To his bosses monitoring the tapes, the greasy sham of revealing "confidences" would broadcast as a standard feint to put a prey at ease. But Bastard's larger purpose was to gloat that he not only had me imprisoned but could toy with me like a laboratory animal. And I had to pretend I understood nothing, for that was the role I'd got myself into—and feared to change, lest he explode and get at Alyosha by expelling me. All pretense
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about helping Alyosha had been abandoned, but my personal keeper clearly had the power at least to recommend expulsion to those who decreed it. Besides, playing simpleminded seemed the best way of saying too little for use if they doctored the tapes. So I sat there, faking gullibility and controlling my revulsion at his skull, which gleamed below the chandelier like Repin's painting of semi-Mongolian tribesmen petitioning the Turkish sultan.
"You're no child any more. What's this drifting around, the trying to 'find yourself flimflam? Your parents know better. A hippie is a weakling." . . .
"I'll tell you frankly, not everyone trusts you. An American with wide circles of rootless "friends"—-the facts indicate cultivation of useful contacts. There was that incident with a nitwit called . . . Chingiz—firing his follies, preaching antisocialism. Some dire mistakes have to be made up for." . . .
"You're not eating. Taste these mushrooms; go on, try them. And learn to relax. Forget my official position; I'm here as your friend. I left my work at the office just so we could enjoy ourselves." . . .
"The escapades with that 'medical student.' Tailing her around, convincing my colleagues of your intelligence background. And your orgies! University officials wanted to expel you; they argued you were no student at all. Only came here to besmirch socialist morality, violate Soviet rules. People wanted to make an example of you with a newspaper expose. But I laid myself on the line to postpone it, because / think there's good in you somewhere . . ."
His lips were oily with the pleasure of both the expense-account caviar and of kicking the boot of his lies in my face. The waiter knocked and cleared the table to Bastard's self-satisfied command, glancing in curiosity at the guest in this special room, and at Bastard to demonstrate deference. This was my introduction to the intimate delights of restaurant rooms for two about which I'd often read—while Alyosha languished alone.
"I enjoy life now. I suppose you think it's not worth much to live in this condition. I can only say it doesn't work that way."
Alyosha's goal was "two or three more years of this," and he was now urging me outright to stay for this period. He had
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recovered his senses and was trying to accommodate them to the new circumstances.
"It's the first time I understand the main things: how good it is to Hve in general, as opposed to Hving 'well.' To breathe, see the patterns in the ceiling—you fill up with happiness. I'm glad if I'm down for a thousand days or so just looking around."
I made up my mind. I'd stay with him, whatever I'd have to take from Bastard. The doctors now looked away when I asked, but it was clear enough that two or three years was the outside guess.
"You haven't mentioned our get-togethers to Alyosha?"
"Why should I?"
"That's good. Why worry him? Very good. He has his own problems."
Bastard's use of the diminutive "Alyosha" was more repulsive even than his calling me "tu." But I hadn't mentioned him to anyone else; for once I could tell him the unequivocal truth. Meanwhile, the softening-up continued in all its rawness.
"I'll tell you straight, your chatter about 'not getting involved with politics' isn't worthy of you. Everything is political; you're not a baby or coward to pretend you can stand aside from mankind's struggle. Evasion puts you in the ranks of reaction. . . . You claim you're for peace, not any one ideology. But you have to fight for peace. It's time to prove your manhood. Show us where you stand by doing something for peace." . . .
"You can't live on a student stipend all your life. A man's nothing without money in his pocket. I tell my friends you're growing up and starting to think about your dignity and your wallet." . . .
"Law number one is that all states serve class interests only. The difference is we're a Peoples' State, while certain others are armed agencies of monopoly capital. No American worker ever got a fair trial. Thousands of innocent students rot in jail for refusing to join Saigon's exploitative massacre. That kind of trampling on justice, the terrible curbs on free expression, can't exist in the genuine democracy of a People's State. Your own passport is not valid for travel to China or Albania—that's what you call freedom? The FBI has powers over every American that
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our Constitution and citizens wouldn't stand for. Besides, we're an agency of peace, working for everyone's freedom." . . .
"This girl stuff of yours—/ don't mind, but it behooves you to behave decorously. The Soviet people feel strongly about cleansing their society of perversions. And why advertise your weaknesses? I want to protect you against anyone who might try to exploit them."
"Be more discreet, let people know you're a serious person. With your own FBI and CIA too—don't give them a lever on you through childish excesses. What good is signing useless protests against the Vietnamese war—which only get you on a list, spoiling your chance for real peace work. Criticizing your own government, even to Russian students, is ill-advised for you. You don't want your officials to suspect you're not a loyal American."
He assured me that American agents in London had instructed me to return for the additional semester here, holding myself "in readiness." And explained the "real" workings of American society for me from the vantage point of his Lubyanka office. But it was his personal advice that made me feel contaminated, as if a weevil grub had crawled inside me to tell me what to do in life.
The excruciating pains lasted two weeks. Parts of his rectum had been removed, adding the humiliation of tube defecation to the pure physical anguish. Sedation provided the only intervals of relief from the burning, stinging and stabbing of his "giblets," as he tried to joke. His old blondie doctor, who was no longer looking after his case, told me that the location of the trouble put him near the top of the patients' agony list.
Some days it was easier to bear than I had feared. After all, this was the very worst that could happen and the world hadn't collapsed; we were somehow living through it. Other days, it was only part of the nightmare to call his suffering "life." I swigged at a bottle before visiting him.
Apart from twitching and writhing, he hadn't moved from the tormenting recovery position. Then the bandages were removed, providing release and the first psychological lift, which the convalescent timetable—he was scheduled to get to his feet in
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one more week—marginally reinforced. A tinge of color worked its way into his cheeks as he jested again, feebly.
"The entire Soviet people is toiling day and night to give labor presents to Our Party's historic Twenty-fourth Congress. This ill-timed indisposition prevents me from raising my personal production targets, but that's a mere glancing blow to my morale."
He'd asked that the crutches be brought early and liked to grip the handles, urging me, meanwhile, to procure some Rolling Stones records so we could flog them and live "a little wide" after the hospital. "You know my weakness for fine music," he said to disguise our trading intentions from an imaginary microphone under the bed—and also to convince us that he was going to have at least a period of non-invalid living.
"Toddle-dee day" was seventy-two hours away. All our outlook had adjusted to the "two or three more years." Then I entered the ward on a sunny morning and the terror on his face struck me even harder than his ghastliness after the operation.