The Anonymous Novel

by Alessandro Barbero

  The general is still smiling, and relaxes in his swivel chair; you almost feel that he is about to put his feet on the table.

  “Kolya, this Republic’s borders have always been an open house. We’re not in Russia here. So what’s all the fuss about? They bring in the Koran and tapes with theological lessons, and we pick up those who meet together to listen to them: the more come in, the more we pick up, so it would in fact be a mistake to nab them at the frontier. But anyway, even if we wanted to, you know better than I do that we will never succeed. It would mean checking every fishing boat and all the herdsmen in the mountains.”

  Anisimov draws the last puff of his cigarette and then crushes the butt in the malachite ashtray. “It’s just that this time it is no longer a matter of copies of the Koran or cassettes recorded by Iranian mullahs. Arms are coming into the Republic, general. Read this.”

  Now it is Anisimov who produces from his pocket two sheets of rumpled paper, clearly torn from a notebook with squared paper. The general puts out his hand to take them, and then studies them with an inscrutable frown. Of course, the Mamedov group. He knew that they must have a spy of some kind and that sooner or later they would get caught.

  But look who gave the tip-off. You’d never have thought that. He needs to be dealt with and soon. But Anisimov is still there and needs an answer; for the moment the most important thing is to distract him and create a false lead.

  “There’s something I would like to know,” he mutters after a long silence, while lighting another cigarette. “Do you remember that guy we put away for two or three years, Murad-Alyev?

  Who could forget him? The chemist Murad-Alyev, with his short beard and glasses, would hand out cassettes with sermons by Iranian theologians in his home and latterly even at the Institute where he worked. At his trial, he would only reply to the judge with quotations from the Koran…

  “I would like to know,” the general continued, “when his sentence comes to an end.”

  “Well, that can be easily ascertained,” Anisimov replied and left the room. The general waited in silence and contemplated the cigarette that was slowly burning itself out in the ashtray. Five minutes go by, and the hands shift on the clock on the wall, while a fly buzzes and the general gets irritated. He takes a key out of his pocket and opens a drawer. A little while ago, he thought of keeping a Koran in that drawer hidden amongst his papers, but fortunately he realised the foolishness of doing such a thing. He would not have been able to resist the temptation to leaf through it or open it randomly in search of some omen when he had to make a decision. That was all he needed: somebody to see him with that book in his hand! Instead he has a Rubik’s cube in the drawer, and that is what the general takes out.

  He starts to twist around the multicoloured sides of the cube with his stubby but unexpectedly nimble fingers, while he closes his eyes even further. He moves his fingers and studies the red, green, yellow, orange and blue component cubes as they rotate and never line up together. To hell with the Hungarian, what damnable thing did he come up with?

  Enough to drive you crazy! Like squaring the circle… Here’s Anisimov back, the Rubik’s slips back into the drawer.

  The major re-enters with a black book under his arm, as the general expected. Indeed it has been written, “Every misfortune that befalls the earth or your own persons has been written in a book before We bring it into being” (Koran, LVII, 22).

  “Murad-Alyev got out a few weeks ago, in February,” he announces as he opens the book and points to the page.

  “I knew it!” the general puts on an appearnce of outrage.

  “Even though the bastard got five years!”

  “Indeed, but they released him early. Why, does that surprise you?”

  The general has difficulty in suppressing a smile on seeing Anisimov’s eyes shine with the anger of a policeman betrayed by the judges, the journalists and perhaps even the government, that clique of intellectuals Gorbachev has brought to power over there in Moscow, and who knows what damage they will cause… “Let’s keep an eye on him, but without being too conspicuous, right?”

  “Okay, general, I’ll deal with it. But what about the others, the ones mentioned in the report?”

