‘… Many have said they feel the honour undeserved, because modesty in moments of great recognition is expected. Modesty, I fear, is the conceit of many men. Risking the nomination of my own criticism, I declare a feeling of humility, a fear that the works for which I have today been accorded the greatest recognition that can be given to a writer are undeserving …’
He stopped. He was speaking slower now, with better delivery. Again Josef was reminded of an actor.
‘… Forgive me my moment of conceit …’ added Nikolai, after just the right pause. There was a murmur of polite amusement. Josef sat bemused by the change in the man.
‘… It is customary, in Nobel Lectures from writers, for much to be said of art. I admire those men who find themselves able to discourse so freely and so easily upon such a subject. I will not talk to you today about art, for I do not feel competent to do so. In the conceit of modesty, I suppose a man can be forgiven for believing the Nobel prize befits him to lecture others on how his work should be received or performed. I do not feel that confidence. I do not feel I can declaim upon an art in which I believe myself to be an amateur …’
It was going amazingly well, decided Josef. Now Nikolai’s voice was strong and evenly pitched. There was, of course, the difficulty of translation, but sufficient people seemed able to understand. Josef had noticed several head-together conversations, always followed by approving nods. Josef saw Sukalov looking at him and smiling. Josef wondered how long his contentment would last.
‘… I feel to the art of literature like an ant crawling around the base of a giant oak …’
Once more Nikolai cleared his throat and appeared to straighten on the podium.
‘… Every year …’ he began, coming to that part of the lecture about which Josef had so much concern. He coughed and stopped. Around him Josef was aware of an intensifying of interest as people suspected a problem.
‘… Every year,’ Nikolai began again, ‘the awarding of the Nobel prize for literature arouses world-wide interest. That is to be expected. This year, the award has created even greater interest. That is to be expected too. Because I am Russian …’
Even those unable to understand caught the feeling that swept the room, a tightening that seemed to go through the people, as if a wire to which they were all attached had been turned by one notch.
‘… I am aware of that interest. I stand before you today an oddity, a man different from his fellows, from his countrymen, like someone with two heads, each facing myopically towards the other. I am aware, too, of the reason. Another Russian, a short time ago, was accorded the honour that has been bestowed upon me today. For reasons which no doubt seemed compelling to him and for which I extend no criticism, he chose not to travel here to accept it. I could find no such reason. But I respect his feelings, for in my conceit of modesty, I regard him as a far better writer than I shall ever be. Many of you will have read of the lecture that my fellow Russian had intended to deliver here. In it, reference was made to a Russian proverb – “One word of truth outweighs the whole world.” It provided a title for the lecture when it was published in the West…’
Josef was conscious of Sukalov’s wide-eyed stare. Other people, aware of Josef’s identity, were looking at him. There was utter silence, that hollow nothingness that preludes the acceptance of disaster.
‘Upon my arrival here, I was asked what concessions I had made to enable this trip to be undertaken. I replied “none”. That is my word of truth. Against me – and therefore against my work, which I resent – there appears to be growing criticism. It is a criticism by default. “The writing must be suspect,” runs the argument, “because the man has no political motivation. He is not at war with his country.” Is it necessary for a man to be a politician before he can be a writer? Does a man need to suffer the humiliation and the deprivation of a prison camp before he can encompass the cruelty of man to man …?’
Sukalov looked frightened, Josef thought.
‘… In the Soviet Union, there is undoubtedly much that can be criticized. Mistakes have been made. And will be made again …’
Sukalov was bent, whispering into the ear of the First Secretary, gesturing towards Josef.
‘People have suffered. And – perhaps regretfully – will continue to suffer …’
Nikolai hesitated again. This time, the cough had the edge of nervousness. Even blinded, he appeared able to detect the feeling from those before him. Haltingly, but then with growing confidence, Nikolai continued.
