When Markov finished, Viktor said to him:
‘Vyacheslav Ivanovich, you should be in the diplomatic service.’
‘No,’ replied Markov, who had no sense of humour, ‘I’m an experimental physicist.’
Viktor went in to Lyudmila’s room. ‘I’ve been nominated for a Stalin Prize. I’ve just heard the news.’
He told her about the various speeches. ‘Of course, all this official recognition means nothing. Still, I’ve had enough of my eternal inferiority complex. You know, if I go into the conference hall and see free seats in the front row, I never dare go and sit there. Instead I hide away in some distant corner. While Shishakov and Postoev go and sit on the platform without the least hesitation. I don’t give a damn about the actual chair, but I do wish I could feel the right to sit in it.’
‘How glad Tolya would have been,’ said Lyudmila.
‘Yes, and I’ll never be able to tell my mother,’ said Viktor.
Lyudmila then said:
‘Vitya, it’s already after eleven and Nadya still isn’t home. Yesterday she didn’t get back till eleven either.’
‘What of it?’
‘She says she’s at a girl-friend’s, but it makes me anxious. She says that Mayka’s father has a permit to use his car at night and that he drives her right to the corner.’
‘Why worry then?’ said Viktor. At the same time he thought to himself: ‘Good God! We’re talking about a real success, about a Stalin Prize, and she has to bring up trivia like this.’
Two days after the meeting of the Scientific Council, Viktor phoned Shishakov at home. He wanted to ask him to accept the young physicist Landesman on the staff: the personnel department were dragging their feet. At the same time he wanted to ask Shishakov to speed up the formalities for Anna Naumovna Weisspapier’s return from Kazan. Now that the Institute was recruiting again, it was ridiculous to leave qualified staff behind in Kazan.
All this had been on Viktor’s mind for a long time, but he had been afraid that Shishakov was not well disposed towards him and would just say, ‘Have a word with my deputy.’ As a result he had kept postponing the conversation.
But today he was riding the wave of his success. Ten days ago he had felt awkward about visiting Shishakov at work; now it seemed quite simple and natural to phone him at home.
‘Who’s speaking?’ a woman’s voice answered.
Viktor was pleased by the way he announced his name: he sounded so calm, so unhurried.
The woman paused for a moment and then said in a friendly voice:
‘Just a minute.’
A minute later, in the same kindly voice, she said:
‘Please phone him tomorrow morning at the Institute, at ten o’clock.’
‘Thank you, I’m sorry for troubling you.’
Viktor felt a burning embarrassment spread over his skin and through every cell of his body. He thought wearily that this feeling would stay with him even while he slept; when he woke up in the morning, he would think, ‘Why do I feel so awful?’ and then he would remember, ‘Oh yes, that stupid telephone call.’
He went in to Lyudmila’s room and told her about his attempt to speak to Shishakov.
‘Yes,’ said Lyudmila. ‘You certainly have got off on the wrong foot – as your mother used to say about me.’
Viktor began to curse the woman who had answered the phone.
‘To hell with the bitch! I hate that way of asking who’s speaking and then saying that the boss is busy.’
Lyudmila usually shared Viktor’s indignation at incidents like this; that was why he had come to talk to her.
‘Do you remember?’ said Viktor. ‘I had thought that Shishakov was so distant because he couldn’t get any credit for himself out of my work. Now he’s realized that there is a way – by discrediting me. He knows that Sadko doesn’t love me.’fn1
‘God, you are suspicious!’ said Lyudmila. ‘What time is it?’
‘A quarter past nine.’
‘You see. Nadya’s still out.’
‘God, you are suspicious!’ said Viktor.
‘By the way,’ said Lyudmila, ‘I heard something at the store today: apparently Svechin’s been nominated for a prize too.’
‘Well, I like that! He never said a word about it. What for, anyway?’
‘For his theory of diffusion.’
‘That’s impossible! It was published before the war.’
‘You wait – he’ll be the one who wins it! And you’re doing all you can to help him.’
‘Don’t be a fool, Lyuda.’
‘You need your mother. She’d have said what you wanted to hear.’
