Red Heaven

by Nicolas Rothwell

  ‘And?’

  ‘It’s my task to see your situation clearly, and advise you. Yours is to use culture as a weapon: a means to advance the cause. This is more than just an international prize for literature. It’s a challenge.’

  ‘It’s an assault, Serghiana Ismailovna. An ideological attack.’

  ‘And what do you do when an enemy comes rushing at you? You turn the blow—you use his strength to your advantage.’

  ‘I can promise you the matter will be handled just as was the case of Pasternak twelve years ago. Our leadership will stop the so-called writer Solzhenitsyn from collecting his award. Or we will send him out, then not let him back.’

  ‘Why not welcome it, the way you did with Sholokhov, five years ago?’

  ‘There’s no similarity. Sholokhov was a hero of socialist literature—this person aims to undermine the state.’

  ‘So it seems wise to you to send him into exile, and make him even more famous than he will be after today’s news—turn him into a megaphone, prove the truth of every criticism that he makes!’

  ‘What do you propose instead, Serghiana Ismailovna?’

  ‘Seize the chance. Take control. Announce today in Moscow that the award’s welcome, it shows the depth of Soviet culture—rehabilitate the writer—receive him in the Kremlin, even.’

  ‘Reward him for his slanders?’

  ‘Exploit him—rather than let the West make use of him.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Can’t you see it, Pavel Pavlovich? You have the chance to lead opinion, to shape it. Co-opt ideas, not stifle them. Be the master—pile laurel wreaths on the author and his works, praise them for their position in the mainstream, no, the vanguard of socialist endeavour—commission a dramatic, splendid piece of cinema made from his words.’

  Naumov laughed at this—a hollow, unpleasant laugh. He glanced at the men alongside him, who gave their own short, gruff laughs as well.

  ‘This is a dream, Serghiana Ismailovna. I suppose you think the film should be of One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich—and the responsibility for making it should be given to you?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what book or story of his you choose to turn into a film, or who makes it. Commission it today. Neutralise your enemies—proclaim it to the world.’

  ‘Such foolishness. You really think the idea escaped us? You think we didn’t consider Denisovich and weigh up its argument, its message? We could have filmed it at any time. After all, we published it: have you forgotten that? But the decision was made. And events have justified it.’

  ‘Events, Pavel Pavlovich?’

  He gave a smile of triumph. ‘Perhaps, Serghiana Ismailovna, you’re not as well informed about western cinema as you like to think you are. As a matter of fact a film of Denisovich has just been completed, in Norway: they have their own cold, icy landscapes there. We know something of its content.’

  ‘I’m sure you do.’

  ‘Yes—we have sources. It’s just what you’d expect. Pure antiSovietism.’

  ‘Pavel Pavlovich—you know a film made by our side would be different—and have a different impact.’

  Naumov interlaced his hands; he leaned slightly forward. ‘You’ve been away too long, Serghiana Ismailovna. The truth is you don’t know our country anymore. And this so-called author, this prizewinner—propped up by tiny cliques of activists and backed by western money—you don’t know him: you don’t know what drives him on. But we do. We know what he’s been writing, in secret, hiding his typescripts away, using copyists across Moscow to shoulder all the risks for him. He thinks he operates without our seeing, but we know. We know what he thinks and what he plans before he even sets it down on paper. We have the new pages he’s written every day before the sun goes down. And do you know what his great plan is: the vast betrayal he’s embarked on now? He means to send a history of the Gulag to the West. And why? To harm the reputation of the state. He exaggerates the troubles of times now long gone, he takes no pride in our achievements.’

  ‘Please, Pavel Pavlovich,’ said Serghiana: ‘I know the speech already; I know every word by heart.’

  ‘Do you see what she’s doing?’ said Lipsett into my ear.

  ‘Not really, no,’ I whispered back.

  ‘I think she’s actually trying to provoke him. As if she wants him to lash out at her. I almost think she wants a great dramatic scene, a showdown—maybe so she can make a film of it.’

