Promise of Joy (42 page)

“They will begin very soon,” Shulatov promised, again with a grim satisfaction. “But enough of those unhappy people. We want you to meet our new government.” He gestured to the group of a dozen men who stood together at the other end of the room, watching them with bright smiles and very close attention. “Come, bring your friends and we will all get acquainted.”

And for the next fifteen minutes they did so, a rapid drumfire of names, Cabinet titles, faces. No one again introduced anyone as “General” or “Admiral”—“Citizen” was the term carefully used in all instances—but he got a very distinct impression of an automatic deference, an automatic ranking that seemed to run through their relations with one another. He could tell that his friends were receiving the same impression and were made as uneasy as he. But of course none of them indicated concern by so much as the lift of an eyelid, reserving that for some later private place, if in this honeycomb still redolent of tyranny there should prove to be any such.

Presently Shulatov gestured to a huge oaken table at one side of the room. His colleagues dutifully took their seats, the Americans followed. The two Presidents seated themselves last, opposite one another. A silence fell.

Shulatov leaned forward.

“My colleagues and I,” he said, “are at your service. Tell us what you want us to do.”

“Tell us what you are willing to do,” he suggested.

Shulatov looked a little taken aback.

“Mr. President,” he protested earnestly, “it is you who must tell, not we. It is you who come here with the full authority of the world to assist you. It is not for us, the inheritors of a desperately stricken country, to make conditions. It is you.”

“No, you tell us,” the President said. “That way we will know how difficult our task is to be.”

“You do not deny you come with conditions,” Shulatov said, and all down his side of the table bright, attentive, intently smiling faces leaned forward to hear the answer. The President decided to meet the issue head on.

“No, I don’t deny that. They have been published, you have read them. Some may be easier to achieve, with your new government; some may not even be necessary any longer. Those are the first things we must find out. We cannot do so unless we can understand your feelings and your mood. Please describe them to us. What are you willing to do, to accomplish peace?”

Shulatov made a little conceding gesture with his head and shoulders. His expression darkened.

“Our feelings and our mood, and what are we willing to do.… Our feelings are very deeply shaken, Mr. President, I will tell you that, and our mood is very somber. We have lost a dozen cities—more than the outside world yet knows—we have suffered massive losses of our armed forces on the Chinese frontier, we have suffered perhaps ten million civilian deaths and as many more casualties. Yes!” he repeated sharply as a sudden intake of breath came from several on the American side of the table. “Ten million deaths, and as many more casualties. Chaos exists in much of Russia, spurred by the civil rebellion which has brought my colleagues and myself to this table. It is worse than the world knows. It is dreadful. We are reeling from it. What can our feelings and our mood be, other than horror, sadness, fear of the future, chagrin? We would not be human otherwise—and now this has become a very human country again, Mr. President. We are raw and quivering from border to border, from end to end. So you see why we wonder when you ask us what we are willing to do.
We
are in no position to make conditions. Only those who have been spared what we have suffered can make conditions. Is that not so?”

For a long moment the President studied him thoughtfully again. Then he responded quietly:

“Nonetheless, we would still like to know: what are you willing to do?”

A look of impatience crossed the face of the President of the United States of Russia; down the table his colleagues shifted uneasily. But the President of the United States of America did not relax his steady gaze, and after a moment Shulatov leaned forward and spoke with an intense but controlled force.

“We are willing to do whatever will bring peace to Russia and peace to the world! Anything! Anything! We cannot stand a resumption of war with China. We cannot afford to have more armed forces destroyed, more cities destroyed, more lives destroyed. We cannot afford it. We cannot stand it. We
must
have peace. We must have security. We must be safe in our homes and our country again. We will cooperate in any way we can to achieve this.”

“Will you go to China with me,” the President asked, “or let them come here, or meet with them in some neutral place, to settle your differences? Will you do that for your country, and for peace?”

