Red Heaven

by Nicolas Rothwell

  ‘Here in the Alps?’

  ‘In the country I came from. Wilder than here—higher peaks, like needles and like blades. And here, too, once, when I was here, a long time ago. All that’s gone. Everything’s a pale imitation now—for me.’

  ‘You always say that!’

  ‘It’s true. Now—hold my hand—take it, and stay still beside me. This downpour’s come for both of us together. Fix this image in your mind—if you ever think of me, think of me like this, here, with you on the water’s edge.’

  She looked up. The rain was on us now: it gathered force, it came beating down.

  ‘Look up with me,’ she commanded. ‘Look at the storm—open yourself to it—look into its heart.’

  I did so, and saw her face beside me, tilted skywards, into the rain and the swirling fury of the clouds.

  *

  It was morning once again, light was streaming through the windows, the sun was high in the sky. Someone was prodding me. It was Lipsett.

  ‘Hey, kiddo,’ he said: ‘Wake yourself up. It’s all going down.’

  I covered my eyes with my hands, and looked through my fingers at him. ‘How could I wake myself up if I was asleep? Anyway, you already have.’

  ‘You sleep too much.’

  ‘You need your sleep when you’re growing,’ I said.

  ‘And what—you think people who aren’t growing don’t? Hurry! The show’s already started.’

  ‘What show?’

  ‘The Reds. I was there, by the entrance, when they drove up. Want me to tell you?’

  ‘Sure—you could make it like a pitch again, to the mogul in Hollywood.’

  ‘It was quite cinematic. First one black Mercedes, then another—not a ZiL in sight. Bodyguards in both the Mercs jump out.’

  ‘Any submachine guns?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The weapon of choice—you said; don’t you remember?’

  ‘None that I could see. That’s not the point. Get ready—let’s go down. Semyonova sent me to find you. I was sitting with her, in the foyer, killing time. They were late; she was nervous. She took me into her confidence—I think. It’s the first time we’ve ever spoken that way. She told me things: about the main man, Naumov: where he came from, how he began in the party; how he rose so high. How to read him, too: the little signs that mean everything. She said he’d come up to her, shake hands for a brief moment, then kiss her on the cheeks, very ceremoniously, three times—and if that doesn’t happen on occasions like this, something’s seriously wrong, But isn’t that too friendly, I asked her—she said not. It’s the fraternal socialist kiss of greeting, like a password—you could say it’s a sign of shared beliefs. For men like Naumov, Semyonova’s the head of a progressive organisation, she’s actually a comrade in arms.’

  ‘I know how it works,’ I said: ‘Next scene!’

  ‘The little cavalcade pulls up. Out jumps the driver, he runs round, opens the passenger door and jumps to attention. Naumov gets out first: he’s a cool cat—distinctly cool: tall, middle-aged, handsome enough, in a reptilian way, clean-cut, the usual Soviet type. Two others fall in behind him, like wingmen: they come through to where Semyonova’s waiting, dressed in black, standing still and proud. He smiles at her as if he’s seeing an old friend. Her hand’s stretched out to greet him, but she keeps her face expressionless: “My dear friend,” he says softly to her, there’s the swift handshake and the three kisses on the cheeks, and they’re real kisses, tender ones: he’s still clasping her hand, she pulls away. “Everything’s arranged for us, Pavel Pavlovich,” she says then, and glances at the other men behind him: “We’re in a private salon, it’s quiet there, the winter salon—in the back of the hotel.” He gives a sombre laugh at that. She makes her first thrust. “I’ve got one of my young directors with me—and there’s a western friend of ours staying here: a backer, in an indirect way. He’ll join us. You know him: you held talks with him in my company, two years ago.” “Serghiana Ismailovna,” Naumov says, in a calm voice: “Nothing you do surprises me anymore. I was almost expecting his presence here. It would be lonely without him.” She turns to me: “Go, Corey—find Malzahn: he’ll be expecting you. Tell him the delegation’s here.” I track him down out on the terrace. Malzahn’s with the babe…’

  ‘The babe?’

