“Sergio D’Angelo.” He extended his hand and shook Pasternak’s. “And this is Anton Vladlen, my colleague at Radio Moscow.”
Vladlen, whose eyes were focused on the dirt in front of his shoes instead of at his poet hero, could only muster a grunt.
“What a beautiful name,” Pasternak said. “D’Angelo. Such a pleasant sound. What does it mean?”
“Of the angel. It’s actually quite common in Italy.”
“My surname means parsnip, which I suppose is suitable given my love of toiling in the earth.” Pasternak ushered the men to an L-shaped bench at the perimeter of the garden. They sat and Pasternak wiped his brow with a sweat-stained handkerchief. “Radio Moscow? You’re here to interview me, then? I’m afraid I haven’t much to contribute to the public discussion at the moment.”
“I’ve not come on behalf of Radio Moscow. I’ve come to discuss your novel.”
“Another topic on which I haven’t much to say.”
“I represent the interests of the Italian publisher Giangiacomo Feltrinelli. You may have heard of him?”
“I have not.”
“The Feltrinelli family is one of the wealthiest in Italy. Giangiacomo’s new publishing company recently published the autobiography of the first Indian prime minister, Jawaharlal Nehru. You may have heard of it?”
“I’ve heard of Nehru, of course, but not of his book.”
“I’m to bring Feltrinelli the very best new work from behind the Iron Curtain.”
“Are you new to our country?”
“I’ve been here less than a year.”
“They don’t care for that term.” Pasternak looked to the trees as if addressing someone watching. “Iron Curtain.”
“Forgive me,” Sergio said. He shifted on the bench. “I’m in search of the best new work from the Motherland. Feltrinelli is interested in bringing Doctor Zhivago to an Italian audience, then perhaps beyond.”
Boris brushed a mosquito from his arm, careful not to kill it. “I’ve been to Italy once. I was twenty-two and studying music at the University of Marburg. During the summer, I toured Florence and Venice, but I never made it to Rome. I ran out of money. I wanted to visit Milan and go to La Scala. I dreamed of it. I still dream of it. But I was a student, poor as a pauper.”
“I’ve been to La Scala many times,” Sergio said. “You must go someday. Feltrinelli can get you the best seat in the house.”
Boris laughed, his gaze downward. “I long to travel, but those days are behind me now. Even if I wanted to, they make it so hard for us.” He paused. “I wanted to be a composer then, when I was a young man. I had some talent, but not as much as I would have liked. Isn’t that always the case with such things? One’s passion almost always outweighs talent.”
“I’m very passionate about literature,” Sergio said, attempting to bring the conversation back to Doctor Zhivago. “And I’ve heard your novel is a masterpiece.”
“Who told you that?”
Sergio crossed his legs and the bench wobbled. “Everyone’s talking about it. Isn’t that right, Vladlen?”
“Everyone is talking,” Vladlen said, his first words to Pasternak.
“I haven’t heard a word from the publishing houses. I’ve never had to wait a day to hear word about my work.” Pasternak stood from the bench and walked down the center row of his garden, between freshly tilled soil on the left and freshly seeded soil on the right. “I think their silence is clear,” he said, his back to the men still sitting on the bench. “My novel will not be published. It does not conform to their cultural guidelines.”
Sergio and Vladlen got up and followed. “But its publication has already been announced,” Vladlen said. “Sergio translated the bulletin for Radio Moscow himself.”
Pasternak turned back toward them. “I am not sure what you’ve heard, but the novel’s publication is impossible, I’m afraid.”
“Have you received an official rejection?” Vladlen asked.
“Not yet, no. But I’ve already put the possibility out of my mind. It’s best that way, you see. Otherwise I’d drive myself mad.” He laughed again, and Sergio wondered if that outcome had already occurred.
Sergio had not anticipated that Doctor Zhivago might be banned in the USSR. “That’s impossible,” he said. “They surely wouldn’t suppress such an important work. What about this thaw we’ve heard rumors of?”
“Khrushchev and the rest can make their speeches and their promises, but the only thaw I’m concerned about pertains to my spring planting,” Pasternak replied.
“What if you were to give me the manuscript?” Sergio asked.
“For what purpose? If they won’t allow it to be published here, it cannot be published anywhere.”
“Feltrinelli could get a head start on the Italian translation, so when it does come out in the USSR—”
“It won’t.”
“I believe it will,” Sergio continued, “and when it does, Feltrinelli will be ready at the printing press. He is a member in good standing of the Italian Communist Party, and there will surely be no reason to stall its international publication with him at the helm,” Sergio said. He was the consummate optimist, believing nothing impossible. “Zhivago will be in the window of every bookshop from Milan to Florence to Naples, and then onward. The whole world needs to read your novel. The whole world will read your novel!” It didn’t matter that Sergio had never read Doctor Zhivago and couldn’t comment on its literary merit, and he was well aware he was making promises he wasn’t sure he could keep, but he went on and on, as flattery did seem to have a positive effect on the writer.
“One moment,” Pasternak said. He walked toward his dacha, taking off his rubber boots before going inside. The two men remained standing in the garden.
“What do you think?” Vladlen asked.
“I don’t know. But I do think the novel will come out.”
“You are not Russian. You don’t understand how things work here. I don’t know what he’s written, but if it goes against cultural norms, no thaw will allow it to be published. If the State bans it here, it will be illegal for Pasternak to publish his book—anywhere. Not now, not ever.”
“He hasn’t been rejected yet.”
“It’s been months, and he hasn’t heard a response. They don’t have to say it to make the message clear.”