Winking with his only good eye, because he can see little or nothing from the other one, Professor Shvarts waves a newspaper under Tanya’s nose. “Here we have our Tatyana Borisovna! Now tell me, have you read ‘Literaturka’”?
And without waiting for a reply, he pushes aside her papers on the desk and opens out in front of her the latest issue of Literaturnaya Gazeta. “There, you see, I have an idea that you might be interested; aren’t you the one who’s writing a thesis on Baku?”
Well, who would have thought it? Our Ilya Pavlovich with his amblyopic eye doesn’t appear to know what’s going on, but it turns out he knows everything… He taps continuously on the article in question, and Tanya, perplexed, looks down at it. The article is entitled “Enthusiastic applause”, and the by-line is… what’s that? Vaksberg, A. Vaksberg. I can’t, off the top of my head, remember exactly who he is, but I have heard the name. He must be a famous journalist. I’ll ask Oleg this evening; he’ll know for sure. So under the nose of Ilya Pavlovich who smiles behind his glasses, half closing his lazy eye as well as his good one, and in sight of the less benevolent Sarabyanova, who is not at all pleased to be interrupted in this manner, and look who by! Tanya is obliged to stay put, because she too is more than a little interested in this matter. Valentina Leonidovna is checking up on her with a sidelong stare, even though she still hasn’t put down the receiver but has swivelled round on her chair; she too has heard everything and wants to know more.
Encouraged by this triple ideological surveillance and sheltered from individualist deviationism, Tanya finally gets down to reading it. The article really did concern her, well not her of course; it did not mention her or her thesis, God forbid.
But there will certainly be repercussions for her in her very minor role, and for who knows how many others… The article is what in the jargon here in Russia is called obsequies, because when they devote one of these to you, well my friend, it’s as though you were dead to the world, no matter how many medals they have pinned to your chest and even if, a rare good fortune, they still allow you to travel around in a chauffeur-driven Zil. And the target of this article is Geydar Alyev. This man, who has behaved like the Proconsul of Azerbaijan, says the journalist, has been holding an entire republic hostage for years. Down there in his fiefdom, everyone trembled at the sound of his name, and while they trembled, they clapped their hands until they were raw… The former member of the Politburo, Alyev, will have to pay for his crimes sooner or later; and Tanya is speechless, what’s that? former member? since when? Here we have it, at the bottom of the page, the Literaturka editorial committee must have predicted the reader’s dismay: Comrade Alyev, G.A., they inform us in a neutral tone, has recently suffered from heart problems, and because of his enormous workload, has decided to resign from his seat on the Politburo and the post of Deputy Prime Minister, but he has taken on the position of Governmental Adviser. As for the accusations made in the above article, the editorial committee wishes to leave them to the judgement of our readers… But they still published them!
This means that our friends down in Baku have many more things to worry about besides the trial in 1949. Perhaps they have started to worry about the next one in 1989… The journalist appears to be pretty sure of himself. He says there is proof and he talks of criminal acts. He does not mince his words. Luckily Geydar’s youthful exploits do not get a mention! After all the work I’ve done, you wouldn’t want some Vaksberg to turn up and splash it across a newspaper; but who knows, Tanya has already started to fantasise, whether they’ll put him on trial and call me as a witness…
But she pulls herself together: Idiot, you idiot! What trial would that be? They obviously gave him that post of Governmental Advisor to keep the flies away from the carrion: no need to tear him to pieces, just leave him to mummify in the southern sun…
“What do you think about that, then?” Professor Shvarts exclaims with satisfaction. “Now, I think they won’t make so many difficulties for you!” and meanwhile he looks furtively at Sarabyanova to check her expression. Well, who would have thought that Ilya Pavlovich was hiding such liberal sentiments under his jacket and under his dyed hair and breath occasionally smelling of alcohol… And Obilin? Will the “Enthusiastic applause” be enough to calm his nerves?
Fortunately for Tanya, that tantalising question is not destined to remain unanswered for long. In fact, that door is opening yet again, and this time it is the library attendant, the lame Nastasya Petrovna. The common room is getting a little crowded, but she has come to disperse the throng. She immediately addresses Stark: Excuse me, please, Valentina Leonidovna! Valentina Leonidovna naturally stares at her furiously and, covering the receiver with her hand, hisses fiercely: What do you want? Can’t you see I’m on the phone?
But the other woman is not at all intimidated: You’ll excuse me, but it is just that the director has arrived and has sent me to ask you why there is no one on duty in the waiting room… This announcement, you’ll have to agree, is stunning.
The director has turned up, and at that time, when no one was expecting him. Not so good for Dekanozov and Arbuzov either; they’ll have to find a way out of that one.
