Brian Aldiss - Life in the West

Ajdini was one of the stillest delegates, although she smoked continuously throughout the meeting. The other delegates shuffled in their places, made eye-signals, took notes, tapped at their headphones, drank mineral water, at a greater rate than was usual.

When the afternoon session was over, Squire rose to go, only to be detained by Vasili Rugorsky, who placed a hand on his arm.

‘Mr Squire, I have great interest in what you say. Like you, I felt no patience with the dogmatic stance of the man from the Bundesrepublik. Can we have a brief chat, do you think?’

‘Of course. Can I buy you a coffee?’

‘That would be kind.’ The massive head nodded.’ In my country, I would buy you a coffee, but you know that when we travel abroad we have to go penniless for the good of our souls.’ He smiled his sidelong smile at Squire. As they walked through the passage, Cantania came up and slapped Squire on the shoulder.

‘Not that I needed support, but thanks anyway for providing additional firepower.’

‘I wasn’t going to let your objection stand alone. All the same, I wish I’d kept my trap shut. It’s not the first time I have been out of step today.’

‘Keep it that way. What have you to fear? Except now Rugorsky’s going to tell you one more time they stopped prostitution in Moscow. Was she any beauty, by the way, the one who tried to pick you up?’

When Cantania had gone, Rugorsky said quietly, ‘I was not going to give you a lecture on prostitution.’

He fell into a frowning silence which Squire did not interrupt. The Russian had intensity of bearing which, coupled with the effort it afforded him to speak English, lent weight even to his silences. He moved through the crowds in the corridors with an impassive step, never impolitely, but never allowing himself to be deflected. Squire walked beside him without feeling it necessary to speak.

‘You see, the papers are quite entertaining if you listen properly,’ said Rugorsky at last. ‘Even when they are of themselves boring or trivial or totally mistaken. In a way, you see, they are what Hamlet said of the players, they are the abstracts and brief chronicles of our time. We must use them as we may.’

‘As you say, we get out of it what we can. Corporately, these men have a deal of power in academic life; by what is decided here, they can make or ruin reputations. The interest behind the boredom is that we are each of us on trial. The other apposite remark Hamlet made about the players was that it’s better to have a bad epitaph after you’re dead than their ill report while you live.’

Rugorsky said ‘Excuse, please,’ to one of the slender Italians who came forward with a beaming smile and ploughed by him in the direction of the bar. He took no notice of what Squire had just said. Either he had not fully heard and understood, or he was pursuing his own line of thought.

‘Let us return to the subject of prostitution,’ he said suddenly, applying a sly grin over his shoulder at Squire.’ You see, you were not in such a perfect socialist state as China, which the West thinks so very well of just now.

‘Maybe you don’t need a lecture on why we in Russia feel it necessary to pretend we have vanquished such long-standing social problems. It is a genuine dilemma that we are a new post- revolutionary society and we feel ourselves vulnerable to both the bad examples and the warlike ambitions of the West. To admit that there is a prostitution problem is to open the door to a whole range of evils to which we do not yet feel ourselves strong enough to confess. Do you understand?’

‘I’m quite sympathetic to that argument, which I’ve heard before. But isn’t it more the case that there is no one secure enough, no one with enough moral standing, who can even admit that prostitution exists?’

Rugorsky frowned. He removed an aged brown handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose vigorously. ‘Perhaps we should try not to talk morals to each other. You see, frankly, though I see much to admire in the West, in the way of outspokenness, for instance, which we in Russia cannot yet achieve, nevertheless I see what a moral mess you live in. You no doubt see it too.

‘I think that Russian society is superior. Not in its rulers, absolutely not — I think worse of them than you do because I have the peculiar advantage of having known them all my life — but in the people.’

‘Isn’t belief in the morality of “the people”, whoever they are, always sentimental at bottom?’

Still pressing forward, Rugorsky ignored the comment.

‘You see, these pinball tables — well, we can easily classify and even appreciate to some extent their garish colours, much like the products of fairgrounds and circus, but the truth is that they are wretched traps to make the already miserable more miserable, and their wives also. They are the products of a society in poor health. Krawstadt spoiled truth by doctrinaire phraseology.’

The bar was crowded with thirsty delegates, but Squire and Rugorsky managed to push through to a table for two at the back of the room. In no time, one of the efficient waiters was by their side, and two capuccinos were ordered.

‘I don’t wish to talk about pinball tables. It is trivia.’

‘Possibly so. Yet everyone round the conference table, you included, has been stired up by them. Maybe they are important. The SPA should consider the matter.’

Rugorsky regarded him steadily. ‘You see, you are quite a clever man. Also, I think, an honest one as far as you can be. But you have had things too much your own way. You do not know real adversity. Maybe you know nothing about the way society operates. When I come to the West, I feel genuine envy and genuine pity, both at once. That’s what I felt for you when I first met you, in front of “Hugh Gaitskell”, with your delightful wife in her expensive dress. But you don’t know where to look for truth. You’re a good man lost, Tom.

‘Don’t get angry. I don’t mean offence. Only the truth. If you’re angry, reflect that the poor old dog before you drinks coffee he could not afford, and in any case will go back to his terrible communist country soon.

‘I mean to tell you another difference between us. I greatly care that the West and particularly your country, the country of Shakespeare and liberal thought, is suffering such ills. You do not care what my country suffers. You are hostile to it. Yes. There is your real resemblance to Winston Churchill, as d’Exiteuil said. You gloat secretly that we suffer because our leaders are bad, because we are communists. That’s what you fear, communism, as your ancestors probably feared the Inquisition.

‘You spoke of the difficulties with building in Moscow for the Olympic Games. Well, you have a grasp on such a little bit of truth that it turns to lies in your mouth. Why do we have to have these confounded Olympic Games in the first place, do you think? It’s to show our progressiveness to our own people, so that they are not discouraged. It’s to show the capitalist world that we also can stage-manage the big events, because we are perpetually on the defensive against you. There is no other way in which we can manage except by concentrating all our building potential. The potential is so small that we must as usual make sacrifices — and you’re glad. When all’s said, we’re still a poor country and life for most is hard — and you’re glad.’ His thick eyelashes came down as he stared at the table.

The coffee arrived.

Looking down at his cup, Squire said, ‘My dear Rugorsky, how can I answer all the arguments you put forward? Perhaps the fundamental error you make — forgive me if I speak out as you encourage me to — lies in making such great distinction between your rulers and your ruled. One hopelessly bad, one hopelessly good. That’s unreal — and isn’t it a very Russian error of thought? Are not your rulers of the people, and have people not conspired to be badly ruled? You threw out the Romanovs, if I remember rightly.