realized there were more parts to this plot, and maybe more surprising characters, than he could have imagined …
CHAPTER 6
Picked up at Sheremetyevo airport by an appointed driver who held up a placard with his name on it, he had an immediate impression of Moscow as he rode away from the airport and slowly passed a huge truck on fire, blazing away, the heat visceral, creating a massive traffic jam on the incoming road. Where were the fire engines to pour water on the spectacular blaze? he wondered aloud, and his driver shrugged, smiled wanly, and said, “Russia.”
At the hotel he was too exhausted to go outside; he dove into bed, woke up in the middle of the night, read for an hour and a half, and returned to sleep.
In the morning, after a full breakfast, he was picked up, along with two other conference participants from Prague and Paris, and driven through the gray vast city to Moscow State University, a huge place. Soon, on the podium before about 150 people, he waited his turn along with four colleagues, and gave his little speech. He explained how Hungary’s coming entrance into the EU might help erase the heavy stain of recent history and politics, its self-betrayals and its persecutions, especially if the economy was prodded upward. He spoke about the literary and musical culture in the old Central and East Europe, especially during its years of Communist oppression, and emphasized how cultural expression was probably the best outlet for politically oppressed people. Did culture flourish as well in democratic societies? he asked rhetorically.
He listened to the next two speakers drone on about contemporary politics, and prayed for lunch. The last lecturer was a hefty Russian, and, speaking in a thick émigré accent, he jolted Manny alert with his talk. Concerning the Cold War, his talk also touched upon the case of Raoul Wallenberg; this Vladimir R. made the argument that RW was a rich dandy in his normal life, but in Budapest in 1944 was most probably a double spy who was at the center of the East-West political game. As he lumbered on, pumped by his conspiratorial theories, Manny came to understand that this was the fellow who had written the long unpublished essay that he had heard about, early on. Though he provided certain circumstantial notes for evidence, Manny remained skeptical but interested. Finally, after running fifteen minutes over his time, he was shut down by the moderator, and the call for lunch intermission was given.
As they moved toward the cafeteria, Manny sidled up alongside him, introduced himself, and said he’d love to read the unpublished manuscript.
“Of course, of course,” he said, taking Manny’s arm, enthused. “Where are you, England?”
“No, in New Hampshire.”
“Oh, well, that makes it very easy indeed. I will send it to you as an e-mail attachment when we return, all right? And you must give me your opinion on it please.” He paused and took out a pack of cigarettes. “I still need to complete the last section, but don’t worry, it will be worth it! I am hoping Harvard will publish it as a monograph. And now I must step outside for my smoke— American ways are sneaking into the Soviet—rather, Russian—state, sad to say.” Before departing he added, “I hope I didn’t offend you with my interpretation. But, you see, a lot of people think otherwise about Wallenberg; but what can you expect from a charming Swedish playboy?”
He smiled and shook his head. That last phrase played in his head.
In the cafeteria, an impoverished wood-paneled room, he took soup and a cheese and ham-style sandwich, and found a table.
A brown-haired middle-aged woman appeared, introduced herself, and said, “Please, I am Natasha Davidoff, you recall, yes?” and she handed him a card.
“Oh, yes,” he said to the would-be interpreter he had hired through e-mail. “Please join me.”
As they proceeded to chat, he was impressed by her English, her soft manner. He asked,
CHAPTER 6
Picked up at Sheremetyevo airport by an appointed driver who held up a placard with his name on it, he had an immediate impression of Moscow as he rode away from the airport and slowly passed a huge truck on fire, blazing away, the heat visceral, creating a massive traffic jam on the incoming road. Where were the fire engines to pour water on the spectacular blaze? he wondered aloud, and his driver shrugged, smiled wanly, and said, “Russia.”
At the hotel he was too exhausted to go outside; he dove into bed, woke up in the middle of the night, read for an hour and a half, and returned to sleep.
In the morning, after a full breakfast, he was picked up, along with two other conference participants from Prague and Paris, and driven through the gray vast city to Moscow State University, a huge place. Soon, on the podium before about 150 people, he waited his turn along with four colleagues, and gave his little speech. He explained how Hungary’s coming entrance into the EU might help erase the heavy stain of recent history and politics, its self-betrayals and its persecutions, especially if the economy was prodded upward. He spoke about the literary and musical culture in the old Central and East Europe, especially during its years of Communist oppression, and emphasized how cultural expression was probably the best outlet for politically oppressed people. Did culture flourish as well in democratic societies? he asked rhetorically.
He listened to the next two speakers drone on about contemporary politics, and prayed for lunch. The last lecturer was a hefty Russian, and, speaking in a thick émigré accent, he jolted Manny alert with his talk. Concerning the Cold War, his talk also touched upon the case of Raoul Wallenberg; this Vladimir R. made the argument that RW was a rich dandy in his normal life, but in Budapest in 1944 was most probably a double spy who was at the center of the East-West political game. As he lumbered on, pumped by his conspiratorial theories, Manny came to understand that this was the fellow who had written the long unpublished essay that he had heard about, early on. Though he provided certain circumstantial notes for evidence, Manny remained skeptical but interested. Finally, after running fifteen minutes over his time, he was shut down by the moderator, and the call for lunch intermission was given.
As they moved toward the cafeteria, Manny sidled up alongside him, introduced himself, and said he’d love to read the unpublished manuscript.
“Of course, of course,” he said, taking Manny’s arm, enthused. “Where are you, England?”
“No, in New Hampshire.”
“Oh, well, that makes it very easy indeed. I will send it to you as an e-mail attachment when we return, all right? And you must give me your opinion on it please.” He paused and took out a pack of cigarettes. “I still need to complete the last section, but don’t worry, it will be worth it! I am hoping Harvard will publish it as a monograph. And now I must step outside for my smoke— American ways are sneaking into the Soviet—rather, Russian—state, sad to say.” Before departing he added, “I hope I didn’t offend you with my interpretation. But, you see, a lot of people think otherwise about Wallenberg; but what can you expect from a charming Swedish playboy?”
He smiled and shook his head. That last phrase played in his head.
In the cafeteria, an impoverished wood-paneled room, he took soup and a cheese and ham-style sandwich, and found a table.
A brown-haired middle-aged woman appeared, introduced herself, and said, “Please, I am Natasha Davidoff, you recall, yes?” and she handed him a card.
“Oh, yes,” he said to the would-be interpreter he had hired through e-mail. “Please join me.”
As they proceeded to chat, he was impressed by her English, her soft manner. He asked,
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