The Big Green Tent (74 page)

The academician—or the impostor who called himself an academician—listened attentively, nodding, his head inclined forward. He made a few replies that revealed a detailed familiarity with the case, noted down the name and surname on a scrap of paper, then offered them tea.

They moved into the kitchen, where a middle-aged woman in thick glasses was presiding.

An old woman in a soft cap was sitting in a corner, and the adolescent whom they had met when they arrived took a glass of tea and a few cookies, then disappeared into the dark corridor.

Ayshe touched the cheap teacup decorated with polka dots and said frankly what had been on her mind for the past half an hour:

“Andrei Dmitrievich, I could never have imagined that academicians lived so modestly.”

Mikha blushed from embarrassment. What a country bumpkin!

The older woman in glasses laughed:

“My dear child, only academicians who write letters in defense of exiled Tatars live like this!”

Then Ayshe realized what a foolish thing she had said. Her cheeks turned crimson, and her face began perspiring profusely. “I'm sorry, please forgive me! I understand everything. I just hadn't expected it—no one ever told me that this is how it is.”

Then a young couple came in—the middle-aged woman's daughter and her husband. They wouldn't all fit into the tiny kitchen, so Mikha and Ayshe went out, freeing up some stools.

The academician promised to write a letter about Mustafa Usmanov, and advised Ayshe to give an interview to one of the American journalists accredited in Moscow. He said he would organize it.

The most remarkable part of the story was that Academician Sakharov really did write the letter, and not to the American Congress, and not to some Western newspapers, but to the Ministry of Internal Affairs. Two weeks later they invited him to a reception on Ogarev Street, and there he discussed the matter of Captain Usmanov with a couple of officials. It was still the time when they talked seriously to him, and didn't just chuck him out with a respectful expression glued to their faces. The academician did truly achieve something: not long before, a Tatar family had been granted a residence permit in Crimea. One family out of many thousands. And he continued to make the rounds, to submit requests, to petition, to write letters.

Only in Mustafa's case it was impossible to determine whether his words had an effect or not, since Mustafa Usmanov died in solitary confinement in a pretrial detention cell in Tashkent a month and a half later. Perhaps the academician's letter pleading the case of the former Tatar hero, defender of the Motherland and special deportee, had not arrived in time, because the postal service of our country is known to be very slow.

But, for the time being, Ayshe was glad that she had had an important meeting, and she was hoping for the best. Mikha led Ayshe by the elbow. She could hardly stand on her own two feet, and kept thanking Mikha in words that were both too direct and too wooden. Only when they were right in front of Mikha's house did he realize that they were being followed by someone with such an ordinary, unprepossessing face that there could be no doubt about where he had come from.

Two days later, in the evening, a foreign correspondent by the name of Robert visited them at home. He had been sent by Academician Sakharov. He wore a long Soviet coat and a fur hat with three flaps. He resembled more closely a Russian truck driver than an anti-Soviet Slavist from Washington, with Polish roots thrown into the combustible mix. They drank tea and talked. A small tape recorder, a miracle of Western technology, was placed on the table to record Ayshe's words. The former Pole was wont to be a skirt chaser. He stared at Ayshe with a sweet expression on his face, and paid her compliments. She basked in the attention and bloomed. Smiling, she straightened her shoulders and spoke freely and even boldly, not at all shyly and haltingly, as she had in Sakharov's kitchen.

Then Robert left, got into the cab that had been waiting for him the whole time, and went to his house on Leninsky Prospect. When he got out of the car, two thuggish-looking young men jumped him. He got into a fight with them, though he knew perfectly well that he shouldn't have done that, and that the best thing to do was to make a beeline for his front door. As a result of this tussle, all three of them were taken down to the police station and charged with hooliganism. Robert got off fairly easily. They held him there overnight, and in the morning the American consul came to liberate the idiot. Unfortunately, in the midst of all these vagaries the tape recorder disappeared, never to be seen again.

