The Lacuna (17 page)

“Here?”

“Here. It’s the Trotsky I mentioned, the letter lying over there on the desk under Cárdenas. I’ve asked the president to grant him political asylum under my custody.”

So. For this, all the questions and mystery. The Painter stood grin
ning, his hair in an unruly halo around his head, or perhaps it was a devil’s horns. His smile underlined by double chins. “Well, my young friend. Do you remain
uncurious
?”

“Señor, I confess, I maintain that position with increasing difficulty.”

8 October

Sometimes when the Painter is reading over the day’s typing, there’s time to look at the books in his library. The whole wall is shelves. On the bottom are Frida’s wooden-spined box folders where she files the household papers. Each one she has identified with a picture drawn on its spine: a naked woman, for Diego’s personal letters. The Evil Eye, for hers. The one for accounting has only a dollar sign.

The rest is books, a wall of them about everything: political theory, mathematical theory, European art, Hinduism. One shelf the length of the room is devoted to Mexico’s ancient people: archaeology, mythology. Scientific journals on the antiquities, which look tedious. But others are fascinating. The Painter took one down to show it off: a codex. Made a hundred years ago by monks, who labored to make exact replicas of the ancient books the Mexica people made on thick tree-bark paper. It didn’t have pages exactly, but was one long folded panel like an accordion. The ancient language is pictures, little figures. Here, a man cut in half. There, men standing in boats, rowing.

He said it was the Codex Boturini, about the peregrinations of the Azteca. On the advice of gods they left Aztlán in search of their new home, and took 214 years to find it. The long page was divided into two hundred fourteen small boxes, each one recording the main thing that happened in that year. Not good, mostly. A head hanging on a rotisserie over a fire! A man with eyeballs falling out! But most of the years showed simply their search for home. Anyone could feel the anguish of this book—what longing is keener? Pictographs of weary people walking, carrying babies or weapons. Small, inked footprints trailed down the full length of the book, the sad black
tracks of heartache. When completely unfolded, the codex stretched almost the whole length of the studio. That is how long it is possible to walk, looking for home.

November 2

Day of the Dead. The señora made altars all over the house to recall her beloved dead: ancients, half-born children. “Who are your dead, Insólito?” she keeps asking.

They request a suspension of all writing, this notebook put away. César will enforce the ruling. They set their trap and pounced in the Painter’s study at lunchtime, husband and wife in one room for once, for this purpose.
For security. No more of your little notes. We’ve promised extraordinary measures for the Visitor, you can’t imagine how frightened he is
. Devil and dragon in one lair, the Painter sitting at his desk, and she pacing the yellow floorboards with rippling skirts, a tiny tempest.
Not even a market list
. They claim César is becoming agitated, convinced he’s sleeping in the same room with an agent of the GPU. “Poor old General Wrong Turn, I know he’s confused,” she said. This woman who has said many times:
Sóli, to stop painting would feel like being dead
. She understands what she’s asking. To stop writing and be dead.

“It’s for safety,” he added. A man who throws paint in the face of safety.

Where are your dead, Sóli?
Here, and the devil take it, a notebook for the altar of the dead in this lonely house. Dead and gone, the companionship of words.

This record of events will be submitted to Señora Frida for weekly inspections, or at any other time she requires, for purposes of security. According to her authorized instruction it is to harbor no opinions, confessions, or fictions. Its purpose is: “To record for history the important things that happen.” The señora’s sympathy for record-keeping is noted with gratitude—HWS, 4 January, 1937.

9 January: Arrival of the Visitor

The petrol tanker
Ruth
arrived from Oslo at dawn this morning to discharge its only passengers at the Tampico docks. The landing party were brought from the ship by a small launch, under the watch of Norwegian guards, and welcomed onto Mexican soil by the following persons: Sra. Frida, Mr. Novack (American), and General Beltrán representing the government of Mexico. Diego R. still hospitalized with an infection of the kidneys. The Visitor and party were taken by government train to the capital.

11 January: Arrival of the Visitors in the House at Coyoacán

He is to be known here as “Lev Davidovich.” His wife: “Natalya.” Because of the danger of assassination, a welcoming party assembled at the San Angel house to distract attention while Lev and Natalya were secretly brought here to Coyoacán. Their secretary of many years is expected to arrive here in the coming week. He did not travel together with them, but through New York.

12 January

The visitors are settled in the house, the former dining room serving as their bedroom with Lev’s study in the adjacent small room. Lev in extraordinary spirits, despite his years of travails fleeing from Stalin and recent twenty-one days at sea. He steps through the glass doors of his study into the sunny courtyard and stretches himself, flexing his arms: a compact, muscular man, truly the Russian peasant to lead a revolution of peasants. He seems built for a life of work rather than confinement. When he’s working at his desk, his broad hand clasps a pen as if it were an ax handle. When he smiles, his eyes shine and his cheeks dimple above the little white beard. Delight appears to be his natural state. Does a man become a revolutionary out of the belief he’s entitled to joy rather than submission? This surprising man looks up at the bright Mexican sky, remarking that with only one country on earth that will have him now, he’s glad this is the one.

