The October Circle

by Robert Littell

  He is still running in place when the truck with the loudspeaker and the big sign in front (“Pull over—bicycle race in progress”) hauls into view. A police car follows close behind it. Five minutes later two motorcycle policemen come along, and right behind them Tacho spots the four Bulgarian riders, with big Sacha riding point. As the last of the four riders glides by the white handkerchief, Tacho spits out the rock candy and dashes for the bicycle.

  “Any time now,” the male secretary whispers discreetly in the Minister’s ear — he knows, from long association with him, that he is very bored. They are standing in the middle of the bridge that spans the river that marks the frontier with Greece.

  “We greet you,” the Greek Colonel intones, “at a moment when the friendship between our two neighboring countries is ripening — “

  “Could you start again, please, Colonel,” a man with earphones yells. “The voice level wasn’t right.”

  “We greet you” — the Colonel smiles toward the camera at exactly the same point in his speech — “at a moment when the friendship between our two neighboring countries is ripening into a bud that will flower in this fertile— “

  The Minister signals the translator, who is muttering in his ear, to stop and listens to the voice drone on in Greek. When his turn comes, he speaks briefly, modestly, about the historical roots that bind all Balkan peoples together, about Bulgaria’s desire for friendly coexistence with its non-Communist neighbors, about the bicycle race now in progress being a first concrete step in that direction. Then the Colonel and the Minister shake hands for the cameras.

  “The truck,” one of the border guards on the Bulgarian side is shouting. Its arrival is the first exciting thing that has happened since he was transferred to the frontier post some weeks before, after having had the misfortune to witness a minor disturbance while he was on guard duty in front of Dimitrov’s tomb. “The truck is here.”

  The news spreads to the people on the bridge. Civilian functionaries and military aides from both countries crane on tiptoes for the first glimpse of the riders. Suddenly the border guards on the Bulgarian side cheer wildly. An instant later the team swings around a bend into view.

  “They’re ours!” the Minister’s male secretary cries. “Our boys are ahead.”

  “How very interesting,” the Minister murmurs coolly, amused at all the commotion being made over some bicycles. Barely visible in the gathering dusk, the Bulgarian riders dip down an incline past a wire-mesh frontier gate that is wide open and pedal onto the bridge.

  “We congratulate you,” the Greek Colonel yells in the Minister’s ear; he is obviously disappointed, but determined to play the good loser.

  “He congratulates you,” the translator repeats, cupping his hands and yelling into the Minister’s other ear, but the Minister is not paying attention, the Minister is watching the riders and frowning.

  “I thought there were four riders to a team,” he shouts to his male secretary.

  “The newspapers did say four — “

  The five Bulgarian riders, arched gracefully over their handlebars, their wheels almost touching, their shirttails whipping around their waists, flash by the Minister and pull for the Greek side of the bridge.

  “Stop them!” the Minister stammers, starting into the roadway after them. “STOP THEM!” he screams, but his voice is lost in the uproar that the riders leave behind them like a wake.

  As they touch Greek soil, the first four riders put on a spurt of speed, but the fifth rider, no longer pedaling, drops back, gasping for breath. Coasting past the red-and-white-striped crossing gate, he thrusts his right fist deep into the sky as if the race has ended. Flash bulbs pop around him. A girl runs toward him and flings her arms around his neck, pulling him from the bicycle. People mill around them, puzzled. Soldiers shout. A siren wails.

  On the bridge, an officer dashes up and whispers something in the ear of the Greek Colonel. He glances quickly at the Minister — it is difficult to tell from the Colonel’s face whether he is annoyed or embarrassed — and hurries off without saying goodbye.

  21

  EVERYONE is unfailingly polite: the Greek boy who raps quietly at his door, the night porter who operates the ancient elevator, the policemen who accompany him through the deserted streets to the building with the Greek flag hanging limply over the door, the civilian who leads the way up the creaking staircase to the dimly lit room, the bureaucrat who sits behind the desk tapping his finger impatiently on the polished mahogany.

  “Ah, here is our fifth racer,” he says in fluent (though accented) Bulgarian, rising with a smile and gesturing Tacho to a seat. “Can I offer you something: a Turkish coffee perhaps, or an infusion; I don’t drink it myself, but I am told they make a really splendid herb tea in this region.”

  “Coffee, thank you.”

  The bureaucrat motions to an aide and in an altogether different manner snaps at him in Greek. Then, smiling again, he turns his attention back to the Racer.

  “It is my hope you will excuse the earliness of the hour; I am only just arrived from Athens, and I am obliged to return as soon as possible. It was my thought that we could” — he purses his lips — “hold a conversation …”

  “Yes, of course,” Tacho agrees readily. He shifts in his chair; the clothes he is wearing are too large for him and make him feel uncomfortable. “What is it you would like to know?”

  The aide, who Tacho now sees is in military uniform, places a cup of coffee on the desk. The bureaucrat, who is dressed in a dark business suit and has close-cropped hair, glances at a single sheet of paper on the desk.

