‘Well hopefully this will teach you not to break our rules.’ Popov jerks his head. ‘Come with me.’
Dima puts on his spectacles. Popov leads him through the prison to the door of his office, then disappears inside, leaving Dima facing the wall, hands behind his back, a guard either side of him. Minutes pass. He wants to sit down, his feet are tired from pacing the kartser. Eventually a voice booms from the other side of the door.
‘Okay, bring him in.’
It’s huge, this office. Popov is sitting at a big desk behind a computer screen and keyboard. At the back of the room are two soft chairs facing each other below an enormous portrait of Putin. Popov starts speaking, and straight off his manner is oddly breezy. He uses the informal ‘ty’ when he’s addressing Dima, like they’re old friends.
‘You can take a seat,’ he says, and when Dima is seated he extends an arm and shakes Dima’s hand with vigour.
‘Do you smoke?’
‘I do now.’
‘You started in prison?’
‘Yeah. But I’m trying to quit.’
‘Would you like a cigarette?’
‘I’m in the kartser, I’m not allowed to smoke.’
Popov snorts. ‘It’s okay, don’t worry.’ He holds out a packet of cigarettes, Dima takes one, so does Popov. The governor lights it and breathes in deeply then two dark grey tusks appear as he exhales through his nostrils. He holds out the lighter for Dima then pops it back into his pocket, saying, ‘Tell me, have you ever read Goethe’s Faust?’
‘I have.’
Popov takes a drag. ‘So you know this whole thing about good and evil then?’
‘Good and evil?’
‘In Faust.’
‘We all have good within us.’
‘That’s right Dimitri, yes. We’re all fundamentally good.’
‘And only errors of judgement make good people do bad things, but even bad people—’
Popov interrupts, saying, ‘If a person keeps striving, Dimitri, even bad people, if they keep striving then their mistakes will bring them closer to righteousness.’
‘So says Faust.’
‘If they strive, Dimitri. If they strive to be good.’
‘Yeah, I’ve read it.’
‘And you must strive. All of you. What you did, it was a mistake, you know that. But you can be good people again, I know you can. And you, Dimitri’ – he uses the familiar ‘ty’ again – ‘you are somebody who can strive, who must strive. It’s in your blood, you’re a Litvinov, and by recognising your errors of judgement you can become good again. Don’t you think?’
Dima leans back and draws on his cigarette. ‘It rather depends on whether you think holding a peaceful protest at an Arctic oil platform is an error of judgement. Some people, and I believe there are many millions of them, might say that us being kept here, in this prison, is a more fundamental error of judgement, and is one that says much more about the nature of good and evil than our climate change campaign.’
Popov berths his cigarette in the ashtray and holds his palms together, as if in reflective prayer. Then he taps his chin with the tips of his fingers, contemplating Dima’s assertion, before leaning back in his chair. ‘What do you understand by the concept of nationhood?’
‘Russian nationhood?’
‘Nationhood. Russian, American, whatever.’
‘It’s bullshit. I’m an internationalist.’
‘Well I’m a nationalist, Dimitri. I’m not afraid of those words. Nooooo, I’m not afraid of saying I’m a nationalist, not at all. Not in the least bit. I’m a nationalist, and what you did, what you are doing, is a threat to my nation.’ He lifts his shoulders, as if what he’s saying is the most obvious thing in the world. ‘It’s really that simple. And I think that you’re going to be feeling the wrath of this nation.’ He’s nodding slowly now. ‘Because the nation is…’ He holds his hands out in front of him, like he’s squeezing two invisible oranges, and his face creases as he searches for the words. ‘… the nation is… is the embodiment of the people. And the state is the embodiment of the nation. So you see, the state, me, him’ – his eyes turn to the giant portrait of Putin – ‘are actually no more than the people. It is not me who has put you here, Dimitri. Don’t you see that? It’s not me, it’s not the President. It’s the people. The people have put you here.’
‘The people?’
‘Why yes, of course.’
‘Well, if the people are so wise, why not ask them what they think? You could ask them all on the same day, and you could let them tell you secretly so they can’t be intimidated, and you could let the media say what it wants in the weeks before this day. You could do all of that, and you could call it, I don’t know, a fair election. Why not let them say what they will without censorship, so their wisdom can be appreciated by all of us?’
‘Hmmm.’ Popov stares over Dima’s head into the middle distance. His eyes glaze, like he’s suddenly absent from the conversation, then he blinks and almost to himself he mutters, ‘History has been so unfair to the Gestapo.’
Dima’s mouth drops open. ‘The Gestapo?’
‘Me, I respect your great-grandfather. He was close to Stalin, he knew the benefits of stability. Russia is a vast country, Dimitri. Our borders are hard to defend, our people are diverse, our languages many. Only through the primacy of the nation, embodied by the state, can we retain our place in the global order. But the state must be strong. Yes, the Gestapo…’ he smiles wistfully. ‘We’ve learnt so much from them.’ He makes a fist of his hand, raps his knuckles on the table and leans forward. ‘Those guys knew how to run a prison. They stand as the master practitioners of penitentiary science and related systems. They’re the ones who developed it all. All of it! Masters. Really, we owe everything to the Gestapo.’ He sniffs. ‘You look sceptical, Dimitri.’
Dima’s not sceptical. He’s furious. This guy’s a clown, but he’s also a thug. The Gestapo? The governor is everything that’s wrong with Putin’s Russia.
‘Actually, I’m offended.’
‘Because?’
‘Because I hoped today’s Russia wouldn’t owe a debt to… to the fascists.’
‘Fascists? What the hell kind of word is that? What do you mean, fascists?’
‘Fascists. The Gestapo. They were fascists.’
‘Ah, but Dimitri, what you don’t understand is…’ And here Popov launches into a wider soliloquy on the nature of nationalism while Dima stares at his face, fuming at the man, watching the little moustache dancing on the upper lip, occasional flashes of gold from the capped tooth as the mouth spits out this cod philosophy. And all the time Dima’s thinking, what does this man actually want from me? Why is he doing this? He’s not asking me questions, he’s just pouring all this out and I’m just sitting here cast in the role of student to Popov’s master philosopher.
Eventually the governor runs out of steam. He tried to rationalise the contradiction between his admiration of the Gestapo and the immense pride he takes in the Soviet defeat of Nazism, but after several minutes he found himself in a verbal cul-de-sac before restating his argument with less conviction, and now Popov appears to have given up. The room is quiet but for the sound of a clock ticking. The fist in Dima’s stomach is clenched tight and hard.
Popov breaks the silence.
‘So, they’re going to lock you up for seven years.’
Dima blows out his cheeks. ‘Maybe. I don’t know. I hope not.’
‘Of course. Nobody wants to be stuck in prison for seven years. What are you going to do? What are you thinking? Because of course you’re in charge of this situation, it’s up to you. You want to be locked up for a long time? Is that what you want? What do you want, Dimitri?’