Apricot Jam

by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn

  In the meantime, the news from Alyosha’s former classmates now completing their studies was depressing. Graduation from the prestigious Faculty of Physics had always guaranteed a move into at least a corner of our triumphant world of science; it meant a place under the majestic arches of its thought, an entry into the separate regime of its leading scientific research institutes. But now these young folks had to look for work, trying for certain jobs and failing to get them. Something had happened to Higher Science; it was as if the air had been let out of it (the most severe blow came when funding was cut). Graduate students were in an even greater state of shock. You mean there are vacancies? Even more of them? That was because scientists were leaving the university and going away. Something enormous had come crashing down; the collapse had blocked the roads and left the students unable to breathe. Institute hallways stood empty; there were spiderwebs in the corners of the laboratories; dust built up on the desks.

  Could you believe it? The whole of life had suffered a great fracture. It was an outrage! For what?

  Alyosha, who had endured the break caused by his army service, was now better prepared to endure this one.

  Yes, it was clear enough: he would have to find an entirely new way to live.

  The buy-and-sell era had already begun. There were all sorts of new, unheard-of “business firms.” Some had contrived ways to deal in state property, but within the framework of laws not yet equipped to deal with such things; and such firms immediately became hugely profitable. How could he stand apart from this era? He had to live on something, after all, and buy an apartment so he could get married (to Tanya, who was in her final year in the Faculty of Literature).

  Alyosha tried to find a way to join one of these firms, then another—to find a place on their margins, as a helper. But he felt only disgust at the waste of his time and effort. How could he possibly devote his life to such rubbish, just farting around with no hope of doing anything creative?

  But given the times, there seemed no other way. He could only marvel at how some of the party brass who had formerly been unapproachable, stonily standing guard over “the people’s property,” had suddenly been reincarnated as resourceful and rash entrepreneurs, eyes peeled for any chance to make a profit and any opportunity to scoop something up.

  And what of these stock markets popping up everywhere like mushrooms? When he first visited them, Alyosha was stunned and deafened by it all so that his brain seemed to pulsate: the brokers, the middlemen, the speculating buyers and sellers of vouchers, stock certificates, foreign currency, the blinking indicator board, the rapidly changing legends on them—and everyone rushing here and there (guarding their attaché cases, afraid that someone might follow anyone who’d had a stroke of luck and knock him off). How could anyone live like that?

  Yet you’d have to get used to it. Their company was formed of three clever friends, one also a physicist, the other a mathematician. They were all almost the same age; they thought alike and had similar views and hopes. They had many ideas, but ideas aren’t money. They saw commercial banks springing up around them, some of them quite small. This business was totally foreign to them, though it appeared tremendously promising and ripe with possibilities because the former stringent regulation of state credit had made development all but impossible. But it was very difficult for a small bank to establish itself, since it was shaken by every tiny shift in the economic or political wind. Even before starting, one needed a good deal of bribe money to get a license to open a bank. And once it opened, one had to have some start-up capital. Fortunately, someone (a “sponsor” in the current parlance, and one with his own aims in mind) appeared to help them get started. They chose an impressive name: the Transcontinental Bank. They found themselves a spot in two basement rooms, and they explained to their first, startled clients: “This is just temporary. Our main office is being renovated at the moment.”

  No one could have predicted how it might have ended had not Alyosha met one of his old classmates, Rashid, who had dropped out of the university but had not gone into the army. They had been good pals in the past. Now they met, had a drink together, then another drink, and Rashid became a partner in the Transcontinental Bank. His own countrymen were behind him, and here, in this city, the links among these countrymen were stronger than elsewhere. His countrymen were also able to put them into contact with sources of money and help them work hand in hand with the oblast administration, which was also seeking out new ways of doing things. Before long they built themselves an impressive seven-story building, rented out the upper floors, and established their bank in the two lower ones.

  Rashid was well connected, Alyosha had a clear head, and they complemented one another; the four partners lived in harmony, though they each held different equity in the bank. Tolkovyanov, like the first astronaut on the moon, was treading on unknown ground. But here too he figured out a new approach: how to manage clean and speedy clearing so that the rapidly disappearing Soviet trade links could continue to work for him. What helped more than anything, of course, was pure chance. With the constantly jumping foreign exchange rates, an accurate sense of the trends in the money markets could bring in amazing profits. Here again, Alyosha turned out to have a gift for correct guesswork.

  Once the wave of success had begun to roll in, there was nothing to do but hang on as the wave rose higher and higher. (He had to concoct some explanation for his friends, who couldn’t understand who had helped him rise this high.)

  Still, he felt disgusted with himself. He could clearly see he was being drawn into one slightly shady deal after another, and into some that were far worse than shady. Yet there was no way to get by without that. And he wasn’t alone, he had three partners. But perhaps this would only last to a point when he could put the bank on solid, honest money and shake off all this filth. Then, let’s hope, there would be only reputable business. Would he ever be able to achieve full freedom of action? If he did, he would begin doing good deeds. The first one would be to support the schools; perhaps he could support striking workers to help them get what they wanted or, conversely, support some useful factory and keep it from bankruptcy—like the one that was using UHF waves to dry vegetables. We don’t live only for the day; we give up something in one place and earn something in another.