‘What are you so angry about? I just wish that you’d shown my mother a fraction of the warmth I’ve always felt for Alexandra Vladimirovna.’
‘Anna Semyonovna never loved Tolya,’ said Lyudmila.
‘That’s not true,’ said Viktor.
His wife had become a stranger. He found her obstinacy and her unfairness quite frightening.
Footnotes
fn1 An allusion to a passage in Rimsky-Korsakov’s opera. Viktor is referring to the political authorities, perhaps to Stalin himself.
52
In the morning Viktor had news from Sokolov. Shishakov had invited some of the Institute staff round to his home the previous evening; Kovchenko had come to fetch Sokolov in his car. One of the guests had been young Badin, the head of the Scientific Section of the Central Committee.
Viktor felt even more mortified; he must have rung Shishakov when his guests were already there. He gave a little smile and said: ‘So Count St Germain was one of the guests. And what did the gentlemen discuss?’
He suddenly remembered the velvet tone of voice he had used to give his name; he had been certain that Shishakov would come running delightedly to the phone as soon as he heard the name ‘Shtrum’. He groaned. He then thought that only a dog could have groaned so pitifully, a dog scratching at a particularly annoying flea.
‘I must say,’ said Sokolov, ‘you’d never have thought it was wartime. Coffee, dry Georgian wine. And not many people at all – less than a dozen.’
‘How strange,’ said Viktor. Sokolov understood the meaning of his thoughtful tone of voice.
‘Yes, I don’t really understand,’ he said equally thoughtfully, ‘or rather I don’t understand at all.’
‘Was Gurevich there?’
‘No, they phoned him but he had a session with some of the postgraduates.’
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ said Viktor, drumming one finger on the table. Then, to his surprise, he heard himself asking:
‘Pyotr Lavrentyevich, was anything said about my work?’
Sokolov hesitated for a moment.
‘I get the feeling, Viktor Pavlovich, that the people who sing your praises so unreservedly are doing you a disservice. It upsets the authorities.’
‘Yes?’ said Viktor. ‘Go on. Finish what you’re saying.’
Sokolov said that Gavronov had asserted that Viktor’s work contradicted the Leninist view of the nature of matter.
‘Well?’ said Viktor. ‘What of it?’
‘Gavronov doesn’t matter. You know that. But what does matter is that Badin supported him. His line seemed to be that for all its brilliance, your work contradicts the guidelines laid down at that famous meeting.’
He glanced at the door, then at the telephone, and said very quietly:
‘You know, I’m afraid our bosses are going to pick you as a scapegoat in a campaign to strengthen Party spirit in science. You know what that sort of campaign’s like. They choose a victim and then crush him. It would be terrible. And your work’s so remarkable, so unique.’
‘And so no one stood up for me?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘And you, Pyotr Lavrentyevich?’
‘There seemed no point in arguing. One can’t refute that kind of demagogy.’
Viktor sensed his friend’s embarrassment and began to feel embarrassed himsel
f.
‘No, no, of course not. You’re quite right.’
They fell into an uncomfortable silence. Viktor felt a shiver of fear, the fear that was always lurking in his heart – fear of the State’s anger, fear of being a victim of this anger that could crush a man and grind him to dust.
‘Yes,’ he said pensively. ‘It’s no good being famous when you’re dead.’
‘How I wish you understood that,’ said Sokolov quietly.
‘Pyotr Lavrentyevich,’ asked Viktor in the same hushed voice, ‘how’s Madyarov? Is he all right? Have you heard from him? Sometimes I get very anxious. I don’t know why.’
His question, unprompted and spoken in a whisper, was a way of saying that some relationships are special, and have nothing to do with the State.
‘No, I’ve had no news from Kazan at all.’
Sokolov’s reply, delivered in a loud, unruffled voice, was a way of saying that such a relationship was no longer appropriate for them.
Then Markov and Savostyanov came into the office and the topic of conversation changed. Markov was citing examples of women who had poisoned their husbands’ lives.
‘Everyone gets the wife he deserves,’ said Sokolov.
