Zuvorin asked, ‘How are you liking your new duties?’
If he were so honest he would say he didn’t like them one bit. Compromise. Blessed compromise. ‘It’s a job.’
‘Mmmmmm.’
A summer storm blew up outside, rain bouncing furiously on hot concrete and metal. The ambassador opened the window.
After a while—both mesmerized by the sound, and the smell of rain on dust—the ambassador spoke again. ‘Relations between the Soviet Union and America are at last progressing. It is a considerable achievement for the leaders of both countries.’
Zhukov said what was expected of him. ‘And for you, sir.’
The ambassador accepted the flattery with a gesture of his cigarette. ‘It would be agreeable if I were to leave Washington with a sense of achievement.’
Disappointment assailed Zhukov. Like discovering the frailties of a family doctor, or overtaking the intellect of a teacher. Nothing wrong with seeking achievement: the retrospect and salve for the last accelerating phase of life. Perhaps, Zhukov thought, I am jealous. For what consummative retrospect will there be for me? A first secretary (by accident), nothing more. Young aspiration locked in the attic. ‘It would be very agreeable,’ he said.
‘You are surprised by such vainglorious sentiments, Zhukov? By the cult of the personality here in the Soviet Embassy?’
Compromise, Zhukov. ‘It would be admirable, sir, if you manage to bring East and West closer together.’
‘Ah so.’ Zuvorin felt his chest with the tips of his fingers. His wary, pudgy face, distinguished by laugh lines and a noble nose, was weary—lines taking advantage of the tired skin. He took a rejuvenating swallow of whisky. ‘But would that be really admirable, Zhukov?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t quite understand.’
‘It is surely not the aim of Marxism-Leninism to make friends with the West. I sometimes wonder if I correctly interpret the wishes of the Kremlin. Maybe, Comrade Zhukov, the attainment of good relations with the United States of America would be regarded as a failure. It is ironic, is it not?’
The rain sluiced down the window blurring the skyscraper stumps of the city. ‘I don’t think so,’ Zhukov said. ‘Surely the aims of Marxism-Leninism can be more easily won in an atmosphere of peace.’
‘Perhaps you’re right.’ Zuvorin smiled. ‘I think maybe the President of the United States and myself have similar problems. We both want to leave the stage having made a final contribution to the good of mankind. So he stops the bombing in Vietnam and prays that good sense will prevail in Paris. I wish I shared his optimism.’ He poured more Scotch. ‘I saw the President this morning.’
Zhukov nodded, unsure of his role.
‘I like the man. He is as honest as a president can be. Now the hawks are accusing him of showing weakness merely to achieve a last political triumph before his retirement. So, what is so wrong with that? Every politician in Washington—in the world—is motivated by ambition. It merely comes in different guises. Some holy, some blatant. If peace is achieved, even approached, then who the hell cares about personal motive. Or,’ he acknowledged with a grimace, ‘perhaps I am only making my own excuses.’
‘Was your meeting a success?’
‘We understood each other. But he’s the leader of his country, I’m merely the representative of mine. What he says is law, what I say can be contradicted.’
The ambassador’s wife came in. ‘How many whiskies is that?’ she asked her husband.
‘Two,’ he said.
‘No more,’ she said. She addressed Zhukov. ‘See that he drinks no more than two whiskies, Comrade Zhukov.’
‘It upsets my digestion,’ Zuvorin explained.
Zhukov didn’t believe him.
Zuvorin’s wife smiled conspiratorially at Zhukov giving the impression that she was pleased to see her husband with a friend instead of a colleague.
When she had gone Zuvorin said, ‘We discussed plans for a summit meeting with Kosygin.’ He paused. ‘This is highly confidential, you understand.’
‘Of course. But I don’t quite understand …’
‘Why I am confiding in a first secretary recently promoted?’
‘Yes,’ Zhukov said. ‘Just that.’
From the record-player there came the boom of 1812 cannons: thunder for the summer storm.
‘Because I am interested in your reactions as an honest man. Not as a politician or diplomat. Not pausing to consider whether you are saying what is expected of you. Not glancing over your shoulder at Moscow.’
