever admit publicly that he was what – Lenin’s grandson who had re-vitalized Lenin’s son? During the Cold War? Never! To be a sort of latter-day Frankenstein was one thing, but to proclaim himself as such in the United States at the beginning of the Cold War or maybe at any time during it would have been outrageously un-American! A folly! His whole business would have been affected! In the days of McCarthyism, why, he’d’ve been hounded, like all the Communist sympathisers, the Hollywood people especially, people driven out of the United States like Charlie Chaplin and many others! No, it was unthinkable! On the other hand…’

  There was a wiping of the lined, elderly face with a large white handkerchief which was then stuffed away smartly in a top jacket pocket.

  ‘On the other hand, that could be real, that creation up at San Jorge. And the CIA quickly realized how they could make use of it. Sure, it played its role in the Cold War. It was our secret! “We’ve got his living son, that’s what we’ve got! All you’ve got is an embalmed corpse in a mausoleum on Red Square! We’ve got a genuine, living person raised from the dead! You’ll never match that, never!” And the Kremlin could pooh-pooh all that crap, but there’d always be the lingering doubt. What if they do have what they claim? They knew we might go one better. They could see how we hit the moon. They could see all the advances we made. So maybe, maybe, what if they have Lenin’s son, it could be true.’

  The professor now looked steadily at Joe. Again he wiped his face, apologised for the heat in his office, used a further tissue to blow his nose and then poured two glasses of iced water from a metal jug and handed one glass to Joe. The account went on.

  ‘That was the deterrent of all deterrents! The doubt surrounding that likelihood was a deterrent in itself – and maybe he was really alive and it could be proved he was who they claimed he was! The letters were there after all, the ones you’ve translated, there in the archives, in Russian, sure, but what if they actually were true? Did Lenin have a son? Did he try to conceal the fact?’ The professor held up a finger. ‘Except it had to be secret! A secret just between Washington and the Kremlin, just between a few people in the know. And at the heart of it was another J. Richter aka Dr Hazell Jr, one of the wealthiest men in the world and to all intents and purposes Lenin’s grandson! A capitalist par excellence! But also a recluse who spent most of his time on an estate in England and was hard to contact, more difficult to have dealings with than Howard Hughes. And now he’s passed on, his secret is being bought by a rich Russian oligarch, so who knows? – who knows? – wh
at will happen to whatever it is, or whatever he is, up at San Jorge? I don’t suppose you have any idea, do you?’

  Joe drank a mouthful of iced water. ‘If he’s alive, he’ll need…’ He was about to admit that whoever was ‘down below’ might need help from Joe himself. Recognising the threat, not to say the actual physical pain such a need might involve, he instantly added: ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘But Lenin, Vladimir Ilych Lenin, nee Ulianov, was a great revolutionary leader. No one who knows anything about the twentieth century can fail to recognise the importance of Lenin in the political life of Russia. His influence on world affairs since 1917 has been simply incalculable. For all his faults he remains a greater figure than all his successors, Stalin and all other Soviet leaders included. And when you think of his achievement in his lifetime, he stands head and shoulders above all other dictatorial leaders the world has known in the last hundred years. He was more intelligent, more scholarly, more far-sighted and his organisational talents, his political sense, his focus were all more clearly defined than those who followed after. For him to have had a son who possibly inherited his dedication to revolution in the name of Communism and the working class, well…’ the professor contemplated his fingernails for a short time before lifting up a volume on his desk ‘…well, it would mean, I’d have to rewrite my biography.’ A small chuckle. ‘Still, I can’t deny he loved secrecy. It was a very useful political weapon. And I know it became pervasive throughout his political career, right up to the end. Knowing that, I recognise your translations need to be looked at quite carefully, so I’m not dismissing them. I’m suggesting they’re part of the overwhelming secrecy that shrouds several moments in his life. My duty as a historian and biographer is to test that secrecy for its authenticity and therefore uncover it. But without sources for such secrecy where would we be?’

  He raised serious, faintly bloodshot eyes to Joe and gave him a long, curious look that could have been designed to invite an answer but was soon followed by a contented smile.

  ‘No, I know you have a source. Thank you for letting me see all your material. It is obviously private and maybe it’s historically valuable, but it all has a source, doesn’t it? So that’s where you should go next. Your source – I’m sure you know who I’m referring to – he insisted I should put you in touch with him.’

  ******

  It was easy enough to be guided or ushered as he was down the elevator of the large university building and out into the sunny heat of the Westwood campus of the University of California. The professor kept on pointing ahead. He gave the impression of wanting to guide as inconspicuously as possible, using a modest shooing motion as if Joe were one of the geese on the way to market from the picture in his office and now and then changing the gesture to one of familiar greeting – a ‘Hi, Steve!’ or ‘Hi, Becky!’ – as someone passing caught his eye or, as happened once, a couple of young men in jogging strip called out ‘Hi, Prof!’ Otherwise not a word was said. Joe recognised that, however talkative he might be when engaged by his subject, Bob Reid-Sladek was shy and awkward in public. The mood infected Joe. The peak of a red baseball cap shading his eyes, he was content to be led silently along neat sidewalks through tree-shade past little groups of students. Their self-assured small talk and loud laughter challenged the bland university surroundings to acknowledge their temporary mastery of life. Joe felt their brightness was as homely as the morning and as surprising as yesterday’s meeting with Jenny.

