‘I just wondered about… about dear Academician Almaz? How is his gout?’
‘He’s older and crabbier than ever. And much, much lamer!’
‘Should I call him sometime? Am I allowed, do you think?’
She paused, and then stepped towards him so that he could smell her spicy scent. ‘I think you might be,’ she said. ‘Yes, I might even go so far as to say that he is looking forward to it.’
IT WAS TIME for a holiday. Back in his office in the Little Corner after the Potsdam Conference, Stalin felt exhausted and ill.
He was the arbiter of the world. Could he have imagined this when his father Beso showed him how to nail a sole on to a boot in his workshop in Gori? When he donned the black surplice with the white collar at the seminary in Tiflis? When he walked across the mountains with a rifle over his shoulder and donkeys bearing the cash from his bank robberies? When he spent those years in Arctic exile fishing with the Eskimos and seducing village schoolgirls? But his mission was never complete. Still no one supported him: wives, friends, comrades – all fools, weaklings or traitors. What tribulations they put him through. Roosevelt, whom he liked and admired, was dead; Truman was a small-time haberdasher, not a statesman. Churchill had lost the election: what kind of system dismissed a man who had just won a war? It made no sense at all, especially when he saw Churchill’s replacement: Attlee looked like a provincial stationmaster. Besides, Attlee was a socialist and Stalin despised socialists as liberal saps and milksops, worse than imperialists. A dagger in the back was what they deserved.
The Americans now had their new weapon of astonishing destructive power, the Atomic Bomb, so, just when he, Stalin, was triumphant, he had to put all his energy into catching up with the United States. The oppressive tingling in the back of his neck, the pains in his arms and the weakness in his limbs were getting worse, and the specialists told him he needed to rest. He hadn’t had a holiday since 1937 so he’d decided to go down to his villas on the Black Sea. He would have to leave Molotov and Satinov in charge, and they’d screw up, of course. They were too trusting. They couldn’t see the enemies. They were like blind kittens. But no matter, his train was already packed. There were just a couple of things he had to do before he left.
He had, he considered, a special talent for movie scripts. He could have been a writer if he’d chosen that path, and remembered his excitement when his teenage poems were published. He now read every movie script and approved every movie filmed at the Mosfilm Studios. On the train home, he had decided what to do with Eisenstein’s script for
In the little cinema near his office, in fifteen seats covered in burgundy velveteen, the Seven leaders plus the Minister of Cinema, that cretin Bolshakov, sat in rows. They were to be joined by the screenwriter Romashkin to watch some rushes from his movie
The film had begun, and Stalin watched the rushes and approved them until the scene where Sophia Zeitlin kissed the actor playing her husband. ‘Stop the film! That’s vulgar!’ he told them. ‘The kiss is too long. It’s un-Soviet. Look at the way he’s holding her. The kiss has to go. What possessed you, Bolshakov, to pass this obscenity?’
‘Oh Comrade Stalin, I thought it was OK, but I would never have passed it without showing it to you.’
Stalin enjoyed watching Bolshakov cringe. ‘What do you think, comrades? Shall we forgive him or shall we punish him?’ Stalin rose and, puffing at his pipe, walked up and down before the screen. ‘To forgive? Or not to forgive?’
The only sounds were his puffing and the creak of his leather boots. No one spoke. Bolshakov’s face was flushed, and his bald head glistened with sweat. ‘Forgive or not to forgive? All right, Bolshakov, we’ll forgive. But next time: curb the kissing!’
Next, he gave Romashkin instructions for a new project: he must rewrite
Romashkin wrote down his instructions but at the end of the meeting he asked if he could create a part for his wife, Sophia Zeitlin.
‘Sure,’ said Stalin. Well, what’s good for the goose is good for the gander, so why not?