  ‘His wife—I give them the message, but I also let him know about my time in Paris; I tell him what I’m working on with Semyonova as well. He makes a show of being interested. “We’ll follow you,” he says: “Lead on.” “But, Henri,” says the babe: “Surely you can’t.” He looks at her. She tries again. “Perhaps,” she says, “you shouldn’t be sitting down with them—at least not so publicly.” “I’m always grateful to you, my dear,” he says then to her, very smoothly: “For your thoughts on what I can and can’t do and should and shouldn’t do—but in this case, it so happens that I have a reason. A little bird told me something interesting: it’ll be announced today. News of interest to the Soviets. It might be quite worthwhile to listen in—and you should too.” “We’re on holiday,’ she says: “Our first together.” “You know very well a holiday’s just a chance for unofficial contacts,” he replies: “For real contacts—the only kind that count.” I feel it’s a cue for me. I jump in. “If you like, Madame Malzahn,” I say then to her, very politely, “I’d be happy to take you for a drive around the lake: I could show you St. Moritz, and the sights.” No response. I think she was wavering. You know her: any prospects, down that avenue?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind. She’s quiet for a second—she even manages a little blush. I press the advantage: “I know the valley well,” I say. She attacks: a good sign. “And you presume I don’t know it? In any case, I’m a married woman—I can’t accept invitations from strange men—not in my husband’s hearing, anyway.” They both laugh, as if it’s an in-joke. Game and first set to her. We troop off together to the salon. Everyone’s there already, sitting at a long table, the two groups facing each other, Semyonova opposite the main man, just like in the diplomatic meetings you see on television; there’s her new Italian director beside her, and that professor you were with yesterday as well. They’re already talking in several languages—and jumping between them; there’s laughter too—the mood seems warm; there’s a great fussing over Malzahn when he comes in. He and the babe sit at the empty places on Semyonova’s side of the table. More pleasantries, the waiters appear. They have the mineral water: they pour it. But it’s Vichy, for God’s sake—like in Casablanca. What a choice! Naumov glances at the label and gives a sardonic little smile. Semyonova’s furious. “Bring us new glasses,” she commands. “And more water—Badoit, Vittel, Volvic—anything—but not this.” At that moment she sounds at a loss: she looks almost frightened by the men facing her. “Another meeting with unusual atmospherics, Serghiana Ismailovna,” says Naumov then: “At the end of a long journey for us. And another of your westernising proposals.” “You’ve gone through it,” she asks him: “The dossier I sent through to you?” “Of course,” he says. That’s when she begins to push back at him: “I don’t flatter myself, Pavel Pavlovich,” she says. “It’s not my way. I don’t think for a moment you’ve travelled such a distance to go through project ideas with me. You were coming anyway—to Locarno, to the festival. And you have a demand to make of them: you’re going to insist they not screen certain Soviet films.” Naumov’s obviously annoyed. “As always, very well informed,” he says in a soft voice, and there’s a sudden feeling of unease in the air.’

  ‘Go on,’ I said.

  ‘That’s as far as things have gone. That’s when the bodyguards came in. They called Naumov and the two underlings beside him from the room. And Semyonova made a sign to me then, and told me to run upstairs and fetch you. Time to head back to the salon: come with me. Just don’t move around and fidget and be a nuisance.’

  ‘Am I that way usually?’

  ‘No—you’re quiet and subdued—like a typical young private-
college boy—safe and tamed: the way I was.’

  ‘And still are?’

  He gave no answer, but led the way. We went down together, slipped into the room by the terrace doorway, and found a quiet corner table.

  ‘That’s Naumov,’ said Lipsett, leaning over to me: ‘See, right there, he’s the one standing beside Semyonova. Did you hear—they’re waiting for some message to come through, I’m sure that’s what he just said.’

  There was confusion round the long table. Naumov and the men with him spoke in whispers briefly, then seemed to come to some agreement: they took their seats.

  ‘Of course,’ he said to Serghiana, looking straight across at her: ‘You know you had a success last time—a great success, it pleased the right people, you know that very well. It was a clever idea. And so you have the high cards in your hand. Freedom of a kind—this time—but only this time.’

  ‘I’d be astonished if it was otherwise, Pavel Pavlovich.’

  ‘Yes—your star’s high—but I’ve seen it low before—and maybe it will sink again one day.’

