international publication with him at the helm,” Sergio said. He was the consummate optimist, believing nothing impossible. “Zhivago will be in the window of every bookshop from Milan to Florence to Naples, and then onward. The whole world needs to read your novel. The whole world will read your novel!” It didn’t matter that Sergio had never read Doctor Zhivago and couldn’t comment on its literary merit, and he was well aware he was making promises he wasn’t sure he could keep, but he went on and on, as flattery did seem to have a positive effect on the writer.
“One moment,” Pasternak said. He walked toward his dacha, taking off his rubber boots before going inside. The two men remained standing in the garden.
“What do you think?” Vladlen asked.
“I don’t know. But I do think the novel will come out.”
“You are not Russian. You don’t understand how things work here. I don’t know what he’s written, but if it goes against cultural norms, no thaw will allow it to be published. If the State bans it here, it will be illegal for Pasternak to publish his book—anywhere. Not now, not ever.”
“He hasn’t been rejected yet.”
“It’s been months, and he hasn’t heard a response. They don’t have to say it to make the message clear.”
“That’s true, but I also know that history doesn’t stand still.”
There was movement in the downstairs front window. An older woman peered at them through parted curtains, then disappeared. “The wife?” Sergio asked.
“Must be, although I’ve heard he has a much younger lover who he doesn’t hide away. A public mistress who lives a short walk from here. She’s always on his arm, they say. All over Moscow. And his wife doesn’t put an end to it.”
The dacha’s door opened and Pasternak emerged holding a large brown paper package. He walked across the yard barefoot, then paused for a moment in front of his visitors before speaking. “This is Doctor Zhivago.” He held out the package and Sergio went to take it, but Boris didn’t let go. The two men held the package for a moment before Pasternak dropped his hands. “May it make its way around the world.”
Sergio turned the package over in his hands, feeling its weight. “Your novel is in good hands with Signore Feltrinelli. You shall see. I will be hand-delivering this to him in person within the week.”
Pasternak nodded but looked unconvinced. The three men said their goodbyes. As Sergio and Vladlen set off down the road to the train station, Pasternak called after them, “You are hereby invited to my execution!”
“Poets!” Sergio laughed.
Vladlen said nothing.
* * *
The next day, Doctor Zhivago was on its way to West Berlin—where Sergio was to hand off the manuscript to Feltrinelli himself, who would take it the rest of the way to Milan.
After a train, a plane, another train, three kilometers of walking, and one bribe, Sergio arrived safely at his hotel on Joachimstahler Strasse. The Kurfürstendamm was bright and showy and thumping with capitalism—everything Moscow wasn’t. Smartly dressed men and women walked arm in arm, going out to dinner or dancing or to one of the many kabarett that had reopened across the city. Volkswagen Beetles and motorcycles skidded around the wide boulevards with teenagers riding hunchbacked. Neon signs lit up one after the next: NESCAFÉ in yellow, BOSCH in red, HOTEL AM ZOO in white, SALAMANDER SHOES in blue. Tables lined the sidewalks of the many cafés and restaurants dotting the street. The sound of a piano drifted out of a cocktail lounge where a striking black woman resembling a curvier Josephine Baker was enticing passersby to come in.
Once in his room, he opened his suitcase and removed the tailored Oxford shirt and paisley-patterned silk pajamas that covered the manuscript, still wrapped in its brown paper. Twice he’d averted having his suitcase searched when crossing from East to West Berlin by making friendly conversation with soldiers on both sides and having the kind of face some people trusted and the kind of pockets that made the doubtful trust again. He kissed the manuscript, placed it inside the dresser’s bottom drawer, and covered it with the pajamas.
Sergio took a long shower. The hot water lasted only four minutes, which was three minutes longer than it lasted back in Moscow. After, he drip-dried while shaving in the bathroom mirror, happy he’d brought his own razor.
Although he craved Orecchiette alla Crudaiola and any wine made from Italian grapes, he settled for pilsner and schnitzel