Ilya sighed.
The “colonel” seemed to read his mind.
“It’s possible that the portrait gallery that was taken from you will be published in history textbooks a hundred years from now. Like the portraits of Karakozov and Kalyaev. Or maybe it won’t. In any case, it all belongs to history.”
It was still unclear whether they had traced the origin of the photographs in the Western publications back to his archive. Fine, if you’re so smart, see what you make of this …
(Alas, Ilya had long forgotten his intention to play the fool.)
“History is one thing, and the KGB another. You can’t just lump them together. It’s my personal collection; and the portraits were not meant for the secret police, by the way,” Ilya said.
“I’m afraid, Ilya Isayevich, that you don’t have the slightest idea what the function of the secret police is. Exhibits disappear from libraries, personal archives, from museums. They are stolen, sold, exchanged, sometimes consciously destroyed. But I can assure you, in the archives of the secret police nothing is ever lost. True, the number of people granted access to them is extremely limited. But, believe me, there is no place more reliable for safekeeping. Nothing ever goes missing there! Moreover, it is the very place where historical truth is preserved.”
“I’m sorry, but I would prefer to safeguard my collection in my own home.”
“You should have thought of that before. Now it’s no longer yours to safeguard.” The “colonel” rose from the deep armchair with a painful grimace—radiculitis or hemorrhoids—and, flinging back the theater curtain, went into the next room.
Ilya looked at the clock. Almost two hours had passed without his noticing it. Between them they had smoked half a pack of cigarettes, and a cloud of smoke hung just below the ceiling. Poor ventilation. The boys in the painting, withdrawing further and further into shadow, were still pulling their net out of the water.
From the next room came papery sounds that were still not quite paper—and Ilya realized, somewhat belatedly, that someone else had been sitting in the other room from the very start. Lying in wait. After a minute Chibikov returned, carrying a file in his hands.
“Is this an ambush?” Ilya asked, suppressing nervous laughter.
Anatoly Alexandrovich smiled and shook his head.
“The police, Ilya Isayevich, are a vine with tendrils and runners reaching into every part of the government. A certain clever person decreed that the secret police would operate thus. And that, in there, is a little tiny shoot, one might say.” He nodded in the direction of the bedroom.
Out of the file he pulled a copy of an émigré publication in Russian. On the first page was a portrait of Anatoly Marchenko.
“How interesting it all is! A photograph from your archive. One must admit, history is quite idiosyncratic. A very active girl managed to reproduce flyers in defense of this very Marchenko whom you photographed. She started a whole campaign to obtain the release of an ordinary criminal. But, just imagine, this nice young girl left her bag containing the packet of flyers and all her documents, behind in a taxi. She’s the one you should have photographed. She was a formidable conspirator! But the picture of Marchenko is a good one. Have you known him for long? This photograph is quite an early one, isn’t it? Between 1966 and 1968? He went into hiding after his first term in prison. A fine photograph! Of course, the quality of a newspaper reproduction leaves something to be desired. Here are a few other examples of your work, of varying quality. But there are no grounds for complaint, are there? In Stern magazine the quality is better.”
This has nothing to do with Mikha. It’s far worse. Novoye Russkoye Slovo and Stern. What else does he have on me?
The cover of the file was fairly stiff and thick, and it was impossible to see whether it was full, or whether it had contained only these two pages.
“In some strange way your photographs have ended up in Western publications. Perhaps your Belgian friend Pierre Zand was responsible for it? He’s a very slippery character, by the way; he works for Western intelligence. And sometimes he lends us a hand, too.”
I’m sunk! As for Pierre—he’s lying, of course. But they’ve managed to connect all the dots, the bastards. Like an idiot, I thought they’d overlook things. Those guys in the Lubyanka were rank amateurs compared with this fellow. He’s the cream of the crop.
“But no, that’s not what really interests me. What concerns me is something else. These materials must be preserved at all cost. What has already been taken from you will remain safe. It will be preserved for all eternity. Or most of eternity, at any rate. But what will become of the work you do tomorrow, or the day after, or a year from now? Of course, if they don’t throw you in prison tomorrow. I must admit that I like you, Ilya Isayevich. I wouldn’t want you to have to experience prison, or the camps. But this is your own choice. In the space of a very short time it will be decided. It is, strictly speaking, already decided.”
* * *
Ilya sat motionless. He didn’t frown, but the back of his head was pounding again. He felt his heart stop beating, then scramble into motion with renewed force. I must have a heart defect. The thought flashed through his head. They can pin anything on me, even espionage. And that gets you more than three years. What’s the most incriminating thing there? Perhaps the portrait of Sakharov? I didn’t keep it at home. When he sent out his Memorandum to the Soviet Leadership I gave the photograph to Klaus. It never made it into the German newspapers. But maybe it was printed somewhere after all?
“But, I’ll be honest with you, I have a few special means at my disposal. I’m going to make you a proposition that I want you to think about. It’s possible that it will take you by surprise. I don’t rule out that you may be offended by it at first. But think about it before you give me your answer.”
Pause. For thinking?
“You have a wrongheaded view of our organization. It’s no longer what it was during the thirties and forties. There are new ideas, new forces, new people. Profound changes are taking place in the country, which not everyone can sense yet. And the changes might be much more profound and radical than you imagine. Things aren’t as simple as you imagine them to be. I don’t want this portrait to be the last one you do. I’m talking about the portrait of Sakharov. I want you to continue your work. I’m prepared to back you up, to vouch for you. My conditions are that everything you do, you should do in two copies. One for yourself, and another for me. And, I stress, for me. Consider this to be my personal archive of your work. This is in the interests of history, if you will. Not to mention your own interests.”
I’m caught. It’s not about the typewriter anymore. It looks like they’re not even interested in the manuscript of the Gulag. It’s me they’re after, lock, stock, and barrel.
His head was no longer pounding. He needed to have a clear head to find some way out of this. Ilya’s face remained calm while he pondered these matters; but his palms were sweating.
“You are playing a dangerous game, and I respect you for it, though I’ve told you my views on the radical movements of our society. After the 1917 Revolution, all of them are doomed to fail, and, what’s more, are devoid of meaning. This is simple dialectics. You’ll understand it in time, I hope not too late. Frankly speaking, I’m not terribly worried about how you will go about your work in the future. As I explained, routine operations are not my domain. If you accept my proposal, you can do a great deal of interesting work. Moreover, I understand that a person who is able to create such a magnificent archive at the age of fifteen—I’m talking about the LORLs—is capable of working on a much more serious level.”