  ‘I’ve never seen yours low, Pavel Pavlovich,’ she said.

  ‘No—and that’s not a coincidence. I’m guided by principles that are clear.’

  ‘And those principles will allow you to grant us your actress?’

  ‘For this project? That’s not so straightforward.’

  He tapped a folder in front of him, and sighed, and held up a typescript page with notes written in its margins.

  ‘So many problems,’ he went on: ‘So many potential pitfalls. A Russian heroine from the nobility—who passed her adult life outside the motherland. A woman who chose to practise Freudian psychotherapy! And you want our actress for this part? No other suggestions? No other scripts, more suitable ones? You know how rich the archives are in untold stories.’

  ‘I know the past, Pavel Pavlovich.’

  ‘We all do, in our different ways—but this story of a life of the mind—this particular hero-philosopher—a German hero—for us?’

  ‘There are a hundred other projects we could set before you, Pavel Pavlovich. All you need do is say the word. We could show you a screenplay of the life of Dostoyevsky, or a portrait of Chekhov, seen through the mosaic of his stories, and set in Yalta as his life ebbs away. And there are others, but I don’t see the point of mentioning them to you—stories from more recent chapters of our history—stories set in the furthest reaches of the Soviet state.’

  ‘Don’t mention them,’ said Naumov: ‘Don’t.’

  He shook his head in a regretful way—at which point one of the bodyguards came back in and whispered to a young man at the end of the table, who jumped up and murmured something into Naumov’s ear, then left the room.

  ‘A necessary interruption, Serghiana Ismailovna,’ he said then. ‘The cable from the embassy—it’s being brought in now. And so: we understand each other, don’t we? We’re clear what’s been decided. Proceed—another film set in these mountains, in this blessed country. You must like it here. Perhaps it’s becoming your true home?’

  ‘You know my purpose in being here, Pavel Pavlovich,’ she said.

  ‘They’re fencing with each other,’ said Lipsett into my ear. ‘That’s the way it’s been right from the start. It’s becoming like a duel between the two of them.’

  ‘And it agrees with the gentleman at your shoulder, too!’ Naumov said: ‘The time’s come for you to present him to us. I believe the face is familiar to me. Am I wrong?’

  Professor Leo was sitting beside Serghiana. He looked uncertain. He turned to her.

  ‘Pavel Pavlovich,’ she said, ‘on matters of detail, I’ve found you’re rarely wrong. But there’s no reason you should know Dr Loewy, our friend from Zürich: he assists us with the screenplay background.’

  ‘Indeed—Dr Loewy—Leo Loewy—in fact from Prague. I remember. It’s such a distinctively—well, what should I say—such a Czechoslovak name! And should I congratulate you on your change of country, professor?’

  ‘I’m surprised you would even know of me, Comrade Naumov,’ said Professor Leo in a mournful voice: ‘Very surprised.’

  ‘It’s my task in life to know such things—and know the company my fellow communists are keeping, day by day—and every single movement across borders helps us to see the correlation of forces between East and West. How critical that work is, in these times of tension, when matters stand so delicately poised—and when the safety of socialism in your country, professor—your old country—is under such determined threat.’

  ‘It’s best by far if I step away from the table,’ said Professor Leo: ‘My presence can only be a hindrance to you—I don’t have an important part to play.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Naumov to this, and he made an expansive gesture, and glanced round at the figures on his side of the table. ‘It’s not necessary, Professor. It makes no difference. Just so you know we know.’

  ‘That goes without saying, Pavel Pavlovich,’ said Serghiana.

  ‘Stay, then. It’s settled. You can remind yourself of the rigour of our ways—ways, Comrade Professor, that you once were careful to observe. And perhaps there’s something fitting in your presence here.’

  He held up the sheaf of paper resting on the table in front of him again. ‘I glance through these notes—the tale of a learned man, a genius of a kind, isolated from the people, unwanted in his own country, led astray by a Russian, doomed to madness and a long, lingering death in life—and the thought comes to me that the tale may hold some faint resonance for you.’

