I met our guests below in the restaurant lobby by the Vorovsky Street entrance and took the elevator to the fourth floor with them.
The evening went superbly. Our rapport with the ambassador himself was firmly established. New people entered the game. Maurice, of course turned his attention to the three Russian beauties: Khovanskaia, Cherednichenko, and Kronberg-Sobolevskaia. He began to treat me with marked goodwill. As for Marcel Gerard, he emulated his boss in every respect. It was clear that Marcel was Maurice’s protégé. (I later learned from Vera Ivanovna that they were somehow distantly related). In any case, the advisor of cultural affairs wrote down our home telephone numbers, invited everyone to come see him at the embassy, and in every way exhibited a favorable disposition.
At first impression (and even afterwards), Marcel Gerard appeared to me to be a person agreeable in all respects, though spiritually limited, a civil servant. I know that he even wrote a book about the USSR and furnished it with a multitude of photographs. But I’m certain that, while having spent several years in the Soviet Union, Marcel saw only the superficial, that which was put on for show, and was never able to penetrate the life of our people—and perhaps never even tried. The blinders of the embassy careerist and of the well-to-do French bourgeois prevented him.
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The evening in the Rotonda, as I’ve said before, went splendidly and brought me closer to the ambassador. Maurice acted the part of the worldly playboy easily and naturally. He flirted with the ladies, danced with them, and was gallant and witty. I should also mention that the ambassador had a sense of humor, though that humor was sometimes a little crude and always contained sexual overtones. During his anecdotes the ladies had to modestly lower their eyes, and Marie-Claire, knowing her husband’s weakness, usually tried to interrupt him or loudly and deliberately laughed in the risqué places, in order to drown out certain words with her laughter. But Maurice reached his goal by repeating them several times, his eyes narrowing and becoming two tiny slits. His cheeks became rounder, and he laughed at his own jokes soundlessly, only with his lips.
The tamada—that is, the master of ceremonies—was, of course, Zhorzh Mdivani, a Georgian, merry and grandiloquent. He masterfully made the toasts: political, ideological, patriotic, lyrical, and so on. We conversed in three languages: Russian, French, and English. And Maurice, Marie-Claire, and Marcel Gerard began to use their Russian. Upon parting, Maurice invited us all to the embassy for dinner. This was exactly what Gribanov had been after.
After we left, Kunavin’s agents filtered into the Rotonda, as he told me afterwards. Lora Kronberg-Sobolevskaia stayed behind with them. After all, someone had to finish up the food and (more importantly) the drink. And the vodka, cognac, and wine were more than plentiful. The revelry of the “plebeians” went on until dawn, so riotously that one of the agents, either Lora, or the “waiter” had his watch lifted. In the end, Kunavin had to deal with this scandalous affair.
At the meeting at the Rotonda I had personally become convinced that the ambassador had an Achilles’ heel, and that heel was the opposite sex. Nevertheless, as I mentioned in my report, that evening Maurice did not show a specific preference for any one of our three young ladies. He was, so to speak, equally disposed towards all of them. The KGB offered him a choice: take one, don’t be shy, but apparently had had decided not to hurry. My job was to connect the ambassador with the lady he would “point to,” and facilitate his liaison with her, taking into account all of the difficulties connected with his high position, his wife’s presence, and the general Soviet conditions. Of course, Marie-Claire certainly complicated the matter: she wasn’t especially jealous, but she tried to keep her husband from making all sorts of mistakes. I think that she even warned him about this—in fact, I think that this was precisely true, since both Kunavin and Vera Ivanovna were not particularly enamored of Marie-Claire at the time.
Actually, as I’ve already noted, Vera Ivanovna existed for the purpose of distracting Mashenka [Russ. diminutive for Marie] from Maurice. This was
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her number-one duty. Besides, I remember that once Marie-Claire asked me offhandedly whether I knew Vera Ivanovna Gorbunova, an interpreter from the Ministry of Culture. Having been warned by Kunavin about the possibility of such a question, I answered in the affirmative.
