Dimka looked at the paper. It was headed Dissidence. He had heard of this subversive news sheet. Tanya might easily have something to do with it. This edition was about Ustin Bodian, the opera singer. Dimka was momentarily distracted by the shocking allegation that Bodian was dying of pneumonia in a Siberian labor camp. Then he recalled that Tanya had returned from Siberia today, and realized she must have written this. She could be in real trouble. "Are you alleging that Tanya had this paper in her possession?" he demanded. He saw Mets hesitate and said: "I thought not."
"She should not have been there at all."
Daniil put in: "She's a reporter, you fool. She was observing the event, just as your officers were."
"She's not an officer."
"All TASS reporters cooperate with the KGB, you know that."
"You can't prove she was there officially."
"Yes, I can. I'm her editor. I sent her."
Dimka wondered whether that was true. He doubted it. He felt grateful to Daniil for sticking his neck out in defense of Tanya.
Mets was losing confidence. "She was with a man called Vasili Yenkov, who had five copies of that sheet in his pocket."
"She doesn't know anyone called Vasili Yenkov," said Dimka. It might have been true: certainly he had never heard the name. "If it was a riot, how could you tell who was with whom?"
"I'll have to talk to my superiors," said Mets, and he turned away.
Dimka made his voice harsh. "Don't be long," he barked. "The next person you see from the Kremlin may not be the boy who makes the tea."
Mets went down a staircase. Dimka shuddered: everyone knew the basement contained the interrogation rooms.
A moment later Dimka and Daniil were joined in the lobby by an older man with a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He had an ugly, fleshy face with an aggressively jutting chin. Daniil did not seem pleased to see him. He introduced him as Pyotr Opotkin, features editor in chief.
Opotkin looked at Dimka with eyes screwed up to keep out the smoke. "So, your sister got herself arrested at a protest meeting," he said. His tone was angry, but Dimka sensed that underneath it Opotkin was for some reason pleased.
"A poetry reading," Dimka corrected him.
"Not much difference."
Daniil put in: "I sent her there."
"On the day she got back from Siberia?" said Opotkin skeptically.
"It wasn't really an assignment. I suggested she drop by sometime to see what was going on, that's all."
"Don't lie to me," said Opotkin. "You're just trying to protect her."
Daniil raised his chin and gave a challenging look. "Isn't that what you're here to do?"
Before Opotkin could reply, Captain Mets returned. "The case is still under consideration," he said.
Opotkin introduced himself and showed Mets his identity card. "The question is not whether Tanya Dvorkin should be punished, but how," he said.
"Exactly, sir," said Mets deferentially. "Would you like to come with me?"
Opotkin nodded and Mets led him down the stairs.
Dimka said in a quiet voice: "He won't let them torture her, will he?"
"Opotkin was mad at Tanya already," Daniil said worriedly.
"What for? I thought she was a good journalist."
"She's brilliant. But she turned down an invitation to a party at his house on Saturday. He wanted you to go, too. Pyotr loves important people. A snub really hurts him."
"Oh, shit."
"I told her she should have accepted."
"Did you really send her to Mayakovsky Square?"
"No. We could never do a story about such an unofficial gathering."
"Thanks for trying to protect her."
"My privilege--but I don't think it's working."
"What do you think will happen?"
"She might be fired. More likely, she'll be posted somewhere disagreeable, such as Kazakhstan." Daniil frowned. "I must think of some compromise that will satisfy Opotkin but not be too hard on Tanya."
Dimka glanced at the entrance door and saw a man in his forties with a brutally short military haircut, wearing the uniform of a Red Army general. "At last, Uncle Volodya," he said.
Volodya Peshkov had the same intense blue-eyed stare as Tanya. "What is this shit?" he said angrily.
Dimka filled him in. As he was finishing, Opotkin reappeared. He spoke obsequiously to Volodya. "General, I have discussed this problem of your niece with our friends in the KGB and they are content for me to deal with it as an internal TASS matter."
