presses it deeper into his chest.
* * *
—
The rain has ceased and the crowd has grown. Neighbors have joined the reporters, trampling his potatoes, his garlic, his leeks. A few men in black leather dusters mill about. Zinaida is standing on the side porch with Nina Tabidze, who is visiting from Georgia. They’ve placed two wooden chairs at the bottom of the steps to block entry, and Boris’s dog, Tobik, keeps watch from underneath one.
Zinaida moves a chair to let Boris enter, but Boris pauses to talk to the reporters. Since his meeting with Olga, his spirits have brightened considerably, and although he doesn’t fully believe what he’s told her, the words have soothed him. The congratulations ringing out from the crowd are also a balm. A photographer asks for his picture, and Boris poses for the portrait, a genuine smile across his face.
Zinaida is not smiling. Her heavily penciled eyebrows make her look surprised, but her black frown says otherwise. “Nothing good will come of this,” she says as her husband comes up the stairs.
“People on the streets of Moscow are already talking about it,” Nina says, replacing the wooden chair. “A friend heard it on Radio Liberation.”
“Let’s go inside,” Boris says.
Once inside, the smell of plum pie greets them and Boris remembers that it is Zinaida’s name day. “My dear,” he says. “I’m so sorry. In all this commotion, I’ve somehow forgotten.”
“It doesn’t matter now,” she replies.
Nina touches Zinaida’s shoulder, then goes to the kitchen to take the pie out of the oven.
The couple stands alone in the entryway. “You are not happy for me, Zina? For us?”
“What will happen to us?”
“What nonsense. We should be celebrating. Nina!” he calls to the kitchen. “Bring out a bottle of wine.”
“It’s not a time for celebrating,” Zinaida says. “They’ll want your head for this. First you give your manuscript to foreign hands, without its being published here? Now this? The attention, the outcry. No good can come of this.”
“If you cannot bring yourself to muster congratulations, at least have a drink for your name day.”
“What does it matter? You forgot it last year too.”
Nina returns from the kitchen holding a bottle of wine and three glasses, but Zinaida waves her away and retires to her bedroom. Nina goes to comfort her friend, and Boris opens the bottle himself.
* * *
—
The next day, Boris’s neighbor, the author Konstantin Aleksandrovich Fedin, knocks on the door, and Zinaida opens it. “Where is he?” Fedin asks. Without waiting for an answer, he bypasses Zinaida and takes the stairs up to Boris’s study, two steps at a time.
Boris looks up from a stack of telegrams. “Kostya,” he greets his friend. “To what do I owe this visit?”
“I am not here to offer you congratulations. I’m not here as your neighbor or friend. I’m here on official business. Polikarpov is at my house right now waiting for an answer.”
“An answer to what?”
Fedin scratches his bushy white eyebrows. “Whether you will renounce the Prize.”
Boris throws down the telegram he’s holding. “Under no circumstances.”
“If you don’t do it willingly, they will force your hand. You know this.”
“They can do what they want with me.”
Fedin walks to the window overlooking the garden. A few reporters have returned. He slicks his hand over his widow’s peak. “You know what they can…I lived through it as well. As a friend—”
“But remember, you are not here as my friend,” Boris interrupts. “So what are you here as, exactly?”
“A fellow writer. A citizen.”
Boris lowers himself to his bed, the simple metal frame creaking under his weight. “Which is it? A writer or a citizen?”
“I am both. And you are as well.”
It was widely known that Fedin was next in line to serve as chair of the Soviet Writers’ Union, so Boris thinks through his answer carefully. “Inventas vitam juvat excoluisse per artes.”
“From Virgil,” Fedin says. “And they who bettered life on earth by their newly found mastery.”
“It’s engraved on the Nobel medal.”
“Whose life have you bettered with this novel? Your family’s?” Fedin lowers his voice. “Your mistress’s? Or simply your own?”
Boris closes his eyes. “Give me time.”
“There isn’t any time. Polikarpov is expecting an answer when I return.”
“Then take a long walk before you go home. I need time.”
“Two hours,” Fedin says from the doorway. “You have two hours.”
But as soon as Fedin leaves, Boris gets up from his bed. He goes to his desk and composes a telegram to the Swedish Academy.
IMMENSELY GRATEFUL, TOUCHED, PROUD, ASTONISHED, ABASHED.
—Pasternak.
WEST
October–December 1958
CHAPTER 23
The