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Excerpt
from the 3rd novel of the SwiftPad Trilogy
“Digging
Around the Pandemic: The SwiftPad Extinction”
Chapter
28
BULGAKOV
AT THE PONDS
OF
THE PATRIARCH
On
October 12, meteorologists noticed that unusual conditions in
the southern end of the Gulf of Bothnia were beginning
to brew. Stockholm had a record 10 consecutive days
of over 38 degrees Celsius (100 degrees Fahrenheit).
In
the Finnish Islands to the east the water temperature had
risen to nearly 23 degrees Celsius, a record by nearly four
degrees. The Baltic Fisheries Commission issued a warning
that bacteria in herring had been detected and had
sickened over 100 tourists on Gotland Island. At the same
time an Arctic high-pressure mass was moving in from
the north, setting up conditions for some ominous weather
to come.
From
The Fall of It All – A
History of the Big Dump
AFTER
CHUBBY GOT TO HIS FIRST-CLASS
TRANSSIBERIAN cabin,
he didn’t see Georgy for the whole trip. It was
possible he was nearby, because most of the first-class cabin
doors remained shut. People bought first-class privacy to hide
from the virus – fear of the virus was driving everyone into hiding,
in order to stay alive…or sane.
So
many trains, Kip remembered, had been open, social affairs.
Strangers would chat in the corridor, share food, or vodka (well
– not on Amtrak – Americans didn’t go that far with their friendliness).
Chubby left his cabin door open. He propped himself up
and watched Siberia, through the doorway, and through the
panoramic window in the corridor. They went through the Urals
at night, and he slept, fitfully. And then they came to the Steppe.
He had some music on his fone – Journey – Steve Perry belting
out the lyrics…on and on and on and on.
They
crossed the Volga at Kazan, the ancient outpost against the
Tartars, which had been under siege almost continually for a
hundred years ending in the mid-sixteenth century. Mother Volga…from
the railroad bridge crossing it, you could see out across
the Steppe forever.
When
they pulled into Yaroslavsky station in Moscow, his plan
was mapped out in his head. He caught a glimpse of someone he
thought was Georgy, disguised with a blond wig and a long coat,
looking like Bruce Willis at the end of 12
Monkeys. If it was Georgy,
he hurried away and disappeared into the crowd.
Kip’s
first task was to get some clothes. He had been wearing a long-sleeve
t-shirt on top of a short-sleeve t-shirt. He walked out of the
station and headed up the broad sidewalk on the Garden Ring boulevard.
There were several clothing stores near the Pekin Hotel off
Tverskaya not far from the train station, and he had no luggage, and
was stir crazy from sitting on the train for nearly three days,so
he walked. Cars on the boulevard but virtually no foot traffic.
He
found an athletic-wear kiosk, and said fuck it, good enough, bought
some dark-blue sweat pants with a stripe on the side, a dull green
Adidas jacket, a cheap nylon backpack, a pair of blindingly white
Stan Smith tennis shoes (in memory of Aldane), some jock underwear,
and three футболка
“futbolka” (soccer)
t-shirts. And a
mariner’s cap like Lenin wore. He bought a few hospital masks too,
to fill out his flimsy backpack. Except for the high-class tennis shoes
he looked like a wannabe Russian rapper.
The
Pekin hotel was gloomy and foreboding, with blood-red heavy
curtains on the windows, and Kip had a feeling that if he jacked
off, it would end up as voyeur porn on Funcake. SwiftPad’s vlog
app Funcake was GG’s booboo. She designed it, and even invented
some video manipulation techniques that at the time were
pretty advanced. Called it “an adult sensuality app.” Then – too
long of a story to get into here – some of her developers went rogue
and released it with no connection to its mother app.
He
took a shower and changed into his new clothes and his black
cap. Stalin had had a hand in designing the Pekin Hotel, and it
was one of his big “triumphs” during the terror and deprivation of
the times, when it opened just after the Second World War.
Kip
studied himself in the long mirror in the bathroom (mirrors that
were reputed to be two-way) as he put on his gopnik tracksuit.
A total douchebag! In spite of wearing the Russian national
gopnik costume (sans Stan Smith shoes), for some reason Chubby
looked like a tourist. But he was only staying in Moscow one
day, then on to St. Petersburg.
Somebody
to meet soon. Georgy had told him to go to see Bulgakov’s
house first, then on to Lubyanka. “Sit on a bench in the
little memorial park on the south end” of the infamous secret police
headquarters, Georgy had told him.
Kip
had already every intention of seeing Bulgakov’s apartment, but
wondered why Georgy told him to go. He was sure he hadn’t
mentioned his love for the Soviet-era author, who more than
anyone (other than Anna Akhmatova) tweaked Stalin’s nose.
He
walked out of the Pekin Hotel into the morning sunshine, forecast
to be another blisteringly hot day, and jaywalked across the
Garden Ring street to visit Mikhail Bulgakov’s apartment, which
was almost directly across from the hotel.
