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.
He told me he thought a Soviet publisher would publish with the added pressure from abroad. I didn’t believe him. “You haven’t signed a contract,” I said. “You have signed a death warrant.”
* * *
I did my best. I pleaded with D’Angelo to pressure Feltrinelli to return the manuscript. And I saw every editor who’d meet with me to ask if they’d publish Zhivago before Feltrinelli could.
Word had gotten out the Italians had the novel, and the Central Committee’s Culture Department demanded its return from Feltrinelli. I found myself in the new position of having to agree with the State. If Zhivago was to be published, it must be published first at home. But Feltrinelli ignored the requests, and I feared what might come next. So I met with the Department’s head, Dmitri Alexeyevich Polikarpov, to see if I could soften their position.
Polikarpov was an attractive man whom I’d seen many times at events in the city but had never spoken with. He wore Western-cut suits with pegged trousers that brushed the sides of his shiny black loafers. He was known as an enforcer within the Moscow literary community, and my breath shortened as Polikarpov’s secretary ushered me into his office. But even before I sat down, I took a deep breath and began the plea I’d rehearsed on the train. “The only thing to do is publish the novel before the Italians do,” I reasoned. “We can edit out the parts deemed anti-Soviet before publication.” Of course, Borya knew nothing of my negotiation. I knew better than anyone that he’d rather his novel not be published at all than have it hacked apart.
Polikarpov reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small metal tin. “Impossible.” He took out two white pills and swallowed them dry. “Doctor Zhivago must be returned at all costs,” he continued. “It cannot be published as is—not in Italy, not anywhere. If we publish one version and the Italians another, the world will ask why we published it without certain sections. It will be an embarrassment to the State and to Russian literature as a whole. Your friend has put me in a precarious position.” He put the tin back in his pocket. “And you as well.”
“But what is to be done?”
“You can ask Boris Leonidovich to sign the telegram I will give you.”
“What does this telegram say?”
“That the manuscript Feltrinelli possesses is but a draft, that a new draft is forthcoming, and that the original manuscript must be returned posthaste. The telegram is to be signed within two days or else he will be arrested.”
That was the stated threat. The unstated threat was that my arrest would soon follow. But I knew Feltrinelli wouldn’t refrain from publication even if he received such a telegram. Borya had arranged to communicate with the Italian only in French and had instructed the publisher to disregard anything sent under his name in Russian. Plus, I knew it would cause Borya much shame to sign such a document. “I will try,” I said.
* * *
—
And I did. I asked him. I asked him to send the telegram to Feltrinelli asking for his manuscript back, as Polikarpov had instructed. I asked the man I loved to stop the publication of his life’s work. And when I did—over dinner at Little House—he just sat back in his chair. His hand went to his neck as if he were suffering a muscle spasm, and he was quiet for a long moment. Then he spoke.
“Years ago, I received a phone call.”
I put my fork down. I knew where he was going.
“It was shortly after Osip had been arrested for his poem against Stalin,” he continued. “He hadn’t even written it down, only committed it to memory. But even that proved to be a grievous mistake. Even the words in one’s head could be an arrestable offense during those dark times. You were but a child, too young to remember now.”