  ‘Pavel Pavlovich,’ she was saying: ‘Credit me with some ability to think. I’ve put forward a proposal to you—the best course of action for you now: in fact, the only one that makes any sense. Everything this writer writes is well known. Do you imagine there’s a single family in the entire Soviet Union that has no knowledge of the past; that hasn’t lost a parent or a grandparent to Kolyma, or the Karaganda steppe, or frozen Magadan? Can that be what you think—that all this is a state secret? Everyone knows—at home, and in western countries as well. It’s common knowledge, wherever people want to know. Our young generations may keep silent, but they’ve been told: about the purges, and the trials and deportations. All of it: what happened to the priests and believers and landholders—the intelligentsia as well. So many secrets, stored up in every heart. Don’t you see how much the Soviet people would appreciate such a film, how proud they’d be to see it, how it would be a gesture of honour to their missing and their dead? The truth—what a sign of hope such a film would bring.’

  ‘Serghiana Ismailovna—please! You want to make a monument to a traitor—a man who hates his country and its cause. That’s who you want to honour and promote; maybe you want him to be received in the Hall of Facets. Should he be given a banquet by the leaders of the party? Or should we all sing songs in his praise? I can hardly believe it’s you who’s saying these things. I look across at you, and a strange question rises to my thoughts—I have to ask myself: have you become an enemy of your own people—of your country?’

  ‘Pavel Pavlovich,’ said Serghiana then: ‘Must you really sink so low? You understand exactly what I’m proposing to you, and why.’

  Naumov was silent for a moment. He stared at her, and glanced round the table—at the men beside him, at the figures sitting opposite. He interlaced his fingers, and pursed his lips. When he spoke his voice was almost a whisper: dry and cold.

  ‘Serghiana Ismailovna,’ he said, ‘you stand on a knife edge. You don’t see yourself: you don’t see what you’re doing. You don’t see what you’ve become.’

  ‘How fortunate I am, then, to have you here to make that diagnosis for me, Pavel Pavlovich!’

  ‘Shall I tell you what I see when I look at you,’ said Naumov: ‘You—the daughter of a famous revolutionary. You, the Red Princess, who received everything from the Soviet state. Everything—your education, your privileges and your connections, your place in life. All you are, you are because of our system—’

  ‘I know what made me what I am, Pavel Pavlovich,’ she broke in: ‘And I know you too. You forget how well: your career, its beginnings, your sudden elevation, the heights you still aspire to. I know the patronage you received, and the alliances you depend on. Who you’ve spoken against, who you’ve raised up; what you’ve done, and what you’ve tried and failed to do—’

  Naumov interrupted in his turn. ‘My actions speak for me—my record.’

  ‘Your war, and your gilded version of it—I know that also,’ said Serghiana: ‘In fact, I know you well enough to see the fear in your eyes today. You’re afraid this isn’t just a little problem for the cultural authorities—another minor nuisance like the Pasternak affair. You see the threat, just as I do, but you see it as a threat to your position. I still remember what you told me two years ago: you said that after Prague, every ideal was smashed. The only thing left was power—Soviet power, the power in Soviet hands, hands like yours—and that, you said, was quite enough.’

  ‘And there was something else you might remember that was said in that talk, Serghiana Ismailovn
a: I made you a promise. I said we’d send you all the funds you need for your productions—on condition that you stayed abroad. You’ve received that backing, you accept it happily enough—and you play your role well as our facade. But that’s all you are today. Our front. Our instrument.’ He looked at her: it was a testing look; it had amusement in it. ‘Do you deny what I’m saying?’

  ‘Why should I, Pavel Pavlovich? It’s the truth. Although it was in confidence—our discreet arrangement.’

  ‘A deal, in fact—a business deal, made in another time of troubles, when East and West were poised, and on alert. I told you then that we should stay on guard; that we’d see new attacks and provocations, new attempts to probe our resolve and strength. And this is one. It detonates in front of us—you hear the news, and your first thought is to help our adversaries. You want to film a piece of anti-Soviet propaganda: you want to do their work for them.’

  ‘I didn’t know any of that,’ said Lipsett into my ear: ‘That there was a deal like that.’

  At which point a troop of hotel waiters appeared in the doorway. Serghiana beckoned to them; they approached. Naumov had been about to say more. He stopped; everyone around the table, as if by tacit agreement, froze.

