He stumbled over quotations from Thorez, especially when he wanted to say something complex, he struggled for words, he quoted Thorez ‘there was no Stalinism’, he’d started out as a boiler-maker, ‘the word is part of our opponents’ vocabulary’, no one knew when he’d joined, he spoke slowly, hesitated, ‘there has come about … although the policy was right and just … rooted in the principles of Marxism-Leninism’, a comrade who was still young, about forty, a proletarian.
And the members of the editorial board took pleasure in prompting him with the quotes he found it hard to regurgitate whole, ‘there has come about a retreat from these Marxist-Leninist principles in given historical conditions’, they competed with each other, they vied to be the first to come up with the words the member of the Politburo was groping for, ‘these conditions now exist’, even statements they didn’t much care for, ‘there was no Stalinism’, a real joy, putting words into the mouth of an important Party official, even if he’s a deputy, being able to disappear behind words that could have no come-back, lending a helping hand to a comrade who was experienced but still young, a genuine member of the proletariat who was not in the habit of memorising essential quotes, no, he did remember one, it wasn’t Thorez, it was Casanova, ‘when we are fair and square with the revolutionary proletariat, then, and only then, will our conscience be clear.’
One comrade thought it funny to give only the first part of a Thorez quote, whereas all the comrades have always known that with Maurice it’s invariably the second part that matters, ‘The number of different roads to socialism has nothing to do with the content of the dictatorship of the proletariat’, this left the comrade deputy baffled by the violence of Maurice’s contention, it was clear that he was thinking of the possible implications of such an assertion, a few words more and it would be pure Titoism, that is, the idea that there could be purely national roads to socialism, even if Tito had never stopped being a traitor and a monster, the comrade deputy was a man who missed nothing.
But another comrade, the biggest ‘doubter’ on the editorial board, gleefully supplied him with him the rest, ‘that content being of necessity common to all countries which are marching towards socialism’, everyone breathed again, they didn’t agree with the comrade deputy, not really, but that was no reason for allowing a proletarian to flounder in a morass of hesitation, so you give him a helping hand, compete to be the most accurate, Thorez’s idea is developed, it circulates, unifies.
To get back to the story, someone said he’d found it well-written, no, well-written means primarily that it engages with the real lives of the proletariat, go reread André Stil’s latest novel and the letter which the factory girls in Nîmes wrote him, that’s what’s meant by well-written, no one had said nay to this, though whenever two or three of you linger over a meal there’s always one who makes the other laugh by parodying André Stil’s prose style, good-naturedly though, for he’s one of the prime movers of Humanité, showed tremendous courage over Indochina, but in the end there was general agreement: no one was prepared to back the short story written by the great writer.
A German writer to boot, one of the comrades finally reminded them of the fact, until then no one had wanted to bring this up, and a German who lived among revanchists, who sometimes had dealings with the deepest-dyed right, the right of Preuves, that ‘turncoats’ rag’ as another comrade dubbed it.
Then they’d moved on to other articles, philosophy, sociology, psychology, agreement reached pretty quickly on the line-up of the next issue, there was only the story to reject, they’d added an editorial condemning the fascist riots in Paris, when gangsters in the pay of the collaborator Tixier-Vignancourt had attacked Party headquarters, you were both happy and unhappy, unhappy with yourself and the others, and reasonably happy because you didn’t have to fear the consequences of feeling unhappy, a splendid example of chiasmus, some of your comrades tore their hair, but you are turning into a permanent chiasmus, all in all a good meeting of the editorial board, the deputy member of the Politburo had a few more fairly harsh words for the former Hungarian leadership and the corrections that were needed, and when the question arose of who would reply to the great writer to inform him that his story had been rejected, the comrade member of the Politburo said the story would be published, it is politically necessary that the story should be published, Hans Kappler, a bourgeois writer of great eminence who is coming over to us, a German social-democrat, at the very time when we want to show a united front with the socialists.
In consequence of the wide-ranging exchange of views which has just taken place, the story will occupy a prime position, heading the line-up of the next issue, the publication date of said issue must accordingly be brought forward by two weeks, we can count absolutely on the cooperation of the printworkers’ union, after these closing remarks from the representative of the Politburo the proposal was agreed nem con, the deputy member of the Politburo was a sound man, he’d succeeded in stimulating the critical faculties of everyone present and strengthened their discipline.
If you’d known this, you would have defended the story, on second thoughts, that would not have gone down well, what the members of a Politburo like is purity and discipline.
And the best test of discipline comes when you’ve expressed an opinion which is the very opposite of the decision that is finally reached, you liked the story, you damned it, they were publishing it anyway, all was for the best, you lied and the Party did not agree with your lie, both of you in roles which fitted like a glove.
In the train bowling along towards Switzerland you reread the story to the publication of which the comrade deputy attached such importance, and you still don’t have the smallest inkling of the reasons why it was chosen.
At Chaumont, a man gets into the compartment, carrying a case, he glances at the woman, sits down opposite her, tweeds, brogues, a swaggering manner, she smiles at him, the man smiles back then looks across at you, it is not a stare but he continues looking, he looks you in the eye, thick neck, large ears, hands like dinner plates, hairy too, you feel uncomfortable, no wedding ring, your eye again catches his as though he’s not stopped staring the whole time you’ve been observing his hands, his eyes are very pale, his eyes are on you, the woman reads her magazine, he is looking at you.
It’s oppressive, you look up, you catch his eye, his probing eye, he does not smile, he seems to be thinking about you, thinking about something, he never takes his eyes off you though he has no justification for doing so, he doesn’t bother with the woman, you are caught in his gaze, you bury your face in your magazine, there are women who give shirts as presents and in return get an electric coffee-grinder or a Hoover vacuum cleaner, there are no workers anywhere in the magazine, they only show workers when they are being fired on by Russian soldiers, the man makes you feel uncomfortable, you are nothing, but the woman had smiled at him, he does not look at her.