  But would he ever be able to break free from this world of fast-buck artists? He had already had dealings with some of these money-hungry swine, and they gave him the shivers.

  He and Tanya had talked this over more than once. She was not just a good adviser, she was often a few steps ahead of him and not always in full agreement. She was even more anxious to have everything clean and aboveboard. But she also realized that this was impossible, that there was no way to get around it. They could drop the whole thing and squeamishly wash their hands of it, but then what? Sink into poverty?

  Another thing was their relationship with the government. After losing its grip on everything in the country, the state bureaucracy maintained only the tenacity to smother businesses with incredible, absurd taxes, the likes of which were seen nowhere else in the world, and to crush them under a burden of regulations and heaps of paperwork, thus pushing everyone to do the same thing: to get around the law and to deceive. Apart from a few fools, everyone took this devious route. (But even this had its positive side: once the bank got fully on its feet, it would be able to pay the state honestly: we live in this state, after all, and we rely on what it provides. But one doesn’t expect outright robbery from the state either.)

  Then came the explosion.

  Alyosha discussed it with his partners, but he was the one to make the final decision.

  If they had already made one attempt to murder him, then would they not make another? Apart from his own pistols and, of course, the fellow with the submachine gun in the hallway of the bank, he had no cover, no one to defend him. And least of all, it seemed, the people from the Organized Crime Division . . . The Ellomas plant, now, as Tolkovyanov knew, had it
s own security, using some of its own people along with police from the Division and some outright criminals as well. All those strands had now become thoroughly intertwined and interrelated.

  Was it really possible to keep them entirely out of our circle?

  Was there any way to keep absolutely secure? Only if Alyosha immediately turned tail and headed straight out of the country. He had enough money to do that. That was precisely what everyone expected him to do. The whole city, at least everyone who knew, was expecting that. No one would have been surprised.

  But how could he leave his organization, now three years old? News of the flight of the chief banker would immediately spread, the investors would rush in to take back their investments, and the whole enterprise would fly into tiny, useless fragments. The strength of a bank is the sum of the resources it can attract.

  He and Tanya spent a few difficult evenings together.

  They would talk, and they would fall silent.

  So, are you prepared to let our little boy be killed by a bomb?

  Another long silence.

  Suddenly, as if just in passing, Tanya said:

  “My grandmother used to say, ‘A needle will serve when it’s got an eye, a person will serve when he’s got a soul.’”

  That seemed to sum it all up. And even more: How could he get by, living abroad, unless he turned to the business of robbing or smuggling? Russian scientists? Yes, they are in demand over there, but not young, halfeducated ones like me.

  On the surface, life went on as before. But no one knew the struggle going on within him, and no one knew the decision he made: I’ll stay here, as if nothing had ever happened.

  Meanwhile, the housing cooperative decreed that Tolkovyanov was to pay for repairs to both entrance doors and the lobby. The damage, after all, had happened because of him . . .

  Now that was painful: What business was it of theirs? And why should he strive if that was the only thanks?

  During these same weeks, there was also a whole series of murders in Moscow, murders of some very prominent people. Some were shot, others killed by bombs.

  He spent every day expecting something. It was terrifying.

  He began wearing a bulletproof vest and traveling with an armed guard.

  A new practice had taken root at the time: “A reward is offered for information leading to . . .” Why not try that?

  He placed an ad in the newspapers: ten thousand dollars for anyone providing information about those involved in the attempted murder. He did it without much hope, just to try something. But, amazingly, only a day later, a letter mysteriously appeared: I have the information you need. I want eleven thousand.

  This demand for such a tiny increase in the reward was surprising. It seemed to be a joke or an attempt to draw him into a trap. But the letter did propose a meeting during the day, in a crowded square in the city center.

  But you’re not going yourself! His partner Vitya, his friend since school days, took on the task. (Another person would be watching the meeting from a distance.)

  The meeting went off, and there was no trickery. The man was prepared to give names. But now he wanted not eleven thousand but twenty-five.

  Now that seemed more realistic. Vitya scoffed at the man, though: No, we won’t give more than twelve and a half. You have to tell us who ordered it and who carried it out. And bring photos of them. (That seemed a more reliable way.)

  The man faltered in some confusion. He thought for a time and then agreed. In the meantime, as a “deposit” on the information still to come, he said that the person who had ordered the murder worked in the Ellomas firm. He didn’t know who had carried it out, but he would provide the name of the man who had ordered it.

  The reward was paid.

  Ellomas! Just as Alyosha had suspected. It must have been one of the senior people there, a manager.

  So now what? When the partners met, they decided unanimously that they should go no further without help from the police.

  Was that unethical?

  But whose ethics were being violated?