  ‘The Badoit you asked for, Madame Semyonova,’ announced one of the waiters in a nervous voice: ‘Will it be acceptable?’

  Serghiana laughed. ‘A well-timed interruption,’ she said. ‘For this gentleman opposite me, first of all. He has a thirst—for many things—and he feels himself pre-eminent. Pavel Pavlovich, will you join me in a drink—of blameless mineral water? You can drink with me and undermine me at the same time, can’t you?’

  The waiters set down new glasses in tandem, opened the bottles with a co-ordinated flourish, poured and hurried out. Even as Serghiana finished speaking, Josette leaned across and murmured something to Malzahn. She slid from her seat and made for the terrace door; she noticed us and paused.

  ‘Hello, my little someone,’ she said, and perched on the armchair I was sitting in: ‘Still cross with me?’

  ‘All this talk must be boring you, Madame Malzahn,’ said Lipsett: ‘Want to take me up on that offer and make a getaway?’

  ‘Do you know this low-life?’ Josette asked me: ‘Is he a friend of yours?’ ‘He’s the production assistant for Great-Aunt Serghiana,’ I said.

  ‘Thanks for the glowing reference, kiddo,’ said Lipsett.

  ‘Production assistant,’ echoed Josette: ‘What kind of creature is that? Driver, maybe.’

  ‘That too,’ I said.

  ‘Thanks again!’ said Lipsett.

  ‘He’s just trying to help,’ said Josette: ‘He likes to have things clear: to know exactly where people stand—don’t you?’

  ‘Are these two friends, or enemies,’ Lipsett asked her: ‘Or both?’

  ‘Can’t you see what they are?’ said Josette to him: ‘They’re poker players—and it’s a high-stakes hand. Just listen: how tense it is across that table!’

  ‘You’d finished, Pavel Pavlovich,’ Serghiana was saying: ‘But I’ve scarcely begun. Of course we should be on our guard: not your way, though—it’s a trial of tactics just as much as strength. Your real adversary’s not the dissident setting down his Gulag memoirs in some tiny upstairs room on the corner of the Arbat.’

  Naumov gave a little start.

  ‘Yes—I already know the story of his secret manuscript and your spying on him: it’s the talk of Moscow. I hear about it—even at this distance. But it’s not his challenge to you that matters—he’s nothing without the West. This is their signal—don’t you see? They’re warning you: they’re saying to you—we stand behind your dissident, we’ll raise him up and make him our symbol. It’s the end of the era of peaceful co-existence. A new landscape. That’s what this prize means. It’s not an insult. It’s a message. And I’ve shown you the way to answer it—the only answer that’s confident and strong—an answer that would serve to raise your name up as well.’

  ‘If I put my name to this idea and sent it forward it would destroy me, Serghiana Ismailovna,’ said Naumov: ‘I think you know that very well. We’ve reached the limit of what we have to say. This is the end of our pleasant talk.’

  He turned and gave a sign to the men beside him. He gave his bitter laugh again.

  ‘Stop,’ said Serghiana: she leaned across the table and stretched out her hand towards Naumov: ‘Use my name.’

  He took up his papers and handed them to the man beside him.

  ‘You think your name still counts for something, Serghiana Ismailovna? Really? It has an old flavour, like the smell of a field after harvest in the days of childhood.’

  ‘The most poetic thing I’ve ever heard you say, Pavel Pavlovich.’

  ‘And you’re taken aback—because you don’t believe anyone except you and your circle could have fine thoughts or beliefs or ideas. It’s true we’re not the same, but the difference between us is simple. In your heart you believe the system your father helped to build is weak, and set on unsure foundations, and always under threat. And I believe it’s as strong as shining steel, and just as permanent. You think a pinprick from the West can tear down our defences. When I hear you list the dreadful dangers that surround us, the realisation dawns on me: you long for the disasters you describe.’

  ‘You’re going too far,’ said Serghiana.

  ‘No—I’ll say it. Let’s speak plainly to each other—for once. I’ll tell you the truth. I used to admire you, I looked up to you: when I first came to Moscow you were at the heart of everything: and when your darkness fell, you had your dignity, you were even more a heroine in my eyes—one who’d suffer silently for the greater cause. Only now do I begin to see how damaged you are.’

