The Secrets We Kept(94)
THE STUDENT
Most of it was waiting: waiting for the intel, waiting for the assignment, waiting for the mission to begin. I waited in hotel rooms, apartments, stairwells, train stations, bus stations, bars, restaurants, libraries, museums, laundromats. I waited on park benches and in movie theaters. I once waited for a message at a public swimming pool in Amsterdam for a full day, and left so sunburned I had to wrap aloe-soaked gauze around my shoulders and the tops of my thighs.
Nine months after the World’s Fair, I waited yet again—in a hostel in Vienna, for the seventh World Youth Festival to begin.
Set for late July, the festival would be ten days of rallies, marches, meetings, exhibitions, lectures, seminars, and sporting events. There’d be a Parade of Nations, the release of a thousand white doves, and a grand ball at the end—all dedicated to promoting “peace and friendship” among tomorrow’s leaders. During the fest, the expected twenty thousand international students attending from Saudi Arabia and Ceylon to Cambridge and Fresno could take part in union-led tours of an electrical plant, hear presentations from leaders in the voluntary work camp movement, or attend lectures on the peaceful use of atomic energy.
The Kremlin had invested an estimated $100 million to ensure the festival’s lasting influence on its participants.
But the Agency had other plans.
After Doctor Zhivago popped up across the USSR and Pasternak’s notoriety skyrocketed, the Soviets began searching for the banned book in the luggage of citizens returning to the Motherland after being abroad. It was a propaganda coup for the Agency, and as a result, they decided to double down—to print and disseminate even more copies. This time, instead of the blue-linen-covered edition printed in the Netherlands, we’d made a miniature edition ourselves—printed on thin Bible stock, small enough to fit in a pocket.
I’d gone to Vienna early, to await the arrival of two thousand copies of the tiny book. Animal Farm, The God That Failed, and 1984 were also designated for distribution, and dozens of us awaited the arrival of the books that would fill our “Information Booths” throughout Vienna, ready to hand off to student delegates taking in the sights. It was the Agency’s own way of spreading peace and friendship.
My hair had grown out a bit since Brussels and was dyed back to a brassy shade of its former blond. And I dressed as if on my way to a poetry reading: black turtleneck, black clam diggers, and black ballet flats. I’d become a student again.
My first location was to be the Wurstelprater. I was to scout out the amusement park prior to the start of the festival, to determine the most trafficked spot from which I could hand out the most books before inevitably being asked to leave.
After passing the ghost train, merry-go-round, bumper cars, shooting galleries, and biergartens, I decided the foot of the Wiener Riesenrad would be the most advantageous spot, as I could envision every student tourist wanting to take a ride on the world’s tallest Ferris wheel. Plus, I got a small thrill from standing so close to the ride featured in one of my favorite movies, The Third Man.
With my location set, my next step was to visit a dry cleaner on Tuchlauben, where I would tell the clerk I’d been sent to retrieve a suit for a Mr. Werner Voigt and ask if I could pay in Swiss francs. I’d then be given the bagged suit with a ticket noting the address where the first batch of miniature Zhivagos would be located. Dissemination would begin the following day.
But first, I was hungry. I decided to stop and buy two plate-sized potato pancakes before leaving the park—one for dinner and one for breakfast. The food stand was strategically placed next to the Riesenrad, a trap for everyone waiting in line. It was there, standing in line for food behind an American tourist wearing unflatteringly tight lederhosen, that I saw her.
She was there, in line to ride the Ferris wheel, her back to me.
Sally was wearing a long green coat and white gloves, her red hair cut a bit shorter than I’d last seen it. Even from behind, she was beautiful. It reminded me of the first time I saw her in Ralph’s. How the first thing I saw when I turned around was her hair.
It was strange seeing her like that, in a place where I was no longer myself, where she was no longer herself. Reality had shifted. And so much time had passed. Over the last year, I’d let myself come to believe I’d gotten over her. Maybe, I’d told myself time and again, there was never even anything to get over.
But there she was. She’d finally come for me.
Sally tilted her head, as if she could feel me notice her. She didn’t turn around to see if I’d seen her, but she didn’t have to. She knew I would. Of course I would. Should I join her in line? Run up from behind and put my arms around her? Or wait for her to come to me?
I got out of the food line and shifted a few steps over to the line for the Ferris wheel, cutting in front of a group of French-speaking students who paid me no mind.
I inched forward, several spots behind Sally. When she reached the ticket booth, she removed her wallet from her purse. But just as she was handing her money to the woman in the booth, a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair came up and plucked it out of her hand. He paid and she kissed his cheek.
She didn’t even have to turn completely around for me to know.
I watched as the man with salt-and-pepper hair opened the door to the enclosed red gondola for the person who wasn’t Sally. I bought a ticket anyway and boarded by myself. I looked up to see if I could see the Sally look-alike again, hovering somewhere above me. I couldn’t. The ride rocked as we left the ground. I leaned out the open window and watched as the world below became quiet and small.