  ‘Still the same, Pavel Pavlovich!’ said Serghiana, and she fixed him with her stare: ‘How much I admire your consistency. True to the line, impervious to events. Fluent in your professions of faith—as flexible as the creed itself.’

  ‘I understand your meaning,’ said Naumov: ‘And you doubtless understand where words like those will lead you in the end.’

  ‘Wild, isn’t it?’ said Lipsett to me: ‘She’s something else!’

  The tone of the exchanges was becoming sharper. Serghiana was speaking in her most languid, irony-laden voice. Naumov had a look of irritation on his face.

  ‘Yes,’ Serghiana said to him: ‘Your consistency. Your orthodoxy. Don’t you see I’m paying you the highest of compliments—old friend. There are times when you remind me of the old southern commissars, of the wartime years, when it was my father who gave them their commands. Or I can cast my imagination even further back: how furious you are in your pursuit of enemies—like the borzoi from czarist times that would chase down their prey and hold it by the throat, immobile, until their master with his serrated knife rode up.’

  There was a sudden commotion as she said this. The young man came back into the room, almost at a run, and thrust an envelope into Naumov’s hand. Naumov opened it, unfurled a sheet of folded paper and read it. Silence. He frowned, glanced at it again, then handed it to the man at his side, and leaned over and spoke a few words, and the man inclined his head.

  ‘Do you know about Serghiana’s father?’ I asked Lipsett.

  ‘Only that he won battles in the war,’ he whispered back: ‘Great battles—and lost his life.’

  Then Serghiana began to speak. At once Naumov clapped his hands together.

  ‘Quiet!’ His voice was hard. ‘No more. This is an outrage. A provocation. I have here before me proof—if it was ever needed—of the forces drawn up against us, and the lengths to which they go. A scandal—and among the worst.’

  He shook his head in dramatic fashion, and looked around him, as if measuring the complicity of all those present in the room.

  ‘October the eighth, nineteen-seventy,’ he said: ‘The date will live in memory—a day of infamy—a day that will be marked forever by our people.’

  ‘But Pavel Pavlovich,’ said Serghiana: ‘Whatever are you talking about?’

  He stared back at her.

  ‘Fury in those eyes,’ murmured Lipsett.

  ‘I shall read you the note t
hat was just handed to me. A communiqué. It comes from Stockholm.’ He spat out the words.

  Malzahn made a little movement and looked across to Josette.

  ‘Issued this morning by the Nobel Foundation—our well-known foe, the same club of academics who wished to honour Pasternak. And now they find another anti-Soviet activist to crown. I quote for you: “The Nobel Prize in Literature nineteen-seventy was awarded to—to Aleksandr Isayevich Solzhenitsyn for the ethical force with which he has pursued the indispensable traditions of Russian literature.” Ethics! Literature! No! They give their prize to swill, to incoherence, to reactionary propaganda—to slander against the Soviet state. I can almost hear the laughter in Washington and New York. And as I speak, I reflect that there are other western countries where the leadership may not wish us well.’

  He looked down the table to Malzahn and glared.

  ‘Yes,’ Naumov continued, his voice falling very low: ‘Tact prevents me from expressing my thoughts—but I ask myself, Serghiana Ismailovna, if your friends came to listen and advise you, or came with foreknowledge, to gloat.’

  Malzahn held up his palms. ‘I hear this now for the first time,’ he said: ‘I give you my word.’

  ‘And I accept it,’ said Naumov to him: ‘Naturally—I have to. No more for today. Serghiana Ismailovna—you understand I must cut short.’

  ‘Wait,’ she said, her voice full of urgency: ‘Wait, Pavel Pavlovich. Listen to me—before you go.’

  ‘What can you have to say to me now?’

  She gave a short, surprising laugh. ‘Don’t you understand the opportunity you have? Step back. Consider. Think like a strategist.’ She was smiling. There was excitement on her face.

  ‘Serghiana Ismailovna,’ said Naumov, ‘I don’t know what you mean. I don’t think I want to know.’

  He picked up the slip of paper before him, and looked at the men at his side, who all flexed their muscles: like birds about to fly from their perch.

  ‘Listen,’ said Serghiana, ‘Pavel Pavlovich: listen to me—we know our respective roles—we know them well; we know what’s expected of us.’