The Big Green Tent (66 page)

There was still hope that they wouldn't open the Pasternak and find the piece of paper. Mikha was glad that Alyona was staying late at the institute and wouldn't find the KGB at her home when she got there.

Mikha tried to call Edik immediately, but no one picked up.

*   *   *

The next morning Mikha and Alyona went to Edik's house. A tearstained Elena Alekseevna told them that the day before, at the very same time, they had also been searched. But things had ended far worse. They had taken Edik away with them, and he had not yet returned. They had found many rough drafts, materials from the last issue of the magazine with corrections marked in pencil. They also took five issues of the publication
Vestnik
, the journal of the Russian Christian Student Movement, and a pile of other samizdat publications. Finally, they had confiscated photocopies of what was perhaps the most damning anti-Soviet book, published for the Party elite in a small edition, stamped “Top Secret”—Avtorkhanov's
Technology of Power.

Elena Alekseevna's room was also subject to unsolicited “cleansing.” They took away two copies of the Bible, a statue of the Buddha, prayer beads, and a photocopy of Buddhist texts. They asked her what language all this anti-Soviet junk was written in. She tried to explain to them that she was a specialist in Buddhism and Eastern studies, and that the two languages she worked in most often were Sanskrit and Tibetan. Also, that the paper they were holding in their hands was a copy of a document written in the seventh century.

There was something almost touching about their fabulous ignorance. When one of the uninvited guests told Elena Alekseevna in a whisper that he knew all about the Buddhist blood sacrifices, she couldn't contain her laughter, in spite of the fear she felt under the circumstances. Even when she was telling Mikha and Alyona about it, she had to laugh. She knew that the copies would be returned—and even if they weren't, it wasn't the end of the world. But she regretted the loss of the family Bible, on the last page of which was written the name of its first owners.

They decided to go see Sergei Borisovich and ask his advice, as someone with a great deal of experience in these matters. His house was, as usual, full of people: some newly released prisoner on his way to Rostov, a man from Central Asia, an elderly woman with the botanical-sounding name of Mallow, whom Mikha had already met before, and Yuly Kim himself, with his guitar. Some people drank tea or coffee, others wine or vodka. Alyona frowned in displeasure. She was always annoyed by these gatherings that smacked of a street fair, a station, or a flophouse. Mikha drew his father-in-law into a corner and told him about Edik. Should he go to the KGB district office and inquire? Perhaps to the central headquarters?

“Well, whether you go or not, they have the right to detain him for up to seventy-two hours without charging him with anything.” Sergei Borisovich knew all of this from personal experience going back to his childhood. “Most likely they won't tell you anything now. But you need to take some action so that they know there are people looking after his welfare. It will all become clearer in three days.”

Mikha went to see Ilya, and Elena Alekseevna went with Zhenya to Kuznetsky. Most, to the KGB headquarters.

Ilya told Mikha that there had been seven or eight searches of various people that night. Four of them had been detained, but two of them had been released already. He knew nothing about Edik.

Edik Tolmachev was not released three days later. He was charged with “Distribution of False Information Defaming the Government and Social Structure of the USSR,” under Article 190 of the Penal Code.

Again, Mikha went to see his experienced father-in-law, this time about the magazine. He wanted to continue to publish it, but he was uncertain whether he could manage such a complex and important task on his own. Moreover, all the materials for the next issue had been confiscated; he did know how to restore them, however.

Sergei Borisovich was categorical in his answer: no, now was not the time. Mikha was sure to trip up.

As far as Mikha himself was concerned, he began to relish the situation. In the same way that he had once been completely consumed with methods and approaches toward developing the faculty of speech in the deaf, he now felt he was performing a very significant task, playing a crucial role. It seemed to him the future of poetry was in his hands. It was as though someone was instructing him from on high to preserve for posterity everything with intrinsic worth, everything that lived spontaneously, all that escaped the scrutiny of the authorities.

Ilya gave him some wise advice.

“Don't continue the magazine; make a new one, Mikha! Change the name. Think up some sort of bird, it could even be fun. You'll be able to manage the poetry yourself, and I'll introduce you to some artists. I know some art historians; they're really great. It's the new avant-garde. I'll help you make new connections. I know many amazing people. It will be an arts journal. As for politics, it will take care of itself.”