But even as he spoke he knew the answer, for this time there was a noticeable stiffening in the bodies across the table, a visible frowning in the faces. The question was a test—it had come to him in a flash—he had tossed it out the moment it occurred to him, knowing its answer would reveal many things. The nature of the answer did not surprise him.

“Is
that
a condition, Mr. President?” Shulatov asked with a quietness suddenly inimical, and dangerous. He shrugged.

“Not necessarily,” he said calmly. “Let’s say a reaching for clarification. You will not tell me what you are willing to do—or at least you are very general about it. I thought I would give you a specific that would help me find out.” He looked thoughtfully away, along the table at his own silent colleagues, the now tense and jittery Russians. “It has.”

“Mr. President,” Shulatov said with an earnestness that, he knew, hid anger, “do not play games with us. Do not use your superior power and superior position to patronize the new Russia. We do not like it. It will accomplish nothing. It will simply antagonize us and stiffen our resistance. It will revive all of our suspicions of the West, it will make us—

“Listen to me!” he interrupted sharply, hitting the table with the flat of his hand. “Stop propagandizing and listen to me! I have suggested nothing unfair, unusual, extraordinary, inimical, hostile to you or to peace, dangerous to Russia or in any way whatsoever threatening to your independence, security or well-being. I have suggested a perfectly common-sense, down-to-earth practical thing without which there can be no negotiation, no understanding, no peace.
What do you mean
by reacting this way to it? Have you learned nothing at all from this past week in your country? If that is the case”—he sat back and looked away to some distant point, face grim and set—“my colleagues and I are flying home today and the damnation of the world will be upon you for destroying the last hope for peace.”

But this time, as he had known, he did not have to carry out the threat to leave: stating it was enough. A visible change came over the face across from him, and across all its companion faces along the table. At first with difficulty, then suddenly very smoothly, the transition was made from anger to agreement. President Shulatov was smiling in a placating, self-deprecating, almost humble way.

“Mr. President,” he said, “I must apologize to you, to your friends, to
my
friends, to everybody! The tensions of these past few days have been very great. It is my task to bear them without breaking, but I am afraid I came very close to it just now. Of course you are reasonable, of course you are practical. We do indeed wish to talk to our friends in Peking, to the new government there, to the free peoples of China, relieved of their bondage as we have been. Of course we must meet them face to face. Do not let my reaction, hasty and ill-advised, antagonize you. We will work it out. There are difficulties and details, but”—he waved a calm, dismissing hand—“we will work them out—with your assistance, Mr. President. Always with your assistance, true friend of peace, great citizen of the world to whom the world looks!”

“Thank you,” he said, not trying very hard to keep a certain dryness out of his voice. “Then we agree on that fundamental point.”

“We do!” President Shulatov said triumphantly. “We do! And now, perhaps that is enough for the first session? You must all be very tired. Perhaps a rest—then cocktails—then dinner? We will show you that the new Russia still knows how to feed her friends well, Mr. President! You will enjoy it.”

“I know we will,” he said. “I agree, this is probably enough for a preliminary session. Your social program sounds fine to us. First, though, I expect we will have to meet the world press.”

“They are waiting in the Great Hall of the Kremlin,” Shulatov said, rising; and all down the table, his Cabinet followed suit. “We knew we must accustom ourselves from now on to their kind attentions.”

Orrin and his party rose, too.

“I’m afraid so,” he said with a smile he permitted to appear fully relaxed again. “You may have the first word.”

“After you!” Shulatov said with a sudden boisterous laugh. “After you!”

But in the Great Hall, when Orrin insisted, his host did speak first.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the press,” he said to the eager audience in which could be seen Walter Dobius, Frankly Unctuous, the
Times,
the
Post
and nearly six hundred others, many familiar, many not, “we have opened our discussions on a friendly and constructive note. We do not yet have specifics to announce to you but the mood is good, my friends. The mood is good!”

