Edge of Eternity (112 page)

It was almost impossible for people to get at the truth in a closed society. Russians told so many lies. In the Soviet Union almost every document was deceitful: production figures, foreign policy assessments, police interviews with suspects, economic forecasts. Behind their hands people murmured that the only true page in the newspaper was the one with the radio and television programmes.

‘I can’t tell which way it’s going to go,’ Natalya said to Dimka on Friday night. She still worked for Foreign Minister Andrei Gromyko. ‘All the signals from Washington say President Johnson will do nothing if we invade Czechoslovakia. He has too many problems of his own – riots, assassinations, Vietnam, and a presidential election.’

They had finished painting for the evening and were sitting on the floor sharing a bottle of beer. Natalya had a single smudge of yellow paint on her forehead. For some reason that made Dimka want to fuck her. He was wondering whether to do it now or get washed and go to bed first when she said: ‘Before we get married . . .’

That was ominous. ‘Yes?’

‘We should talk about children.’

‘We probably should have done that before we spent all summer screwing our brains out.’ They had never used birth control.

‘Yes. But you already have a child.’

‘We have a child. He’s ours. You’ll be his stepmother.’

‘And I’m very fond of him. It’s easy to love a boy who looks so much like you. But how do you feel about having more?’

Dimka could see that for some reason she was worried about this, and he needed to reassure her. He put down the beer and embraced her. ‘I adore you,’ he said. ‘And I would love to have children with you.’

‘Oh, thank God,’ she said. ‘Because I’m pregnant.’

*  *  *

It was difficult to get newspapers in Prague, Tania found. This was an ironic consequence of Dub
ek’s abolition of censorship. Previously, few people had bothered to read the anodyne and dishonest reports in the state-controlled press. Now that the papers could tell the truth, they could never print enough copies to keep up with the demand. She had to get up early in the morning to buy them before they sold out.

Television had been freed, too. On current affairs programmes, workers and students questioned and criticized government ministers. Released political prisoners were allowed to confront the secret policemen who had thrown them in jail. Around the television set in the lobby of any large hotel there was often a small crowd of eager viewers watching the discussion on the screen.

Similar exchanges were taking place in every café, works canteen and town hall. People who had suppressed their true feelings for twenty years were suddenly allowed to say what was in their hearts.

The air of liberation was infectious. Tania was tempted to believe that the old days were over and there was no danger. She had to keep reminding herself that Czechoslovakia was still a Communist country with secret police and torture basements.

She had with her the typescript of Vasili’s first novel.

It had arrived, shortly before she left Moscow, in the same way as his first short story, handed to her in the street outside her office by a stranger who was unwilling to answer questions. As before, it was written in small handwriting – no doubt to save paper. Its sardonic title was
A Free Man.

Tania had typed it out on airmail paper. She had to assume that her luggage would be opened. Although she was a trusted reporter for
TASS
, it was still possible that any hotel room she stayed in would be turned over, and the apartment allocated to her in the old town of Prague would be thoroughly searched. But she had devised a clever hiding-place, she thought. All the same she lived in fear. It was like possessing a nuclear bomb. She was desperate to pass it on as soon as possible.

She had befriended the Prague correspondent of a British newspaper, and at the first opportunity she had said to him: ‘There’s a book editor in London who specializes in translations of East European novels – Anna Murray, of Rowley Publishing. I’d love to interview her about Czech literature. Do you think you could get a message to her?’

This was dangerous, for it established a traceable connection between Tania and Anna; but Tania had to take some risks, and it seemed to her that this one was minimal.

Two weeks later, the British journalist had said: ‘Anna Murray’s coming to Prague next Tuesday. I couldn’t give her your phone number because I don’t have it, but she’ll be at the Palace Hotel.’

On Tuesday, Tania called the hotel and left a message for Anna saying: ‘Meet Jakub at the Jan Hus monument at four.’ Jan Hus was a medieval philosopher burned at the stake by the Pope for arguing that Mass should be said in the local language. He remained a symbol of Czech resistance to foreign control. His memorial was in Old Town Square.

The secret police agents in all hotels took special interest in guests from the West, and Tania had to assume that they were shown all messages, therefore they might stake out the monument to see whom Anna was meeting. So Tania did not go to the rendezvous. Instead, she intercepted Anna on the street and slipped her a card with the address of a restaurant in the old town and the message: ‘8 p.m. tonight. Table booked in the name of Jakub’.

There was still the possibility that Anna would be followed from her hotel to the restaurant. It was unlikely: the secret police did not have enough men to tail every foreigner all the time. Nevertheless, Tania continued to take precautions. That evening, she put on a loose-fitting leather jacket, despite the warm weather, and went to the restaurant early. She sat at a different table from the one she had reserved. She kept her head down when Anna arrived, and watched as Anna was seated.

