The Zoo

by Christopher Wilson

  ‘They won’t?’

  ‘They say he’s old and loyal … But, surely, that’s a defence for a dog, not a man?’

  I shrug.

  ‘And they say I can’t bomb Amerika.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘They say there’d be trouble. Maybe even a war …’

  I nod in sympathy. I can see it from both points of view. But it isn’t my place to take sides.

  ‘We have our nuclear missiles, primed to go. We can reach the East coast of Amerika, and the West. We can incinerate New Angeles, Bostov, Los Francisco, San-Something-or-other and Modern York. But they stop me launching the rockets.’

  ‘They must have their reasons,’ I guess.

  ‘And then I want to round up the Jews and send them to camps in The Cold Lands. But they won’t even let me do that.’

  ‘Really?’ I say.

  ‘They say the Jews can’t all be poisoners, traitors and spies.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘How dare they refuse me? When I am Josef Iron-Man, General Secretary of …’ he pauses, swivelling his eyes upwards, straining to recall, ‘ … some very important thing, or another …’ he grimaces with the efforts of trying to arrest his memories, ‘… and Chairman of a very special whatchamacallit, even senior to that …’

  But suddenly he’s distracted again. Something has captured his attention in the corner of the room.

  ‘What’s that?’ he demands, pointing accusingly. He’s singled out the leather armchair for suspicion, and special interrogation.

  ‘Well, that’s a seat,’ I say. ‘A swivel chair.’

  ‘What’s it for?’

  I oblige him. I sit in it to show him. I swing myself through a full circle.

  ‘Bravo,’ he claps. ‘Well steered. I can see you’ve driven that one before.’ He seems amazed at the rotations. ‘Magnificent engineering.’ He claps his hands to applaud the armchair. ‘This is why Socialist Design leads the world. This is why we shall be first into space.’ He chuckles at the cleverness of it all. He swivels the seat back and forth with his hand. ‘Whatever will they think of next?

  ‘And that,’ he says, pointing to the desk. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A globe,’ I say, ‘a model of the world, spinning on its axis.’

  ‘The world is round?’

  ‘So they say.’

  ‘I should have been told.’ He frowns. ‘The Ministry for Round Things should have kept me informed …’

  Shortly, he’s hobbling up and down, muttering under his breath. He is waving with his hands, addressing the empty room on his pressing political concerns, as if rehearsing a speech.

  ‘I am angry with … those people,’ he declares. ‘The scum … the vermin … they are the enemies of all the other people … These people need expelling from the Party, taking out of their jobs, evicting from their homes, separating from honest, decent people. They need putting in work camps. Some people need to suffer, to pay their debts to the Motherland, to make restitution. I do not care a jot if they all die in the process. I do not care if it ignites a war, to end all wars, with Amerika. Because it is the war that must surely come … It will be the culmination of history …’

  ‘Who are they, these people?’ I ask. ‘The doctors?’

  ‘No.’ He tastes the word for its sense and rejects it. ‘Not the doctors.’

  ‘The Zionists?’ I guess. I’ve heard him complain about those before.

  ‘Not the Zionists, either. Though they are bad enough.’

  I shrug. I can’t help him. I can’t remember either.

  ‘It is a terrible thing to hate people so much, so completely, so implacably, and totally without pity.’ He observes the injustice. ‘And yet not be able to remember their name …’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘Because when you can’t name them … you can’t command they get shot …’ His gravelly voice is weary. He shakes his head in dismay. ‘But I can’t recall, precisely, who they are … These wasters. These reactionary bastards, these parasitical worms, these scum, this human effluence, this waste of flesh, this garbage, this swarm of flies on a shit-heap, these writhing rats in a rotting horse carcass, I only remember I hate them. Despise them. Loathe them. They are vermin. They are excrement … Better to shoot the lot of them than to suffer having them amongst us any longer … And all the while they are a cancer eating away at our core …’

  ‘But how can you hate them so much, when you don’t know who they are?’

