Raisa replied, a hint of anger in her voice:
– You didn’t tell me the concert was so informal.
– I’m sorry. I was flustered earlier. But you look lovely.
She registered the compliment and her anger seemed to dissolve.
– I wanted to explain why I lied about my name.
He noted the tension in her voice, politely cutting her explanation short.
– There’s no need to apologize. I’m sure men ask for your name regularly. It must be a nuisance.
Raisa remained silent. Leo added, keen to stop the silence from becoming too long:
– Anyway, it’s I who owe you an apology. I surprised you today. Austin wanted to see a school. I put you on the spot. It was unfair. You could have embarrassed me.
Raisa turned her head away.
– It was an honour to have such important guests.
A formality had crept into the way she spoke to Leo, no longer brusque or dismissive. She glanced about the auditorium.
– I’m looking forward to hearing Mr Austin sing.
– So am I.
They arrived at the front.
– Here we are. Like I said, the best seats in the house.
Leo stepped back, faintly amused at the incongruity of her radiance among the exhausted factory workers.
The warehouse lights were switched off and bright stage lights turned on, flooding the structure in a yellow glow. The cameras began to roll. Leo took position on the steps to the stage, looking out over the audience. Austin entered from the other side, striding up the stairs in huge bounds. His energy was remarkable. Onstage he seemed even taller and more impressive. With a small wave of his hand he modestly requested the applause to come to an end. Once there was silence he took the microphone, speaking in Russian.
– It is an honour to be here, in Moscow, to be invited to sing in your place of work. The welcome you give me is always special. I don’t feel like a guest. The truth is, I feel at home. At times, I feel more at home than I do in my own country. Because here, in the Soviet Union, I am loved not only while I sing, not only while I’m onstage and while I entertain you. Here, I’m loved offstage. Here, the fact that I’m a singer makes me no different from all of you even though our occupations could not be more different. Here, regardless of whether I am singing, regardless of my success, I am a Communist. I am a comrade, like all of you. The same as all of you! Listen to those sweet words. I am the same as all of you! And that is the greatest honour of all… to be different and yet treated the same.
The orchestra began to play. Austin’s first choice was the Friends’ Song, written for the Communist Youth with lyrics that called for the building of new cities and the laying of new roads. It had been modified for orchestral backing, transforming it from little more than a propaganda hymn into a musical performance. To Leo’s surprise, the performance overcame the rigid polemic of its lyrics. Austin’s voice was powerful and intimate at the same time. It filled the cavernous space. Leo was sure that if he’d asked anyone in the audience they’d have stated that Austin appeared to be singing directly to them. Leo marvelled at what it must be like to have a voice that could move men to tears, a voice that could hush and soothe a room filled with athousand tired workers. Among the front row, he sought out Raisa. She was concentrating on Austin, under the spell of his voice. He wondered if she would ever look upon him with the same admiration.
As the song finished, a disturbance broke out at the back of the warehouse. Members of the audience turned around, staring into the darkness. Leo stepped forward, straining his eyes, attempting to identify the source of the noise. A man appeared from the shadows, wearing an MGB uniform, his shirt pulled out, his trousers scuffed with dirt. He was a mess, staggering wildly from side to side. It took Leo a moment to realize this man was Grigori – his protege.
Leo hurried forward, running past other agents in order to intercept him. He took his trainee by the arm. He stank of alcohol. Despite the danger of his predicament, Grigori seemed not to notice Leo. He was applauding Austin with loud, slow, erratic claps. When Leo tried to pull him away, out of the warehouse, Grigori growled like a feral dog:
– Leave me alone.
Leo clamped his hands on Grigori’s face, staring him in the eye, speaking with genuine urgency.
– Pull yourself together. What are you doing?
Grigori replied:
– Get out of my way!
– Listen to me – Listen to you? I wish I had never heard you speak.
– What has happened to you?
– To me! No, not to me, to someone else, Leo, the artist, Polina, you remember her? The woman I love? They arrested her. Even though I disobeyed you and ripped out the offending page…
Grigori raised the page from the diary, complete with the doodle of the Statue of Liberty.
– Even though there was nothing in that diary, they arrested her, even though I disobeyed you and ripped out the page, they still arrested her!
He was repeating himself, slurring his words, running the sentences into each other as though they were a chant. Leo tried to cut him short:
– Then they’ll free her and the matter will be over.
– She’s dead!
He shouted out the words. A sizeable part of the audience had now turned from Austin to Grigori. He continued to speak, this time in a whisper:
– They arrested her last night. She didn’t survive the questioning. A weak heart, that’s what they said to me. A weak heart. .. a weak heart! Was that her crime, Leo? If that is a crime you should arrest me too. Arrest me, Leo. Arrest me. Charge me with a weak heart. I would rather a weak heart than a strong one.
Leo felt sick.
– Grigori, you’re upset, listen to me – You keep asking me to listen to you. But I won’t, Leo Demidov, I won’t listen to you! The sound of your voice is appalling to me.
Other agents were moving closer, several rising out of the audience. Grigori bolted forward, running up the stairs, past the orchestra and towards Austin. Leo rushed after him, following up the stairs but pausing at the threshold of the stage. If he tried to make Grigori leave, they would end up in a fight. The cameras were rolling. Thousands were watching.
*
Grigori stood, blinking in the glare of the spotlights. He wanted to shout out the truth. He wanted to tell them an innocent woman had been murdered. As the faces of those seated in the front rows came into focus he understood that they already knew – not that Polina was dead, but they knew her story, they knew it many times over. They did not need to hear it from him. They did not want to hear it. No one wanted him to speak. They were afraid, not for him, but of him, as if he had some sickness that might infect their lives. He was a lunatic, a man who stood onstage and made himself a target – an act of suicide. There was nothing noble in his actions. What did it matter if he spoke the truth? It was a useless, dangerous truth. He turned to the man onstage with him, the famous Jesse Austin. What had Grigori hoped? Perhaps he’d hoped that a man full of dreams about this land would hear the truth and transform from an advocate to a critic – it would be a bitter blow to the regime, a suitable revenge for Polina’s murder. But looking into Austin’s kind eyes he realized that this man did not want to know the truth either.
Austin wrapped an arm around Grigori’s shoulder, announcing to the audience:
– I don’t know if he’s a fan, or someone telling me to shut up! There was laughter. Grigori slurred the words, drunk, but exhausted, defeated:
– Comrade Austin.
Grigori pulled out the diary page:
– What does this mean to you?
Austin took the page, examining the doodle. He turned to the audience.
– Our friend has shown me a drawing of the most important symbol of our time. It is the Statue of Liberty, in