“Do you agree, Mr. President?” a British voice called out, and he faced them with an easy smile and nodded.

“Oh, yes. We are well under way. My colleagues and I are convinced we can make speedy progress in the next few days.”

“No swifter timetable than that, Mr. President?” Walter Dobius asked.

“It will be as swift as both sides can make it, Walter,” he replied. “I think the world can be sure of that.”

“Come drink with us at eight p.m.,” Shulatov called out with a cheery wave, taking Orrin’s arm as they turned away. “We will have a real Russian banquet for you!”

And so they did: an hour of preliminary drinking, seven courses of food, vodka, mixed drinks, wines, liqueurs, cigars, much standing about with the media afterward, many questions, all blandly fielded by both Americans and Russians: an air of friendship, understanding, joviality. For all that it seemed to have affected the comfort and well-being of the new government of Russia, the war might have been on another planet. So also, thought the President with misgivings he knew were shared by his colleagues, might have been any real progress toward understanding and agreement. But so skillful were both sides in maintaining the façade of cordiality that the first wave of headlines served only to increase the world’s hopes and allay to considerable degree its fears:

Knox, new Russ government in cordial first meeting. Both sides report “friendly and constructive progress” toward agreement. Americans say Russian leaders are “determined to have peace.” Russians say Americans “come in genuinely helpful spirit, as true trustees for the world.” Optimism reflected by both sides.

At 10 a.m. the next morning they met again.

“Mr. President,” Orrin said when they were seated, “before we turn to other subjects I have a matter which has been presented to me by a committee from the press. I think it is important enough to discuss right now.”

Shulatov looked surprised for a moment. Then he laughed with an easy amusement.

“I was told there was some disagreement over something, but my people said it had all been settled.”

“Apparently not,” the President said. “At least, not to the satisfaction of the media.”

“Are they ever satisfied?” Shulatov inquired with a comfortable chuckle.

“Nonetheless,” he said firmly, “this time they have a point. I understand your government is refusing them permission to visit the countryside. Not only that, but they have been refused permission to visit even the city. They tell me they are confined to the Kremlin.”

“They will be taken on a tour of nearby villages this afternoon,” Shulatov said with some impatience. “What are they complaining about?”

“They don’t want a formal tour,” the President said. “They are a free press. They want to see for themselves. It was our understanding that this is now a free country and a free people. Are we mistaken in that?”

“Of course you are not mistaken!”

“Then why must the press of the world be restricted in what it does here?” the President inquired.

“You must understand, Mr. President,” Shulatov said slowly, patience abruptly replacing impatience, “that conditions are still very chaotic, in the city, in the countryside and indeed throughout the whole country. It is only forty-eight hours since the last atomic bomb from China fell on us, you know. Many areas are still literally unsafe for anyone, let alone reporters, to venture into. Other areas are still in a state of flux. Still others require firm controls to stop looting and restore civil order. It is all very chaotic still. We cannot be responsible for reporters wandering about.”

“I think they can understand and accept the reasons why they cannot yet be allowed to go east to the actual war zones,” the President said, “but I don’t think they can understand why they cannot go into Moscow itself or into a reasonable radius around the capital to see what actual conditions are in the countryside. They aren’t going very far, they want to stick close to what we’re doing. But they can’t understand why they can’t be free to see for themselves what is happening in nearby areas. Nor,” he added firmly, “can I.”

“We do not want to be responsible—” Shulatov began in the same patient way. But the President interrupted.

“These are grown men and women, Mr. President. They can be responsible for themselves—with, of course, adequate protection, which I am sure your government will furnish them. I think you had better let them go; otherwise, I know them, and I can assure you that there is going to develop very rapidly the suspicion that your government has something to hide.”

“Mr. President—” Shulatov said with a flare of anger, controlled but emphatic.

“Do
you have something to hide?”

“Mr. President—”

“Then,” he said calmly, “I think you had better let them go.”