  In its brevity the meeting with Jenny had at least consoled as well as excited, though he could have wished for nothing better than the chance to see her and kiss her. He could feel it now round him, brief though it was between sunshine and shade, momentarily open to bursts of heat from the smog-smarting sun and then into leaf-dots of shadow as they went past university buildings and finally descended down the slope of the sidewalk into the cool of underground parking. Jenny, he kept on thinking, your warning and the need to be careful and what the hell it meant – what did it matter? But entering the almost blinding semi-darkness of the ranked cars under faint neon-lighting, he felt the oily, cooler air exude the menace inherent in Jenny’s warning, as if it were something he had tried to down-rate in his mind and now had to be confronted. After all, he had already confronted it to some extent the previous day, because he had been so affected by jet-lag, the San Jorge experience and Jenny’s warning that exhaustion combined with his mother’s insistence on his need to rest led to spending a quiet Zuma Beach afternoon in Leo Kamen’s house, followed by an early night.

  He knew what was being offered him now. It was not an English name, supposedly not anyone English at all, but someone made English through an assembling of parts by Joe himself. It was his monster, his source. So that when the car’s central locking was released and he settled into the seat beside the driver and they drove out through the barrier, he supposed he knew exactly who was being mentioned as the professor spoke quietly towards the windscreen almost as if he were divulging a shameful intimacy.

  ‘About your friend. He came last week. He insisted on secrecy, so I respect that. I know he’ll want to see you. But I won’t take you right up to where he is. First because I don’t know where he is. Second because he’s got good reason to be a recluse.’

  Joe felt the pit of his stomach contract. All the subtext of what the professor had been telling him was suddenly alive with menace. He was carrying that menace inside him. He, Joseph Richter, carried the germ of danger wherever he might go, just as he carried the brand of cheat on the inside of his left wrist, and no doubt Bob Reid-Sladek knew that or could sense it.

  ‘All I can tell you for sure is that it’s in West LA. He sure didn’t want to be found.’

  ‘Didn’t want to be found.’

  The statement plummeted deep into Joe’s consciousness. Here he was in the midst of Los Angeles traffic, the painted markings on the road surfaces busily reflecting themselves upside down in the chrome fenders of vehicles as they moved from boulevard to boulevard, mirroring, he thought, his own upside down scare of not wanting to be found. Everything looked normal, secure, sunlit, but the interior of the car was so warm it brought sweat to his neck and spine and seemed to redouble the scare. Even though the traffic was as ordered as military drill, halting for signals, moving forward in unison, scarcely violating the lane lines, the very regularity of it all enforced by contrast a sort of recklessness. It scared by its inevitability.

  ‘Yes,’ said Joe, ‘I understand.’

  He didn’t. All he understood was that he was destined to face his own creation. No double, though, no doppelganger, just the friend he had helped to make.

  A cellphone was pressed into his hand. The car had been brought to a halt in a supermarket parking bay. Joe found himself staring at the flutter of streamers on masts proclaiming the day’s supermarket bargains whereas tall palms at the fringes of the parking lot moved their fronds so slowly in the breezes they were like bored schoolchildren reluctantly shifting in response to teacher’s questions. Looking down at the cellphone screen, he saw it contained the name Krestovsky.

  ‘He sent it me, but it’s coded.’ The professor sniffed. ‘You try.’

  There was only one thing to do. Joe had to remember the private RGD code he and Ben had always used when communicating with each other. He began hurriedly pressing out the numbers, made a mistake and started again. It took several seconds for the code to work.

  The professor awaited the secret to be delivered. ‘I don’t go any further with this now,’ he said. ‘I leave it to you.’ There were fine droplets of moisture on his forehead. ‘I’m a historian, I don’t make it, I record it and try to explain it.’ He looked away. ‘Forgive me, I don’t feel so good. Isn’t that what you Brits say?’

  ‘Thank you,’ Joe said, ‘I’m grateful.’

  The professor breathed in deeply. ‘I reckon you’ll find him, your friend, somewhere down that boulevard. What’s it say on the screen?’

  It said, as Joe
expected, another of Ben’s coded messages: All now destroys our view elephant right. There was nothing else. Gibberish on the face of it, he was so used to reading such simple codes he recognised at once what it could mean. ‘It gives me a name.’ He deleted the message.

  ‘I know it’s down Ocean Park, that’s what he said.’ The professor held out a hand, received back the cellphone and gave a sideways grin. ‘Reckon you’ll find him.’

  Joe climbed out of the car into trolley-pushing shoppers and the anonymous groups of people coming and going through wide-open doors into the supermarket. It was easy enough to sense the very impersonal world of marketing crowds at such a moment. He felt released on entering it, but soon, once he was out on a concrete sidewalk going past grass fringes and entrances, he was aware of his own alien presence in this neighbourhood of modest, buttoned-up homes, with smart vehicles going by in stately parade along the boulevard seeming to highlight the fact of his pedestrian lack of status.

  Sure, he was conspicuous but it was good to walk, he told himself. He would be jaunty and determined. He would find Ben, no matter how much he had wanted to disappear into this bland, now sun-drenched residential area that would never be as secret or perhaps as secure as the little ‘Surbiton’ created for him in the woodland adjoining the sea. So he would find his friend for Dolly’s sake, for Gloria’s sake, for the sake of his own sanity, because what he needed to know was whether Ben was safe and well and merely being his usual reclusive self. What is more, being released from the professor’s world of sneezes and facts, Joe was simply glad not to be confined any longer in the hothouse ambience of his office and car.