"Ten days you were away. He dropped by. He said he was looking for you, but we both understood that he knew you were not in Moscow. We drank some vodka. Svetochka was lonely without her Feliks. Before she knew what had happened, we were in-" She burst out furiously, "Does Svetochka have to draw you a picture?"
"I don't believe you," the Potter cried. "You are lying."
"If Svetochka is lying," she retorted, her voice barely audible above the music, her eyes flashing, "how would she know that Piotr Borisovich was circumcised?"
"So: you got my message?"
"I got it."
Oskar seemed just as tense as the Potter. "You understood it, yes?"
"I understood it," the Potter acknowledged. He watched the trolley cars slide noiselessly past in the street below. What sound they made was dampened by the storm windows fitted over the regular windows. Someone had been very lazy. In summer such windows were usually taken off. Maybe it wasn't a question of cold, though. Maybe it was a question of security. Cotton had been stretched along the sill between the windows to absorb the condensation, and moss had been placed on the cotton-a touch that indicated that the regular resident of the apartment had peasant roots. "Your potential clients already knew the identities of the people in question," the Potter continued tonelessly. "They were not buying."
"So: I assume you have come up with another proposition," Oskar remarked casually, "or you wouldn't be here, yes?"
The Potter wondered if Oskar was as sure of himself as he sounded.
"Another proposition, yes."
Svetochka had been right, of course, about Piotr Borisovich. On several occasions the Potter and his pupil had visited the Sandunovsky Bathhouse together. There, stark naked amid the smoke screen of steam and the stale smell of sweat and birch bark, they had nibbled on sticks of salted fish and talked in undertones about the idealism that somehow had gotten lost in the shuffle in Russia. Glancing down, the Potter had noticed that Piotr Borisovich was circumcised. "It is a rare thing in Russia," Piotr Borisovich had commented, his eyes following the Potter's gaze. Indeed it was! Since the revolution, even Jews hesitated when it came to having their children circumcised. The Potter had been born before the revolution, but his parents had seen the handwriting on the wall. His father had decided that with all the anti-Semitism in Russia, the day might come when the boy's safety would depend on his not being circumcised. Piotr Borisovich's father, curiously, hadn't even been Jewish. But he once came across a pamphlet describing the medical advantages of circumcision. Practicing what the author-doctor preached, he had himself circumcised though he was already a grown man, and his son circumcised at birth. The circumcision had almost been the undoing of the father. Trapped behind German lines at one point during the war, he had been taken for a Jew. He had been awaiting execution in a cell when the Red Army counterattacked and liberated the town.
It struck the Potter, who had an inner ear permanently tuned to pick up such details, how ironic it would be if the circumcision turned out to be the undoing of the son.
The Potter turned to confront Oskar. "The last sleeper to pass through my school while I was the novator," he briskly informed him, "was named Piotr Borisovich Revkin." He could see interest burning, like a pilot light, in Oskar's normally masked eyes. "He was inserted into America two years ago. He lives in a section of New York under deep cover, waiting for the signal indicating his controllers have decided to give him a mission."
Oskar couldn't suppress the note of excitement that crept into his voice. "You know the name under which he operates, yes? You know where he is?"
The Potter nodded.
Oskar took a step in the Potter's direction. "You are familiar with the signal that can awaken this sleeper of yours, yes?"
"Yes."
"So: my clients will want to know how you came into possession of this information," Oskar said.
"His cover name is part of the legend we worked out together at the sleeper school," the Potter explained. "The location I know because, for personal reasons that had to do with an affinity we shared for a certain poet, he sent me, in violation of standing rules, a picture postcard of the house he lives in."
"And the awakening signal?"
"When we selected an awakening signal, I always made it a point to choose a phrase that was already embedded in a sleeper's memory-a familiar motto, a line of a song or a poem he had known since childhood.
There was a line of poetry that we both knew . . ." The Potter's voice choked for an instant. Did one betrayal inevitably lead to another? What level of Dante's hell was he sentencing himself to? He drew a deep breath. ". . . knew and appreciated. I wrote out the awakening signal in my own hand in his dossier."
