Cancer Ward (44 page)

Alla was left in a new claret-colored sweater that he had never seen her in before, a broad white zigzag crossing it gaily from cuff to cuff, up the sleeves and across the breast. The bold zigzag went well with Alla's energetic movements.

Her father had never grumbled if money was spent on dressing Alla well. They got things on the black market, from abroad too, and Alla's clothes were confident and dashing, setting off the sturdy, straightforward attractions that matched her direct, decisive mind.

“Listen,” her father said quietly, “do you remember, I asked you to find something out? That strange expression—you come across it sometimes in speeches or articles—‘the cult of personality'
*
—are those words really an allusion to…?”

“I'm afraid they are, Father … I'm afraid they are. At the Writers' Congress, for example, the phrase was used several times. And the trouble is, nobody explains what it means, though everyone puts on a face as if they understood.”

“But it's pure—blasphemy! How dare they, eh?”

“It's a shame and a disgrace! Somebody whispered it in the wind, and now it's blowing all over the place. But though they talk about ‘the cult of personality,' in the same breath they speak of ‘the great successor.' So one mustn't go too far in either direction. Generally speaking, you have to be flexible, you have to be responsive to the demand of the times. This may annoy you, Father, but whether we like it or not we have to attune ourselves to each new period as it comes! I saw a lot in Moscow. I spent quite a bit of time in literary circles—do you imagine it's been easy for writers to readjust their attitudes over these last two years? Ve-ry complicated! But what an experienced crowd they are! What tact! You can learn such a lot from them!”

During the quarter of an hour Aviette had been sitting in front of him, routing the grim monsters of the past and opening up vistas of the future with her brisk, precise comments, Pavel Nikolayevich had become visibly healthier. His spirits were now so improved that he no longer had any desire to talk about his tiresome tumor. There even seemed no point in making a fuss about his being transferred to another clinic. All he wanted to do was to listen to his daughter's cheerful stories, to breathe the current of fresh air she brought with her.

“Go on, go on,” he begged her. “What's happening in Moscow? What was your journey like?”

“Ah!” Alla shook her head like a horse bothered by a gadfly. “How can I describe Moscow? Moscow's a place you have to live in. Moscow's another world. A trip to Moscow is like going fifty years into the future. In the first place, everyone in Moscow sits around watching television…”

“We'll soon have television too.”

“Soon, yes, but it won't be Moscow programs. Ours won't amount to much. You know, it's like something out of H. G. Wells—everyone sitting watching television. But there's more to it than that. I've got a general feeling—and I'm very quick at picking up what's in the air—that there's going to be a complete revolution in our way of life. I don't mean refrigerators and washing machines—things are going to change much more drastically than that. For instance, here and there you see lobbies made out of plate glass. And they're putting low tables in the hotels, really low, this low, just like the Americans have. The first time you come across them you don't know how to cope with them. Then lampshades made out of fabric, like the ones we have at home—they're something to be ashamed of now; they're ‘vulgar'; they have to be
glass.
And none of the beds have headboards, headboards are out. It's all wide, low sofas and couches. They make the room look quite different. Our whole style of living is changing, you can't imagine what it's like. Mother and I have talked it over and we've agreed, there's a lot we're going to have to change. You can't buy things like that out here, of course, you have to bring them from Moscow. But some of the fashions are really pernicious and ought to be condemned out of hand—like that rock-'n'-roll dance, it's absolutely debauched, I can't tell you what it's like. And those awful, shaggy hair-dos, deliberately in a mess, as if they'd just got out of bed!”

“That's the West. They want to corrupt us.”

“Of course, there's a complete lowering of moral standards, which is reflected in the arts. Take poetry, for instance. There's this long, lanky fellow Yevtushenko, a complete unknown, no rhyme or reason. All he has to do is wave his arms about and yell, and the girls go mad…”

Aviette was no longer talking privately. Having switched to a public topic, she had raised her voice without restraint, so that everyone in the ward could hear her. Dyomka, however, was the only one to give up what he was doing to listen intently to her, momentarily distracted from the gnawing pain that was dragging him closer and closer to the operating table. The others either showed no interest or else weren't in the ward. Only Vadim Zatsyrko occasionally lifted his eyes from the book he was reading to gaze at Aviette's back, curved like a great bridge and tightly hugged by her sweater, which was too new to have lost its shape. It was claret-colored all over except for one shoulder which, caught by a sunbeam glancing reflected off an open window, was a rich crimson.

“Tell me some more about yourself.”

“Well, Father, I had an excellent trip to Moscow. They've promised they're going to include my collection of poems in their publishing plan! Next year's program, of course, but one can't hope for anything earlier. Sooner than that would be unimaginably quick.”

“Alla! Do you really mean it? You mean in a year's time we'll actually have your poems in our hands…?”

“Well, maybe not a year, two perhaps…”

His daughter had brought down an avalanche of joy on him today. He knew she'd taken her poems to Moscow, but from those typewritten sheets to a book with
ALLA RUSANOVA
on the title page had seemed an impassably long distance.

“How did you manage it?”

Alla smiled back firmly at him. She was pleased with herself. “Of course,” she said, “I could have just gone into the publishing house and produced my poems, but then I don't suppose anyone would have wasted time talking to me. But Anna Yevgenyevna introduced me to M——, and then to S——. I read them two or three poems, they both liked them, and then, well, they called up somebody and wrote to someone else. It was all quite simple.”

“Wonderful!” Pavel Nikolayevich was radiant. He rummaged in his bedside table for his glasses and put them on, as though about to gaze admiringly at the precious book then and there.

For the first time in his life Dyomka had seen a real, live poet. And not just a poet, but a poetess! His jaw dropped.