  Yusuf-zade picks up the papers again and gives the impression of checking the names, even though he knows them very well indeed – including the informant who tipped off the police. Yes indeed, that telephone call has got to be made, and it’s no longer a question of asking the lads to keep their heads down; somebody has got to be advised that a change of air is in order. But be careful! Because too much activity could play into Anisimov’s hands, always supposing he’s up to what the general thinks he’s up to. Better to sacrifice one of his number and only give Anisimov enough to hang himself with. Oh yes, he’s still waiting for an answer…

  “Listen, Kolya, this list,” his fingers tap the report, “has someone else read it?”

  Anisimov smiles, “No one, general. Only you and I.”

  Ah, wolf cub! You want to get rid of the wolf, but your claws have yet to grow long and sharp!

  “Well listen, keep an eye on these ones too. The whole lot.

  Send two men after each one, and have them change about.

  So if someone complains, we’ll have handcuffs on them in no time – to make an example – and if not, well, one thing leads to another. Right?”

  This way, there’ll be time to make up one’s mind: whether to let one drown or save them all. With surveillance shifts, everyone will know within a week what’s brewing and the tip-off could have been made by anyone. Anisimov gets up and walks heavily towards the door.

  “Kolya!”

  Anisimov stops with his hand on the door handle, and turns. The general points to the report on the desk.

  “Put a signature on that, now that you’ve read it. Oh and send along Musayev, if you don’t mind.”

  Anisimov signs the papers with a fountain pen with an enormous gilt clip, makes a slight gesture to express his farewell, turns on his heels and leaves. The general puts his heavy, somewhat worn, leather bag on the desk – the bag he came to the office with. He inserts his hairy hand and removes a yellow envelope. He closes the bag again and replaces it on the floor next to his chair. Almost immediately someone knocks at the door.

  “Come in!”

  Captain Musayev has a black moustache and sideburns, and is also wearing civilian clothes: brown suit, no tie and sandals on his feet. Only his green socks are part of the uniform he was issued with, the same ones that the general is wearing.

  “Take a look at this, my friend,” the general mutters switching to Azeri. “Come here and sit down.”

  The captain obeys, and then takes up the envelope and opens it. Inside there are several typewritten sheets of paper, mainly with official stamps and on the large sheets used in government offices.

  “Look, there are all the applications for access to our archive over the next six months. I finished looking at them yesterday. And this,” Yusuf-zade continued while pointing to the first sheet, “is that pest I was telling you about. Have a look yourself what manner of research she wants to carry out!”

  Musayev examines the paper carefully. “‘Party cadres in the Baku region from 1945 to 1953.’ Well, that’s a nice subject,” he grins sarcastically. “And it’s a girl, you say?”

  “That’s right, a girl,” confirms the general. “We could have done without this irritation, as you well know!”

  Wrapped in thought, Musayev turns the paper over in his hands. Of course, he too understands the situation – only too well. During those distant years, things happened that no one should go raking up…

  “Couldn’t we just phone Moscow and get it all sorted up there?” he suggests.

  The general sighs.

  “In Moscow? Nowadays they can’t even sort out their washing. I’ve tried. When the problem first came up, because I haven’t told you that this… scholar… turned up here last summer! She wanted to go to the Ce
ntral Archive of the Republic; there’s no classified material there, so I wasn’t that worried, but at the right moment I sent two guys to Moscow to let them know that they were going over the top, and would you believe it? – this had absolutely no effect whatsoever! The competent bodies, they say, have reached their decision… Look at this, they have even countersigned her petition!” Musayev examines the headed paper of the Historical Institute of the CPSU. At the place for a signature, there is an illegible scribble, but underneath they have rubberstamped “Deputy Director, A.T. Sarabyanova”, which, thank God, is legible.

  “It’s not the director’s signature,” observes the captain, who knows the importance of some little details.

  “I know; do you think I didn’t notice? It doesn’t make any difference, the application is still valid; I have made enquiries… But that’s not the point! This woman is not getting in here; we’ll find some pretext or another. We weren’t born yesterday. The problem is that she won’t just be coming here! If only! No, the woman wants to go to the Prosecutor’s Office and the Party, and there they’ll certainly let her in: would you like to browse? Please go ahead! Make yourself at home!”