  ‘I hate and despise them,’ he fixes me with his still brown eyes, and wags a finger, ‘with all sincerity, with all my will, my heart, and all my intellect, for the good of the people, to protect the progressive onward movement of history, to safeguard the advances secured by the Revolution, to protect the rights of the proletariat, and for many more strong Socialist reasons …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘But for the moment …’ He winces. He looks disconcerted, and shame-faced. ‘I cannot recall what names these people use, who they are. But I know I have the best of reasons to hate them. That they are good and true ideological reasons, free of personal sentiment, founded in the truths of Marx, Engels and …’ He struggles to remember. ‘Who’s that other one …?’

  ‘Do you mean Lenin?’

  ‘Yes, yes …’ He smiles, recalling an old friend. ‘Remind me. What’s dear old Lenin doing these days? We haven’t seen him around for a while.’

  ‘Isn’t he dead?’ I ask.

  At school they always taught us he died back in 1924.

  ‘Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov is dead?’ The Boss’s voice quavers, his chest heaves. Moisture rolls out from the folds of his old walrus eyes, and trickles down his leathered cheeks in winding rivulets, into his whiskers. ‘Why wasn’t I told?’ he demands.

  *

  I think back. I try to count how many days I have been here in the dacha and separated from Papa. Thirteen days, or fourteen? I’m not sure.

  Time flows unevenly here, speeding crazily like quicksilver, then slowing, and thickening to cloggy lumps. And all the days of the week feel much the same. Every new day shakes us weary and bleary, too early from our beds, to descend the white waters of the Boss’s moods.

  Then, at the end, we celebrate. It’s another day survived. And every night ends with a drunken feast.

  12. THE LAST SUPPER

  The Phoenix rises.

  The next day, it’s back like the old days. It’s how things were at the best of times, before the Boss’s recent illness. The Man of Iron rises at eleven and takes a light breakfast of fruit, eggs and bread. By midday he is in his limousine, speeding to the Palace of the People.

  It’s reported that he has a private meeting with the Argentine Ambassador, Manuel Bravo, then works in his office, meeting a range of dignitaries and officials, until eight o’clock when the Magnates and the Boss take themselves to the kinema downstairs in the Palace. They enjoy You Can’t Take It With You, by the Yankee director Frank Capra.

  The Boss’s projectionist, Ivan Sanchin – a thin, nervous man in a boiler-suit, who has never been known to utter a word – screens the film together with Minister for Kinema, Ivan Bolshakov, who, as always, is in attendance to explain the kinematic details and translate, and to suffer abuse, and receive threats to his life, if the film proves a disappointment.

  Because the usual Boss, the real Boss, is really unwell, recovering from his stroke, and can’t distinguish right from left, or say what number follows nine, or remember that Lenin is dead, or who is President of the USA, his part has been played for the whole day by his very top stand-in, Comrade Director Dikoy, who has been given permission to stare, scowl or grunt freely, and to talk lightly and within reason – as the Great Leader Himself – so long as he sticks to simple chit-chat and pleasantries. But, come supper, back at the dacha, the true Boss, himself, is well enough disposed to oust his double, and attend in his own skin, and talk and drink and eat for himself.

  *

  It is an intimate gather
ing for the Boss – together with Bulgirov, Malarkov, Krushka and Bruhah – commencing just before midnight in the small dining room.

  There is a Georgian buffet laid out on the side tables with tomato salad, vegetable pkhali, roast aubergine, khinkali, mtsvadi, kharcho, lobiani, chicken bazhe, khachapuri adjaruli, laid out under the watchful eyes of Lakoba the guard and Matryona the housekeeper.

  The Boss seems to have forgotten my role as his food-taster because he gets tetchy at my proper, timely involvement with his plates, sampling his food before him, with a quick spoonful here, and a fast fork stab there, and an occasional rapid finger dipped in the sauce, as a food-taster must.

  So, he turns to me, smiling for all the company to see, and whispers his frank advice in my ear.

  ‘Go fuck yourself,’ he advises, ‘imbecile child. And keep your greasy, grimy hands out of my dinner, or I’ll have you sprinkled with rosemary and lemon juice, basted in pig fat, and spit-roasted, with an apple in your gawping gob.’

  It puts shivers through me. It brings a smile to my face. I am strangely proud of him, of a sudden. For the moment it sounds like the Boss is back to his old self again. You know he is on the mend, and at his best, when he is swearing freely and threatening clearly.