*   *   *

Three months passed. Just when Mikha had grown tired of waiting to be called in by the KGB for his activities surrounding the magazine, he found a summons from them in his mailbox.

Alyona wasn't feeling well. She suspected she might be pregnant, but she decided not to tell Mikha for the time being. She had been silent for days, which was not unusual for her. He, on the other hand, talked nonstop: about Edik, about the lawyer some friends had found, about the magazine, old version and new, about Sanya Steklov, who had suddenly turned up and invited them to the Conservatory, though they hadn't heard a word from him in six months …

He babbled on about everything under the sun, but didn't say a word about the summons from the KGB in the pocket of his checked shirt.

There were two possible reasons that they wanted to see him. One was that they had given
Doctor Zhivago
a good shake, and the piece of paper with the Tatar demographics fell out; the other was that Edik had informed on him as an accomplice, which seemed improbable to Mikha.

He was not vexed by the summons. What he felt was closer to embarrassment that he had managed to do so little: nothing, really! He had only written a few articles, and selected and edited some poetry.

When he told Ilya about the summons, Ilya was very upset.

“It was to be expected. I was actually surprised that they had left you alone for so long. And I'm at fault for dragging you into this magazine business. We'll have to figure out how to extricate you from it now. Edik has a strong character, I don't think he'd set you up. They're going to put you through the wringer for those Tatar statistics. You've got to think up a good alibi—you bought
Zhivago
a long time ago from a street vendor, because you'd heard a lot about it. But you hadn't had time to read it, or even look at it, yet. You don't know anything about any sheet of paper covered with numbers. And anyone in Moscow can buy the book near the secondhand bookshop on Kuznetsky Bridge; by Pervopechatnik there are street vendors, and it's even easier at Ptichka, by the entrance. And describe the guy who sold it to you in detail. Say he had long hair, with greasy long locks hanging down from the sides of his head, and a really long nose that reached right down to his lip. And black eyes. And he spoke with a Ukrainian accent. And he wore a vest with spangles…” Ilya looked at his friend searchingly. “Or, let's say, he was really small, with curly hair and curly sideburns. He had a down-turned nose, light-colored eyes, and small, womanish hands … and he spoke with a burr. Or how about this: He was a nervous, high-strung type, skinny, rather tall, yellowish, with a high, balding forehead, a scraggly beard. And he seemed to walk like a wind-up toy…”

Then Mikha jumped in:

“No, he was a big, burly guy with a massive beard, dressed like a peasant. And a mustache. I'd say he was kind of a slob; an old-timer. And he carried his books in a sack, and wore felt boots with galoshes over them! A giant of a man, indeed!”

They were almost rolling on the floor in laughter.

“No, a woman would be better. A tall, elderly, buxom lady, aristocratic-looking. Wearing a hat and carrying an umbrella. She took the book out of her handbag, and she was wearing gloves. And the strange thing was that it looked like she was wearing them on the wrong hands … The gloves are what made me remember her…” Mikha was getting completely carried away by the game.

“Well, Mikha, what can I say to you? Just say no to everything they ask you. That's the best way to deal with the situation. I know from experience.”

“You've been there?”

“Yes. But I got out. The best thing is not to say anything at all. Remember, every word you say will work against you. No matter what it is. We're just amateurs—they're professionals. They have their methods, and they know how to make you take the bait, how to trip you up. The best thing is not to talk. But I've heard from other people that this is nearly impossible. They could make a deaf-mute talk.”

The mention of a “deaf-mute” seemed to sear Mikha. It was January. For three years in a row he had been with the boarding-school kids, with his deaf-and-dumb children, during these deep-winter days. They had gone cross-country skiing, first departing from the school gates and walking about a hundred yards into the forest, where a ski track had been made the night before. Usually he went first, followed by the children, with Gleb Ivanovich bringing up the rear. How long had it been since he'd visited them? A year? Two? Suddenly, he wanted desperately to see them. It was urgent. And he spontaneously signed the word to himself with his hands—urgent!