He looked at his watch and left the room. Savostyanov laughed and called after him:
‘If there’s one seat in a trolleybus, then Marya Ivanovna stands and Pyotr Lavrentyevich sits. If the doorbell rings during the night, he stays in bed and Mashenka rushes out in her dressing-gown to find out who’s there. No wonder he thinks a wife is a man’s best friend.’
‘I wish I was as lucky,’ said Markov. ‘My wife just says, “What’s the matter with you? Have you gone deaf or something? Open the door!’”
Feeling suddenly angry, Viktor said: ‘What are you talking about? Pyotr Lavrentyevich is a model husband.’
‘You’ve no reason to complain, Vyacheslav Ivanovich,’ said Savostyanov. ‘You’re in your laboratory day and night. You’re well out of range.’
‘And do you think I don’t have to pay for that?’ asked Markov.
‘I see,’ said Savostyanov, savouring a new witticism. ‘Stay at home! As they say – “My home is my Peter and Paul fortress”.’fn1
Viktor and Markov burst out laughing. Obviously afraid that there might be more of these jokes, Markov got up and said to himself: ‘Vyacheslav Ivanovich, it’s time you were back at work!’
When he’d gone, Viktor said: ‘And he used to be so prim, so controlled in all his movements. Now he’s like a drunkard. He really is in his laboratory day and night.’
‘Yes,’ said Savostyanov. ‘He’s like a bird building a nest. He’s totally engrossed.’
‘And he’s even stopped gossiping,’ laughed Viktor. ‘A bird building a nest. Yes, I like that.’
Very abruptly, Savostyanov turned to face Viktor. There was a serious look on his young face.
‘By the way,’ he said, ‘there’s something I must tell you. Viktor Pavlovich, Shishakov’s evening – to which you weren’t invited – was absolutely appalling. It quite shocked me.’
Viktor frowned. He felt humiliated by this expression of sympathy.
‘All right. Leave it at that,’ he said drily.
‘Viktor Pavlovich,’ Savostyanov went on, ‘I know you don’t care whether you were invited or not. But has Pyotr Lavrentyevich told you the filth Gavronov came out with? He said your work stinks of Judaism and that Gurevich only called it a classic because you are a Jew. And the authorities just gave a quiet smile of approval. That’s “the Slav Brotherhood” for you.’
Instead of going to the canteen at lunchtime, Viktor paced up and down his office. Who would have thought people could stoop so low? Good for Savostyanov, anyway! And he seemed so empty and frivolous with his endless jokes and his photos of girls in swimming costumes. Anyway it was all nonsense. Gavronov’s blatherings didn’t matter. He was just a petty, envious psychopath. And if no one had replied, it was because what he’d said was patently absurd.
All the same, he was upset and worried by this nonsense. How could Shishakov not invite him? It was really very rude and stupid of him. What made it worse was that Viktor didn’t give a damn for that fool Shishakov and his evenings. And yet he was as upset as if he’d been struck by some irreparable tragedy. He knew he was being foolish, but he couldn’t help it . . . And he’d wanted to be given one more egg than Sokolov! Well, well!
But there was one thing that hurt him deeply. He wanted to say to Sokolov, ‘Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, my friend? Why didn’t you tell me how Gavronov slandered me? That’s twice you’ve kept silent: once then and once with me.’
He was very distressed indeed; but this didn’t stop him from saying to himself:
‘Yes, but who’s talking? You didn’t tell your friend Sokolov about Karimov’s suspicions of Madyarov – a relative of his. You kept your mouth shut too. Out of embarrassment? Tact? Nonsense! Out of cowardice, Jewish cowardice!’
It was obviously one of those days. Next, Anna Stepanovna Loshakova came into his office, looking very upset. ‘Surely she hasn’t heard of my troubles already,’ thought Viktor.
‘What’s the matter, my dear Anna Stepanovna?’
‘What is all this, Viktor Pavlovich?’ she began. ‘Acting like that behind my back! What have I done to deserve it?’
During the lunch-break Anna Stepanovna had been told to go to the personnel department. There she had been asked to write a letter of resignation. The director had ordered them to dismiss any laboratory assistant without further education.