"If my potential clients accept and you don't have the information you claim to have..." Oskar left the sentence hanging.
The Potter said softly, "I am not an idiot. I know the rules of the game." Against his will, a brittle laugh seeped from the back of his throat. "I helped write them."
The younger Cousin helped the blind man off with his coat. Tapping his white baton before his feet, the blind man made his way into the hotel room. "Well, Oskar," he called out, uncertain where in the room Oskar was, "in the end pushing him didn't do any harm, did it?"
Oskar said, "So: it is my opinion he would have come around eventually."
The younger man waved Oskar off. He had once seen the blind man lash out with his baton at the legs of someone who crossed him.
Oskar shrugged. "The important thing," he told the blind man, "is that he has come through with what you wanted. It is true what he said about the awakening signal, yes?"
The blind man found the seat with his baton and settled into it. The younger man extracted a red file from a briefcase and opened it on the table. The blind man ran his fingertips over several pages as if they were written in braille. "Of course the awakening signal is in his handwriting," he said. "That's how we first discovered that he knew it."
"If he had typed in the signal," said the younger man, "it might never have occurred to us to use him. He'd still be bringing home American mascara to that bitch of a wife of his."
"What about the postcard?" Oskar asked. "It is conceivable that the Americans will administer truth drugs to him. Every detail must check out if they are to swallow the whole story."
"There was a postcard/' the younger man confirmed. Only the sleeper in question never sent it."
"We arranged for it to be sent,” the blind man confessed smugly, "to fill in the single gap in the novator's knowledge. Since he and this sleeper of his aren't going to meet again, he will never find that out."
"So: alt that remains to be done now is to convince my clients to accept the deal, and then ship the novator and that whore of his out of the country, yes?"
"Your clients will agree to the deal' the blind man announced in a tone that left no room for doubt. And with a laugh that contained no trace of humor, he added, "I was never more sure of anything in my life."
Francis had come down with a head cold. It was serious enough to make him skip his Tuesday-night film. Wednesday morning he telephoned Mrs.
Cresswell to say he had a fever and would not be coming in. She put him on hold for a moment, which irritated Francis because it conveyed the impression that he required permission to stay away from the office.
Then Carroll came on the line. "Mrs. Cresswell tells me you are under the weather," he said. Something in Carroll s voice made Francis suspect that his cheek muscle was atwitch.
"I have a hundred and one," Francis informed him as if it were an accomplishment.
"A hundred and one what?" Carroll's mind was on other things.
"A hundred and one degrees of fever!" Francis cried into the mouthpiece.
"I can't see to drive."
"It's not enough," Carroll retorted. "Grab a cab." And lowering his voice to a hoarse whisper, he confided, "We are starting to haul in our fish."
Francis swallowed. We are starting to haul in our fish! It was the most original operation he had ever been involved in in his career. If it succeeded, history would be diverted as if it were nothing more than an inconvenient stream!
"Did you hear what I said?" Carroll hissed into the phone.
"I shall be right in," Francis said with great dignity. "I only need to put on an appropriate tie."
For eighteen excruciating days, the Potter didn't hear a word from Oskar. After the first week went by in sinister silence he broke down and dialled B one-forty-one, twenty-one, but almost had his eardrum shattered by the peculiar whining sound that in Moscow indicates the number is out of order. Had it all been a hoax? Someone's idea of indoor sport? Or even worse, a trap designed to test his loyalty? But ii it were a trap, why would they wait to spring it?
In the state he was in, throwing pots was out of the question. They spiralled off into lopsided shapes that had nothing in common with the conception in his head. So the Potter paced: the attic, the bedroom, the corridor, the streets around the apartment building in which he lived.
Nine days after his last session with Oskar, the Potter was prowling around the attic when he heard the phone ringing underfoot. He raced downstairs, but Svetochka beat him to it. "I understand," she was saying into the mouthpiece. Her posture was rigid, her face frozen in an expression of a sullen child. "We will both be there. You will be able to set your watch by our arrival."
