WRITERS IN EXILE
339
to Vladimir Ilyich for advice for a long time. I, for example,
when things get tough, go to him right away for advice."
So sit down and tell about all this. How they expelled you.
How for forty-eight hours nine polite young men rummaged
through your books, manuscripts, how they packed them all in
sacks, sealed them with wax, and, tossing them over their
shoulders, vanished into the impenetrable, stormy night. How
you were summoned afterward to the KGB by General Tretyak,
who even offered you Duchess Flor cigarettes and, knowing how
you loved the Crimean resort town Koktebel, cunningly and slyly
suggested going there, "to concentrate, to think things over, take
pen in hand, and then our comrade will go there and.... You
will help us immensely, both us and yourself. ... By the way,
what's the hold-up with your one-volume edition?"
And now, here you are in Paris. And there is no Valechka
Karpova, Comrade Perminova, General Tretyak . . . Sit down
and write. About everything.
I sat down and wrote. And even published. And it's possible
that someone in the Soviet Union read or heard about it on
Radio Liberty or
Deutsche Welle.
And a Frenchman also read it.
I gave a copy of my book to my doctor, to the head of the Paris
prefecture, to the barber, to a likeable Moroccan from whom I
buy oranges in the morning. In some papers there appeared to–
tally positive reviews, even in the respectable
Le Monde,
as well
as a not particularly good one, but, just the same, a check for all
this was deposited into my bank account!
Did I get my way? You write what you want, and about
what you want-expose, brand, pillory. But where are the circles
from the stone you've thrown into the quiet pond? They're there,
you say? No, let's tell the truth, there aren't many circles, although
the stone was truly heavy.
That's understandable. The Soviet Union is far away, and
there are more than enough dams in the way, while here you're
up to your neck with worries: taxes smother you, gasoline prices
are increasing, decent people are being kidnapped, bombs are
exploding at every step, and then there are some sort of Falkland
Islands at the back of beyond. World War I started over some sort
of Archduke Franz-Ferdinand; no one knew him.
But to speak openly, it's not even a question of circles not
spreading out in the water, it's something else. In acquiring
