The Secrets We Kept(45)

He looked like a spanked child. “You are thinking too much of this.” He ran his hand through his hair. “It will be fine. Feltrinelli’s a Communist,” he added.

“Fine?” My eyes watered. What Borya had done was akin to treason. If the West was to publish the novel without permission from the USSR, they would come for him—for me. And a brief stay in a labor camp wouldn’t be punishment enough this time. I needed to sit, but there was nowhere to sit except in the mud. How could he be so selfish? Had he thought of me even once? I turned and began walking back.

“Stop,” Borya said, coming after me. A shade fell across his bright eyes. He knew exactly what he’d done. “I wrote the book to be read, Olga. This could be its only chance. I’m ready to accept the consequences, whatever they may be. I’m not afraid of what they might do to me.”

“But what about me? You may not care what happens to you, but what about me? I’ve gone away once…I can’t…They can’t take me again.”

“They won’t. I’ll never allow it.” He put his arms around my shoulders and I leaned against his chest. It was as if I could feel a new separation between our heartbeats. “I haven’t signed anything yet.”

“You gave them permission to publish. We both know that. And that’s if they are who they said they are. There is no good outcome. I can’t go back there,” I said, wiping my eyes. “I won’t.”

“I’d rather burn Zhivago than let that happen. I’d rather die.” His words felt like running a hand under cold water after burning it on the stove—the pain might be soothed while the water runs, but as soon as you turn off the faucet, the throbbing continues. And in that moment, for the first time, I lost faith in him.

“This book will take us down a spiral from which there will be no return.”

“Let’s see. I can always tell him I made a mistake,” he said. “I can always ask for it back.”

“No,” I said. “I will ask for it back.”



* * *



—

I traveled to Moscow and, having pried the address from Borya, knocked on D’Angelo’s door, unannounced. An elegant woman with dark brown hair and arresting blue eyes answered. The woman introduced herself in broken Russian as D’Angelo’s wife, Giulietta.

D’Angelo came to the door and kissed my extended hand. “How wonderful to meet you, Olga,” he said, smiling rakishly. “I’ve heard rumors of your beauty, but you’re even more beautiful than they’ve said.”

Instead of thanking him, I launched right in. “You see,” I finished, “he didn’t understand fully what he was doing. We must have the manuscript back.”

“Let us sit,” he said, taking my hand and leading me back into the sitting room. “Would you like anything to drink?”

“No,” I said. “I mean, no thank you.”

He turned to his wife. “Darling, will you bring me an espresso? And one for our guest?”

Giulietta kissed her husband’s cheek and went into the kitchen.

D’Angelo rubbed his hands across his thighs. “I’m afraid it is too late.”

“What is too late?”

“The book.” He was still smiling, as people in the West do—out of politeness, not happiness. “I’ve delivered it to Feltrinelli. And he loved it. He’s already decided to publish it.”

I looked at him incredulously. “But it’s been only a few days since Borya gave it to you.”

He laughed too loudly for my liking. “I was on the first plane to East Berlin. Well, two trains, a plane, then so much walking that I needed to purchase a new pair of shoes by the time I reached West Berlin. Signor Feltrinelli flew in himself to meet me. We had quite a time there—”

“You must get the manuscript back.”

“That’s impossible, I’m afraid. The translation has already begun. Feltrinelli said so himself, that it would be a crime not to publish this novel.”

“A crime? What do you know of crimes? What do you know of punishment? The crime is for Boris to have it published outside the USSR. You must understand what you’ve done.”

“Mr. Pasternak gave me his permission. I wasn’t aware of any danger.” He stood and retrieved his briefcase from the entryway. Inside was a black leather journal. “See, I wrote it down the day I visited him in Peredelkino. I’d found his words so eloquent.”

I looked at the open page. Inside, D’Angelo had written: This is Doctor Zhivago. May it make its way around the world.

“See? Permission. And besides”—he paused, and I sensed the Italian did feel some culpability—“even if I wanted to bring it back, it’s out of my hands now.”



* * *



—

It was out of my hands as well. Borya had granted his permission, and had lied to me about having done so. Zhivago had made its way out of the country, and things were in motion. All I could do was try to push forward with the plan to have the book published in the USSR before Feltrinelli published it abroad. It was the only way to save him, to save myself.

Borya signed the contract with Feltrinelli a month later. I was not there when he signed his name. Nor was his wife, who, for the first time, was in total agreement with me: the novel’s publication could only bring us pain.