  “So what’s to be done?” Musayev frowned.

  “Who knows? We’ll have to come up with a plan…

  Meanwhile, brother, see if you can give her a little attention, when she gets here. Let’s at least find out who we are dealing with and where she is likely to stick her nose.”

  The captain produces a notebook and biro: he writes Tanya’s name in full, and then copies all the details from the papers that came from the envelope. He waves his goodbye and moves to the door sloppily in his plastic sandals and creased jacket with its pockets full of paper. As soon as he is out of the room, the general reopens the drawer and once more runs his fingers across the Rubik’s cube in pursuit of the coloured squares that never end up in the right spot.

  Fate has decreed that today he will not resolve it (even though the red squares have nearly all been marshalled together; only one white square floats around freely in a sea of red, and yet he still can’t manage… simply cannot manage to get hold of it). One of the telephones on his desk rings; it is the secretary ringing from her office next door, “General, the photographer is here.”

  Ah, Allah be praised – then we can get rid of this damned uniform. He puts the cube back in the drawer, and goes to the door: if we must, let’s do this portrait…

  But no! The phone rings again, and this time it is the red phone, the special line. Not to reply would be unthinkable.

  In fact there can only be one person on that phone: Geydar Alyev, Politburo member and the godfather of Azerbaijan. He’s a brother too, let’s make that clear, but still it’s not a good idea to keep him waiting…

  “Hello!”

  “Hello! Zia, is that you?”

  “Geydar, it’s me.”

  “Well, what are you up to?”

  “I’m going to be photographed.”

  “Photographed! Are you making fun of me?”

  “Not at all. Wouldn’t dream of it. It’s for the book; they asked for it…”

  That’s right. They’re now even printing our names in books – with photographs of us in full regimentals! Clearly they think we go to the office with all the braid and decorations. The motherfuckers think that people need to be shown how public bodies can practise TRANSPARENCY; such are the demands of our times.

  “Oh well then, off you go and get your photograph taken.

  I’ll call you later.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it. He can wait, that devil! Besides I wanted to ring you myself. Fish soup is on the menu at my home, this evening. Bring honour to my house, come and have a taste of it…”

  “What a good idea. That way, we can chat in a relaxed manner. I’m only down here in Baku for three days, you know, on Friday evening I’m back in Moscow. You’ve got no idea, they never do things by halves in that city. Sixteen million tons of petrol, pah! No one believes it… And whose job is it to explain and persuade? Mine, of course. We’ll talk about it this evening. Off you go and get your picture taken; don’t keep the workers waiting.”

  What’s got into Geydar? Has he sat on a wasps’ nest?

  Clearly, the climate of Moscow puts him in a dreadful mood… Sixteen million tons, really! And so? It’s not as though we draw up the statistics! Why doesn’t he go and complain to those charlatans at the Ministry of Petroleum.

  And, between you and me, the time has come to carry out a nice little purge in that place. Well, we’ll find out more this evening. I know just how to put him in a good mood: apart from the fish soup, grapes and pomegranate, and the cognac sent by the Accountant, real Napoleon. And now off to the photographer…

  Today, however, there are to be further vexations for the general, because not only has the photographer arrived, but he is also in the company of a journalist. And which newspaper? Well, one of those newspapers that mustn’t be snubbed, if it is at all possible. The journalist, of course, is only too aware of this fact, and surveys his surroundings as though he were the master of all before him. He puts out his hand, “Makharadze, so pleased to meet you. You’ll have to forgive me… here without an appointment. But when I heard that our Yegorka here was coming to see you, I said to myself, I really must take advantage of this opportunity.”