It was at that time that Vera Ivanovna became Marie-Claire’s “close” friend. As a result, she often had to “go out and have fun” with Marie-Claire. She was a KGB major in the Lubianka by day, and the wife of a Soviet party boss by night. However, there were moments when Vera Ivanovna would tire of Marie-Claire, especially in the winter. The Frenchwoman was an unstoppable cross-country skier, and Vera Ivanovna, a full-figured woman, would wear herself out trying to keep up. And so, almost every ski outing ended badly for Vera Ivanovna: she would come down with a cold, while Marie-Claire felt wonderful.
Finally, the night of the dinner at the French Embassy arrived—the first dinner party of many to follow.
We were already embracing each other as intimate friends. We enjoyed ourselves noisily in the luxurious halls of that beautiful residence in the Russe style on the Iakimanka [in the 1960’s, Dmitrova Street]. We ate the famed French onion soup (the very same soup eaten by Louis XIV!) and Parisian partridge, and drank martinis, champagne, and burgundy. I was enchanted by the scarlet roses on the dinner table, fresh every day. According to Marie-Claire, the Air France crews brought in roses from Paris every day for De Jean. It was splendid! Everything in the residence was elegant and attractive, but at the same time simple and cozy. And what wonderful music we listened to, sitting in the living room. Marie-Claire had an excellent record collection.
Soviet freaks of nature that we were, we all felt the same thing at different times, I think: we all felt happy there and wanted our lives to go on in the same environment, having forgotten, of course, for the time being, about politics and ideology, and, first and foremost, who we were and what we were doing there. In reality we were all General Gribanov’s puppets—all of us. Well, it’s possible that Taisiia Savva didn’t know the whole story; maybe Zhorzh didn’t disclose to her his conversation with Kunavin in the Hotel Moscow. Maybe she could only guess what was going on.
And again I could report to Kunavin that the dinner had been held in the ceremonial hall of the embassy, I could list the dishes, and the wines, but I couldn’t report to my boss that Maurice had set his sights on Cherednichenko, Kronberg-Sobolevskaia, or Lidiia Khovanskaia (the preferred choice being the last). Maurice was clearly waiting for something. But what?
Here I must digress a little. I don’t remember exactly whether this happened at the first dinner party or later, but we were sitting at the table, drinking to the health of the new head of the French government, the president of France,
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General de Gaulle. This was a special cause for celebration for the ambassador. It was, incidentally, no less a cause for celebration for Gribanov. I found out from Kunavin and Vera Ivanovna that after General de Gaulle’s rise to power, De Jean’s position became stronger and he could hope to become the French Minister of Foreign Affairs, since he had already served as the Commissioner of Foreign Affairs in de Gaulle’s wartime government-in-exile in London. The KGB considered the close personal relationship between De Jean and de Gaulle to be important. I don’t know how closely that corresponded with the truth. In any case, the ante had been raised. Gribanov’s plan grew fantastically in size, although the risk of the entire operation grew as well. However, in this case behind the KGB stood none other than Nikita Khrushchev.
I will note that according to my observations, neither De Jean nor Marie-Claire took advantage of their special relationship with the new French president. Their tact never failed them. Only once when they showed us the elegantly decorated guest rooms, located at the back of the embassy, did they say that were
General de Gaulle to visit Moscow, he would stay there.
But back to the operation.
Suddenly, coincidence came into play. An exhibition of the Georgian artist Lado Gudiiashvili opened at the Kuznetskii Most. I knew the artist well, since he was a friend of my father, and used to visit us in Tbilisi. I liked his work, which was distinguished by its unique qualities: a rare blend of Western modernism with something distinctly Georgian. Lado was no follower of socialist realism; he had studied in Paris in his youth, and upon his return to the already-Soviet Georgia fell into disfavor, and was the subject of constant criticism by party officials, even though he was very popular among the larger circles of the intelligentsia. Even Mdivani liked him, despite the fact that an abyss separated their artistic principles.
