but had never spoken with. He wore Western-cut suits with pegged trousers that brushed the sides of his shiny black loafers. He was known as an enforcer within the Moscow literary community, and my breath shortened as Polikarpov’s secretary ushered me into his office. But even before I sat down, I took a deep breath and began the plea I’d rehearsed on the train. “The only thing to do is publish the novel before the Italians do,” I reasoned. “We can edit out the parts deemed anti-Soviet before publication.” Of course, Borya knew nothing of my negotiation. I knew better than anyone that he’d rather his novel not be published at all than have it hacked apart.
Polikarpov reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small metal tin. “Impossible.” He took out two white pills and swallowed them dry. “Doctor Zhivago must be returned at all costs,” he continued. “It cannot be published as is—not in Italy, not anywhere. If we publish one version and the Italians another, the world will ask why we published it without certain sections. It will be an embarrassment to the State and to Russian literature as a whole. Your friend has put me in a precarious position.” He put the tin back in his pocket. “And you as well.”
“But what is to be done?”
“You can ask Boris Leonidovich to sign the telegram I will give you.”
“What does this telegram say?”
“That the manuscript Feltrinelli possesses is but a draft, that a new draft is forthcoming, and that the original manuscript must be returned posthaste. The telegram is to be signed within two days or else he will be arrested.”
That was the stated threat. The unstated threat was that my arrest would soon follow. But I knew Feltrinelli wouldn’t refrain from publication even if he received such a telegram. Borya had arranged to communicate with the Italian only in French and had instructed the publisher to disregard anything sent under his name in Russian. Plus, I knew it would cause Borya much shame to sign such a document. “I will try,” I said.
* * *
—
And I did. I asked him. I asked him to send the telegram to Feltrinelli asking for his manuscript back, as Polikarpov had instructed. I asked the man I loved to stop the publication of his life’s work. And when I did—over dinner at Little House—he just sat back in his chair. His hand went to his neck as if he were suffering a muscle spasm, and he was quiet for a long moment. Then he spoke.
“Years ago, I received a phone call.”
I put my fork down. I knew where he was going.
“It was shortly after Osip had been arrested for his poem against Stalin,” he continued. “He hadn’t even written it down, only committed it to memory. But even that proved to be a grievous mistake. Even the words in one’s head could be an arrestable offense during those dark times. You were but a child, too young to remember now.”
I refilled my wineglass. “I know how old I am.”
“One night he recited the poem to a group of us on a street corner, and I told him it was akin to suicide. He didn’t heed my warning, and of course they soon arrested him. Not long after, I received the phone call. Do you know who it was?”
“I’ve heard the stories.”
“Of course you have. But never from me.”
I moved to refill his wineglass, but he waved me away. “Stalin began without greeting, his voice immediately familiar. He asked if Osip was my friend, and if he was, why I hadn’t petitioned for his release. I had no answer for him, Olya. But instead of making the case for Osip’s freedom, I made excuses. I told the head of the Central Committee that even if I had petitioned on Osip’s behalf, it would never have reached his ears. Stalin then asked if I thought Osip was a master, and I told him that was beside the point. Then do you know what I did?”
“What, Boris? Tell me what you did.” I drank the rest of my wine.
“I changed the subject. I told Stalin I’d long wanted to have a serious conversation with him about life and death. And do you know how he responded?”
“How?”
“He hung up.”
I rolled a pea around my plate with the back of my knife. “But what does this have to do with now? That was years ago. Stalin is dead.”