Dimka slumped with relief. Then he wondered whether Opotkin's entire approach had been to maneuver himself into a position where he could appear to do a favor for Volodya.
"Allow me to make a suggestion," said Volodya. "You might mark the incident as serious, without attaching blame to anyone, simply by transferring Tanya to another post."
That was the punishment Daniil had mentioned a moment ago.
Opotkin nodded thoughtfully, as if considering this idea; though Dimka was sure he would eagerly comply with any "suggestion" from General Peshkov.
Daniil said: "Perhaps a foreign posting. She speaks German and English."
This was an exaggeration, Dimka knew. Tanya had studied both languages in school, but that was not the same as speaking them. Daniil was trying to save her from banishment to some remote Soviet region.
Daniil added: "And she could still write features for my department. I'd rather not lose her to news--she's too good."
Opotkin looked dubious. "We can't send her to London or Bonn. That would seem like a reward."
It was true. Assignments in the capitalist countries were prized. The living allowances were colossal and, even though they did not buy as much as in the USSR, Soviet citizens still lived much better in the West than at home.
Volodya said: "East Berlin, perhaps, or Warsaw."
Opotkin nodded. A move to another Communist country was more like a punishment.
Volodya said: "I'm glad we've been able to resolve this."
Opotkin said to Dimka: "I'm having a party on Saturday evening. Perhaps you would like to come?"
Dimka guessed this would seal the deal. He nodded. "Tanya told me about it," he said with false enthusiasm. "We'll both be there. Thank you."
Opotkin beamed.
Daniil said: "I happen to know of a post in a Communist country that's vacant right now. We need someone there urgently. She could go tomorrow."
"Where's that?" said Dimka.
"Cuba."
Opotkin, now in a sunny frame of mind, said: "That might be acceptable."
It was certainly better than Kazakhstan, Dimka thought.
Mets reappeared in the lobby with Tanya beside him. Dimka's heart lurched: she looked pale and scared, but unharmed. Mets spoke with a mixture of deference and defiance, like a dog that barks because it is frightened. "Allow me to suggest that young Tanya stays away from poetry readings in future," he said.
Uncle Volodya looked as if he could strangle the fool, but he put on a smile. "Very sound advice, I'm sure."
They all went out. Darkness had fallen. Dimka said to Tanya: "I've got my bike--I'll take you home."
"Yes, please," she said. She obviously wanted to talk to Dimka.
Uncle Volodya could not read her mind as Dimka could, and he said: "Let me take you in my car--you look too shaken for a motorcycle ride."
To Volodya's surprise, Tanya said: "Thank you, Uncle, but I'll go with Dimka."
Volodya shrugged and got into a waiting ZIL limousine. Daniil and Opotkin said good-bye.
As soon as they were all out of earshot, Tanya turned to Dimka with a frantic look. "Did they say anything about Vasili Yenkov?"
"Yes. They said you were with him. Is that true?"
"Yes."
"Oh, shit. But he's not your boyfriend, is he?"
"No. Do you know what happened to him?"
"He had five copies of Dissidence in his pocket, so he's not getting out of the Lubyanka soon, even if
he has friends in high places."
"Hell! Do you think they will investigate him?"
"I'm sure of it. They'll want to know whether he merely hands out Dissidence, or actually produces it, which would be much more serious."
"Will they search his flat?"
"They would be remiss if they didn't. Why--what will they find there?"
She looked around, but no one was near. All the same she lowered her voice. "The typewriter on which Dissidence is written."
"Then I'm glad that Vasili isn't your boyfriend, because he's going to spend the next twenty-five years in Siberia."
"Don't say that!"
Dimka frowned. "You're not in love with him, I can tell . . . but you're not wholly indifferent to him, either."
"Look, he's a brave man, and a wonderful poet, but our relationship is not a romance. I've never even kissed him. He's one of those men who has to have lots of different women."
"Like my friend Valentin." Dimka's roommate at university, Valentin Lebedev, had been a real Lothario.
"Exactly like Valentin, yes."
"So . . . how much do you care if they search Vasili's apartment and find this typewriter?"