‘… The world was once a large, inaccessible place. Now it is small. Borders are now merely drawings on a map. Is it the function of all writers to turn lines on maps into insurmountable barriers? To establish the system which now exists in the People’s Republic of China, twenty-six million people died. Should China be isolated? In Australia, the native aborigine has become almost extinct under white rule and now exists – but barely – in squalor unparalleled in the world. Should Australia be isolated? One hundred and thirty years ago, the American government, then, thank God, unaware of a place called Vietnam, adopted a policy called “ultimate destiny”. It was, according to their legislation and even religious guidance of the time, destiny that the white man should occupy the continent and that the American Indian should perish if he objected. Should America be isolated? In South Africa, no black – or kaffir, to use their own word, which sounds offensive, like spitting – may walk a street without a pass, a document that herds him, like cattle, into settlements which, like those in Australia and those in America of one hundred and thirty years ago, are always in the worst parts of the country, the places where the white man does not want to be. Should South Africa be isolated? During a holocaust that should be the shame of mankind, in the Katyn Forests of Poland, in eighteen terrible hours, an entire intellectual stratum of Poland was destroyed in the name of Nazism. In every Ministry in the West German government today, there are men who were Nazis, still holding positions of office. Should West Germany be isolated …?’
Nikolai stopped, his throat ragged. He sipped from some water somehow concealed below the lectern. Josef couldn’t remember it having been available at the rehearsal. The shuffling and coughs were growing now. The audience were like people at a traffic accident, unwilling to involve themselves in a minor tragedy, standing back waiting for the person next to them to step forward. It was working, Josef thought.
‘… A writer is like a man who has undergone a cataract operation. He can see, where others are blind. He enjoys beauty, but always sees the ugliness. Because I do not write about ugliness – political ugliness, personal ugliness, human ugliness – it does not mean that I am unaware that it exists, that I cannot see it. But I view things of beauty in a particular light, in better perspective. I have been gifted, if that is not too pretentious a word, with a way of portraying beauty. To include ugliness would be to smear mud on my view of beauty. I repeat the proverb from my country – “One word of truth outweighs the whole world.” With apologies to its unknown creator, I borrow from it – “A vision of beauty illuminates a moment.”’
Only Josef, who knew the lecture, was aware it was over. Nikolai stood there, transfixed, awaiting reaction. Silence sat on time, stretching it from seconds into minutes. People were gathered in groups, three or four clustered around one who was able to provide a translation. The applause started first behind Josef, sounding a long way off and then picked up nearer, to his left and grew, like a snowball rolling down a hill, increasing in its size with every turn. And then it echoed through the hall, sound building on sound, and Nikolai stood at the rostrum, blinking at the ovation. He was staring towards the photographers, Josef saw.
Sukalov fought through the crush at the reception preceding the banquet. Nikolai was damp, his shirt sticking to his body, but with the half-shy, half-confident smile of somebody who believes he has done well but is not quite sure how. His face was red.
‘I never want to witness something like that again,’ said the ambassador.
‘That could be disastrous.’
‘No,’ disagreed Josef. ‘I know the Western mind. Nikolai will be lionized.’
‘But Moscow …’
‘He said nothing about Russia that hasn’t been publicly conceded in exploding the myths of Stalin and Khrushchev. Less, in fact. Yet from a world platform, he has jangled the skeletons in half the cupboards of the world. No one can level at Nikolai the accusation that he is politically naive. Neither can he be accused of not being aware of his own country’s mistakes.’
‘Very clever,’ admitted the ambassador, without feeling. ‘The only reservation is that everyone must interpret it as you have.’
‘They will,’ promised Josef, confidently. ‘Those that matter, anyway.’
‘But they weren’t his views, Josef,’ guessed Sukalov. ‘They were yours. What’s going to happen to Nikolai when he gets exposed to the television talk-shows and newspaper interviews?’
‘It just won’t happen, will it?’ rejected Josef, smiling. ‘My job is to protect him.’
‘I always thought writers were supposed to have integrity.’
‘What does that mean?’ asked Josef, curiously.