  Tolkovyanov phoned Kosargin.

  YES, THERE WAS something to that young man. Kosargin had been deeply impressed by his meeting with him today. How could you ever expect it? Once he was just a lanky student playing at being a dissident. We should have packed him off somewhere deep in Yakutia and been rid of him. But now he has this lavish, seven-story glass palace and he’s making these huge business deals. Businessmen line up at his bank when they need help to cover a temporary shortfall in their budgets. And he’s staked out a place in this grim and foul age of ours as if he’d been born into it.

  You, on the other hand, are over forty and used to law and order, and no matter how you twist and turn, you still can’t fit yourself into this new world.

  The Organs! Was there anything as eternal and unshakeable as they? Was there anything in the last days of the USSR that was more dynamic, more vigilant, more resourceful? What a group of select young people with higher education had poured in during the Andropov years! Kosargin himself had only a law degree, but alongside him worked physicists, mathematicians, and psychologists. A career in the KGB offered tangible personal benefits, interesting work, and a sense that you were having a genuine influence on the future of your country. These were the bright young lads who worked with the aging, ossifying veterans. (Though what a wealth of experience those veterans had.)

  And suddenly this whole structure, more elegant and beautiful than the Moscow skyscrapers, did not collapse, to be sure, but was punched full of holes, and cold winds blew through the cracks that had developed from the misunderstandings, doubts, and the manpower drain of those who were frightened. Some left voluntarily, some through staff reductions, some moved to the management of the Union of Veterans. There were still others who were drawn into these same new businesses. The latter were first seen as traitors to the Cause; then they were envied as smooth operators who had struck it lucky; many wondered if there was still time to follow their example.

  If only, through some miracle, the Organs could regain their former power, their significance. But could that ever happen? They’d let the opportunities slip past them. And where was it all leading? He did not have the mind to foresee it.

  Kosargin despised the defectors from the KGB and would not allow himself to follow their example. But the cracks in the old structure, which had once been so solid, were opening ever wider, and the winds that blew through it carried away things that would never return. The most serious weakening had been in their self-consciousness, the loss of their Higher Purpose. And so Kosargin left—not as a traitor to the cause, but to take a position that was still of prime importance in this new and insane age: he joined the struggle against organized crime. (Should he have completely turned his back on what the new age could offer? That meant staying on and fossilizing in a job that, perhaps, would never be of use to anyone.)

  And so, what about this young fellow? What surprised Kosargin was that he never asked for help. Was he still offended because of the incident a few years ago? Or was he planning to run off somewhere and hide? That didn’t seem likely either.

  He didn’t refuse help for very long, however. He called within a few days.

  Kosargin’s staff had, of course, opened an investigation, if only formally and listlessly. Kosargin himself went to that same office again. Now, though, lying on the green table were three or four enlarged copies of American hundred-dollar bills taped together—was that a joke of some kind?

  His favorable impression from the last meeting with Tolkovyanov was confirmed: there was something simple and countrified in his features; he looked you right in the eye, attentive and frowning slightly, though without fidgeting. All the while his voice remained calm and steady; he did not change his tone or grow flushed. This was not a pose; it was not put on and was entirely effortless. It must be his usual manner. Another attempt on his life could be made at any time, yet he betrayed not a sign of fear.

&nbs
p; They discussed the arrest. A pair of plainclothes policemen had come to the square, near the spot where the last meeting had taken place. Had the man really become so careless? Had he never anticipated that this might happen? Tolkovyanov’s friend gave a signal, and the man was easily arrested.

  But indeed, he was so confused and out of his depth that he had brought no one to back him up. An even greater surprise was that he quickly confessed: he himself had attempted the murder!

  What he disclosed was something quite trivial and almost comic. He, too, was a physicist, a product of the age in which he was living. Nothing had turned out for him, and he had already served two prison terms but been given early release both times. He looked absolutely wretched, someone you could push over with a feather. He had been unsuccessful at everything he had tried and become burdened with debt. His wife cursed him and then brought a proposition from her brother: he could earn ten thousand dollars by killing someone, but the murder weapon had to be a bomb. With no money, and suffering the constant nagging of his wife, he at last took up the offer, getting five thousand in advance. And then the attempt failed. Those who had ordered the murder were furious at getting mixed up with such a chicken-hearted fellow and meanly demanded that because he had failed, he must return not just the five thousand he had taken but double that sum. Then he saw the newspaper ad for the ten-thousanddollar reward. His head in a fog, he first demanded eleven thousand but then came to his senses and asked for twenty-five. Then he showed them the photo of his brother-in-law.

  Kosargin’s men rushed off to arrest the brother-in-law, but he had disappeared. He had left some traces, however: he did work for Ellomas, though not in any senior position. There the trail ended, and no one else could be implicated. What they did have was the accused, alive and in their hands; his statements; a photo of the man closest to the person ultimately responsible; the speculations of the intended victim; and the observations of the investigators. Such was the case that was sent to trial.