"A lot. We produced Dissidence together. I wrote today's edition."
"Shit. I was afraid of that." Now Dimka knew the secret she had been keeping from him for the past year.
Tanya said: "We have to go to the apartment, now, and take that typewriter and get rid of it."
Dimka took a step back from her. "Absolutely not. Forget it."
"We must!"
"No. I'd risk anything for you, and I might risk a lot for someone you loved, but I'm not going to stick my neck out for this guy. We could all end up in fucking Siberia."
"I'll do it on my own, then."
Dimka frowned, trying to evaluate the risks of different actions. "Who else knows about you and Vasili?"
"No one. We were careful. I made sure I wasn't followed when I went to his place. We never met in public."
"So the KGB investigation will not link you to him."
She hesitated, and at that point he knew they were in deep trouble.
"What?" he said.
"It depends how thorough the KGB are."
"Why?"
"This morning, when I went to Vasili's flat, there was a girl there--Varvara."
"Oh, fuck."
"She was just going out. She doesn't know my name."
"But, if the KGB show her photographs of people arrested at Mayakovsky Square today, will she pick you out?"
Tanya looked distraught. "She gave me a real up-and-down look, assuming I might be a rival. Yes, she would know my face again."
"Oh, God, then we have to get the typewriter. Without that, they'll think Vasili is no more than a distributor of Dissidence, so they probably won't track down his every casual girlfriend, especially as there seem to be a lot. You may get away with it. But if they find the typewriter, you're finished."
"I'll do it alone. You're right, I can't put you in this much danger."
"But I can't leave you in this much danger," he said. "What's the address?"
She told him.
"Not too far," he said. "Get on the bike." He climbed on and kicked the engine into life.
Tanya hesitated, then got on behind him.
Dimka switched on the headlight and they pulled away.
As he drove, he wondered if the KGB might already be at Vasili's place, searching the apartment. It was a possibility, he decided, but unlikely. Assuming they had arrested forty or fifty people, it would take them most of the night to do initial interviews, get names and addresses, and decide whom to prioritize. All the same, it would be wise to be cautious.
When he reached the address Tanya had given him he drove past it without slowing down. The streetlights showed a grand nineteenth-century house. All such buildings were now either converted to government offices or divided into apartments. There were no cars parked outside and no leather-coated KGB men lurking at the entrance. He drove all around the block without seeing anything suspicious. Then he parked a couple of hundred yards from the door.
They got off the bike. A woman walking a dog said: "Good evening," and passed on. They went into the building.
Its lobby had once been an imposing hall. Now a lone electric bulb revealed a marble floor that was chipped and scratched, and a grand staircase with several balusters missing from the banister.
They went up the stairs. Tanya took out a key and opened the apartment door. They stepped inside and closed the door.
Tanya led the way into the living room. A gray cat observed them warily. Tanya took a large box from a cupboard. It was half full of cat food pellets. She rummaged inside and pulled out a typewriter in a cover. Then she withdrew some sheets of stencil paper.
She ripped up the sheets of paper, threw them in the fireplace, and put a match to them. Watching them burn, Dimka said angrily: "Why the hell do you risk everything for the sake of an empty protest?"
"We live in a brutal tyranny," she said. "We have to do something to keep hope alive."
"We live in a society that is developing Communism," Dimka rejoined. "It's difficult and we have problems. But you should help solve those problems instead of inflaming discontent."
"How can you have solutions if no one is allowed to talk about the problems?"
"In the Kremlin we talk about the problems all the time."
"And the same few narrow-minded men always decide not to make any major changes."
"They're not all narrow-minded. Some are working hard to change things. Give us time."
"The revolution was forty years ago. How much time do you need before you finally admit that Communism is a failure?"
The sheets in the fireplace had quickly burned to black ashes. Dimka turned away in frustration. "We've had this argument so many times. We need to get out of here." He picked up the typewriter.
Tanya scooped up the cat and they went out.