‘Is Balshev so eager for the honour he’s prepared to say whatever he’s told? I already thought he might know he was being manipulated – now I’m wondering if he isn’t a willing puppet.’
‘Show me a truly independent man, Comrade Sukalov, and I’ll name a new religion after him,’ said Josef.
‘It’s time for me to circulate,’ said Sukalov, the professional diplomat. He fitted the ambassador’s smile into place and moved away. Endelman and Nikolai looked towards Josef.
‘James said I was magnificent,’ opened Nikolai, stepping off on a predictable path. ‘Was I magnificent, Josef?’
‘Yes,’ conceded the negotiator. ‘There were times when I felt you were enjoying it.’
‘I was,’ admitted Nikolai.
‘I felt proud of him, too,’ said Endelman.
Josef noticed that Nikolai was not bothering with the tray of drinks passing within arm’s reach, content with the half glass of champagne that he had held for the past fifteen minutes. Suddenly Nikolai giggled, like a child with a secret, and raised his glass to the photographer.
‘We must toast Jimmy,’ he said, to Josef. ‘Without him, that speech wouldn’t have been possible.’
‘Don’t,’ said Endelman, his face serious.
‘Why not? Josef should know. He’s my friend. Aren’t you my friend, Josef?’
The negotiator looked at Endelman. ‘What did you give him?’ he demanded, quietly, a suspicion confirmed.
‘They were quite safe,’ said the photographer. ‘Just “uppers”.’
‘James is going to come and live with us,’ announced Nikolai. ‘Seems ridiculous that he should stay elsewhere. He’s moving in tonight.’
‘Oh.’
‘And Josef.’
‘What?’
‘See he’s included in all the other reservations, will you?’
The author turned as Josef was about to reply, moving off to join Sukalov, who greeted him apprehensively.
Endelman smiled at Josef. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said.
‘… Endelman.’
The photographer looked directly at Josef, the easy smile slipping away.
‘Less than eighteen hours ago, I made it clear to you that I objected to the facilities you were being allowed. I made it equally clear that I would withdraw those facilities if you became a nuisance. Even I didn’t foresee you’d be pumping the man with drugs.’
‘Is that your prerogative then, Mr Bultova?’
‘Get out, Endelman,’ said Josef. ‘Don’t bother even to say goodbye to Nikolai.’
‘I don’t think it’s altogether up to you.’
He turned to where the writer was standing, amid a group of people from the Literary Academy. Nikolai saw the look and came over, smiling. Had they rehearsed it, wondered the negotiator.
‘I’ve been told to clear out, Nikolai,’ announced Endelman.
Nikolai laughed and Josef knew the writer’s announcement had not been the casual admission it had seemed, but contrived to create confrontation. Josef stared at the writer. Having broken through the eggshell, the baby was anxious to fly, he thought.
‘But I don’t want Jimmy to go, Josef. So I won’t allow it.’
He raised his voice, darting glances to ensure people were watching. Krantz, fearing a repetition of the earlier reception, frowned.
‘Nikolai,’ said Josef, his voice quiet. ‘I’m running this tour …’
‘There’s no need to whisper,’ interrupted Nikolai, his voice higher. ‘I agree you run this tour. And you will continue to do so. You will run it exactly as I wish. And I wish Jimmy to stay.’
He turned to the photographer. ‘Let’s circulate,’ he said, heavily. Obediently, Endelman moved off in the writer’s wake.
Sukalov hurried over. ‘What in God’s name was that?’
‘Growing pains,’ identified Josef, angry at the public humiliation.
‘Is he determined to wreck this damned tour?’ demanded the diplomat.
Josef shook his head, gradually recovering.
‘He’s not sure what he wants to do. Except get everyone to look at him.’
‘He’s certainly succeeding in that.’
‘Unfortunately,’ said Josef, ‘most of them are laughing.’
*
Because she had not been available, as people should be in times of illness, they were rude to Lady Bellamy at the clinic.