The Lado Gudiiashvili exhibit was very quickly closed since, according to our ideologues, it caused an “unhealthy” interest on the part of Muscovites, its occurrence during the last stage of the “Thaw” notwithstanding.
It was Zhorzh, in fact, who gave me the idea to invite De Jean and Gerard to this exhibit. Kunavin immediately seized upon this suggestion. Gribanov liked it as well. At that time Vera Ivanovna took Marie-Claire to Leningrad, I think. The ambassador was alone. We decided that, in addition to myself and Mdivani, Lidiia Khovanskaia would accompany him as his interpreter to the exhibition of Gudiiashvili’s works.
I called Maurice. He agreed immediately and arrived at the exhibit hall at the designated hour, accompanied by Marcel Gerard. The ambassador arrived in his Chevrolet with the French flag, and Gerard drove his own Citroen.
This was truly a cause for celebration for the old and distinguished master. After all, his exhibit was visited by none other than the ambassador of France,
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Gudiiashvili’s beloved France, the country where he spent, perhaps, the best years of his youth. Lado thanked Zhorzh and me profusely for arranging this. Oh, if he only knew that it was the KGB that had arranged this, and for what purpose it had been arranged!
Maurice and Gerard spent about an hour and a half at the exhibition. Lado himself provided commentary in French. Sometimes Lidiia Khovanskaia would put in a word or two. Lado came close to tears when the French ambassador and the cultural advisor left comments of exalted praise in the guestbook.
Seeing the Frenchmen off, I stepped onto the narrow, noisy Kuznetskii Most [actually a street in Moscow’s historic district]. Lidiia came out of the exhibit hall with me, and right near Maurice’s car, she smiled very sweetly and asked De Jean to give her a ride home. And this was the entire raison d’être for the operation of visiting Gudiiashvili’s exhibit. This alone. It goes without saying that Maurice gallantly opened the door of the Chevrolet for Lida, and behind the steering wheel was “our” Boris. We said good-bye. De Jean left to take Khovanskaia home.
And what came next?
If Maurice had been the ambassador in England or Brazil, then, dear reader, what follows would hardly interest you, and this book would never have seen the light of day. If he had lived in England or Brazil, the question of his safety would never have arisen. But, alas, De Jean was the ambassador to the USSR—and this changed everything.
By Kunavin’s account, and later, Khovanskaia’s, this is what transpired: the ambassador took Lida home, to a house on Vnukovskii Road—or, more precisely, the corner house where the road began. They had to enter the noisy courtyard of a newly constructed Moscow building. Lida, of course, invited the ambassador to come up to her apartment for a cup of coffee. The apartment happened to be empty—the children were out. And why not visit the house of a common Soviet woman? That is very likely what Maurice thought. Or maybe he thought differently. In any case, Khovanskaia was not common. If only the common people lived the way she did!
All in all, Boris waited about two hours in the car. During that time, Lida became De Jean’s lover.
It was a done deal. One could suppose that Gribanov was already gleefully rubbing his hands together. The quarry was in the bag.
Lida met Maurice several more times. He would come to visit the common Soviet woman while the children were at school. Their liaison became stronger. Both played the part of lover very well, and did not give themselves away with a single look or gesture when all of us, including Marie-Claire, would wind up spending time together, eating French onion soup. Lida didn’t hide it from me, seeing me as a “superior.” She even told me that the
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ambassador was pretty good as a lover, and that being with him was pleasant and fun.
Naturally, Cherednichenko and Kronberg-Sobolevskaia receded into the background. Everything had been planned down to the last detail. Khovan-skaia had been chosen. But two or three weeks later everything suddenly changed. Why? Because the little Napoleon from the Lubianka realized that he had made a mistake. He’d planned and planned, but had missed the “elephant” right in front of him. And Khovanskaia had to be retired the same way that Valia and Rita (Zoia) had been retired previously. Removing her from the stage entirely would have been awkward, and would have been noticed by the ambassador, and might even have irritated him. Using different pretences, she simply began to meet Maurice less and less frequently as a common Soviet woman—that is, alone. And so why did Gribanov discontinue Khovanskaia? What was his oversight?