Anna was unmistakably foreign. No one in Eastern Europe was that well dressed. She had a dark-red pantsuit tailored to her voluptuous figure. She wore it with a glorious multicoloured scarf that had to come from Paris. Anna had dark hair and eyes that probably came from her German-Jewish mother. She must be close to thirty, Tania calculated, but she was one of those women who became more beautiful as they left their youth behind.

No one followed Anna into the restaurant. Tania stayed put for fifteen minutes, watching the arrivals, while Anna ordered a bottle of Hungarian Riesling and sipped a glass. Four people came in, an elderly married couple and two youngsters on a date: none looked remotely like police. Finally Tania got up and joined Anna at the reserved table, draping her jacket over the back of her chair.

‘Thank you for coming,’ Tania said.

‘Please don’t mention it. I’m glad to.’

‘It’s a long way.’

‘I’d travel ten times as far to meet the woman who gave me
Frostbite
.’

‘He’s written a novel.’

Anna sat back with a satisfied sigh. ‘That’s what I was hoping you’d say.’ She poured wine into Tania’s glass. ‘Where is it?’

‘Hidden. I’ll give it to you before we leave.’

‘Okay.’ Anna was puzzled, for she could see no sign of a typescript, but she accepted what Tania said. ‘You’ve made me very happy.’

‘I always knew that
Frostbite
was brilliant,’ Tania said reflectively. ‘But even I didn’t anticipate the international success you’ve had. In the Kremlin they’re furious about it, especially as they still can’t figure out who the author is.’

‘You should know that there’s a fortune in royalties due to him.’

Tania shook her head. ‘If he received money from overseas that would give the game away.’

‘Well, maybe one day. I’ve asked the largest London firm of literary agents to represent him.’

‘What is a literary agent?’

‘Someone who looks after the author’s interests, negotiates contracts, and makes sure the publisher pays on time.’

‘I never heard of that.’

‘They’ve opened a bank account in the name of Ivan Kuznetsov. But you should think about whether the money should be invested somehow.’

‘How much is it?’

‘More than a million pounds.’

Tania was shocked. Vasili would be the richest man in Russia if he could get his hands on the money.

They ordered dinner. Prague restaurants had improved in recent months, but the food was still traditional. Their beef and sliced dumplings came in a rich gravy garnished with whipped cream and a spoonful of cranberry jam.

Anna asked: ‘What’s going to happen here in Prague?’

‘Dub
ek is a sincere Communist who wants the country to remain part of the Warsaw Pact, so he presents no fundamental threat to Moscow; but the dinosaurs in the Kremlin don’t see it that way. No one knows what’s going to happen.’

‘Do you have children?’

Tania smiled. ‘Key question. Perhaps we may choose to suffer the Soviet system, for the sake of a quiet life; but do we have the right to bequeath such misery and oppression to the next generation? No, I don’t have children. I have a nephew, Grisha, whom I love, the son of my twin brother. And this morning in a letter my brother told me that the woman who will soon be his second wife is already pregnant, so I’ll have another nephew or a niece. For their sakes, I have to hope that Dub
ek will succeed, and other Communist countries will follow the Czech example. But the Soviet system is inherently conservative, much more resistant to change than capitalism. That may be its most fundamental flaw, in the long run.’

When they had finished, Anna said: ‘If we can’t pay our author, can we perhaps give you a present to pass to him? Is there anything from the West he would like?’

A typewriter was what he needed, but that would blow his cover. ‘A sweater,’ she said. ‘A really thick warm sweater. He’s always cold. And some underwear, the kind with long sleeves and long legs.’

Anna looked aghast at this peep into the life of Ivan Kuznetsov. ‘I’ll go to Vienna tomorrow and get him the best quality.’

Tania nodded, pleased. ‘Shall we meet again here on Friday?’

‘Yes.’

Tania stood up. ‘We should leave separately.’

A look of panic crossed Anna’s face. ‘What about the typescript?’

‘Wear my jacket,’ said Tania. It might be a bit small for Anna, who was heavier than Tania; but she could get it on. ‘When you reach Vienna, unpick the lining.’ She shook Anna’s hand. ‘Don’t lose it,’ she said. ‘I don’t have a copy.’

*  *  *

In the middle of the night Tania was awakened by her bed shaking. She sat up, terrified, thinking the secret police had come to arrest her. When she turned on the light she saw that she was alone, but the shaking had not been a dream. The framed photograph of Grisha on her bedside table seemed to be dancing, and she could hear the tinkling sound of small jars of make-up vibrating on the glass top of her dressing-table.

She jumped out of bed and went to the open window. It was first light. There was a loud rumbling noise coming from the nearby main street, but she could not see what was causing it. She was filled with a vague dread.

She looked for her leather jacket, and remembered that she had given it to Anna. She quickly pulled on blue jeans and a sweater, stepped into her shoes, and hurried out. Despite the early hour there were people on the street. She walked swiftly in the direction of the noise.