Bulgakov’s
The Master and Margarita
had been his touchstone, what
he touted as his “specialty” when applying to the various Russian
Language programs that he talked his way into during his many brief enrollments in a number of universities (including
Harvard). The apartment was exactly as he pictured it.
In fact (when he was living on a meager monthly stipend from
his “trust fund”) he had created almost the same atmosphere – an
old building with a winding staircase, covered with graffiti,
done in bizarre and quasi-obscene style, and definitely created
by talented and skilled artists. It had a musty odor, and all
kinds of rooms and alcoves with no regular size or shape, often
connected with little hallways. The living room had been converted
to a parlor with couches and chairs all facing the front.
Here
Bulgakov’s friends would gather, and later, after his death, his
worshipers all would come to hear secret recitations of his work
and of other banned Russian authors, works called samizdat (самизда́т,
“self-published”). It was here, Kip thought, in places like
this that hope for mankind burned like a flickering candle.
Little
clusters of people who held onto the truth, even through the
worst of times. He could feel their presence, even now. He could
even feel their fear.
“You
read Bulgakov?” A man, wearing a mask, in his sixties at least,
confronted him. “You read Russian?”
Chubby
realized he was the only tourist in the apartment. The
virus had scared away most tourists.
“да,”
he said lamely.
“Here,
I give you.” He handed him a small paperback copy of The
Master and Margarita in
Russian.
“Спасибо!”
(Spasibo – Thank you)
“Don’t
mention it.” Where had he heard that recently? thought
Kip.
“Here,
one more thing. Take.” It was a typed, stapled manuscript.
“We
go underground like before!”
“Political?”
Kip nodded to the manuscript in his left hand.
“Not
even a little bit. Well, yes of course all is political! I promise.
It is scientific treatise on fungus. Common fungus – maybe
– you find on trees, in forests in Georgia, near Black Sea. Ancient
wisdom. Maybe Herotitus wrote about it,”
“Who
is Herotitus?”
“I
don’t know, Greek maybe. You decide. No charge.”
“What
is it about?”
“Fungus
may cause virus – and maybe cure virus – I give you.”
“Why?”
“Go
ask Alice,” the man said. “Maybe she know.”
“How
–?” He let it go. It made sense, thought Kip. Of course – Jim’s
mom. Alice would know. She had been the closest thing to a
mom he had ever known. But what did he mean?
The
man turned, walked away, and seemed to disappear into the
labyrinth of the Bulgakov apartment.
Chubby
headed down the Garden Ring to Malaya Bronnaya Street,
and came upon the Ponds of the Patriarch. The setting for the
first chapter of Bulgakov’s great novel was only a short walk from
his home.
There
was only one pond, although legend said there were once two.
It had been a swampy hollow in the fifteenth century. The scene
was exactly as Chubby saw it in his head: the graceful and ever
watchful linden trees, the rectangular pond, approximately
100
meters by 60 meters. The pond was surrounded by a wide pea-gravel
walkway. Benches were spaced all around the water, on both
sides of the walkway. The grounds were immaculate.
It
was right here that poor Berlioz, a literary magazine editor, and
his young friend, a poet, met “the Professor,” a foreigner who
speaks perfect Russian. Sitting right here at the junction of
Malaya Bronnaya and Yermolayevskiy, here is the bench!
Probably
the same bench. Except there are no tram rails on Yermolayevskiy Lane
– that part is fiction. But next to a beautiful public
park, the imaginary tram tracks are more believable than a
guillotine.
The
editor Berlioz had been criticizing a poem by the poet that
was not definitive enough or clear enough in expressing the
historical fact that Jesus had never existed. The editor goes through
a list of ancient writers whose statements about Jesus were
later proved to be forgeries. This scholarly recitation conforms to
Communist party atheistic standards, and also refers to some
obscure but current (early 1930s) literary quarrels within the
Moscow writing community. The Professor overhears their discussion
and says that Jesus definitely did exist. They argue about
the logical strength of Kant’s philosophical proof of God’s existence.
Berlioz and the poet joke with each other about the appearance
and accent of the Professor (“He must be German!”) and
attempt to tease him. But little by little they come to realize this
guy is a heavyweight intellect, who might know more than they
do. The Professor tells them what he says is the true story of
the Passion of Christ – only the Christ he describes is a
simpleton.
He
digs into Pilate’s mind during the interrogation. Pilate knows
something very world-shaking is occurring, yet he sloughs it
off. We witness Pilate’s slippery and deceitful negotiations with the
Sanhedrin.
Berlioz
says that scene is not in the Bible! But the Professor triumphantly
points out that Berlioz had just said the Bible was not
true! The Professor says he was there, he witnessed it, and the
Poet and Berlioz mock him. Soon the Professor says he is moving
into Berlioz’s apartment and predicts that Berlioz would die
(soon) from decapitation and it all turns out to be true (tram rails…)
in a brutal, yet very funny way.