“I've got such a nice name for a poet too. It's a good, clean, ringing name! I won't use a pseudonym. What's more, I feel I really
look
like a writer.”

“Alla, but what if it doesn't work out? You realize, don't you, you'll have to write up every little nobody so that he can be recognized by his friends…”

“No, I've got an idea. I'm not going to worry about every individual character, there's no need for that. What I have in mind is something completely new. I'll go straight to the collective, I'll portray whole collectives, with broad strokes. After all, one's whole life is bound up with the collective, not with isolated personalities.”

“Yes, that's true enough,” Pavel Nikolayevich had to admit. But there was a hazard which his daughter in her enthusiasm might not appreciate. “But have you considered this? The critics may start in on you. You know, in our world criticism is a kind of social reproach, it's dangerous!”

Aviette tossed back her dark-brown locks and, fearless as an Amazon, gazed into the future. “The fact is,” she said, “they'll never be able to criticize me
very
seriously because there'll be no ideological mistakes in my work. If they attack me from the artistic point of view—well, heavens alive, who
don't
they attack for that? Take the case of Babayevski. At first everyone loved him, then everyone hated him, they all renounced him, even his most faithful friends. But that's only a temporary phase: they'll change their minds, they'll come back to him. It's just one of those delicate transitions life's so full of. For instance, they used to say, ‘There must be no conflict.' But now they talk about ‘the false theory of absence of conflict.' If there was a division of opinion, if some people were still talking the old way while others were using the new style, then it would be obvious that there had been a change. But when
everyone
starts talking the new way all at once, you don't notice there's been a transition at all. What I say is, the vital thing is to have tact and be responsive to the times. Then you won't get into trouble with the critics … Oh yes, you asked me for some books, Father. I've brought you some. You ought to do some reading now, you don't have time usually.

“I've had a good look at the sort of life writers lead. They have such delightfully simple relationships with each other. They may be Stalin Prize winners, but they're all on first-name terms. They're such unconceited, straightforward people. We imagine a writer as someone sitting up in the clouds with a pallid brow, unapproachable. Not a bit of it! They enjoy the pleasures of life. They tease each other the whole time, there's plenty of laughter. I should call their life a merry one. But when the time comes to write a novel, they lock themselves away in their houses in the country for two or three months, and there's your novel! Yes, I'm going to put every ounce of energy into getting into the Writers' Union.”

“You mean, you're not going to use your university qualifications to work professionally?” Pavel Nikolayevich was rather worried.

“Father”—Aviette lowered her voice—“what sort of life does a journalist have? They give you an assignment—do this, do that—you've got no
scope.
All you do is go and interview various well-known personalities. You can't compare that life with the other.”

“Bravo!”

“Because it pays.”

“Alla, whatever you say, I'm still a bit worried. Suppose it doesn't work out?”

“How can it fail to work out? You're being naive! Gorky said, ‘Anyone can become a writer.' With hard work anyone can achieve anything. If the worst comes to the worst, I can become a children's writer.”

“All right, that's fine in principle,” said Pavel Nikolayevich thoughtfully. “In principle that's splendid. Of course, it's perfectly right for morally healthy people like you to take over literature.”

She began to take some books out of her bag. “Here,” she said. “I've brought you
A Baltic Spring
and
Kill Him!
—that one's poetry, I'm afraid. Will you read it?”

“
Kill Him!
? All right, leave it.”

“Our Dawn Is Already Here, Light over the Earth, Toilers for Peace, Mountains in Bloom…”

“Wait a minute,
Mountains in Bloom,
I think I've read that one.”

“You read
The Earth in Bloom,
this is
Mountains in Bloom.
Here's another one,
Youth Is with Us.
That's a must, you'd better start with it. Even the titles make you feel good. I chose them with that in mind.”

“But didn't you bring anything with a bit of sentiment in it?”

“Sentiment? No, Father. I thought … in the sort of mood you were in…”

“I know enough already about books like these.” Pavel Nikolayevich waved a couple of fingers at the pile. “But please, can't you find me something that appeals to the heart?”

“All right,” said Aviette, pondering. “I'll give Dumas'
La Reine Margot
to Mother to bring when she comes.”

“That's just what I need.”

She was getting ready to go.

Meanwhile Dyomka had been sitting frowning in his corner, in torment either from the unceasing pain in his leg or else from shyness at the thought of entering into conversation with this dazzling girl who was also a poetess. Finally he plucked up enough courage to ask his question without clearing his throat or coughing in mid-sentence. “Excuse me,” he said, “can you tell me, please, what you think about the need for sincerity in literature?”
*

“What's that? What did you say?” At once Aviette turned toward him with a regal half-smile, for the hoarseness of Dyomka's voice had told her clearly how shy he was. “That wretched ‘sincerity' again! It's wormed its way in here too, has it?”

She looked into Dyomka's face. Obviously the boy was quite uneducated and not very intelligent. She didn't really have the time, but it wouldn't do to leave him under such a bad influence.

“Listen, my boy,” she announced in powerful, ringing tones, as though speaking from a platform. “Sincerity can't be the chief criterion for judging a book. If an author expresses incorrect ideas or alien attitudes, the fact that he's sincere about them merely increases the harm the work does. Sincerity becomes
harmful.
Subjective sincerity can militate against a truthful presentation of life. That's a dialectical point. Now, do you understand?”

Dyomka found it hard to absorb ideas. He furrowed his brow. “Not quite,” he said.

“All right then, I'll explain.” Aviette spread her arms, the white zigzag on her sweater flashing like lightning from arm to arm across her chest. “It's the easiest thing in the world to take some depressing fact and describe it just as it is. What one should do, though, is plow deep to reveal the seedlings which are the plants of the future. Otherwise they can't be seen.”

“But seedlings…”

“What's that?”