“That’s true, but I also know that history doesn’t stand still.”
There was movement in the downstairs front window. An older woman peered at them through parted curtains, then disappeared. “The wife?” Sergio asked.
“Must be, although I’ve heard he has a much younger lover who he doesn’t hide away. A public mistress who lives a short walk from here. She’s always on his arm, they say. All over Moscow. And his wife doesn’t put an end to it.”
The dacha’s door opened and Pasternak emerged holding a large brown paper package. He walked across the yard barefoot, then paused for a moment in front of his visitors before speaking. “This is Doctor Zhivago.” He held out the package and Sergio went to take it, but Boris didn’t let go. The two men held the package for a moment before Pasternak dropped his hands. “May it make its way around the world.”
Sergio turned the package over in his hands, feeling its weight. “Your novel is in good hands with Signore Feltrinelli. You shall see. I will be hand-delivering this to him in person within the week.”
Pasternak nodded but looked unconvinced. The three men said their goodbyes. As Sergio and Vladlen set off down the road to the train station, Pasternak called after them, “You are hereby invited to my execution!”
“Poets!” Sergio laughed.
Vladlen said nothing.
* * *
The next day, Doctor Zhivago was on its way to West Berlin—where Sergio was to hand off the manuscript to Feltrinelli himself, who would take it the rest of the way to Milan.
After a train, a plane, another train, three kilometers of walking, and one bribe, Sergio arrived safely at his hotel on Joachimstahler Strasse. The Kurfürstendamm was bright and showy and thumping with capitalism—everything Moscow wasn’t. Smartly dressed men and women walked arm in arm, going out to dinner or dancing or to one of the many kabarett that had reopened across the city. Volkswagen Beetles and motorcycles skidded around the wide boulevards with teenagers riding hunchbacked. Neon signs lit up one after the next: NESCAFÉ in yellow, BOSCH in red, HOTEL AM ZOO in white, SALAMANDER SHOES in blue. Tables lined the sidewalks of the many cafés and restaurants dotting the street. The sound of a piano drifted out of a cocktail lounge where a striking black woman resembling a curvier Josephine Baker was enticing passersby to come in.
Once in his room, he opened his suitcase and removed the tailored Oxford shirt and paisley-patterned silk pajamas that covered the manuscript, still wrapped in its brown paper. Twice he’d averted having his suitcase searched when crossing from East to West Berlin by making friendly conversation with soldiers on both sides and having the kind of face some people trusted and the kind of pockets that made the doubtful trust again. He kissed the manuscript, placed it inside the dresser’s bottom drawer, and covered it with the pajamas.
Sergio took a long shower. The hot water lasted only four minutes, which was three minutes longer than it lasted back in Moscow. After, he drip-dried while shaving in the bathroom mirror, happy he’d brought his own razor.
Although he craved Orecchiette alla Crudaiola and any wine made from Italian grapes, he settled for pilsner and schnitzel at the hotel bar. He knew that when Feltrinelli arrived the next day, his employer would know exactly where to go to celebrate the procurement of Pasternak’s novel; he’d have secured the best tables at the finest restaurants and the best Chianti moments after stepping off the plane.
* * *
—
After a breakfast of liverwurst, a boiled egg, herbed cheese, and a roll with marmalade, Sergio double-checked with the man at the front desk to ensure that Feltrinelli’s presidential suite would be ready for him.
“Do you have the cognac?”
“Ja.”
“The cigarettes?”
“We’ve located a box of Alfa cigarettes for Mr. Feltrinelli.”
“The sheets…they’re untucked at the end as he prefers?”
“I believe so.”
“Can you check then with the maid?”
“Ja. Can we do anything else for you?”
“Taxi?”
“Of course.”
At Tempelhof Airport, Sergio watched Feltrinelli’s plane touch down and come to a stop. A mobile staircase was driven up to its door. He stepped out with a newspaper tucked under his arm and paused at the top of the stairs to survey the Fatherland. His tan suit jacket opened and his tie flew back behind his shoulder with a gust of wind. Spotting his agent waiting for him below, he descended.
The publisher greeted Sergio warmly, kissing him on both cheeks, then shaking his hand. Sergio had met Giangiacomo Feltrinelli only a handful of times, but he had always been struck by his magnetism. Slimly built with dark hair styled back to reveal a high widow’s peak, Feltrinelli was the kind of man both women and men found themselves drawn to. Even his signature thick black glasses did nothing to hide the vitality in his eyes. Maybe it was his enormous wealth that earned him such attention. Or maybe it was the confidence that accompanied that wealth. Or it could be his collection of fast cars and custom-made suits, or the beautiful women who flocked to him. Whatever it was, Feltrinelli had it in spades.
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?”