As they were leaving, a man with a briefcase came into the lobby. He nodded as he passed them on the stairs. Dimka hoped the light was too dim for him to have seen their faces properly.
Outside the door, Tanya put the cat down on the pavement. "You're on your own, now, Mademoiselle," she said.
The cat walked off disdainfully.
They hurried along the street to the corner, Dimka trying ineffectually to conceal the typewriter under his jacket. The moon had risen, to his dismay, and they were clearly visible. They reached the motorcycle.
Dimka handed her the typewriter. "How are we going to get rid of it?" he whispered.
"The river?"
He racked his brains, then recalled a spot on the riverbank where he and some fellow students had gone, a couple of times, to stay up all night drinking vodka. "I know somewhere."
They got on the bike and Dimka drove out of the city center toward the south. The place he had in mind was on the outskirts of the city, but that was all to the good: they were less likely to be noticed.
He drove fast for twenty minutes and pulled up outside the Nikolo-Perervinsky Monastery.
The ancient institution, with its magnificent cathedral, was now a ruin, disused for decades and stripped of its treasures. It was located on a neck of land between the main southbound railway line and the Moskva River. The fields around it were being turned into building sites for new high-rise apartment buildings, but at night the neighborhood was deserted. There was no one in sight.
Dimka wheeled the bike off the road into a clump of trees and parked it on its stand. Then he led Tanya through the copse to the ruined monastery. The derelict buildings were eerily white in the moonlight. The onion domes of the cathedral were falling in, but the green tiled roofs of the monastery buildings were mostly intact. Dimka could not shake the feeling that the ghosts of generations of monks were watching him through the smashed windows.
He headed west across a swampy field to the river.
Tanya said: "How do you know about thi
s place?"
"We came here when we were students. We used to get drunk and watch the sun rise over the water."
They reached the edge of the river. This was a sluggish channel in a wide bend, and the water was placid in the moonlight. But Dimka knew it was deep enough for the purpose.
Tanya hesitated. "What a waste," she said.
Dimka shrugged. "Typewriters are expensive."
"It's not just money. It's a dissident voice, an alternative view of the world, a different way of thinking. A typewriter is freedom of speech."
"Then you're better off without it."
She handed it to him.
He moved the roller rightward to its maximum extension, giving himself a handle by which to hold the machine. "Here goes," he said. He swung his arm back, then with all his might he flung the typewriter out over the river. It did not go far, but it landed with a satisfying splash and immediately disappeared from sight.
They both stood and watched the ripples in the moonlight.
"Thank you," said Tanya. "Especially as you don't believe in what I'm doing."
He put his arm around her shoulders, and together they walked away.
CHAPTER SEVEN
George Jakes was in a sour mood. His arm still hurt like hell although it was encased in plaster and supported by a sling around his neck. He had lost his coveted job before starting it: just as Greg had predicted, the law firm of Fawcett Renshaw had withdrawn its offer after he appeared in the newspapers as an injured Freedom Rider. Now he did not know what he was going to do with the rest of his life.
The graduation ceremony, called commencement, was held in Harvard University's Old Yard, a grassy plaza surrounded by gracious red-brick university buildings. Members of the Board of Overseers wore top hats and cutaway tailcoats. Honorary degrees were presented to the British foreign secretary, a chinless aristocrat called Lord Home, and to the oddly named McGeorge Bundy, one of President Kennedy's White House team. Despite his mood, George felt a mild sadness at leaving Harvard. He had been here seven years, first as an undergraduate, then as a law student. He had met some extraordinary people, and made a few good friends. He had passed every exam he took. He had dated many women and slept with three. He had got drunk once, and hated the feeling of being out of control.
But today he was too angry to indulge in nostalgia. After the mob violence in Anniston, he had expected a strong response from the Kennedy administration. Jack Kennedy had presented himself to the American people as a liberal, and had won the black vote. Bobby Kennedy was attorney general, the highest law enforcement officer in the land. George had expected Bobby to say, loud and clear, that the Constitution of the United States was in force in Alabama the same as everywhere else.