soothe a room filled with athousand tired workers. Among the front row, he sought out Raisa. She was concentrating on Austin, under the spell of his voice. He wondered if she would ever look upon him with the same admiration.
As the song finished, a disturbance broke out at the back of the warehouse. Members of the audience turned around, staring into the darkness. Leo stepped forward, straining his eyes, attempting to identify the source of the noise. A man appeared from the shadows, wearing an MGB uniform, his shirt pulled out, his trousers scuffed with dirt. He was a mess, staggering wildly from side to side. It took Leo a moment to realize this man was Grigori – his protégé.
Leo hurried forward, running past other agents in order to intercept him. He took his trainee by the arm. He stank of alcohol. Despite the danger of his predicament, Grigori seemed not to notice Leo. He was applauding Austin with loud, slow, erratic claps. When Leo tried to pull him away, out of the warehouse, Grigori growled like a feral dog:
— Leave me alone.
Leo clamped his hands on Grigori’s face, staring him in the eye, speaking with genuine urgency.
— Pull yourself together. What are you doing?
Grigori replied:
— Get out of my way!
— Listen to me—
— Listen to you? I wish I had never heard you speak.
— What has happened to you?
— To me! No, not to me, to someone else, Leo, the artist, Polina, you remember her? The woman I love? They arrested her. Even though I disobeyed you and ripped out the offending page . . .
Grigori raised the page from the diary, complete with the doodle of the Statue of Liberty.
— Even though there was nothing in that diary, they arrested her, even though I disobeyed you and ripped out the page, they still arrested her!
He was repeating himself, slurring his words, running the sentences into each other as though they were a chant. Leo tried to cut him short:
— Then they’ll free her and the matter will be over.
— She’s dead!
He shouted out the words. A sizeable part of the audience had now turned from Austin to Grigori. He continued to speak, this time in a whisper:
— They arrested her last night. She didn’t survive the questioning. A weak heart, that’s what they said to me. A weak heart . . . a weak heart! Was that her crime, Leo? If that is a crime you should arrest me too. Arrest me, Leo. Arrest me. Charge me with a weak heart. I would rather a weak heart than a strong one.
Leo felt sick.
— Grigori, you’re upset, listen to me—
— You keep asking me to listen to you. But I won’t, Leo Demidov, I won’t listen to you! The sound of your voice is appalling to me.
Other agents were moving closer, several rising out of the audience. Grigori bolted forward, running up the stairs, past the orchestra and towards Austin. Leo rushed after him, following up the stairs but pausing at the threshold of the stage. If he tried to make Grigori leave, they would end up in a fight. The cameras were rolling. Thousands were watching.
*
Grigori stood, blinking in the glare of the spotlights. He wanted to shout out the truth. He wanted to tell them an innocent woman had been murdered. As the faces of those seated in the front rows came into focus he understood that they already knew – not that Polina was dead, but they knew her story, they knew it many times over. They did not need to hear it from him. They did not want to hear it. No one wanted him to speak. They were afraid, not for him, but of him, as if he had some sickness that might infect their lives. He was a lunatic, a man who stood onstage and made himself a target – an act of suicide. There was nothing noble in his actions. What did it matter if he spoke the truth? It was a useless, dangerous truth. He turned to the man onstage with him, the famous Jesse Austin. What had Grigori hoped? Perhaps he’d hoped that a man full of dreams about this land would hear the truth and transform from an advocate to a critic
As the song finished, a disturbance broke out at the back of the warehouse. Members of the audience turned around, staring into the darkness. Leo stepped forward, straining his eyes, attempting to identify the source of the noise. A man appeared from the shadows, wearing an MGB uniform, his shirt pulled out, his trousers scuffed with dirt. He was a mess, staggering wildly from side to side. It took Leo a moment to realize this man was Grigori – his protégé.
Leo hurried forward, running past other agents in order to intercept him. He took his trainee by the arm. He stank of alcohol. Despite the danger of his predicament, Grigori seemed not to notice Leo. He was applauding Austin with loud, slow, erratic claps. When Leo tried to pull him away, out of the warehouse, Grigori growled like a feral dog:
— Leave me alone.
Leo clamped his hands on Grigori’s face, staring him in the eye, speaking with genuine urgency.
— Pull yourself together. What are you doing?
Grigori replied:
— Get out of my way!
— Listen to me—
— Listen to you? I wish I had never heard you speak.
— What has happened to you?
— To me! No, not to me, to someone else, Leo, the artist, Polina, you remember her? The woman I love? They arrested her. Even though I disobeyed you and ripped out the offending page . . .
Grigori raised the page from the diary, complete with the doodle of the Statue of Liberty.
— Even though there was nothing in that diary, they arrested her, even though I disobeyed you and ripped out the page, they still arrested her!
He was repeating himself, slurring his words, running the sentences into each other as though they were a chant. Leo tried to cut him short:
— Then they’ll free her and the matter will be over.
— She’s dead!
He shouted out the words. A sizeable part of the audience had now turned from Austin to Grigori. He continued to speak, this time in a whisper:
— They arrested her last night. She didn’t survive the questioning. A weak heart, that’s what they said to me. A weak heart . . . a weak heart! Was that her crime, Leo? If that is a crime you should arrest me too. Arrest me, Leo. Arrest me. Charge me with a weak heart. I would rather a weak heart than a strong one.
Leo felt sick.
— Grigori, you’re upset, listen to me—
— You keep asking me to listen to you. But I won’t, Leo Demidov, I won’t listen to you! The sound of your voice is appalling to me.
Other agents were moving closer, several rising out of the audience. Grigori bolted forward, running up the stairs, past the orchestra and towards Austin. Leo rushed after him, following up the stairs but pausing at the threshold of the stage. If he tried to make Grigori leave, they would end up in a fight. The cameras were rolling. Thousands were watching.
*
Grigori stood, blinking in the glare of the spotlights. He wanted to shout out the truth. He wanted to tell them an innocent woman had been murdered. As the faces of those seated in the front rows came into focus he understood that they already knew – not that Polina was dead, but they knew her story, they knew it many times over. They did not need to hear it from him. They did not want to hear it. No one wanted him to speak. They were afraid, not for him, but of him, as if he had some sickness that might infect their lives. He was a lunatic, a man who stood onstage and made himself a target – an act of suicide. There was nothing noble in his actions. What did it matter if he spoke the truth? It was a useless, dangerous truth. He turned to the man onstage with him, the famous Jesse Austin. What had Grigori hoped? Perhaps he’d hoped that a man full of dreams about this land would hear the truth and transform from an advocate to a critic
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