  His mind is working well tonight. The blood must be flowing freely to his brain.

  He starts talking business. He asks Bruhah how affairs are progressing with the arrested doctors. He wants to know if they have confessed yet to the charges of trying to murder the leadership of the Union of Socialist Republics.

  He warns that the doctors must be broken. And quickly. They must confess to the murders of Shurpikov and of Zootziev, by medical malpractice. These doctors must also be Jewish. They must confess to being Zionist-saboteur-doctors in the pay of Amerikan Fascism.

  All this must happen in time for their public trial shortly. And that if they are not broken quickly, the person in charge of their interrogation must himself be broken. And replaced by someone who can break doctors properly and quickly.

  There are nuts to be cracked, says the Boss. So, where’s the nutcracker?

  One Head of the Ministry of State Security had been executed for delay and incompetence. Another could shortly follow.

  Comrade Iron-Man says it is a simple matter. The interrogators must take their gloves off and cease being kind. They must beat the doctors. Beat them some more. Then beat them again. Break their bones. And grind them to dust.

  ‘And whatsisname? That one who said I was ill, unfit to govern, and should retire?’

  ‘Professor Weidermann,’ says Bruhah. ‘He has a long tongue. He tells us you have fainting spells. And suffer confusions.’

  ‘Make sure he is beaten properly,’ says the Boss, ‘as properly as possible. More than once. Let him enjoy some confusions himself, and fainting spells too …’

  ‘It’s done,’ Bruhah nods.

  ‘And yet, we all grow older.’ The General Secretary is solemn and looks balefully at his four assistants. ‘And I do not know who might ever replace me, when that day finally comes, if my powers should ever wane …’

  ‘The loving people love the Beloved Leader,’ says Bruhah. ‘No one could ever replace him.’

  ‘He is the Gardener of Human Happiness,’ says Krushka, ‘he is the Great Uncle, the Kind Father and the Repository of all Our Dreams. The Genius. The Sun that Lights Our Day. He is loved by everyone, wherever he goes.’

  ‘We all know the poem by heart,’ Bruhah says. And he commences to recite –

  O great Comrade Iron-Man,

  Leader of all peoples,

  Greatest of Philosophers.

  The kindest of hearts.

  Moral beacon to the cosmos.

  Thou who fructifies the earth,

  Thou who makest bloom the spring,

  Thou, splendour of the seasons,

  Companion of the planets,

  O thou, Sun reflected by millions of hearts.

  ‘Tell me,’ says Krushka, ‘was any other human being ever so loved and revered by his fellow man?’

  ‘The General Secretary is in fine health at the peak of his powers,’ observes Bruhah.

  ‘The Comrade is irreplaceable,’ says Krushka.

  ‘You are rust-proof,’ says Malarkov. ‘You are truly the Man of Iron.’

  ‘And you?’ The Boss looks to Bulgirov, who has stayed awkwardly silent, wearing a vague, weary expression, peering into the distance over the rims of his gold-framed spectacles. ‘What’s your name again?’

  ‘Bulgirov,’ says Bulgirov, surprised that his close colleague for these past fifty years now cannot remember his name.

  ‘Well, Bulgirov, could you replace me, you flea-ridden old bird, you bag of shit and feathers?’

  ‘No, Comrade,’ says Bulgirov, ‘I do not have your wisdom, kindness, vigour or authority.’

  ‘And you are an old, worm-ridden, rotting carcass, aren’t you? Like Motolov.’

  ‘As you say,’ Bulgirov murmurs, leaks a thin smile and nods politely.

  ‘And Koretski is a Jew and a Yankee sympathiser … And you-know-who is a fraudster and liar. And whatsisname is a moron.’

  ‘He is?’ asks Malarkov.

  ‘And Bruhah here is a Mingrelian, a foreigner, and a rapist. So, he has to poke his prick into anything that moves, including his colleagues’ wives. And is known to eat his own children …’

  ‘Koba?’ Bruhah protests.