‘You make it very difficult for me,’ Zhukov said. ‘You may not like my reactions.’
‘I respect honesty,’ Zuvorin said. ‘I don’t see too much of it.’ He took a cigarette from a box on the table, paused and put it back. ‘You needn’t worry. There will be no recriminations. The summit will be called to consider further ways of limiting the arms race. Work is to stop on the anti-missile defences around Moscow and on the Tallinn defence arc. At least, so I am assured,’ he added carefully.
‘That at least is good,’ Zhukov said, aware that there was more to come.
‘The President also asked me about Soviet intentions towards Czechoslovakia.’ Zuvorin laughed, but without the usual melody. ‘He said he didn’t want any bullshit. A good American word—a nice Texas ring to it. I don’t think we have an equivalent in Russian, do we Comrade Zhukov?’
Zhukov said he didn’t think they did. Offhand he couldn’t think of one.
‘I told him that the Soviet Union merely wanted to ensure that the principles of Marxism-Leninism were adhered to. He said, “You mean you want the poor sons-of-bitches to come to heel.” I reiterated what I had said. He said, “Can I believe you, Zuvorin?” And said it wasn’t the first time I had evaded the truth. They’re still inordinately proud of the way Kennedy handled the Cuba crisis, these Americans.’ He took a cigarette, holding it unlighted between his lips. ‘With some justification, Comrade Zhukov. With some justification. Although they tend to make too much of my lies. It was diplomacy, tightrope diplomacy. And we Russians played our part in averting another world war. It takes a lot of courage and good sense to accept humiliation.’
‘I don’t quite understand,’ Zhukov said, ‘what it is you want me to judge.’
‘Not judgement—just reaction.’
‘So far my reaction can only be favourable.’
‘The President is a very forthright man. Another Khrushchev in some respects. He asked me outright if the Soviet Union planned armed intervention in Czechoslovakia. Did we intend to invade, was the way he put it.’
‘And you told him no?’
Zuvorin nodded, lighting the cigarette, sipping the melted ice at the bottom of his glass.
‘Then everything is fine.’
‘Can I truthfully say that Russia has no intention of invading Czechoslovakia?’
A nausea of comprehension. ‘We would only send in troops, surely, in the event of an armed uprising. Not just to subdue a little patriotic liberalism.’
‘Who knows?’
‘You mean that armed intervention is being seriously considered?’
‘Actively considered might be a more accurate definition. And if the tanks do move in, then the Summit will collapse and once again I shall be accused of being a liar. Hardly an auspicious climax to my career. What would you have done, Comrade Zhukov?’
‘I’m glad I’m not a Soviet ambassador,’ Zhukov said.
The storm spent itself and the sun began to coax steam from the sidewalks. And on the record-player the battle ended.
The American press and television spared Zhukov nothing. Still he hoped; but foreboding lodged as firmly as guilt.
If the Russians did invade was there any extenuating factor?
Not that he could see. Not on the television screen. Just jubilation at the prospects of freedom budding. Student intensity of happiness—bespectacled and bearded and triumphant; older peasant faces smiling warily, more cynical of the ability of an oc
cupying power to condone. They had, after all, experience of two Master Races in occupation.
What hurt Zhukov most, witnessing the renaissance of hope in the streets of Prague, was the conviction that they were defying a tyranny. That his people were the tyrants: that these blithely vulnerable liberals regarded the Russians as he had once regarded the Germans. That it was no minority band of gangsters ‘infiltrated by the agents of Imperialism’ or ‘financially supported from the coffers of a decadent society making a last pathetic bid to disrupt the glorious unity of Socialism.’
No, these people hate us.
And no one—or almost no one—inside Russia would ever realize it. No one in Russia would ever see these films. The camera didn’t lie. Wenceslas Square was no movie lot.
If I still lived in Moscow I would never know.
Inexorably the crisis gathered momentum. As did Vladimir Zhukov’s own.
On July 29th the Soviet Politburo and the Czech presidium met in the village of Cierna, a railway junction on the Tisa River on the Slovakian-Soviet border while extensive troop movements were taking place. At night Brezhnev, Kosygin and Podgorny recrossed the border into Russia in a green Soviet train to sleep.