The
Professor is the Devil, or maybe he really is Stalin. Anyway,
as the novel proceeds, he takes over Moscow.
Chapter
29
CHUBBY
MEETS NIKOLOZ
AT
LUBYANKA
Late
October
“I
continued down Bronnaya Street. It was so peaceful, fragrant,
full of beautiful healthy linden trees, and very upscale.
Tall and spectacularly beautiful women dressed in opulent
Fifth Avenue style were escorted by short, balding men
in too-tight dark suits. Still under the spell of the fi
rst chapter of The Master
and the Margarita, walking in a trance,
I snapped photographs in my mind’s eye, pictures I
can still recall and see in full color, each block, each store, each
restaurant, just watching and consciously recording the
scene in my memory. Beautiful cafés with beautiful waitresses,
intriguing and very alluring alleyways, huge windows,
half opened, hinting at great wealth and status inside
spacious apartments. I felt friendly eyes where I least expected
them.
“I
had no idea that the stapled, smeared, half-typed, half-handwritten
manuscript I carried in my fl imsy backpack was
perhaps the most valuable treasure, the most important
document in the world. It was the answer to so many
prayers – and I remember, as I passed a rubbish bin, thinking
– why do I need to lug this around? I almost threw it
into the trash on Bronnaya Street.”
From
The Fall of It All – A
History of the Big Dump
CHUBBY
CONTINUED TOWARD THE CENTER OF
Moscow,
the Kremlin. He didn’t go in to see the Apostolic Churches,
but walked around to the side, through Red Square
down to St. Basil’s. There was a pretty big crowd there, with
everyone wearing a hospital mask. Eyes, lots of eyes peering out
of half-hidden faces, seemingly looking at him. He thought, this
must be what it was like in the Seraglio – Mozart’s Turkish harem.
How seductive the eyes can be!
Chubby
headed over to Lubyanka. It wasn’t far. Georgy had told
Chubby to expect company, that there would be people watching
him. Chubby had a gut-level understanding of the danger
he was in but understood the only way to fight it was to ignore
it. He and Nikoloz (who bristled angrily after Kip called him
Nicky) met in perhaps the most ominous (yet hopeful) place imaginable
– on the southern end of Lubyanka, in the heart of
Moscow. The giant secret police headquarters where tens of thousands
of political prisoners were executed by the long line of
Soviet henchmen was shrouded in a giant burlap covering in preparation
for some renovations apparently, or perhaps it was only
the sudden onset of shame, a desire to hide. He and Nikoloz sat
on the pedestal of the Solovetsky Stone, the memorial to the victims
of Stalin’s Gulag, a simple large hunk of granite that had been
hauled from a Siberian labor camp. The stone had recently replaced
the statue of Felix Dzerzhinsky, Lenin’s Interior Minister who
founded what became the KGB (now the FSB).
“Moscow
and St. Petersburg are ready to move against him. But
unlike your Real-Prez, ours is a clever man. He clearly understands what
people in the street have against him, and he creates hope
and confusion to make them hesitate, make them somehow half-believe
that he just might be a ‘secret democrat.’ They say, ‘If only
he can control the wolves who control him!’” Nikoloz looked out
down to the park on Staraya Square. It was filled with young lovers
cuddled on benches. A scene like that 50 years ago would have
been informants meeting their handlers. “But he knows that his
hold on power is dependent on Russians thinking that it is he who
controls the White House! Once that illusion is broken, he is finished.
The people here – in Moscow and in St. Petersburg – are ready
for real democracy. But it all depends on America.”
Kip
had met Nikoloz before, in the spring, in Georgia, when he
had romanced Nikoloz’s half-sister Milana. When he had last seen
Nikoloz – he had been certain he was on the other side. And in
fact, he may be still.
“‘Moscow
rules’ are obsolete,” said Nikoloz, referring to leCarré’s
security procedures that agents follow when on enemy ground.
“Technology has made so much useless, probably us most of
all.”
Chubby
wondered about “us,” but he remained silent.
“Walking
around the city, be sure to stop and talk to people. Linger.”
Nikoloz looked back at the looming prison. It was once the
site of one of the earliest churches in Moscow. Irony that thick
is almost comedy. “See that window up there? Third floor – it
was Beria’s office, he used to look down here at the statue of his
predecessor, the ‘Iron Felix’ who stood right here. Andropov used
that office too.”
“Maybe
someone is looking down at us now?” said Chubby.
“Maybe.
Doesn’t matter. The only way to change the future is
to ignore what the past says is supposed to happen. Envision the
future we need to have. Join in with what you see. Follow the crowd.
Join protest groups if you see them. They won’t see you.
They
only see you if you hide. They are looking for the furtive, the
side-eyeing man in the corner. Be open, and you are more likely
just to walk in where you need. Russians are trusting, and they
love the innocent idiot.”
“How
is Milana?”
“She
can tell you herself. Allegro Hotel by Moscow Station, in
Leningrad,” Nikoloz’s face gave nothing away. He put a burner fone
on the stone and left.
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