The Secrets We Kept(44)

Sergio took Feltrinelli’s calfskin bag and Feltrinelli took his arm as though they were school chums. Sergio suggested they go to a restaurant for lunch, but Feltrinelli shook his head. “I’d like to see it right away.”



* * *



—

Feltrinelli paced the hotel’s burnt-orange carpeting as Sergio fetched the manuscript. He handed Doctor Zhivago to his boss, and Feltrinelli held it in his hands as if he could feel its significance by its weight. He flipped through the novel, then held it to his chest. “I’ve never wanted to be able to read Russian more than now.”

“It is sure to be a hit.”

“I believe it will be. I’ve arranged for the best translator to take a look at it as soon as I get back to Milan. He’s promised to give me his honest opinion.”

“There’s something I haven’t told you.”

Feltrinelli waited for him to continue.

“Pasternak believes the Soviets will not allow its publication. I couldn’t say this in my telegram, but he thinks it doesn’t fit—how did he put it?—their guidelines.”

Feltrinelli brushed it off. “I’ve heard the same, but let’s not think of that now. Besides, once the Soviets find out I have it, they might just change their mind.”

“There was something else. He mentioned he was giving himself a death sentence by handing over the novel. Surely he was joking?”

Feltrinelli put the book under his arm without answering. “I’m here for only two days. We must celebrate.”

“Of course! What would you like to do first?”

“I want to drink good German beer, and I want to dance, and I want to find a few girls. And I’d like to purchase a pair of binoculars from a shop in Kurfürstendamm I’ve heard makes the best in the world.” He took off his glasses and pointed to his nose. “They take the measurements from the bridge of your nose to the outer corners of your eyes to create the exact fit. They’ll be perfect for my yacht. I must have them.”

“Of course, of course,” Sergio said. “I suppose my job is done, then.”

“Yes, my friend. And mine is just beginning.”





CHAPTER 11





The Muse


   The Rehabilitated Woman


    THE EMISSARY


My train pulled in to the station after four fruitless days in Moscow, after more fruitless attempts at persuading publishers to print Zhivago. I saw Borya sitting alone on a bench. It was late May and the sun had just begun to dip below the tree line. In the golden light, his white hair looked blond and his eyes seemed to sparkle even through the dirty train window. I felt a pain in my chest. From a distance, he looked like a young man, even younger than I. We’d been together nearly a decade and that exquisite pain was still there. He stood as the train doors opened.

“Something most unusual happened this week,” he said, taking my bag and slinging it over his shoulder. “I had two unexpected visitors.”

“Who?”

Borya pointed to the path that ran along the tracks, where we’d walk if we had something important to talk about. He took my hand and helped me cross. A train passed, going in the opposite direction, and rustled the bottom of my skirt with a gust of air. I could tell from his gait, a step faster than usual, that he was both excited and anxious. “Who visited you?” I asked again.

“An Italian and a Russian,” he said, his speech matching his pace. “The Italian was young and charming. Tall with black hair, very handsome. You would’ve liked him very much, Olya. He had such a wonderful name! Sergio D’Angelo. He said it’s quite a common surname in Italy, but I’ve never heard it. Beautiful, isn’t it? D’Angelo. It means of the angel.”

“Why did they come?”

“You would’ve been delighted by him—the Italian. The other, the Russian, I don’t recall his name—he didn’t speak much.”

I took hold of his arm, forcing him to slow down and tell me what he had to say.

“We had the most wonderful conversation. I told them about my time studying in Marburg as a young man. How much I had enjoyed traveling to Florence and Venice. I explained how I’d wanted to go to Rome as well, but—”

“Why did the Italian come?”

“He wanted Doctor Zhivago.”

“What did he want with it?”

Like a confession, Borya told me the story—about D’Angelo and the Russian and a publisher by the name of Feltrinelli.

“And what did you tell him?”

We stopped speaking as a young woman hauling a rickety cart filled with petrol cans passed us, then he continued. “I told him that the novel would never be published here. That it doesn’t conform to cultural guidelines. But he pressed on, saying he thinks the book could still be published.”

“How could he think such a thing if he’s never read it?”

“That’s why I gave it to him. To read. To get an honest assessment.”

“You gave him the manuscript?”

“Yes.” Borya’s demeanor changed, and he looked his age again. He knew he’d done something that was not only irreversible, but dangerous.

“What have you done?” I tried to keep my voice down, but it came out like steam escaping a kettle. “Do you even know this person? This foreigner? Do you have any idea what they’ll do when they intercept it? Or maybe they have it already. Did you think of that? What if this D’Angelo of yours isn’t even really an Italian?”