‘I’ve never heard such nonsense,’ said Viktor. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll sort it out for you.’
Anna Stepanovna had been particularly hurt when Dubyonkov had said that the administration had nothing against her personally.
‘What could they have against me, Viktor Pavlovich? Oh God, forgive me, I’m interrupting your work.’
Viktor threw a coat over his shoulders and walked across the courtyard to the two-storey building that housed the personnel department.
‘Very well,’ he said to himself, ‘very well.’ He didn’t articulate his thoughts any further – this ‘very well’ had many meanings.
Dubyonkov greeted Viktor and said: ‘I was just about to phone you.’
‘About Anna Stepanovna?’
‘What makes you think that? No, what I wanted to say is that in view of various circumstances senior members of staff are being asked to fill in this questionnaire here.’
Viktor looked at the sheaf of papers.
‘Hm! That looks as though it’ll keep me busy for a week.’
‘Nonsense, Viktor Pavlovich. Just one thing though: in the event of a negative answer, rather than putting a dash, you must write out in full, “No, I have not,” “No, I was not,” “No, I do not,” and so on.’
‘Listen, my friend,’ said Viktor. ‘It’s quite absurd to be dismissing our senior laboratory assistant, Anna Stepanovna Loshakova. I want that order cancelled.’
‘Loshakova?’ repeated Dubyonkov. ‘But, Viktor Pavlovich, how can I cancel an order that comes from the director himself?’
‘But it’s mad,’ said Viktor. ‘She saved the Institute. She looked after everything during the bombing. And now she’s being dismissed on purely administrative grounds.’
‘Members of staff are never dismissed from the Institute without administrative grounds,’ said Dubyonkov pompously.
‘Anna Stepanovna is not only a wonderful person, she’s one of the finest workers in our laboratory.’
‘If she really is irreplaceable,’ said Dubyonkov, ‘then you must speak to Kasyan Terentyevich. By the way, there are two other points concerning your laboratory that have to be settled.’
Dubyonkov held out two sheets of paper that had been stapled together.
‘This is about the nomination for the position of research assistant of . . .’ He looked down at the paper and read out very slowly, ‘Landesman, Emiliy Pinkhusovich.’
‘
Yes,’ said Viktor, recognizing the paper in Dubyonkov’s hands, ‘I wrote that.’
‘And this is Kasyan Terentyevich’s decision: “Lacking the necessary qualifications.”’
‘What on earth do you mean? He’s got perfect qualifications. How’s Kovchenko to know who I need?’
‘Then you’ll have to discuss that with Kasyan Terentyevich too,’ said Dubyonkov. ‘And this is a statement made by our members of staff still in Kazan – together with your petition.’
‘Yes?’
‘Kasyan Terentyevich considers it inappropriate for them to return now since they are working productively at Kazan University. The matter will be reviewed at the end of the academic year.’
Dubyonkov spoke very quietly and softly, as though he wanted to tone down this bad news; his face, however, expressed only inquisitiveness and ill-will.
‘Thank you, comrade Dubyonkov,’ said Viktor.
For a second time Viktor walked across the yard, repeating to himself, ‘Very well, very well.’ No, he didn’t need the authorities’ support, his friends’ affection or his wife’s understanding; he could fight on alone.
He went up to the first floor of the main building. The secretary announced him, and Kovchenko, in a black jacket and an embroidered Ukrainian shirt, came out of his office.
‘Welcome, Viktor Pavlovich, come through into my hut.’
Viktor went in. It was furnished with red sofas and armchairs. Kovchenko motioned Viktor towards one of the sofas and sat down beside him.
Kovchenko smiled as he listened to Viktor. His apparent friendliness was very like Dubyonkov’s. And no doubt he had given a similar smile when Gavronov had spoken about Viktor’s work.
‘But what can we do?’ Kovchenko gestured helplessly. ‘We didn’t think this up ourselves. She stayed here during the bombing, you say? That can’t be considered of especial merit now, Viktor Pavlovich. Every Soviet citizen will put up with bombing if that’s what his country orders.’
He thought for a moment, then said:
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