Borya emerged, wearing his cap and jacket, an odd smile on his face as if he were about to embark on a holiday. The driver got out and opened the door for him. He didn’t register any surprise at seeing me in the backseat. Nor did he express worry when Polikarpov confirmed we were indeed on our way to meet with Khrushchev. The only uneasiness Borya relayed was that he wasn’t wearing suitable trousers for the occasion. “Should I go back inside and change?” he asked, when the car was already headed down the road. Polikarpov chortled. Even stranger, Borya joined in, laughing hysterically. His laughter infuriated me and I shot him a look, which he pretended not to see, which infuriated me even more. At a stoplight, I felt like opening the door and getting out, leaving these men to deal alone with what they’d wrought.
We arrived at Entrance No. 5 of the Central Committee building and followed Polikarpov through the gate. Borya stopped at the heels of a guard. “Identification,” the guard said.
“The only identification I had was my Writers’ Union membership card, which they’ve just revoked,” said Boris. “Thus I am without identification completely. Worse, I’m without proper trousers.” The guard, a young man with full lips and freckles across his cheeks, chose not to engage and waved us through.
Polikarpov left us in a small waiting area, where we sat for an hour. Borya touched my gold bracelet, which he’d given me three New Years earlier. “Should you be wearing this?” he asked. He brushed a piece of my hair behind my ear. “And the pearl earrings? And the lipstick? It might give the wrong impression.”
I opened my purse. Instead of taking off my jewelry and wiping off my makeup, I took out a small vial of valerian tincture and drank it down to calm my nerves.
Finally Borya’s name was called and we stood. “You are not needed,” the guard said to me. Ignoring him, I took Borya’s arm and we walked down a long corridor and into an office where Polikarpov sat waiting. The strong scent of aftershave greeted us. Polikarpov appeared to have showered, shaved, and put on a new suit. He acted as if he had been waiting all day for us. It was another intimidation tactic; we would not be meeting with Khrushchev at all. He cleared his throat as if to give a speech. “You will be allowed to remain in Mother Russia, Boris Leonidovich,” he said.
“Why did we have to come here when you could have told us this hours ago?”
He ignored me and raised a finger. “There is more.” He pointed to two chairs. “Sit.”
I could hear Borya grind his custom-made teeth. “There is nothing more!” he exploded. Finally, the anger I’d longed to hear. He was standing up for himself at last.
“You have caused so much anger from the people, Boris Leonidovich. There is little I can do to calm them. You have no right to muzzle them. They have a right to express themselves. Tomorrow, Literaturnaya Gazeta will include several of these voices. There is nothing we can do about that. The people have their right. Before you will be given permission to stay, you must first make peace with the people. Publicly, of course. Another letter is needed posthaste.”
“Have you no shame?” Borya asked, his voice still raised.
“Come.” Polikarpov motioned toward the chairs again. “Let’s sit and talk like gentlemen.”
“There is only one gentleman here,” I said.
Polikarpov chuckled. “Would the great poet’s wife agree?”
“I will not sit,” Borya continued. “This meeting is over. You speak of the people. What do you know about the people?”
“Now look, Boris Leonidovich, this whole business is almost over. You have a chance to make things right with me and with the people. I’ve brought you here to tell you everything will soon be right again as long as you cooperate.” He came around the desk, placing himself between Borya and me. He put a hand on Borya’s shoulder and patted him as one would a good dog. “Goodness me, old fellow. What a mess you’ve landed us in.”
Borya shrugged his hand off. “I am not your underling, some sheep you can direct to pasture.”
“I am not the one who has stuck a knife in the back of my country.”
“Every word I’ve written was truth. Every word. I am not ashamed.”
“Your truth is not our truth. I am only trying to help you rectify things.”