He could leave this house for a stroll if he liked, though of course he would have to be guarded. In Norway they were indoors under house arrest since last September, Natalya said. Stalin threatened trade sanctions against Norway unless the government rescinded his asylum. And we can be sure, Stalin already knows he is here.

14 January

Arrival of the secretary: to be known in this record as “Van.” Tall, blond, broad-shouldered as a footballer, it’s good he traveled separately. Such a d’Artagnan as this fellow could hardly walk down a street without attracting attention, as the señora will shortly see for herself.

Lev’s study and bedroom are the most secure part of the house, as they form an interior wing jutting into the courtyard. Good light from the portico doors facing the courtyard and magnolia tree. Van is keeping very busy there today, unpacking books.

16 January

Sra. Frida will be shocked to see her childhood house so transformed. It was a good choice to move her father to San Angel, all Sr. Guillermo’s things are packed away. The exterior walls have been painted plumbago as requested, so it is the Blue House she wanted. But really, a Blue Fortress. The courtyard wall is raised to a height of seven meters, and the masons are moving their scaffolds now to begin bricking up the windows. The men agree these security measures are needed. From the tall wooden doors on Londres Street, visitors now enter through a guarded vestibule into the courtyard garden.

The courtyard is still the jungle it was; the masons haven’t trampled the flowers completely. The house retains its original U shape, with the long front room facing Londres Street (fireplace and leaded-glass windows intact) to be used for dining and political meetings. Lev’s bedroom and study make the other long wing. The string of tiny rooms across the back, connecting the two main legs, will house everyone else: Perpetua, the house girls Belén and Carmen Alba, the secretary Van, the cook HS, bodyguards Octavio and Felix. The windows in these small rooms face the exterior on the Allende Street side, so all are being closed by the brickmasons, making them dark little cupboards. One guard is posted out on Londres at all times. Sr. Diego is now feeling well enough that he brought over his Thompson machine gun.

The kitchen retains good light and air, extending outward as it does on the Allende Street side to enclose the back of the courtyard. The masons agreed to leave windows open for ventilating the wood fires in the stoves, after voluble argument from Perpetua, who warned of
cocineras ahumados
, the kitchen girls smoked like hams. Perpetua is confused and worn out from the changes, and resigned to her new position as assistant to a male head cook, HS, who vows to do his best by this duty. This kitchen is a wonder, with its extravagance of blue and yellow tile, woodstoves as long as divans, and the welcome sight of large wooden tables for rolling out dough. It will be a pleasure pre
paring the daily repast here for the visitors, and any feasts required for evening gatherings.

Household directives noted here: No food from unknown sources to be served, under any conditions. No unknown person to enter the house. HS is to assist the Visitor with typing and correspondence (recommended by Diego R.) and to retain this written record of events (requested by Sra. Frida). The first report from Coyoacán is here complete for the week Jan. 9–16, submitted for inspection.

19 January

The Coyoacán house is proving a good accommodation. Old houses have their wisdom. Despite the bricked-up exterior, the main rooms are comfortably lit by the courtyard. That jungle enclosed by high blue walls is a comforting world for visitors who are not at great liberty to roam elsewhere. Perpetua is taking care with her lilies and figs; it remains a cheerful world, in no way resembling a prison. Perpetua said Guillermo had this house built for his family more than thirty years ago, and through all those years no one saw a need for turning it upside down, until now. (Her resentment of the current upheaval is understandable.) The deep adobe walls keep a good temperature all day. The contrasts between this house and the modern one built by the Riveras in San Angel are many, most particularly their
kitchens
. But on that subject no opinion is given here.

Sra. Frida’s choice of blue walls is greatly approved by all here.

A note on meal preparations: The visitors prefer tea over coffee. Another exceptional preference is unsweetened bread cut into thin slabs, toasted in the oven until somewhat hard, as if stale. Otherwise they are generally agreeable to normal foods. Natalya made plain their disinterest in pickled fish, after a long Norwegian winter of almost nothing else. They request mashed turnips and a green vegetable unknown to these parts, translated by Van as “the Sprouts of Belgium.” Tomorrow Perpetua will be driven into the city on a search, as the Melchor market here has neither tea nor turnip. But
they are adapting well to customary foods: sugared fritters, baked guava, and fermented cream are all favored. This morning they took enchiladas with eggs, and tea.

On days when no special meals are scheduled, all hands go to helping Lev unpack and arrange his study. He is curious about Mexico: the altitude of mountains, population of the city, its history, and so forth. Perpetua on her trip to town is to fetch the
Geographic Atlas
owned by HS, from his mother’s apartment. It is outdated but will serve for now; Pico de Orizaba has not changed its height in a decade.