  ‘And poor Krushka, here, is a country bumpkin who can barely spell his name. He’s never opened a book in his life and can’t count past five. And is only fit to run a slaughterhouse …’

  Krushka reddens. A deep hurt shows on his face. But he keeps his lips zipped.

  ‘So, where does that leave us?’

  The inadequates look down and away. They stay silent.

  ‘Some of you think you can ride on past glories. That you are safe and secure in your puffed-up positions. But it is not so. No one is safe. No one is above judgement. Even the highest can be cast down low …’

  The four look at the Boss, with silent, suffering dignity. They remind me of the wolf pack at The Kapital Zoo, sitting patiently in a circle, waiting to be fed. Each knows his place in the pack. Each knows there will be more than enough to eat. Especially if they get lucky, and catch the keeper off guard.

  Then the Boss turns to me.

  ‘Enough business. We’ll play a game. Act the Animal. Yuri, here, goes first. Let’s choose his task …’

  He dips his hand into his upturned Marshal’s hat, draws out a ball of paper, opens and smooths the slip, and reads the chosen task.

  ‘Yuri,’ he commands, ‘you are Sergei’s Fox Terrier. You must run around the table twice, on all fours, barking as you go, then sniff Andrei’s arse, and then lick Nikita’s face. Then try to hump the table leg. And don’t forget to wag your tail as you go …’

  Sometimes, you think he wants to make people look smaller and lower than they really are. Because he then gets Malarkov to be a house mouse in the skirting, and Bruhah to be a maggot in a piece of rotten meat, who then turns into a horse-fly.

  *

  And so we carry on into the early hours. There is more Georgian wine. More games. There is arm-wrestling. There is singing. There is more Georgian wine. There is brandy. Malarkov falls asleep at the table and is made to do a forfeit of drinking seven glasses of vodka, after which he promptly wets himself.

  Krushka falls flat on his face while dancing and is made to drink a bottle of Finnish cloudberry liqueur.

  The Boss paces himself with his drinking and stays more alert than his minions. He watches them with wry amusement and, at intervals, pulls their strings and has them dance like puppets.

  At four in the morning he tires of it all and declares the gathering is at an end.

  It is Sunday, but he warns them he will phone them early. He advises them to rush home and enjoy a few hours’ sleep before their day’s work begins all over again.

  The chauffeurs are summone
d from the kitchen, and the limos draw up, churning the gravel, at the main entrance. Malarkov and Bruhah share a car, as they often do. Krushka travels with Bulgirov.

  The guard Isakov sees the Boss to his chamber of choice. This night he has selected the room just along from the small dining room which he has not used for several days.

  When he returns from seeing the Boss to his room, Isakov announces to the other guards, ‘The General Secretary said this – “I’m going to bed. Stand down. I shan’t be needing you. You can go to bed too.”’

  ‘He told us to stand down?’ asks Lakoba, Captain of the Guard.

  ‘He did.’

  ‘Go off duty?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Well,’ says Lakoba, ‘I’ve never heard him say that before. Not once in seven years.’

  ‘He must be feeling generous,’ says Isakov. ‘He told us all to take a good rest. He said he wouldn’t be needing us again.’

  13. THE MYSTERY OF THE SEALED ROOM

  Next morning, we all know something is amiss. But we don’t know what. And we haven’t a clue what to do.

  I’m waiting to be called for the Boss’s breakfast. But the call never comes.

  The whole household knows where Comrade Iron-Man, Great Father, had laid down his head to sleep the night before. He’d chosen Living Room 3. Everyone has been warned to make no noise in that vicinity.

  There are sensors in the soft furnishings of all the rooms. Those in that chamber signalled movement to the guard room, several times in the early hours, as the Boss tossed and turned on his sofa-bed. But now they have fallen silent.

  The staff huddle outside in the corridor. Matryona, the housekeeper, stands by the small oval table where she has placed the breakfast tray. She lays a testing finger on the coffee pot and clucks. Now it’s too cool, and needs replacing.

  Ten o’clock, no movement.

  Eleven, still no movement.

  Midday. Nothing.

  The guards, either side of the door, make silent comments, raising their brows, rolling their eyes, shrugging. It is later than the General Secretary ever sleeps and yet he isn’t risen.