  “Your name is listed here as Abadzhiev, Tacho. Am I pronouncing it correctly?”

  Tacho indicates he is. “To whom am I talking if you please?” he inquires.

  The bureaucrat smiles innocently. “But you are talking to me.”

  “I would like to know your name,” Tacho persists.

  “My name.” The bureaucrat looks around the room and Tacho, following his glance, notices for the first time that there are six or eight men, most of them in uniform, lounging in the shadows against the wall. “My name,” the bureaucrat advises Tacho, “is of no importance. It would mean nothing to you. You would not remember it later, for it is difficult for a foreigner to pronounce.” As an afterthought, he adds:

  “If it would make you feel more comfortable — and by all means we would like you to feel more comfortable — you may address me as Major John.”

  “Are you a representative of the Greek government?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

  “I think I understand,” Tacho says hesitantly.

  “I was confident you would,” the bureaucrat declares good-naturedly.

  Tacho reaches for the cup of coffee and sips it. He finds it difficult to swallow and does so only with an effort. He turns his head, almost as if he is looking for a way out of the room, and notices a thin man with glasses bent over a writing desk near the window.

  “Is that man making a transcript of our conversation?” Tacho wants to know.

  “He asks if you are making a verbatim,” the bureaucrat says in Greek. Some of the men along the wall snicker. The man making the notes says:

  “Tell him I am doing sums.”

  “In response to your question,” Major John advises Tacho, “yes, he is making a verbatim. Can I assume you raise no objection?”

  “Would it make a difference if I did?”

  “Only to you. You would feel frustrated, inasmuch as you would be unable to do anything about it.”

  The bureaucrat is tapping his finger on the desk again, as if he is calling the meeting to order. “Down to business,” he says.

  “By all means,” Tacho agrees, “let us get down to business.”

  “I am informed that you are the possessor of an international sporting reputation. Bicycle racing, I believe. Of course, bicycle racing” — Major John pats his forehead in self-depreciation — “that was how you came ac
ross the border. Bravo. Bravo.” He claps his hands together slowly. “Ingenious, I have had” — he hesitates over the word, and then draws it out — “conversations with quite a few people who have crossed the frontier, but I do not remember anyone accomplishing it on a bicycle. Yes indeed, you have my unrestrained admiration.” Traces of a smile linger on Major John’s thin lips as he leans forward and asks:

  “What is it you require from us?”

  The question shocks Tacho only because he thinks the answer is self-evident. “Why, political asylum is what I want from you.”

  Major John slaps the table happily. “Exactly what I said you would want.” He addresses the men leaning against the wall. “Didn’t I say what he would want?” To Tacho he holds out his hands, palms up, as if something were in them. “I offer it to you, this political asylum, as a gift.”

  Beware of a Greek appearing to bear a gift!

  “I accept,” Tacho tells him cautiously.

  “Good, good. Then it only remains for me to remind you that in this remote corner of Europe, it is the custom to respond to a gift.”

  “Respond how?”

  “Why, with another gift, of course.”

  The two men eye each other across the polished expanse of desk.

  “What is it you want from me? What have you come all the way from Athens to get from me?”

  Major John leans back in his chair, which creaks under his weight. “What is it you have to offer?”

  Tacho takes a deep breath. “On nine September, during the parade marking the twenty-fourth anniversary of our liberation from German occupation, before the tomb of Georgi Dimitrov, under the eyes of our Party leaders and tens of thousands of Party cadres, Lev Mendeleyev poured gasoline … poured gasoline over … he poured gasoline over his clothes and set himself on fire to protest against the Soviet suppression of Socialist Humanism in Czechoslovakia.” Tacho is speaking very softly now, and the men against the wall strain forward to catch his words. “No news of this … immolation was permitted to be published in my country. Not one word. The authorities instead undertook to turn Lev Mendeleyev into a nonperson and obscure the reasons for his suicide. In order to accomplish this, his close friends, all of whom are well known abroad, were arrested. I fled in order to testify that there was one in the Socialist world who—”

  Major John stops the Racer with a raised palm. “I beg your pardon, but who is Lev Mendeleyev?”

  “Why, he was our Flag Holder.” Tacho’s pulse pounds in his temple. “He led …” His voice peters out.

  “Mendeleyev was a big-shot partisan,” the man making the transcript explains. “He drank too much and never made it into politics.”

  “He was very respected,” Tacho bridles. “He was a national hero — “

  “He was an alcoholic,” the male secretary sneers. “He got roaring drunk and shot himself in the mouth when he discovered he had terminal lung cancer. There was a small obituary in the Party paper day before yesterday.”

  “They re lying,” Tacho cries angrily. “It’s a lie.”

  “Even assuming your version is the more accurate of the two,” Major John intervenes, “the information you offer is of no use to us.”

  “How no use to you? Surely the Americans could make use of it to embarrass the Russians.”

  “Surely the Americans could use the material,” the male secretary mimics in Greek.

  One of the men against the wall snickers. “That’s very humorous,” he says in Greek.

  “Do you follow?” Major John inquires.