Lev communicates with help from the secretary Van, since Lev’s Spanish and English are rudimentary, and clever Van seems to speak everything possible: French, Norwegian, Russian. He claims both French and Dutch as native tongues. He makes a point of moving the largest crates, insisting no extra help is needed in Lev’s office. It can’t be argued really; Van is tall and strong as an ox. (Though more handsome.) He complains sometimes in English about the “native typist,” apparently not realizing HS also has two native tongues. But Lev is agreeable to having an extra fellow to help him. Plainly, Van has a habit of protecting his chief from outsiders, which is natural. He first became Lev’s assistant in France, where they lived from 1933 until 1935. That was before Norway. Prior to that, Lev and Natalya were hiding in Istanbul, and before that, Kazakhstan. Lev Davidovich has been living in exile under threat of death since 1927. “I am a man in a very large world,” he said slowly today, “with a very small place to be.”

Mexico is fairly good sized, sir. You’ll see
.

Van said, “He’s speaking metaphorically. He means that he lives in the planet without a passport.”

21 January

A telegraphed message came this morning, delivered by Diego wearing his holster and gun. The message was in a code. Lev spent
many hours in his study working it out, rejecting even Van’s offers of help, with Natalya the whole time walking between the study and the kitchen, pulling on her fingers, making Perpetua burn the milk. The message concerns the son in Paris. Van says there are two sons; the younger was taken to prison camp three years ago, almost certainly dead. Two daughters are also dead.

Lev is not very sure of the message except for one important part: the telegram is definitely from Lyova, so he is alive. They have a code for his identity that is known to no one else on earth, not even Natalya. Lev speculates that GPU killers in France have tried to assassinate Lyova, and we can expect the newspapers to report him killed. To spare distress, he wanted his parents to know he is alive, in hiding.

They seem little spared from distress, though. If her son escaped murder this time, Natalya asks, what about the next? Lev rages that his children have done nothing to earn a death sentence from Stalin. The younger one, Sergei, only ever cared for books, sport, and girls, but ended in a concentration camp. “And now Lyova. His crime is to be the son of his father. Who can change the things that brought him into the world?”

23 January

Diego arrived early, upset, with the bundle of newspapers he receives by special post. Two report the death of Lyova, as predicted, but they know this is false. There is worse news yet: headlines declaring L. D. Trotsky found guilty of crimes against the Soviet Union. His trial in Moscow has been going on for weeks, with the accused in absentia. Van says Lev petitioned to go there and stand trial, for the chance to defend himself, but Stalin wouldn’t lift the exile order. The aim of the trial is to discredit anyone who ever spoke against Stalin. Some of Lev’s friends are also declared guilty: men named Radek, Piatakov, and Muralov, all three imprisoned now in Moscow.

The charges are strange and diverse: derailing trains, collaborat
ing with Rudolf Hess and the Nazis, acting as agents of the Japanese emperor, stealing bread. Attempting to assassinate Stalin by poisoning his shoes, and his hair cream.

Stalin uses hair cream?

“Careful, lad,” said Lev. “That knowledge alone could get you the firing squad.”

The penalty for the charges against Lev is death. Yet he seems in good spirits, despite the newspapers from France and the United States calling him a villain, and the Mexican ones calling him a “villain in our midst.” The editorials speculate on why he betrayed his principles. These newspaper men have never met Lev, yet confidently they discuss his innermost feelings and motives! They take it on faith that the treacheries were all committed. They don’t even wonder how a man could derail so many Russian trains after he was put on a cargo boat for Prinkipo Island.

The security regimes here are strictly maintained, as the news makes clear Stalin intends to have Lev assassinated. The guard in the street changes hourly. Lorenzo organizes drills in which Lev and Natalya must be hidden very quickly. When Diego comes in the car, Lev has to move to one of the inner rooms before the court gates are opened to let the car drive in. Snipers could be in Allende Street, waiting for a line of fire into the courtyard. And if any unknown person comes to the door, even a grocer’s boy delivering eggs and flour, the intruder is patted down, relieved of belt and shoes, and made to open all packages for inspection. The GPU will certainly strike, and no one knows how they will do it. (Though entering in the guise of a grocer seems unlikely.)

Lev says he has been a revolutionary from the age of seventeen, with a gallows waiting for him somewhere for forty years. His friends will know these new charges against him are invented. “And my enemies know it also. Which of these has written anything new?” He threw the newspapers aside and made Natalya come and sit on his knee. She obeyed him, but with a frown on her bottom lip, like the
little dogs that have long wool in their eyes and a flattened nose. Lev took off his round-rimmed spectacles and sang to her in Russian. He asked to hear some songs of the Mexican revolution. Perpetua knew a surprising number. For such an old cook, her voice is steady.

24 January

Lev and Natalya went for a stroll in the Melchor market, their first venture outside the house since arrival. Between all the guards and Diego’s machine gun, Coyoacán village must have entertained a commotion. But the so-called Villain in Our Midst means to hold his bearded chin up to the world without shame.

With Lev and Natalya out strolling and all the guards escorting, the house was quiet. A slow afternoon passed, helping Van file cartons of Lev’s letters and published writings. It’s hard to believe such an outpouring of words could come from one man—“the Commissar,” Van calls him. He works each day as if the calendar on his desk were on its last page, which it could well be. Today while he was out, Van took the opportunity to ask many questions, not friendly. Place of birth, education, and so forth.