EMIL DRAITSER
421
As a matter of fact, I do. Mostly for the papers though.
0
time for
real work yet.
So, do you write against us? the writer asked, laughing pointedly. The
whole situation amused him.
Well, that depends on who you mean by "us," Anatoly grinned.
If
you mean our rotten system, then of course I do. Hasn't it always been
a Russian writer's civic duty to equate the pen with the bayonet? he
added defiantly.
Civic duty, my foot, the writer thought, cringing at Anatoly's words.
He decided not to let himself get pulled into an argument. He didn't give
a broken kopeck for all that crap they've been loading on a writer's
shoulders for so long. They made even Pushkin out to be a fighter for
the oppressed, Push kin who wrote to his friends that to free the serfs in
a barbaric country like Russia would spell disaster for the whole nation.
Didn't he turn out to be right, after all? Wasn't Russia still reeling from
that event? Then again, did anything of the "civic duty" stuff survive the
very day it was created? Does anyone read that boring Gleb Uspensky
anymore or any other writer who joined up for the public good?
The day was long. The writer was tired, and he closed his eyes. He
didn't feel like arguing with Anatoly, a kid on whose lips his mother's
milk hadn't dried yet. How could he understand what it meant to survive
as a writer in his country? Big deal, they took apart the typeset of his first
novel that was ready for printing. That's nothing. What Anatoly went
through can't compare with my struggles. Let it go Siava. Don't let it get
to you, Masha whispered in his ear. Remember your heart. Did you take
your pill this afternoon? He's too young, that Anatoly, to understand.
It
was nice to see you, the writer said dryly, opening his eyes. He liked
Anatoly; back in Russia he had thought him very promising, but he
didn't want any complications from being too friendly with an emigre.
Anatoly stepped aside so others could speak with the guest of honor.
They came by turns. They were polite and courteous, but the writer
saw clearly that they were trying to conceal their true feelings. He knew
that although he was known in the West, at least to Siavicists, it was not
without a certain notoriety. He had never defended himself publicly.
If
thoughts about a poor reputation became too oppressive, he kept them
to himself. Now, recalling Anatoly's not-too-friendly look, he smiled
inwardly. He knew exactly what they were saying about him behind his
back: he's aligned himself with the regime. Yes, he had written that
trashy little novel that glorified Soviet power. And the authorities had
swallowed every bit of it.