  “I don’t understand Greek,” Tacho says.

  “My colleagues ridicule the idea that the Americans could use the material you offer. I tell you frankly: I have many American friends in Athens more or less in the same line of work as all of us here. I know how they think, these Americans. I understand their requirements. If I could help them, I would. But I strongly suspect, and I urge you to believe, that the last thing in the world they want to do is to embarrass the Russians over Czechoslovakia.” Major John taps his finger again on the desk. “Between us, the Americans are not at all disappointed with the way things turned out. They are supposed to have opened a case of champagne at the embassy when they got word of the — “ He looks inquiringly at his male secretary. “What is the delicate expression?”

  “Intervention.”

  “Yes, intervention will do nicely. They opened champagne when they heard about the intervention.” Major John shrugs. “You are obliged to do better.”

  “Unfortunately, I have not brought with me any secret codes or blueprints,” Tacho confesses cynically. “I possess no military or diplomatic secrets. I know only one person in a position of high authority, and he would have me arrested if he laid eyes on me.”

  “Then let us hope, for your sake, he never lays eyes on you.”

  “Let us hope,” Tacho agrees stiffly.

  “Perhaps there is something …” Major John purses his lips thoughtfully, as if he is trying to decide whether to make the effort. “Yes, perhaps there is something you can do for us after all.” He rises to his feet and moves around to sit on the front of the desk, looking down at Tacho. “There are some in my country who seek to normalize relations with our Communist neighbors — this silly bicycle contest was organized by such people. There are others, in whose ranks you will find myself and my colleagues, who feel more comfortable with the status quo. Now, the fact of the matter is that those who prefer the status quo could make good use of an internationally known sports star who risks his life in a dramatic escape from his motherland in order to discredit Communism. In short, we are prepared to make you a gift of political asylum if you, for your part, are prepared to make us a gift of your anti-Communism.”

  Tacho sees through the window that it is beginning to get light outside; the girl, he thinks, will be pacing the floor of their room in the small hotel, waiting for him to return. “Don’t go,” she begged when the boy woke them up with the knock on the door. Did she have some sixth sense, Tacho wonders? “Or at least wait until they print your photograph in the newspapers.”

  “Take your time,” Major John smiles down at Tacho.

  “I am not anil-Communist,” Tacho says quietly. “I am a Communist.”

  The men around the rim of the room exchange knowing looks. One of them clears his throat. The secretary stops writing and screws the cover back on his fountain pen. Major John walks crisply back to his seat behind the desk.

  “Someone open the damn window,” he orders irritably. An officer leaning against the wall jumps to a window and throws it open. To Tacho, Major John says coldly:

  “Obviously there is some confusion here. How is it you can be a Communist when you have escaped from a Communist country — “

  “Bulgaria is not a Communist country — “

  Major John’s eyes narrow. “What is it you understand yourself to be when you describe yourself as a Communist?”

  “I can’t put it into words,” Tacho responds evasively.

  “Try.”

  “I am not equipped — “

  “Try”

  “Communism,” Tacho attempts slowly, “is the name I give to the belief that there must be a better way, for the existing ways are intolerable.”

  Major John taps his finger on the desk again. “I too have made a sssssssstudy of Communism. In a sense, you could call it my profession. In a sense” — he laughs as he corrects himself — “you could call it my obsession. It it my conclusion that Communism deals, albeit not so efficiently as Capitalism, with ways of acquiring things — “

  “Things!” Tacho cannot keep from crying passionately. “My god, we will all drown in things, gasping for air and proclaiming with our last breath what a great big abundant world we live in. Communism — real Communism, which is Socialist Humanism — is a way of life in which things are a means to an end, and not an end in itself.”

  “Yes or no?” someone demands impatiently from the wall.

  “Wil
l he or won’t he?” the male secretary wants to know.

  “Are you or aren’t you?” Major John insists.

  Tacho looks from one to the other. “You’re bluffing. You can’t send me back and you know it. There were dozens of people at the border. There were photographers. I saw the flash bulbs go off. I felt their heat. My photograph will be in the newspapers — “

  Major John removes a shoe box from a desk drawer and angles it so that Tacho can look inside. It contains rolls of undeveloped film.

  “It is said,” he informs Tacho tonelessly, “that a tree falling in a wood makes no sound unless someone is there to hear it.”

  “I believe that someday people will hear all the trees that have fallen,” Tacho retorts. “They will cover their ears, the noise will be so great. They will feel the ground shake under their feet from the crashing down.”

  Major John rises. The men leaning against the wall straighten up. The male secretary scrapes back his chair.

  “You Communists always deal in the future,” Major John observes distantly. “When will you learn there is no future. There is no past. There is only now.”

  Tacho is strangely persuaded by the things he hears himself say. “There is no now” — the syllables sound on his ear like the delicate ticking of bicycle spokes — “there is only a past and a future. Now, if it exists at all, is merely a bridge between what was and what can be.”

  In the lobby, they stare in embarrassment at their shoes as they wait for the truck to be brought around.

  “Do you have the time?” Tacho looks up.