The next morning’s Pravda led the pack. The inside front page carried a lengthy article entitled “The Cult of Personality in the Arts.” It was a vicious attack on Igor Bukansky, on his early poetry and his later editorship of the magazine Novaya Literatura. It condemned Bukansky for his life-style and his use of his position to elevate himself to a literary pasha in Moscow. The last paragraph called for his replacement as editor of Novaya Literatura.
To Muscovites who as yet knew nothing of his visit to London, the article was a mystery that many took a delight in solving. The reintroduction last year of jamming of Western broadcasts closed that avenue of information. But Marina Lorotkin’s Moscow Television News Review at midday provided a further clue. Bukansky’s pursuit of the cult of personality, it was alleged, had taken his insidious influence into some of the highest regions of Soviet government. It was undeniable that he had assiduously cultivated the friendship of anyone in government circles unwise enough to encourage him.
To many Muscovites the picture was now taking shape. It remained only for the central figure to be placed against the threatening background.
That evening’s edition of Izvestia provided the required information in a five-line announcement at the bottom of page 4: Minister of Petroleum Bukin, while retaining his responsibility for all inter-Party questions, has assumed the posts which ill-health has forced Natalya Roginova to relinquish.
So that was it. In Washington and the West European capitals heads of state secretly sighed with relief. The proposal for German reunification had emanated from a Party group led by Roginova. But she clearly had been unable to carry the rest of the Politburo with her. The proposal was dead. The NATO alliance would live to fight, or not, another day.
At his comfortable dacha in the Lenin hills outside Moscow, Igor Bukansky awaited arrest. He was well prepared. By the door he kept a small shabby canvas bag. In it was a change of underwear, a toothbrush, a thick sweater with torn elbows which he had once used for gardening, and a pair of Canadian fur-lined boots which he had carefully scratched and stained to make them less desirable to an examining KGB officer. He knew that any books he took with him would be confiscated, pencil and paper likewise. But he had spent one whole evening splitting with a razor blade the cardboard lining of his case, sliding into the gap ten 100-ruble notes and gluing the cardboard back together. He had also taken advantage of a tip given to him by a senior minister in Stalin’s day. With a metal cutter he had snipped through two gold rings, opening them wide enough to fit around the base of each big toe, then wrapping them round with a covering of adhesive plaster. For so many years shoes had been of such appalling quality in the Soviet Union that KGB examining officers seldom spared a glance at corn plaster during the initial strip-search.
His preparation for departure made, Bukansky settled down to enjoy what time was left to him. He knew it would be short. At the beginning of the week Saratkin, the stoat-like pseudo-poet who was the recognized KGB representative on the committee of the Soviet Writers’ Union, had delivered a slashing condemnation of his handling of the editorship of Novaya Literatura. The criticism included allegations that he, Bukansky, had become so seduced by the false attractions of Western diversity in literature that items of truly Soviet literary standard were rarely to be found in the magazine. In long speeches the subservient jackals on the committee had supported the stoat. Unanimously they had voted for Bukansky’s replacement as chairman of the Foreign Committee.
There had been other signs, too. His three maids had tearfully left that morning as had his chauffeur and gardener. Each one, under KGB orders, had parroted an excuse he was not expected to believe.
But the freezer was full of steaks, the kitchen cupboards still stacked with foie gras. Five crates of excellent vodka sat in the cellar and, slightly surprisingly, in response to his phone call (it was the last he was able to make to Moscow, the phone was cut off that afternoon) his secretary Lydia had arrived from the office.
He had expected that she would have already seen which way the wind was blowing and fabricated a sudden illness. But she didn’t. Bukansky had smiled at himself. Perhaps this attractive little gold digger, too, was in the pay of the local KGB. Well, no matter. She had given him a lot of pleasure in the last two years.
She sat opposite him now in the Western clothes she loved. Nothing gave her more pleasure than to be taken for a German or American woman in the street. Every time it happened she would recount to Bukansky the full details as if each incident confirmed her successful study of the copies of Vogue and Harper’s that Bukansky brought back for her from abroad.
He leaned across her sleek blond head to pour her champagne. Busy with the arrangements for his departure he had drunk much less than usual. Perhaps a little more than a half-liter all day. Undoubtedly she had not seen him so sober for over a year.
He stood behind her, his hand on her shoulder, then leaned forward to slide his flat palm down the front of her smooth dress. She turned her head automatically and smiled at him.
He took his hand away and crossed the room to the wall safe. Spinning the combination he pulled it open. From inside he took a new packet of 100-ruble notes, 5,000 in all.
He walked back to the sofa where she was sitting and picked up her handbag. While she watched him with cool gray eyes, he opened it, dropped the money inside and snapped the bag closed. It was English leather bought in the hotel shop on that last fatal trip to London.
“You’ve been a good girl, Lydochka,” he said. “But now the presents from the West have come to an end. You know that.”
“I know you were criticized by Saratkin at the meeting of the Writers’ Union.”
“Word travels fast. I’m certain to be arrested.”
“What will happen to you, Igor Alexandrovich?” the girl asked.
“Who can tell?” He poured himself a large glass of vodka. “I’m nearly sixty years of age. I was born among peasants in a peasant village. Without the Revolution I would have remained a peasant, a serf almost as my grandfather was. Instead…” He swept his great arm out in a gesture which included the warm spacious room and herself. “I’m not complaining, Lydochka. Nevertheless, some things I lost on the way. My innocence, certainly. What talent I had, perhaps.”
“Were you ever married, Igor Alexandrovich?”
“No… No. I’m not sure why.”
The girl studied him carefully. “Perhaps it’s because you have always considered women are there to be used. Just another of the good things of life there for the taking.”
He smiled. Three days ago she would never have dared to say such a thing.
“How old are you, Lydochka?”
“You know very well, Igor Alexandrovich.”
“Twenty, of course.” He paused. “But just consider that you might have chosen something of the same course as myself.”
“I haven’t,” she said firmly.
“Think how you love Western clothes. Think what you’ll do for Western clothes…”
“Please, Igor Alexandrovich…”
“You were barely eighteen when you came to work for me.”
“Yes,” she said, her mouth hard.
“Do you keep a diary, Lydia?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Every detail of how I corrupted you?”