Read Online Oswald's Tale by Norman Mailer - Free Book Online
Authors: Norman Mailer
Tags: Suspense
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you have such wonderful wives, and now you want to go somewhere with women—shame on you!” They might be high ministers from Arab countries—still, she scolded them and said, “We have nothing like this. What do you think of my country and of me?”
Next day, next morning, none of them spoke to her. Didn’t even say good morning to her. Her boss scolded her. “How could you dare? Do you know what kind of people you deal with?” What could she say? Was it in her character to say yes to such matters? She was young and she was blond and she could have been very good-looking but for a small growth like an eraser tip of a pencil on one side of her nose, what you call in English a wen!
Now, as part of her regular work, each morning she would report to Central Administration in the National. There, at that hotel, guides would be given a list of tourists coming to Moscow. One day in October of 1959, October 16, Rimma was given the name of a man she was now assigned to take around in Moscow for five days. When she met him, however, she was surprised. He had not only arrived by Deluxe class—but he was taking his whole tour Deluxe. Only rich people travel in such a class. The most wealthy! How many can come alone Deluxe to Moscow for five days? So, she was expecting quite another kind of fellow, some gentleman who would be like an equal maybe to her governors of seventeen Southern states, and they had not even been Deluxe. Only first class. Deluxe was two rooms to yourself, a suite. Naturally, she was expecting a middle-aged man who would be impressive. A
dandy
!
When she went, however, to the assigned section of the Berlin Hotel lobby to meet him, there was only a boy, slender, of medium height, wearing a dark blue three-quarter autumn overcoat of inexpensive material and military boots with thick soles. Ordinary boots. From her point of view, someone traveling Deluxe should not look like this, certainly not! And this boy was pale, very pale. She would say he looked gloomy and nervous—yes, nervous, very nervous. He wasn’t calm.
She introduced herself and gave a preview of the program. Intourist had group plans for people on excursions, but now there was only Rimma and this Deluxe boy, who was to have everything private. So she offered him a sightseeing tour. He spoke quietly, but at first it could have been a closed door between them. He didn’t seem to know a single word in Russian, so Rimma spoke to him in English, about obtaining tickets to this or that theatre, and she went down a list of what to tour with him, but he showed no interest in excursions. This first morning they went in a Volvo with a driver on a sightseeing tour around Moscow, and made stops. Their last one was Red Square, but the initiative for all of one hour and a half had been Rimma’s. He did not interrupt any of her tour stories; he asked no questions. Such an odd Deluxe tourist.
Then, their morning tour was over and he returned to the Berlin Hotel and had his mid-day meal alone. Rimma just said she’d see him a little later. She was planning to take him to the Kremlin that afternoon. There was something about him, something maybe unusual, but he was nice. He was polite and getting more natural.
Rimma was an only child, a native Muscovite, proud of it. She was born in Moscow, and her mother had been born there in 1904, even her grandfather, so on. So maybe she looked forward to showing this boy her city. Maybe to Tretyakov next day and she could describe the paintings there. But that afternoon, this first day, he began speaking about himself. They did not go to the Kremlin after all. He wanted to talk.
Naturally, she didn’t go to his suite: She would never do that. It wasn’t allowed. So they went out. It was warm, and they sat on a bench, and he repeated, “If you don’t mind, I don’t want to go on a tour.” Now, this was not against their rules; it was allowed, but it wasn’t considered a good idea.
Anyway, he began to say a
Next day, next morning, none of them spoke to her. Didn’t even say good morning to her. Her boss scolded her. “How could you dare? Do you know what kind of people you deal with?” What could she say? Was it in her character to say yes to such matters? She was young and she was blond and she could have been very good-looking but for a small growth like an eraser tip of a pencil on one side of her nose, what you call in English a wen!
Now, as part of her regular work, each morning she would report to Central Administration in the National. There, at that hotel, guides would be given a list of tourists coming to Moscow. One day in October of 1959, October 16, Rimma was given the name of a man she was now assigned to take around in Moscow for five days. When she met him, however, she was surprised. He had not only arrived by Deluxe class—but he was taking his whole tour Deluxe. Only rich people travel in such a class. The most wealthy! How many can come alone Deluxe to Moscow for five days? So, she was expecting quite another kind of fellow, some gentleman who would be like an equal maybe to her governors of seventeen Southern states, and they had not even been Deluxe. Only first class. Deluxe was two rooms to yourself, a suite. Naturally, she was expecting a middle-aged man who would be impressive. A
dandy
!
When she went, however, to the assigned section of the Berlin Hotel lobby to meet him, there was only a boy, slender, of medium height, wearing a dark blue three-quarter autumn overcoat of inexpensive material and military boots with thick soles. Ordinary boots. From her point of view, someone traveling Deluxe should not look like this, certainly not! And this boy was pale, very pale. She would say he looked gloomy and nervous—yes, nervous, very nervous. He wasn’t calm.
She introduced herself and gave a preview of the program. Intourist had group plans for people on excursions, but now there was only Rimma and this Deluxe boy, who was to have everything private. So she offered him a sightseeing tour. He spoke quietly, but at first it could have been a closed door between them. He didn’t seem to know a single word in Russian, so Rimma spoke to him in English, about obtaining tickets to this or that theatre, and she went down a list of what to tour with him, but he showed no interest in excursions. This first morning they went in a Volvo with a driver on a sightseeing tour around Moscow, and made stops. Their last one was Red Square, but the initiative for all of one hour and a half had been Rimma’s. He did not interrupt any of her tour stories; he asked no questions. Such an odd Deluxe tourist.
Then, their morning tour was over and he returned to the Berlin Hotel and had his mid-day meal alone. Rimma just said she’d see him a little later. She was planning to take him to the Kremlin that afternoon. There was something about him, something maybe unusual, but he was nice. He was polite and getting more natural.
Rimma was an only child, a native Muscovite, proud of it. She was born in Moscow, and her mother had been born there in 1904, even her grandfather, so on. So maybe she looked forward to showing this boy her city. Maybe to Tretyakov next day and she could describe the paintings there. But that afternoon, this first day, he began speaking about himself. They did not go to the Kremlin after all. He wanted to talk.
Naturally, she didn’t go to his suite: She would never do that. It wasn’t allowed. So they went out. It was warm, and they sat on a bench, and he repeated, “If you don’t mind, I don’t want to go on a tour.” Now, this was not against their rules; it was allowed, but it wasn’t considered a good idea.
Anyway, he began to say a
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