‘Cancer?’ she echoed, in the consultant’s office.
‘And a weak heart.’ Perhaps her indifference was caused by shock, he thought. It happened sometimes. The man was prepared to make allowances.
‘He knew little pain. It was only under anaesthetic that we really learned how extensive it was. We knew his heart was weak, but we didn’t realize that the operation would last as long as it did. He died without regaining consciousness.’
‘Fancy,’she said, like someone commenting upon a cricket score.
15
They were necessary to him, so Josef knew exactly the amount of tranquillizers, drugs and sleeping pills he carried in his case. It was two days after the ceremony, when they were packing for London, that he realized some had been stolen. His control over Nikolai had diminished as Endelman’s had grown, and Josef was anxious not to make an unfounded accusation that would allow Nikolai another opportunity for contempt. Three times he counted the contents of each bottle. There were ten valium and librium tablets missing, eight methalaquone and fifteen capsules from each of the bottles containing chlordiazepoxide and diazepam. He sat for nearly fifteen minutes, staring into the repacked briefcase. He would have to challenge the man, of course. Nikolai would expect the accusation. To avoid it would be making a bigger concession than losing yet another argument. He accepted he would have to lose because of Nikolai’s growing awareness of his own importance, like a child showing off at his own birthday party.
‘Nikolai,’ called Josef. The separating door was open.
‘What?’
‘I’d like to see you.’
‘I’m here.’
‘In here, please, Nikolai.’
‘I’m busy, Josef.’
The negotiator detected Endelman’s smirk of amusement as he entered the adjoining suite. He had the briefcase in his hand.
‘What have you done with the pills you took from my case?’
‘You see!’ said Nikolai, triumphantly, turning to the photographer. ‘I told you he’d notice them.’
He turned back to Josef. ‘We had a bet. Jimmy said you wouldn’t realize it, but I knew you were cleverer than that.’
‘Give them back to me,’ said Josef, extending his hand.
Nikolai laughed at him.
‘But I need them, Josef. I like the sensation. We mix them with the amphetamines that Jimmy has and the sensation is tremendous. Much better than sex.’
>
Josef sighed, helplessly. More stage management, he thought. Why was it so important for insecure people to prove themselves?
‘I want you to stop taking pills,’ he said. ‘And I want those back you haven’t yet taken.’
‘You’re making yourself look ridiculous,’ said the writer. ‘I’ve made it quite clear how this tour is going to be conducted. You really must stop telling me what to do. Pills do me good. I can meet people. Without the confidence they give me, I might make mistakes and that would reflect badly upon Russia. We neither of us want that, now do we?’
He’d assimilated sarcasm very well, thought Josef. He looked at Endelman, who shrugged.
‘Jimmy’s on my side,’ said the writer. ‘It’s no good looking to him for support.’
‘It can’t cause a lot of harm,’ offered the photographer.
‘That’s bollocks and you know it,’ said Josef.
Nikolai glanced at his watch. ‘You’d better hurry, Josef,’ he said. ‘The car is due here in thirty minutes and we don’t want to miss the plane, do we?’
Stanswell organized the London reception well. The arrival press conference was as large as that in Stockholm a week before, but the questions were less demanding. The newly confident Nikolai volunteered answers for Josef’s translation and on several occasions groped replies in English. There was a large section of book critics who dealt solely with the novel on its artistic merit and even the political questions were easily answered. No one probed Josef’s association. The London ambassador, Dimitry Listnisky, was at the airport with a small delegation. He was withdrawn and barely courteous, recognizing the politics and unwilling to become involved with them. Josef had expected an embassy reception, but the ambassador said nothing. He wondered hopefully if the diplomats in America would similarly ignore him. It was hardly likely, he thought.
They travelled into London in a fleet of limousines, Stanswell in the same vehicle as Josef and Nikolai.
‘I did well, didn’t I?’
‘Yes,’ agreed Josef, wearily.
The portly publisher looked at Josef questioningly.
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