The following day, toward evening, when Ayshe had gone to Children's World to shop for her daughter, the neighborhood policeman, Kusikov, looked in and saw both the basket in which Ayshe had brought a melon and grapes, and the cheap suitcase. He hemmed and hawed a bit, then led Mikha out to the staircase landing and said:

“Hey, Mikha, it'd be better if you would, you know … They stopped by asking about who was living at your place. They really let me have it. You—well, you know, she's gotta get out of here…”

That same evening Mikha took Ayshe to Kazan Station, and early in the morning, she left for Tashkent, after Mikha arranged for her to travel in the conductor's compartment, without a ticket, in exchange for some hard cash.

Three days later, Mikha found a summons in his mailbox. It was an invitation to the Lubyanka, to a meeting with Captain Safyanov.

Mikha never told Alyona, but he showed Ilya the piece of paper when they met at their regular spot.

“I warned you. You shouldn't have let Ayshe stay with you at home. You're in the crosshairs now.”

Mikha blazed up all of a sudden: “What the hell should I have done, chase a young girl out onto the street in the middle of the night? In some situations you just can't say no.”

“My God, Mikha, you're such a child! You could't afford to say yes, either! I warned you! And I told you that she should go to Sakharov's alone, without you! How could you have agreed to allow someone from the foreign press corps into your home? You've made so many mistakes acting on someone else's behalf, and now you're going to be the one to take the rap. These are serious times we're living in, things have never been worse. They've rounded up almost everyone. The Tatars, the Jews. The
Chronicle
isn't even coming out anymore—there's no one left to publish it. You picked a bad time to be noble and high-minded.”

Mikha relented.

“I know, I know. But there was no way I could act otherwise. I couldn't chase her out onto the street; I couldn't send her off to Sakharov's alone. As for Robert coming over to my place—I could have avoided that, I suppose. But the rest of it—there was no other choice, Ilya. No other way.”

Ilya grew morose and silent. What could he do for his friend now?

“Listen, I know a man, a geologist. Maybe you could take off for the Far North, on an expedition? Conditions are harsh up there, of course. Yakutia is a long way off.”

“No. I can't. Alyona. Maya. Anyway, you know there's no hiding from them, once they set their sights on you!”

“Well, what if I went to Yakutia with you?” That was the most Ilya could offer. And there was no one who had anything else to offer him. Ilya recognized the familiar hand of fate, and knew deep down that Mikha could not extricate himself now.

*   *   *

Captain Safyanov wasn't suited to outside surveillance—he had a large purple birthmark on his right cheek, which may even have been a growth. It was visible a hundred yards away. The birthmark didn't interfere with investigative work, and Safyanov rose steadily in the ranks, not overtaking anyone else, completely satisfied with his salary, his bosses, and his family life. The most unpleasant part of his work was questioning those under investigation, but he tried to keep good relations with them insofar as it was possible. Which wasn't always the case.

Melamid, the citizen who had been summoned for questioning today, had been handed down to him by another colleague who had just been promoted. The captain familiarized himself with the contents of the thick dossier beforehand, and was distressed—judging by the documents, this was someone with experience. He would have to work on him a long time.

The experienced citizen came right on time, not a minute late, and he looked like he had been around: a skinny neck, pale red hair, almost yellowish, sticking out in tufts, and cheeks covered with the beginnings of a beard. There was no beard to be seen on the photograph.

Well, we'll need a new photograph for the file
, Safyanov decided.

The captain began the conversation obliquely, reminding him of the document he'd signed last time, asking him about his employment, about his future plans. Then, out of left field, he asked:

“Are you acquainted with Ayshe Mustafaevna Usmanov?”