  And that’s the way it is now! There he is, this Makharadze, with his notebook in his hand and waiting…

  There’s nothing for it: you have to swallow hard and be nice to him! The accent, a little difficult to place, must be Muscovite, and the jacket made of fine soft leather could only have been bought in the capital. No, there’s no two ways about it: the name might be Georgian, but this is one of those Georgians who have been living in Moscow for a hundred years. He’s Russian, so be careful what you say…

  “But of course! Of course! Come through to my office.

  This way, and make yourselves comfortable. Sadly, I’m afraid, I do not have a lot of time: ten minutes will do?

  There’s the photograph as well… As you can see, I have dressed up in my uniform!”

  “What a shame!” the journalist throws in brightly.

  “Because we’ve got all morning.”

  The general spreads his arms in a gesture of desolation, “A shame indeed! But let me tell you: when we’ve finished, you can leave my office, wander around the corridors and interview my subordinates quite freely. Just go ahead, in the knowledge that not so long ago I would not have granted you such an opportunity.”

  Makharadze laughs. Perhaps he can be taken for a ride, after all. There are journalists like that: you just have to wink at them, and suddenly they’re quite docile. But no, that would be too easy: notice the way he is looking around with an air of curiosity.

  “And up there?” he asks, pointing to the stairs to the floor above. In spite of himself, the general pulls a face that reveals his resentment.

  “Oh, up there… Up there there’s nothing of any interest, I can assure you of that. Corridors, rooms, just like down here. No, really, nothing of interest. Let’s not waste time.

  Down here on the ground floor, you can wander around wherever you like and speak to whoever you want. For instance, through there is the waiting room; any citizen who wants to speak to the KGB or lodge a complaint, can take a seat. Times have changed, and greatly for the better. I’ll have you know that we too are RECONSTRUCTED.”

  Just look at what we have come to: playing the clown in front of the first journalist who happens to come by… The general laughs to himself – a hidden laugh of disgruntlement. Truly, “this world’s life is naught but a play and an idle sport” (Koran, VI, 32).

  XIII

  Strangers on a train

  The Moscow-Baku express, May 1988

  A few months had passed since the events narrated in the last few chapters, and on a May evening when the weather was undecided and lukewarm, Nazar Kallistratovich Lappa left for Baku on the 811 express train, the “Ca
spian Arrow”.

  His couchette was in a first-class compartment with two places, so the judge had every hope of travelling alone, as did sometimes happen, but when he opened the door another passenger – a female – was already clambering up onto one of the beds. She was a woman of between thirty and forty years, small with a big nose and dyed hair. She was wearing a pair of cheap shoes with cork soles, which she removed immediately to reveal her laddered stockings.

  Once she had taken possession of the couchette, she looked inquisitively at the large, fat and bespectacled man who had just entered the compartment.

  “Well, here we are,” she finally piped up. “We will be together for two days, so let’s get to know each other, what do you say?”

  “With pleasure,” the judge replied holding out his hand.

  “Lappa Nazar Kallistratovich.”

  “Pushkareva Nadya Stepanovna. Are you hungry?”

  Nazar signalled that he wasn’t.

  “I am! If I don’t get something in my stomach quick, I’ll start to feel ill. It can’t be helped, whenever I get on a train, I have to eat.”

  She took a sandwich out of her haversack and started to munch, and there was much flashing of her gold teeth as she did so.

  “Right,” she managed to say with her mouth full. “So you too are off to Baku. Is it for work or to see family?”

  “Well you know… for work,” Nazar replied prudently.

  “Well, I’ve got family! My mother and my son! I used to leave them on their own for weeks when they started to send me up here. It seems that my director can’t get anywhere if I don’t come to Moscow. But nowadays, you can’t be so sure, and I told him so: I’ll go, but just for a day or two, no longer than that. And he said to me: You take the plane, it’s much quicker! But I’m scared of flying. I know it’s stupid, isn’t it?

  Well there you are, we’re off!” The train’s metallic clatter smothered the screams and shouts of those on the platform, who became a flurry of hands and handkerchiefs. Nazar looked at his watch: so at least we’re leaving on time…