  Serghiana smiled: a smile for herself. She made a quick cutting movement with her hand.

  ‘It’s as you say, Pavel Pavlovich. The time for talking’s done. You’ve always been limited in your thinking. You’re caught out by the news you’ve heard. You’re lost. You don’t know what to do. I hand you the solution. You refuse it. You turn your face away. You don’t even have the courage to present it to the Kremlin gods.’

  ‘Present it yourself, if you dare to! You’re the one with a great protector—but when he goes, what will you be? No one will save you then, no one will care what you say or think. I should have known it was a mistake to make this visit to you—to come to your court: your exile palace. I should have sensed what you’ve become: a woman of the West.’

  ‘That’s your view of me, is it, Pavel Pavlovich?’ said Serghiana in her most contemptuous tone of voice: ‘Your view as a communist?’

  ‘It is. I see your true colours, I see through your disguise of loyalty: I see you as you really are. And I also know why you’re the way you are. You’ve never put aside your own misfortune or recovered from it. You never learned from the criminal acts of your husband Semyonov all those years ago.’

  There was a silence then. Everyone around the table seemed to sense the weight of those words. Serghiana leaned back in her seat. She was calm. Her eyes bored into Naumov in silence. He looked away.

  ‘Criminal acts,’ she said softly, and repeated the words: ‘Criminal acts. You have to lie, don’t you, Pavel Pavlovich, and repeat all the old party lies you’ve learned—and you have to believe those lies as well. You insult the memory of a great man—a man with a faith far purer than yours. You might as well spit in my face. Go ahead—here it is before you. Lean across the table. Go ahead. It would be the same for me as the words you just said. And it’s easy to speak that way, isn’t it? Easy to defame the dead. It’s almost second nature for you—you do it before you can stop yourself.’

  Naumov ran a hand through his hair; he shook his head: ‘I’m sorry, Serghiana Ismailovna. Forgive me. I shouldn’t have spoken that way about him. It was wrong of me.’

  ‘Forgive you! Forgive!’ She was laughing at him as she spoke: ‘No, Pavel Pavlovich, no. You can’t undo words like that. You can’t. You sho
wed me your true face. The worst thing is that I’ve listened to men like you, apparat men like you, saying the same words before—often, very often, in the dark years, in the time before his rehabilitation came, and I stayed meek and silent. I betrayed him too, my unmoving lips betrayed him—I was quiet to save myself. No longer. It’s I who can see clearly now, Pavel Pavlovich: I who can see you for what you are. In my eyes you’re an animal—no, worse than an animal, much worse; animals are loyal, and proud, and true. You’re that special kind of beast they call human—a socialist human—the wildest of the wild. You pollute the air with your breath—you insult the mountains by your presence here. I renounce you—you and your kind.’

  There was a pause. She held herself straight and defiant. Her face was flushed.

  ‘Do I understand you?’ Naumov said.

  ‘You do,’ said Serghiana, and she breathed in deeply: ‘I renounce you. Take the message back—carry it back like the servant that you are.’

  ‘I can’t bear it any longer,’ Josette said to me then in a low voice. ‘Come with me, let’s go—we shouldn’t listen to this.’

  ‘What’s happening?’ I asked her.

  ‘She’s destroying herself.’

  ‘They’re destroying each other,’ said Lipsett: ‘It’s like we’ve stumbled into the last pages of some unknown Russian novel!’

  Naumov leaned back in his seat again. His features had relaxed. He glanced around the table. He began to speak—his voice was almost nonchalant. ‘So—it ends this way.’

  ‘It does,’ said Serghiana.

  ‘What an adversary you’ve become. Such ferocity! You want to escape, to flee from what you are. Be sure of what you want. You can be sure of the consequences.’

  ‘Pavel Pavlovich,’ she said: ‘There’s nothing you and your kind could ever do to me that would be worse than what you’ve already done. I’ve lived with lies for years, in a kingdom of lies. And today the break comes: a crack in the ramparts. You say your defences are made of steel: but I know their secret—those tall watchtowers that protect you are really like pinnacles of glass—glass crystal. Not without elegance of structure, but weak, with hidden flaws. Like this glass, in fact.’