Stark is shaking her head (“You can’t make a phone call in peace!”) and has to take her leave of the unknown person she was talking to. And then the lame woman signals to Tanya: Tatyana Borisovna, you too, please, the director would like to talk to you… Tanya gets up and leaves the room, crosses the old corridor with its walls lined with bookcases (they are magnificent bookcases from before the war; glass doors of good quality wood that can be locked; one of the keys has been lost, but it makes no difference, we have learned to do without those books for the moment…) and enters the famous waiting room where in now forgotten times Professor Kariofilli would have cut a fine figure. She appears in the director’s office. And there on the table in full view, he has an open copy of “Literaturka”, which he too has got hold of. But his is covered in crumbs, because the old man is munching a doughnut, one of those dry ones with caraway seeds. “Please take a seat,” Obilin mutters as he munches. And then, after a few seconds, he points to the newspaper, “Have you read it?”
Tanya says she has. Obilin rests his elbows on the desk, he clasps his hands together and places his chin on top of them.
“Well, let’s see where all this is going, but things might not turn out too badly… Although we must be prudent! This chapter you have chosen to add on the NKVD investigators who were conducting the trial, I have my doubts that it can go before the commission… However much things might change,” he adds, thumping his finger on the newspaper.
“But listen to me, Tatyana Borisovna, I’ve been thinking about something else. You don’t have to go back to Baku any more, do you? It is not that safe down there during these times. There’s a curfew and God knows what else…
Am I right?”
You are! But, Viktor Nikolayevich, I went there last month during that curfew and without your signature?
Tanya would give anything to find out how much he knew about that, but the director wasn’t born yesterday; she sits quietly and waits.
“No,” she finally admits, “I don’t have to go back. If all goes well, I will be able to hand in the first two chapters, Viktor Nikolayevich. And I could have it all finished by the end of the year.”
The old man does not appear particularly exultant on hearing her news. In fact, he sits there thoughtfully, even gloomily. He is making calculations in his head, just as he had been doing for his entire journey on the underground, after having opened his newspaper and found that article.
Not a bad idea to leave home late: the rush hour is over, you find a place to sit and you can read… And his calculations follow this course: Alyev, of course, is finished, but what about the others? I know very well where those nods and winks come from, the winks of a rheumy eye, far from seductive! In those office blocks, you cannot tell how far up the flood waters will go; the dykes break and the small fish are t
he first to be flushed away, but the ones I have to worry about – well, it takes longer for them to be affected, and they are fish who know how to swim in all kinds of waters… We need to be prudent! This girl wants to submit her thesis by the end of the year, but why all the rush… “Listen,” he suddenly exclaims, “those papers in the Central Archive… we talked about it last year, do you remember? The personal papers of the Cadres Office? Now did you ever get a chance to see them?”
“But you said at the time,” Tanya is increasingly disoriented, “that I could do without them and that there wasn’t anything new there.”
“But who knows?” Obilin smiles politely. “Perhaps there isn’t anything new, but perhaps there is… We shouldn’t be in a hurry, Tatyana Borisovna, if you don’t submit the thesis in December, you’ll submit it in March, and the sky won’t fall in. First of all, go and take a look at those files, will you?
In fact start to prepare the application to the Central Archive immediately. Get the forms, fill them in and bring them to me for a signature. I will be very happy to sign those ones for you.”
XXV
The purple notebook
Moscow, October 1988
Following such a peremptory instruction, Tanya could not possibly think of rebelling, and we too will be obliged to follow her into the reading room of the Party’s Central Archive, if we want to keep an eye on her. What’s that?
You’ve had enough of all these archives? Well, I quite understand you, but what can I do? That’s the way it happens, and I can’t invent something else: until she has finished looking through the files in the Cadres Office, that is where we will find our Tanya. Besides, this archive is quite a place, a big and beautiful palace, home to the Institute of Marxism-Leninism at number 15 in Pushkin Street… No? You’re really not interested? Okay, I’m going to make an enormous effort and take her out of there, but don’t think that you’re getting some great bargain from this deal. If you’re lucky, you’ll end up with the Formica tables of a snack bar, rather than the elegant wooden ones of the archive, and you’ll be kept standing… But then no need for further arguments, because it is in fact midday and I see that Tanya has left the Institute and is crossing the road on her way to this little self-service outfit or snack bar, as you might call it, on the corner of Stoleshnikov Lane. This is where she comes every day for a quick bite to eat, so we mustn’t lose any more time, if we are to keep up with her.