On August 1st Dubcek said, ‘We have not taken a single step back.’
On August 3rd the Russians, Czechs and four East European countries most loyal to Moscow met at Bratislava and ratified the Cierna agreement.
To no avail.
The placid, voluble features of Dubcek became a symbol to Zhukov of what was to be. The sincerity and naïveté of an unworldly priest: a weak face posed for a kick in the teeth from a jackboot.
In the Zhukov household the television became the catalyst of strife. On, off. And as the inevitable came nearer Valentina dispatched Natasha to the Russian camp at Black Walnut Point on Tilghman Island where children could spend the summer vacation for sixty-five dollars a month.
At about the same time Vladimir Zhukov realized that he was under close surveillance. It was as if they listened to his thoughts. Or anticipated the impact of unfettered information on ideals.
As if they expected Vladimir Zhukov, party stalwart, patriot and defender of Leningrad, to defect.
He switched from whisky to vodka to get drunk patriotically.
He wrote his first poem for years, for decades. About Prague and the Soviet Army threatening. And, with drunken cunning, substituted Leningrad and the German Army. He left it on the table and watched Valentina read it; but she knew, he could see that.
At the Embassy, conversation about the crisis was guarded: conversation about most controversies was guarded, Zhukov thought.
Brodsky was less guarded than most. ‘What do you think will happen, Comrade Zhukov?’ he asked.
‘I have no idea.’
‘But you have the ear of the ambassador.’
‘I told you—I have no idea what will happen.’
‘Then what do you think should happen?’
‘I think right should prevail.’
‘We are becoming very diplomatic, are we not?’
The crisis seemed to have thoroughly blocked up Brodsky’s cavities and he prodded viciously at them with his inhaler.
Zhukov asked: ‘What do you think should happen, Comrade Brodsky?’
‘Uh-huh. Obviously we must stamp out the subversive elements threatening the unity of our system. Would you not agree with that?’
‘A lot of foreign Party organizations faithful to the doctrines of Marxism-Leninism do not seem to agree with you, Comrade Brodsky.’
‘So you have been listening to the lies of the American Press, radio and television.’
Zhukov grinned despite it all. ‘It is my job,’ he pointed out.
‘Uh-huh.’ Triumph down a chord. ‘But it is not your duty to believe them.’
‘I didn’t say I believed them. But not even the bourgeois press would invent Party statements urging non-intervention.’
‘What would your reaction be if the Kremlin decided that the only way to control this outrageous provocation was to send the Army into Czechoslovakia—to go to the aid of the masses whose lives are being threatened by the meddling agents of imperialism?’
‘I would say,’ Zhukov said, ‘that judging by that question, you stand a good chance of getting a job as an editorial writer for Pravda.’
After drinking about half a bottle of Stolichnaya one lunch-time on a non-working day Zhukov decided to lead his tail a merry dance.
He walked briskly down the hot sidewalks of Connecticut, skirted the White House and turned down Pennsylvania, heady with perverse exuberance.
Outside the headquarters of the Federal Bureau of Investigation he stopped and joined a cluster of tourists waiting for a tour.
On the opposite side of Pennsylvania, on the corner of 13th, he could just see his pursuer, a young man with home-barbered hair and pale skin scorched pink on nose and forehead by the sun. Zhukov felt for him. Did you follow your quarry into the F.B.I.? A unique predicament, he congratulated himself, in the history of professional pursuit.
The waiting tourists moved into a waiting room, unchecked, unquestioned. But surely observed.
A middle-aged straw-hatted tourist in shorts, white socks and polished brown shoes, stooping with the weight of his cameras, said, ‘Ain’t this something! Here we all are right inside the F.B.I. That’s democracy for you. Guess it couldn’t happen in Russia, eh?’
No, Zhukov said, it couldn’t happen in Russia.
‘What part you from, mister?’
‘Russia,’ Zhukov said.
The tourist laughed hugely, cracking his Pentax against his Yashika.
