The Secrets We Kept(40)
Doctor Zhivago—a name more than one of us had trouble spelling at first—was written by the Soviet’s most famous living writer, Boris Pasternak, and banned in the Eastern Bloc due to its critiques of the October Revolution and its so-called subversive nature.
On first glance, it wasn’t evident how a sweeping epic about the doomed love between Yuri Zhivago and Lara Antipova could be used as a weapon, but the Agency was always creative.
The initial internal memo described Zhivago as “the most heretical literary work by a Soviet author since Stalin’s death,” saying it had “great propaganda value” for its “passive but piercing exposition of the effect of the Soviet system on the life of a sensitive, intelligent citizen.” In other words, it was perfect.
The memo passed through SR faster than word of a break room tryst during one of our martini-soaked Christmas parties and spawned at least half a dozen additional memos, each seconding the first: that this was not just a book, but a weapon—and one the Agency wanted to obtain and smuggle back behind the Iron Curtain for its own citizens to detonate.
EAST
1955–1956
CHAPTER 10
THE AGENT
Sergio D’Angelo awoke to his three-year-old son beside his bed babbling on midsentence about a dragon named Stefano—a large green-and-yellow papier-maché creature they’d seen at a puppet show back in Rome. “Giulietta!” Sergio called to his wife, hoping she’d take pity on him and fetch their child so that he could sleep another hour. Giulietta ignored his pleas.
Sergio’s mouth was dry and his temples throbbed from too many vodka shots the night before. “To the Italians!” his coworker Vladlen had cried, raising a glass to the group gathered for the Radio Moscow party. Sergio laughed and drank without pointing out that he was but one Italian, not plural Italians. Sergio led the charge to the dance floor. Handsome and dressed as though he’d stepped off an Italian film set, he had his choice of dancing partners. And he chose them all, until Vladlen tapped him on the shoulder to tell him the music had ended a half hour ago and the café owner was throwing them out. A petite woman with whom Sergio was dancing to no music invited them back to her apartment to continue the revelry, but Sergio declined. Not just because his wife was waiting for him at home, but because, despite the next day being Sunday, he had work to do.
Sergio translated bulletins for Radio Moscow’s Italian broadcast, but he’d also come to the USSR for another reason: he was a would-be literary agent. His employer, Giangiacomo Feltrinelli—the timber heir and founder of a new publishing company—wanted to find the next modern classic and was convinced it had to come from the Motherland. “Find me the next Lolita,” Feltrinelli had instructed.
Sergio had yet to find the next smash hit, but a bulletin that had come across his desk the previous week offered a promising lead: The publication of Boris Pasternak’s Doctor Zhivago is imminent. Written in the form of a diary, it is a novel that spans three quarters of a century, ending with the Second World War. Sergio telegraphed Feltrinelli and was given the go-ahead to attempt to secure the international rights. Unable to get hold of the author by telephone, Sergio made plans with Vladlen to visit Pasternak at his dacha in Peredelkino that Sunday.
That morning, with his son still at his heels, Sergio splashed cold water on his face at the sink and wished he’d asked Vladlen to make the trip the following weekend instead. Entering the kitchen, which was half the size of his kitchen back home, his wife sat at the table drinking a cup of the instant espresso she’d brought with them from Rome. His four-year-old daughter, Francesca, sat across from Giulietta and mimicked her mother, bringing her own plastic cup to her lips and setting it gently down. “Good morning, my darlings,” Sergio said, and kissed them both on their cheeks.
“Mama is angry with you, Papa,” Francesca said. “Very angry.”
“Nonsense. Why would she be angry if there’s nothing to be angry about? Your mother knows I must work today. I’m paying the most famous poet in the Soviet Union a visit.”
“She didn’t say why she is angry, just that she is angry.”
Giulietta got up and put her cup into the sink. “I don’t care who you are visiting. As long as you don’t stay out all night again.”
* * *
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Sergio dressed in his best suit—a custom-tailored sand-colored Brioni, a gift from his generous employer. By the door, he polished his shoes with a horsehair brush. Throughout what had seemed like an endless Russian winter, Sergio had worn the same black rubber boots all Russians wore. Now that spring had come, Sergio felt a jolt of joy as he slipped his feet into his fine leather shoes. Clicking his heels, he bid his family goodbye and was out the door.
Vladlen was waiting for Sergio at track number seven, holding a paper bag full of onion-and-egg piroshki for their short journey. The two men shook hands and Vladlen held out the paper bag. Sergio held his stomach. “I can’t.”
“Hung over?” Vladlen asked. “You’ll need to practice if you want to keep up with us Russians.” He opened the bag and shook it. “An old remedy. Take one. We’re about to meet Russian royalty, and you need to be at your very best.”