EMIL DRAITSER
419
heart. He'd completely forgotten what she looked like. Only at times in
his son's face something of his mother would show through, a fox's grin.
The next evening he was driven to a summerhouse in the mountains for
a reception in his honor given by the professor who had invited him to
America. That day, after lunch, he lectured on "The Current State of Con–
temporary Soviet Literature." He spoke slowl y, smirking inwardly at the
incurable na"ivete of Americans. Was he so dumb as to say what he really
thinks about current Soviet literary pulp? Can't these well-meaning, sim–
ple-minded Yankees figure out once and for all what his country is all
about? Don't they know that in his ridiculous homeland the bastards who
are put in place to order him around never sleep? Every schoolboy in Rus–
sia understands that, as a writer, his every word abroad is reported back
home, dutifully typed and spread out on the polished dark-wood desk in
front of Comrade Potapov, the same fat-faced KGB watchdog at the Writ–
ers' Union who authorized spending precious dollars for his American
trip. It's not easy even for a writer of his stature to get permission for a
trip to the West. Was he his own worst enemy? Did they expect him to
turn into a "politically unreliable," stripped of the right to go abroad?
God Almighty, save America from her own stupidity.
He sensed that Masha also sighed and smiled. She read his mind.
Those Americans. Those kids that have trouble growing up.
Well, now it was over, all that public bullshit. Nothing to worry
about. He had given them what they could easily read in
Pravda-a
few
stock phrases from the Party line.
It
was the last night before going
home. The writer entered the living room. Thank God there weren't too
many people there, mostly graduate students and a few young teachers.
He easily tired of a crowd.
It
was obvious that the group was uncom–
fortable speaking Russian with him, afraid of making fools of them–
selves and so they kept quiet, just smiling as is expected in the West.
Putting up with a man standing next
to
you who doesn't talk is possible
only if he radiates cordiality. Otherwise it's deadly.
The professor's face was tense. It's a serious business
to
feed guests.
He shuttled between the kitchen and the balcony, where he was grilling
some exotic fish. The balcony opened out onto a mountain, overgrown
with low bushes. The writer got worried. Would his stomach tolerate
that sea stuff? Masha patted his hand, understanding his anxiety. It's
fine for him, he would just have
to
be careful, not swallow it right away,
and chew on it a bit longer.
The writer sat alone on the couch, the graduate students, hesitating,
evidently composing sentences and gathering courage to speak with this
fa mous guest.