The call turned out to be a summons from the Deputy Assistant Procurator's office for a groundbreaking session. Svetochka astonished the Potter by scrubbing every trace of makeup off her face, wearing her lowest heels and her drabbest clothes-until it dawned on him that it was her idea of how to impress Deputy Assistant Procurators with one's innocence. At the interview, Svetochka rose to the occasion and denied everything, starting with her age. "I happen, Comrade Procurator." she announced, baring teeth that looked as ii they had been sharpened, "to be twenty-nine years of age, and not thirty-one."
The Deputy Assistant Procurator peered at a photocopy of her internal passport through a magnifying glass. "It says here in black and white that you were born in . . ."He read off a month and a year. "Subtract that from today"-he began counting on his fingers- "and you are left with thirty-one.'
Svetochka's jaw angled up in displeasure. "The woman who issued me the passport wore thick eyeglasses. She made an error when she copied the date off my birth certificate."
"And where, if I may make so bold as to pose the question"-the Potter recognized this as a standard bureaucratic effort at irony-"is this, eh, birth certificate?"
"My mother had it."
"And where"-bureaucratic exasperation now-"is your mother?"
"In a coffin, underground, in row seven, aisle D of the municipal cemetery of Smolensk."
"I see," moaned the Deputy Assistant Procurator, though of course he didn't see at all. For thanks to Svetochka, he got so bogged down with inconsequential matters (height, weight, color of eyes, Party background, education, date of marriage, et cetera, et cetera) that he had to schedule a second session to attack the question of pilfering from the warehouse of a state institution. And by that time, Oskar had gotten back to them.
He called from a public phone one midnight. So: if the Potter would go down to the corner, a taxi would pick him up. Do you know what time it is? the Potter asked, relieved to have finally heard from Oskar but anxious, for tactical reasons, not to let him know it. Ignoring the question, Oskar said only that the Potter was to bring his wife with him, yes? Why bring my wife? the Potter was on the verge of demanding, but Oskar had clicked oft the line.
Svetochka relished the envious stares of the others in the taxi queue when the first cab that came along refused even-one except them. The little man with shirred skin, the one who had popped up near Nadezhda Alliluyeva's tomb in the Novodevichy Cemetery, was planted behind the wheel. "Still going anywhere?" he asked, and he laughed a madman's laugh. He eventually deposited his passengers before a drab prefabricated apartment house on Krasnaya Street, a stones throw from the planetarium.
Did every site in Moscow hold memories for the Potter? When Piotr Borisovich discovered that the Potter had never been to a planetarium, he had immediately arranged a visit. Revolutions had been the theme of the day. They had served up on the overhead dome, as if it were a meal, the sky as it looked over Petrograd the night the Bolsheviks stormed the Winter Palace in I9I7. Then they projected the sky as it looked over Philadelphia after the signing of the Declaration of Independence, July 4, I776, Walking back to the hotel afterward, Piotr Borisovich had started rambling on about American history. Did the Potter know, he had asked, that both Thomas Jefferson and John Adams died within hours of each other, on July 4, I826, fifty years to the day after they signed the Declaration? James Monroe, another signer and the last President to have been forged by the American Revolution, died five years to the day later. In the decades before the Civil War, the veterans of Bunker Hill, Lexington, Valley Forge, gradually died off. In the end, Piotr Borisovich had said, the Americans and the Russians were confronted by the same problem: how to transmit the idealism of the founding revolutionists to the generations that came after them. The Americans, according to Piotr Borisovich, had never solved the problem. And we Russians, the Potter had asked, have we solved it?
Piotr Borisovich had glanced sideways at the Potter, calculating how frank he dared get with the novator who controlled his life as surely as a puppeteer controls his marionette. It is my opinion, Piotr Borisovich had finally said-he appeared to be avoiding the question, but of course he wasn't-that revolutions don't so much change things as rearrange them. The Potter had accepted the statement for what it was: in the Soviet context, people consecrated friendships by uttering things which, if reported to the authorities, could get them fired or jailed or, occasionally, shot. And the Potter had responded in the same currency. I agree with you completely, he had said in a formal voice he normally reserved for oaths or rites. The people who made our revolution, theirs too. dreamed bigger dreams than we dare dream today.