“They are corrupt here too. You don’t trade roubles because there’s nothing to buy with them. You trade favours and privileges, somebody’s life. And you trade freedom despite our Constitution.”
Lensky smiled. “When did you read our Constitution?”
“When I was in Paris.”
“Do you still speak Russian when you can?”
“Of course not. I’m an American bookseller. I spoke Russian when I was at Brighton Beach but not in New York.”
“But there are immigrant Americans from Russia who still speak the language at home.”
“But they don’t do what I do.” He shook his head. “I’ve survived because I take no unnecessary risks.”
“You’re very sensible. Take no notice of my questions. They may not be what they seem.”
“You’re being very mysterious, Jakob. Why?”
“Because when all the cards have been played I want to know who I can trust.”
“Is it really that bad?”
“They are going to adopt a policy of aggression against the United States. Not actual war but harassment all round the globe.” He sighed. “And I’ve no idea how far they’ll go.”
“The Americans won’t let them go too far, Jakob.”
“Don’t be so sure. Our people think the Americans will back down.”
“I think that they’re wrong.”
“There aren’t many people who think confrontation is a mistake. And they aren’t going to say what they think, believe me.”
“So what is the point of me reporting how things really are in the States, to you?”
“I’m not sure, Andrei. I’m an old man, and I’m tired from struggling. Sometimes I wonder if I’m wrong.” He sighed and looked at Aarons. “And sometimes I wonder if I’m mad.” He paused. “Talking to you is a kind of therapy—a life-line to sanity.” He settled back in his chair. “I’ve always read a lot but these days I read only les philosophes, Descartes, Montaigne, Wittgenstein, Russell.” He waved his hand languidly and let it fall, shaking his head as he looked at Aarons. “I envy you, Andrei. At least you live among optimists.”
Aarons smiled. “You shame me, Jakob.”
“Why? In what way?”
“More and more I get sick of people. It would be so easy for the world to live in peace …” he smiled, “… if only there were no people.”
Lensky smiled. “What does your Tania say to all this?”
“She’s sixteen years younger than I am but despite that she seems older and wiser than I am.”
“In what way?”
“She says that I’m wishing my life away. She thinks I should do something with energy and enthusiasm. The books—anything.” He smiled. “I think in a way she feels that men behave like spoilt children. Rather cruel children. School bullies.”
“She obviously loves you.”
“I’m very lucky. She makes my life a real life, not just an existence like it used to be.”
“Good, good.” Lensky leaned forward to touch Aarons’ arm, the talk about Tania already dismissed. “You know, Andrei, I sometimes think that there’s nothing to choose between them. They’re both the same—we’re wasting our lives, the likes of you and me—we should let them get on with it. The hell with them.”
Aarons smiled. “You don’t mean it, do you?”
Lensky shuffled embarrassedly. “No. I wish I did.” He paused. “This bloody country is like a drug—and I’m an addict.”
“For what?”
“For all those real Russian things. Tchaikovsky, Rachmaninov, Tolstoy, Chekhov, Dostoyevski—poor Mandelstam even. We can’t let them be pushed aside for pamphlets about economics and the dialectic of materialism.”
“So why did you join the Party way back?”
“I thought it would improve the lives of peasants and workers. Give everybody a chance to enjoy being alive.”
“And has it done that?”
“You know it hasn’t. We’ve just changed from Tsars to commissars. Ignorant louts after power and privileges. So-called realists.”
“Why don’t you leave?”
“And go where?”
“America.”
Lensky smiled wryly. “And you think they care about music and poetry and literature?”
“They care about individual rights.”
“Ask a negro about individual rights or a Puerto Rican. See what they say.”
“I said they care about those rights. They haven’t made it work yet but you don’t end up in a labour-camp if you air your views.”
“Why do you carry on, Andrei? You could earn a good living over there.”
“Somebody’s got to try, Jakob. I’ll keep going until somebody proves that I’m wasting my time.”
“And how will you know?”
Aarons shrugged. “It’s a negative proof. If they don’t start another war that’s all I want. For people to listen instead of just shouting in ignorance.”
“Well,” said Lensky standing up slowly and unsteadily. “Remember poor Osip Mandelstam. They said he was one of the raznochintsi, the classless intellectuals who were like St. Petersburg—facing both east and west. He died on his way to a labour camp in ’38.”
Aarons laughed quietly, “Nobody’s ever going to see me as an intellectual.”
“By the way,” Lensky said, “K is already saying that he thinks Eisenhower will be the next President. He may be a peasant but he’s a very shrewd one. Let’s go to bed.”
It was snowing when Aarons landed in New York and he took a taxi back to 42nd Street and got out at Bryant Park, walking the rest of the way. He still kept to his old habits of precautions against being followed.
Sam and Anna were there and he and Tania arranged to meet them at Sam’s club that evening.
After they left Tania said, “Bill phoned and asked for you to call him back.”
“Did he say it was urgent?”
“He didn’t say so but he sounded concerned that you were away and wouldn’t be able to contact him for some days.”
“Did he ask where I was?”
“No.”
“Shall I ask them to join us at the club tonight?”
“Do you want to?”
“It would be convenient.”
“Shall I ring him for you and you could have a nap?”
“OK. Say 9 o’clock at Sam’s.”
“Don’t forget it’s elections tomorrow.”
Aarons smiled. “I hadn’t forgotten, honey.”
At the club Malloy and Aarons had wandered over to the bar. Malloy had a whiskey and the barman smiled as he pushed the usual glass of milk across for Aarons. Moving away from the bar they stood in a small alcove where extra chairs were stored.
Malloy raised