But this Melamid character clammed up, then denied it. This was just how he had behaved during the last interrogation, when he had been brought face-to-face with Chernopyatov—which the captain was able to gather from the documents. For an hour and a half they circled around and around the issue, and then Safyanov, the first one to grow tired of this game, pulled out a piece of paper covered with foreign print and said with feigned chagrin:

“Well, Mr. Melamid, I can't see that you have any interest or desire to help us in our work. This is most unfortunate. We conferred about your case, considered your situation, and decided that, from our side, there wouldn't be any objections to your leaving for somewhere beyond the boundaries of our homeland. You are not one of us, Mr. Melamid. Which is astonishing—your father died on the front lines, but you have no respect for…” Safyanov did not find it easy to say these words. “In short, I won't hide from you the fact that an invitation has been sent to you and your family from the state of…” Here he inserted a pregnant pause, cleared his throat, and pronounced, with repugnance, “Israel.” He placed the stress on the final syllable, which made it sound even more sinister.

“Your relative Marlen Kogan—you know someone by that name?—has interceded for you, to reunite the family. The invitation is for you, your wife, and your daughter. Have a look.”

He held out a beautiful letter. Mikha took it, and held it up close to his nose. The invitation had been issued three months before. All that time it had been languishing somewhere in the Foreigners' Registration Office or the KGB, and they had decided that now was the time to put it to use.

“It's expired, Comrade Captain,” Mikha said.

“Well, we'll take care of that. It can be extended,” he said, tapping his finger on the telephone. “It's in our hands … we won't object. Think about it. You have many things to consider, too. You haven't kept your word: you signed a document stating you wouldn't get mixed up in any of these kinds of activities. And what do we see? You allow undesirable people to live under your roof, with no residence permit, no passport records; you go to Academician Sakharov, and he writes all kinds of libel that he distributes abroad. You invite foreign correspondents to your house. And who gave you permission to engage in these activities? Leave the country! It will be better for you. If another case against you is opened, you won't get off with only three years, Mr. Melamid. Why are you dawdling? All your people are champing at the bit to get to Israel! They would give anything for an invitation like this. All right, all right, think about it. You won't have a lot of time to think, but we'll give you three days or so. If you don't leave, we'll throw you in prison. Although there are other possibilities … Take a pen and a piece of paper and write a frank confession: about your connections with the Tatars, about Mustafa Usmanov, and about this Ayshe. How you went to see Academician Sakharov, and what you did there. And about what Robert Kulavik, a fake American, was doing at your house. Write it all down in detail, take your time, and we'll be able to part on good terms. I can't promise anything, though. I'll do my best. You do your best, and we will, too.”

He rubbed his purple birthmark with the back of his hand. Mikha decided the captain must be a nervous sort.
And I don't have any nerves at all, it seems.

Mikha smiled and put the invitation on the table. He pressed it to the tabletop with his palm, as if it might fly away.

“I understand you, Comrade Captain. I'll think about it. May I leave?”

“Go, go. I'll expect you on Monday at three.” He signed Mikha's pass. “Personally, I think you should seriously consider this proposition. Such an opportunity will not present itself again.”

He went outside. Winter? Spring? What time was it? Late morning? Early evening? Was he in Kitai-gorod? The Boulevards? The Lubyanka?

O God, don't let me lose my mind …

No, no, not that one.

When will the pall on my

Ailing heart disperse?

When will the tangled nets

I'm caught in set me free?

When will this demon that

Commands my mind's dark dream …

He forgot. He forgot what Baratynsky wrote next.

He walked in circles, first away from home, then approaching it again; but he couldn't find the strength to go home and say that single word to Alyona:
emigration
.

Finally, he mustered his courage and told her everything: about the summons, about the unexpected offer. Alyona heard him out. Her face went dark. She averted her eyes, dropped her lashes, bent her head down so her hair fell over her face, and whispered:

“This is what you've always wanted. Now I know for certain, this is just what you've always wanted. But let me tell you: Maya and I will never leave here. Not for anything. Not ever…”

But it wasn't so much her words as her altered face that said everything—in the space of a second it had become suspicious and alien. Her eyebrows seemed to elongate, her lips compressed into a straight line. That drop of Caucasian Mountain blood she had inherited from her father—both proud and wild—surfaced like a sudden sunburn. Alyona lay down on the divan and turned her face to the wall.