He didn't say anything to Ilya. There were still two days until Monday, and he decided that on Sunday morning he would get up early and go to the boarding school to spend the day with the children. After all, they let parents visit. He had worked with them for three years. Who would dare try to stop him?

They arrested Mikha at Yaroslav Station when he was getting on the commuter train. He already had one foot in the train when two men yanked him off so adroitly that it seemed at first as if he had stumbled and fallen off the steps himself.

“Easy now, keep quiet!” one of them, wearing a rabbit-fur cap, barked in his ear.

“Quiet—if you know what's good for you!” said the second one, wearing nutria.

Mikha had a cold. He wanted to reach into his pocket for a handkerchief, and he jerked his hand. He felt a sharp pain in his wrist.

Only then did he understand fully what had happened to him: they were afraid he would take to his heels, so they had intercepted him. That meant they had been following him.

He sniffed loudly.

“Let me just wipe my snot,” he said, and laughed.

“You're fine the way you are!” roared the rabbit-fur hat again.

“What do you need with a snot-nosed wimp?” Mikha said, and seemed to grow completely calm, even apathetic. He was under arrest.

*   *   *

The first days were the hardest. He was determined to carry out to the letter all of Ilya's urgings. On the third day they charged him, and he realized it was all over. The mousetrap had snapped shut, and he couldn't get out. He fell into a depression then. All his thoughts were with Alyona, and an enormous sense of guilt, one he had known since childhood, gripped him. He didn't know how she was; he had no connection at all to his life outside prison. The first familiar face he saw, in the second week, was the pale, haggard face of Edik Tolmachev.

They hadn't agreed on a common strategy, but their actions in prison coincided remarkably. Edik denied Mikha's participation in the magazine, Mikha refused to answer any questions at all. The only evidence they had against Mikha was the sheet of paper in the volume of
Doctor Zhivago
, or, more precisely, Musa's addendum at the bottom addressed to “Red.”

It turned out that this was enough. Besides Edik Tolmachev, two more people, whom Mikha truly didn't know, had been brought in about the case of the unsanctioned journal
Gamayun.
Despite some shortcomings in his management, Edik knew the basics of conspiracy—not all the participants in the publication of the magazine knew one another.

The investigation and preparation for the trial took a little over three months. Mikha was held in a KGB detention cell in Lefortovo Prison, in the most secret and cut-off quarters—a whitewashed cell with a sealed-off window that blocked out all light, and the outside world. Every day, to the sound of a metallic clip-clop, clip-clop, the guard would lead him down the long, labyrinthine corridors, and up and down narrow stairways, where one could only walk in single file. Twice, when they met a prisoner being led toward them from the other direction, they shoved Mikha into a recess, like a side closet. Then they resumed their journey through the tangle of nightmarish, seemingly endless corridors, until, finally, they deposited him in the investigator's office. Now the interrogators didn't alternate. There was just one heavyset, gloomy officer, who always began their hours-long interaction with the words:

“So, are we still refusing to speak?”

He had absolutely no imagination, and always repeated, in the same soft, hoarse voice:

“We don't have anything on you. You could be out of here tomorrow. You're pushing up the length of your own term. We want to get rid of you.”

Mikha repeated, in a bored monotone:

“I even address my young students with the formal ‘you.' Please be so good as to address me the same way.”

The investigator's name was Meloedov. Mikha, with his keen ear, was immediately alert to the echo in their names: Meloedov and Melamid. But apart from the first two syllables of their surnames, they had nothing in common. True, Meloedov was no man-eating monster. He even had the reputation, in his own circles, of being almost a liberal (among those who knew words like that, at least). And, to the investigator, this redheaded fellow seemed at first like a chance character who had wandered into the wrong play. His dossier contained Gleb Ivanovich's already old denunciation, and a piece of paper of indeterminate origin, testifying to his links to the Tatar right-of-return movement. Article 70—agitation and propaganda—was clearly not relevant here. And Article 190—the distribution of intentionally false information harmful to the Soviet authorities—would have to be proved, before it was imputed to him. A single denunciation by a single loony was a bit flimsy as evidence. Moreover, the fellow's defense wasn't half bad.