Zhukov walked back to the gates looking for his shadow. He spotted him hovering on the pavement unsure whether to follow or report that Comrade Zhukov had defected to J. Edgar Hoover. Poor bastard.
Their guide was thirtyish, compact, jacket tight on his gang-busting frame; text-book F.B.I. except for the boyish grin at his own gentle jokes.
They saw pictures of the ten most-wanted criminals in the days of Prohibition and the ten most-wanted criminals today. The guide pointed them out as if they were butterflies pinned in a showcase in a natural history museum.
There, too, were Dillinger’s guns and the straw-hat he was wearing the day the F.B.I. terminated his career as he emerged from the movies ‘with a genuine femme fatale’. (Laughter.)
Zhukov’s tourist friend took off his own straw-hat with a tartan band. ‘Makes me feel kinda vulnerable,’ he said, giving Zhukov a chummy dig in the ribs.
At each exhibit the guide asked, ‘Any questions?’
No one had any.
What, Zhukov wondered, would he say if I asked, ‘Yes—can I seek political asylum, please?’
He looked behind. No sign of the tail. Zhukov guessed he would be waiting somewhere near the gates, praying that Vladimir Zhukov would emerge. Because if he lost him forever inside the F.B.I. he might as well defect too.
The guide didn’t make any jokes in front of the Fuchs exhibits. The Communist menace was not the subject for humour. Zhukov sought admiration for the traitor and found none. Nor for the Soviet consul, Yakovlev, in New York, who had fled after the exposure.
‘Any questions?’
No questions.
Except that Zhukov wanted to say, ‘I am a Russian spy. And I am being followed through the F.B.I. by another Russian spy. What do you say to that, mister?’
They passed by the windows of the laboratories where earnest men and women found criminals’ mistakes in wafers of paint, drops of blood, the sweat stains and excrement of fear; in forged signatures, bruised bullets and the errant whorl of a thumb-print. Murderers, rapists, bank-robbers, kidnappers were convicted in these meticulous chambers of detection by the thread of a jacket bought in San Francisco and caught on the fender of a car in Buffalo, by a single thread of hair grasped in the hand of a woman in her death throes.
‘Jesus,’ said Zhukov’s companion, ‘you wonder how anyone gets away w
ith anything.’
‘But they do,’ Zhukov said.
‘You have to be pretty darn clever to fool the F.B.I. I guess they could teach the K.G.B. or whatever they call it a thing or two.’
‘I hope so,’ Zhukov said.
‘Say, fella, you aren’t much of a talker, are you?’
Zhukov pointed at the wall. ‘What do you think of that?’
The words ‘COMMUNISM—FREEDOM’S ENEMY’ were printed in very bold letters. Beside a Hammer and Sickle set in a giant splash of ketchup-blood.
‘It’s the truth, ain’t it?’
Zhukov shrugged. His head was beginning to ache, the exuberance evaporating.
In the basement shooting range a marksman fired a submachine gun and a pistol for them.
Then they were out in the steamy outdoors once more. Across the road Zhukov spotted his tail, pink face desperate in the heat.
‘Say,’ said Zhukov’s friend. ‘You sure keep yourself to yourself.’ He replaced his straw-hat on his crewcut. ‘Say,’ cameras clattering excitedly, ‘you aren’t really a Russian, are you?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I don’t know. You’ve gotta kind of funny accent …’
‘I’ll tell you this,’ Zhukov told him. ‘I’m certainly not a Czech.’
A few days later Zhukov sought audience with Zuvorin in his office and formally complained that he was being kept under surveillance by agents of the secret police.
Zuvorin nodded, his concentration elsewhere. ‘If you are merely carrying out your duties as prescribed then you have no worries.’ His eyes were slits between cushions of fatigue.
‘It is an insult to my dignity as a diplomatic representative of the Soviet Union.’
Zuvorin who was still listening to the growling queries of the President of the United States held up one authoritative hand. ‘There are other greater dignities to be considered at this moment.’ He tapped a tune with the blade of a paperknife. ‘I could send you on a mission.’
With similar phrases they dispatched out-of-line members of the Politburo to take charge of rural power stations.
Zuvorin said, ‘How would you like to go to New York for a few days?’
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