Tanya threw open the door and went in. A strong smell of cabbage soup and boiled fish hung in the air, and nobody would have called it appetising, but hungry Muscovites aren’t put off that easily. There were a dozen people in the queue, mostly clerical workers from the council, whose offices are nearby, and also a Georgian or Chechen-looking guy with the obligatory moustache and a flat hat on his head, who was looking around inquisitively: Well, here we are, the marvels of the capital… In spite of the number of people, the queue was moving fast; in a few minutes Tanya found herself at the counter and choosing her food. Yes, soup, very good. And the cod, of course, with potatoes. She suddenly realised she was hungry, and had not eaten anything since the previous evening. While the woman behind the counter with her golden hair flowing out from under her cloth cap was serving out the soup and main course by the ladleful, Tanya sniffed the vapour that rose from the heated aluminium containers, and that smell which she had found unpleasant on entering now seemed positively enticing. Work in the archive had not taken away her appetite, thank God…
You’ll excuse us! We Russians have this habit of referring to God every three words we say. But it doesn’t mean anything. For example, during the good times those of us who were lucky enough to read the Western papers can remember the panic and consternation caused by our Gorby when a “Thank God!” slipped out during a speech to Mitterrand or one of their other politicians. Over there in the West, they were all racking their brains: This is clearly a sign of openness, an overture, but to whom? Figure that one out! Some thought he wanted to get in with the pope, while others were convinced he was addressing the Iranians…
Well, we all know that the Kremlinologists have to earn a crust just like the rest of us. Life is harsh under capitalism; if you don’t produce something, they throw you in the middle of the street without a by-your-leave, but if you produce shit, they’ll always find someone willing to buy it.
So we were saying that Tanya’s appetite was still going strong, and even without thanking anyone for it, this was an incontrovertible fact, but before she could taste what they had put on her plate, she still had to queue to pay along with everyone else each with their identical little tray in their hands. And there the queue had its own rhythm: an elderly lady was looking for her money in her purse and got confused over the bill and muddled over the coins, much to the impatience of the checkout lady. All around Tanya, the people who had managed to gain a seat were clattering the cutlery and spooning food into their mouths. Conversations were intertwining through the greasy vapours:
“Did you read that they have sold Zavarov?”
“Yes indeed, they sold him to that… What’s it called?
Juventus, to hell with them!”
“The thing that gets me is that they just come straight out with it, as though there was nothing strange, nothing to be riled about?”
“Do you remember what they once wrote here? Over in the West they buy and sell footballers as though they were livestock; they trample on human dignity. But now, we too have started to trade in human flesh: they paid five million dollars for Zavarov – a tidy sum! Blokhin, on the other hand, is worth a little less…”
“Five million dollars!” repeated a big man with boots covered in mud – probably a navvy.
“There is one advantage,” said the other, probably the one who started the conversation; a sports paper protruded from his pocket. “The whole world will be able to admire the skill of our footballers: over in the West, they’ll be green with envy!”
“Not only!” a third one chimed in. “I can demonstrate that the sale of Zavarov is a very important step on the road to perestroika. You see, here in Russia, we have finally understood that we mustn’t reject everything about the West; if they have anything that is better – well, we should want that too! They’re buying and selling the star players all over the world; only someone with an out-of-date mentality would start screaming with indignation if the same thing happens here. Everyone’s at it, and what’s wrong with that?
It’s called progress! Now a Soviet citizen can read that a certain club has bought a certain footballer for so many millions, just like any Western citizen.”
“And we need to think about our own boys, flesh of our own flesh: why shouldn’t they earn a few extra dollars?” This was the navvy; he clearly found it easy to empathise. His heart was almost warmed by the thought of Zavarov’s millions.
“Well, I would like to write a letter of complaint,” grumbled a woman with her mouth full. “You can sell a man for money; that’s shameful. Today it’s footballers, tomorrow it’ll be scientists: you want a physicist? Step this way, so much per kilo…”
“One rouble forty.”
What was that?
“ONE ROUBLE FORTY! Are you deaf?”
Without realising it, she had got to the cash desk, and the queue behind her was champing at the bit: come on, young lady, pay up and move on, don’t waste even more time! A flustered Tanya let her tray drop, and almost spilt the whole lot: soup, cod and potatoes. She fumbled around in the purse with fingers that didn’t respond, and eventually she produced two banknotes. One rouble forty kopecks! My God, Russia has become expensive! She managed somehow to close the purse with all those coins in it, and looked around for a table: there weren’t any chairs to sit down, just those very high small tables on which you can rest your tray and your glass, and then eat your meal standing up, before rushing off and leaving the place for someone else. And everyone, of course, left some trace of their passing: here they spilt some beer; there they dropped a potato
on the floor and, well, they must have stood on it afterwards. Not until closing time will the cleaners come round with their mops and cloths. What can you do? In Russia it’s all like that… Tanya, however, had the good fortune to be just a step away from a woman who, having spooned all her soup into her mouth, looked around with the air of being sated, picked up her tray and went off towards the exit. She did not look too clean; in fact she might have been a tramp, but look, she’s left an empty seat and it’s hardly the time to be overly finicky, what with this crowd. The food was good and hot, and Tanya, who ate quickly without drinking, took no longer than five minutes to pack it all away. Right! She can get back to work without losing any more time…
The Anonymous Novel Page 39