I can only say the following regarding this matter: the operation thought up by Oleg Mikhailovich was hindered by the fact that Khovanskaia’s first husband, a diplomat by profession, had worked for several years in Paris and was, of course, very well-known. Khovanskaia had left him, as I wrote earlier, but she had had children with him. Now he served in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs where he held an important position. Incidentally, several years afterwards Khovanskaia’s daughter married the son of Podtserob, the general secretary of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and a former aide to Molotov. All of this complicated the game and increased the risks. What had Gribanov been thinking of when planning this operation? Why had he included Lida if she was “defective?” Or perhaps there had been a mistake, but since it had been committed by those from the higher echelons, everyone pretended that everything was just fine. Perhaps while Gribanov was consulting with Serov, Mironov, or even Khrushchev himself, it had been decided not to use Kho-vanskaia for the ultimate set-up. It’s possible that Gribanov, considering the psychological circumstances, decided to lull De Jean into a false sense of security with a series of these love intrigues (Valia, Rita, Lida) in order to deliver the final blow unexpectedly.
Whether or not this was the case, I had to start over. Kunavin now gave the order to offer either Nadia Cherednichenko or Lora Kronberg-Sobolevskaia to De Jean.
I’d known Lora for a long time. As I’ve already noted, my cousin, a chemistry professor, met her by chance, and they had an affair. He certainly loved her and she, perhaps, loved him as well, though she always made him do her bidding. Lora was a perfect bohemian, flighty and willful. But she had many gifts. She was a great actress, an excellent chess player, a wonderful card
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player, a good mathematician, and a poet as well. After breaking up with my cousin she got together with the screenwriter Pomeshchikov, destroyed his life by breaking up his family, left Pomeshchikov, got together with some boxer, and in the interludes there were different actors, directors, cameramen, screenwriters, and so on. Lora became renowned within our circles for her temperament.
But, she was completely unsuited to everyday life. She owned nothing but the clothes on her back. Her parents and brother lived in Podolsk, and she would rent tiny closet-rooms in different areas of Moscow, and she always had difficulty with her residency permit. Moreover, Lora was careless in her appearance. When we went to receptions at the embassy, I had to check the way she was dressed beforehand.
When Lora entered the game, she was also in the process of entering into yet another aff
air with the old Soviet film director Feinzimmer. She would meet him in her hole-in-the-wall rooms. Often, when I came to get her, I would encounter Feinzimmer in her apartment, and I would take her away, despite his presence. In short, Lora Kronberg-Sobolevskaia was an unusual creature and I, for one, was constantly telling Kunavin that it was her we had to use.
There were many, very many receptions of every sort at the French Embassy and many private meetings with Maurice and Marie-Claire. I became such a close friend that they even invited me to lunches and dinners held for representatives of trade delegations, financiers, technical experts, and other guests from France. It goes without saying that I would be there when actors, directors, producers, artists, musicians, and others came to visit. The ambassador sometimes invited Georgii Mdivani as well. It was easier with Zhorzh there. After all, every visit to the embassy was a nerve-wracking affair, since each time we had to make arrangements with Kunavin, set specific goals for the meeting, and write up post-meeting reports. (I recall, for example, meetings with the screenwriter Spaak, with the film actor Jean Maret, with the film producer Mnushkin.)
But one time, on Kunavin’s orders, I invited De Jean on a trip to the countryside, and to dinner afterwards at the Volna Restaurant at the Khimki River-port. It had been decided that on that night Lora would show active interest in Maurice and set up a date with him. This had been discussed with Kunavin in my presence at the Hotel Moscow. Lora was very enthusiastic. It fell to me to create the necessary atmosphere and to assist her in every possible way.
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