It turned out we both liked Faulkner, Britten and paintings of the Thirties. Arthur was a thinking and competent man. In particular, he said, “Picasso’s art is merely drama, while Magritte’s work is a catastrophic spectacle.”
I asked, “Have you been in the West?”
“Of course.”
“Did you live there long?”
“Forty-three years. Until last Tuesday, to be precise.”
“I thought you were from Latvia.”
“Close enough. I’m Swedish. I want to write a book about Russia.”
We parted late at night near the Evropeyskaya Hotel. We made a date for the next day.
In the morning I was called into the editor’s office. A stranger, a man of fifty or so, was there. He was thin, bald, with just a dull-coloured wreath of hair over the ears. I wondered if he could comb his hair without taking off his hat.
The man was in the editor’s armchair. The owner of the office sat in a hard-backed visitor’s chair. I sat on the edge of the couch.
“Let me introduce you,” the editor said. “A representative of the KGB, Major Chilyayev.”
I rose politely. The major, without a smile, nodded. Evidently he was burdened by the imperfection of the world around him.
In the editor’s behaviour I observed – simultaneously – sympathy and gloating. He seemed to be saying, Well? Now you’ve done it! You’re on your own now. I told you so, didn’t I, you fool?”
The major spoke. His harsh voice was at odds with his weary demeanour.
“Do you know Arthur Tornstrom?”
“Yes, we met yesterday.”
“Did he ask you any suspicious questions?”
“I don’t think so. He didn’t ask me any questions at all, I don’t think. I can’t remember any.”
“Not one?”
“I don’t think so.”
“How did you strike up an acquaintance? Rather, where and how did you meet?”
“I was in the typing pool. He came in and asked — ”
“Ah, he asked? Then he did ask questions? What did he ask, if it’s not a secret?”
“He asked where the toilet was.”
The major wrote it down and said, “I suggest you be more precise…”
The rest of the conversation seemed absolutely meaningless. Chilyayev was interested in everything. What did we eat? What did we drink? What artists did we talk about? He even wanted to know if the Swede went to the men’s room often.
The major insisted I recall all the details. Did the Swede abuse alcohol? Did he have an eye for the ladies? Did he appear to be a latent homosexual?
I replied thoroughly and conscientiously. I had nothing to hide.
The major paused. He rose partly out of his chair. Then he raised his voice a bit. “We are counting on your conscientiousness. Even though you are rather frivolous. The information we have on you is more than contradictory: indiscriminate personal life, drinking, dubious jokes…”
I wanted to ask where the contradiction was, but I controlled myself. Especially since the major pulled out a rather voluminous folder. My name was written large on the cover.
I stared at the file. I felt what a pig might feel in the meat section of a deli.
The major continued. “We expect total frankness from you. We are counting on your help. I hope you understand the importance of this mission?… Most importantly, remember, we know everything. We know everything ahead of time. Absolutely everything…”
I wanted to ask, then how about Misha Baryshnikov?* Did they know ahead of time that Misha would stay in America?
The major asked, “What arrangements did you make with the Swede? Are you supposed to meet today?”
“We’re supposed to,” I said. “He invited the wife and me to the Kirov Theatre. I think I’ll call, apologize, say I’m sick.”
“Not on your life,” the major said, rising up in his seat. “Go. Definitely go. And remember every detail. We’ll call you tomorrow morning.”
I thought to myself: just what I need!
“I can’t,” I said. “I have good reasons.”
“Such as?”
“I don’t have a suit. You need appropriate clothes for the theatre. Foreigners go there, by the way.”
“Why don’t you have a suit?” the major demanded. “That’s ridiculous! You work for a major organization.”
“I have a small salary,” I replied.
The editor chipped in. “I’ll let you in on a small secret. As you know, the New Year festivities are approaching. We have decided to award Comrade Dovlatov a valuable present. In half an hour he can go to the accounting office, and then to the Frunze Department Store. And pick out an appropriate suit for about one hundred twenty roubles.”
“But,” I say, “I’m not a regular size.”
“Don’t worry,” the editor said. “I’ll call the store manager.”
And so I came to own an imported double-breasted suit. Made in East Germany, if I’m not mistaken. I wore it about five times. Once when I went to the theatre with the Swede. And about four times when I was sent to funerals.
My Swede was expelled from the Soviet Union for being a conservative journalist who “expressed the interests of the right wing”.
Six years he had studied Russian. Wanted to write a book. And he was expelled. I hope without my participation. What I had told the major about him seemed perfectly harmless.
Moreover, I even warned Arthur that he was being watched. Rather, I hinted that the walls had ears. The Swede didn’t understand. Anyway, I had nothing to do with that. The most amazing thing was that my dissident friend Shamkovich then accused me of helping the KGB!
An Officer’s Belt
THE WORST THING FOR A DRUNKARD is to wake up in a hospital bed. Before you’re fully awake, you mutter, “That’s it! I’m through! For ever! Not another drop ever again!”
And suddenly you find a thick gauze bandage around your head. You want to touch it, but your left arm is in a cast. And so on.
This all happened to me in the summer of ’63 in the south of the Komi Republic.
I had been drafted a year earlier. I was put in the camp guards, and attended a twenty-day course for supervisors. Even earlier I had boxed for two years. I took part in countrywide competitions. However, I can’t recall a single time that the trainer said, “OK. That’s it. I’m not worried any more.”
But I did hear it from our instructor, Toroptsev, at the prison-supervisor school, after only three weeks. And even though I was going to face recidivist criminals, not boxers.
I tried looking around. Sunspots shone yellow on the linoleum floor. The night table was covered with medicine bottles. A newspaper hung on the wall by the door – Lenin and Health.
There was a smell of smoke and, strangely enough, of seaweed. I was in the camp medical unit.
My tightly bandaged head hurt. I could feel a deep wound over my eyebrow. My left arm did not function.
My uniform shirt hung on the back of the bed. There should have been a few cigarettes in there. I used a jar with an inky mixture in it for an ashtray. I had to hold the matchbox in my teeth.
Now I could recall yesterday’s events.
I had been crossed off the convoy list in the morning. I went to the sergeant. “What’s happened? Am I really getting a day off?”
“Sort of,” the sergeant said. “Congratulations… An inmate went crazy in barracks fourteen. Barking, crowing… Bit Auntie Shura, the cook… So you’re taking him to the psych ward in Iosser, and then you’re free for the rest of the day. Sort of a day off.”
“When do I have to go?”
“Now, if you like.”
“Alone?”
“Who said anything about alone? Two of you, as required. Take Churilin or Gayenko…”
I found Churilin in the tool shop. He was working with a soldering iron. Something was crackling on the workbench, emanating an odour of rosin.
“I’m doing a bit of welding,” Churilin said. “Very fine work, take a look.”