Jennifer duBois - A Partial History of Lost Causes

“Sure, he knows he won’t win,” I said, “but that’s what’s impressive about it. That’s what’s brave about it. That’s the point.”

“Is it? I don’t know about that.”

“What is the point, then?”

“The question isn’t whether you like your revolutions fast or slow — it’s whether you like them temporary or permanent. Bezetov absorbs the attention, the money, the support from more pragmatic people — people who might have an actual shot at election and who could reform moderately from within. Bezetov gets the limelight because of his fucking chess career, and everyone thinks, Oh, how spectacular! How dazzling! Chess strategy at the state level, and all that makes for a compelling narrative. I will never understand that man’s public relations situation. It’s extraordinary. No matter what he does, he gives the entire Western world a boner. But what’s the best thing for Russia, really? Is it losing their chances again on some aging chess star’s vanity project? Or is it electing some serious people who will pull and tug and compromise their way to a more humane life? What’s the brave thing, really?”

My defensiveness was collapsing into something else, something miserable and small. Aleksandr Bezetov was a man whom my father had deemed important. I didn’t want to hear him slandered. My quest was absurd at its absolute best, this I knew. It was misdirected, it was odd — even if Aleksandr were a hero, even if he were a saint. I found I desperately did not want to hear about it if there was more to him than that: if his colleagues had complaints, or if they’d found him wanting in one way or another. His job was to deliver me the wisdom of a lifetime. If he couldn’t do that, I had no reason to be here. And I had no reason to be anywhere else. I was quiet, eyeing Mikhail Andreyevich’s posters.

“But, I mean — I’m looking at your posters and, forgive me, but I read your Wikipedia page, and—”

“And?”

“And you’re not exactly a moderate yourself, right?”

He laughed. “I’m not anything anymore.”

“What does that even mean?”

“I don’t really believe anything. I’m just trying to make the conversation more interesting.”

“Is that a worthy goal? Making the conversation more interesting?” I didn’t disagree. I was interrogating him reflexively because I’d decided not to like him.

“When you’ve had seventy years of no conversation, yes, I think it’s a very worthy goal.”

We were silent. I was cold, and I rubbed my hands together to kick up the circulation.

“You know about the film he’s making?” said Mikhail Andreyevich after a moment.

“Of course.” Then, “Remind me.”

“He’s trying to establish a link between the apartment bombings and the regime.”

That sounded familiar. I remembered something about the commencement of the second Chechen war: a series of odd coincidences that looked, on the surface, somewhat sinister. Still, my impression up to that point had been that this was the kind of paranoid silliness that led my shriller liberal comrades in Cambridge to make dark intimations about George W. Bush and September 11.

“The thought was that it was a political move?” I said.

“To usher Putin into power. He came in on a hard-line security platform.”

“Do you think it’s true?”

“I’m not sure it’s true. I certainly hope it’s true. That might be egregious enough to make all the difference.”

“Make the conversation more interesting, you mean.”

“Right.”

He cupped his chin in his hand — it was an oddly dainty, feminine gesture, and maybe it made him feel confiding. “To be honest with you,” he said, “I’m pretty impressed with the film idea.”

“You are?”

“Yes. And I’m not impressed by everything Bezetov does.”

“I’ve gathered.”

“But this, I think, will raise some interesting questions.”

“What’s your involvement with the film?”

He coughed. “That’s, ah. At this point. Somewhat unclear.”

I sat back. “You’re not invited to be a part of it?”

“It’s not a question of invitation, you know? It’s a large organization with a lot of auxiliary elements, a lot of different functions, a lot of different roles. It’s a bureaucracy, really.”

“I see.”

“So maybe Right Russia isn’t involved, you know, directly, but we’re involved in the movement, you know, so in a broader sense, we’re involved in the making of the film?”

“Like in the same way that everybody’s involved with everything?”

“Don’t be difficult. Don’t be dense.”

“Would you like to be more involved in the film than you are?”

He smiled tightly. “Like I said, we’d all like things we don’t get.”

It was interesting to have stumbled into the knowledge of a rift within the camp, first thing — like walking into a field and stepping directly into a sinkhole. Of course I should have imagined pettiness and infighting, resentments and reactionaries. Of course I should have imagined schismatic nuances. I didn’t know what I had imagined, really, and the more I realized that, the more I realized that I hadn’t thought to spend a lot of time imagining anything at all.

So I leaned forward. I knew — I must have known — that this would annoy the man.

“Tell me what Aleksandr was like in the eighties,” I said. “He ran a samizdat journal, right?”

Mikhail snorted again. I was beginning to wonder if that was a trademark. “ ‘Ran’ is perhaps a strong word. He was involved. I’ll grant him that. He was involved.”

“He delivered it himself? Door-to-door?” This was well known — even in the limited research I’d done, it had come up. “That must have been dangerous.”

“Dangerous. Yes. Assuredly. The man might have been the target of an assassination attempt or something.”

There was a twist to his words, but I said, “Exactly.”

I could immediately tell I’d driven him to the edge of apoplexy. He slowed his breathing, I could see him counting to decet in his head. He leaned back. “Let me ask you a question. This is a good opportunity for me. To learn about how Bezetov is broadly perceived.”

“You mean elsewhere?”

“I mean elsewhere,” he said severely.

“I don’t know.” I tried to think. I tried to parse what my father thought of Bezetov, and what I thought of Bezetov, and what CNN thought of Bezetov, and what the world generally thought of Bezetov. “I guess it’s thought that he did a lot for the dissident movement—”

“A lot how?”

“Well. Just his involvement with this paper.”

“Which was what, exactly?”

I felt I had already addressed this, so I ignored the question. “And in spite of the costs—”

“Costs? What were these costs?”

“To his career,” I finished lamely.

“Well,” said Mikhail after a moment. “It didn’t seem to hold him back much in the end, did it?”

“No. I guess not.”

He probed his lower lip with his tongue. “So he’s seen as a hero, you’re saying?”

“Vaguely.” I squirmed. “To the extent that he’s seen at all.”

Mikhail leaned back. “I guess that’s not surprising.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think the West is paying that much attention. You know, generally.”

“I see.”

“Where were you during that time?”

“I was in a psychiatric prison. For disseminating statements not officially recognized as truth.”

“Oh.” I was beginning to understand.

Andreyev stood up abruptly, nearly upsetting the trash can again. “I don’t think I can help you any further,” he said, going to the computer. He typed exclusively with his forefingers. “This is the contact information for his spokesman, the media relations guy. He deals with inquiries formally.” He copied down a name — Viktor Davidenko — and a mobile number and handed it to me.