The Lacuna

  He could leave this house for a stroll if he liked, though of course he would have to be guarded. In Norway they were indoors under house arrest since last September, Natalya said. Stalin threatened trade sanctions against Norway unless the government rescinded his asylum. And we can be sure, Stalin already knows he is here.

  14 January

  Arrival of the secretary: to be known in this record as "Van." Tall, blond, broad-shouldered as a footballer, it's good he traveled separately. Such a d'Artagnan as this fellow could hardly walk down a street without attracting attention, as the senora will shortly see for herself.

  Lev's study and bedroom are the most secure part of the house, as they form an interior wing jutting into the courtyard. Good light from the portico doors facing the courtyard and magnolia tree. Van is keeping very busy there today, unpacking books.

  16 January

  Sra. Frida will be shocked to see her childhood house so transformed. It was a good choice to move her father to San Angel, all Sr. Guillermo's things are packed away. The exterior walls have been painted plumbago as requested, so it is the Blue House she wanted. But really, a Blue Fortress. The courtyard wall is raised to a height of seven meters, and the masons are moving their scaffolds now to begin bricking up the windows. The men agree these security measures are needed. From the tall wooden doors on Londres Street, visitors now enter through a guarded vestibule into the courtyard garden.

  The courtyard is still the jungle it was; the masons haven't trampled the flowers completely. The house retains its original U shape, with the long front room facing Londres Street (fireplace and leaded-glass windows intact) to be used for dining and political meetings. Lev's bedroom and study make the other long wing. The string of tiny rooms across the back, connecting the two main legs, will house everyone else: Perpetua, the house girls Belen and Carmen Alba, the secretary Van, the cook HS, bodyguards Octavio and Felix. The windows in these small rooms face the exterior on the Allende Street side, so all are being closed by the brickmasons, making them dark little cupboards. One guard is posted out on Londres at all times. Sr. Diego is now feeling well enough that he brought over his Thompson machine gun.

  The kitchen retains good light and air, extending outward as it does on the Allende Street side to enclose the back of the courtyard. The masons agreed to leave windows open for ventilating the wood fires in the stoves, after voluble argument from Perpetua, who warned of cocineras ahumados, the kitchen girls smoked like hams. Perpetua is confused and worn out from the changes, and resigned to her new position as assistant to a male head cook, HS, who vows to do his best by this duty. This kitchen is a wonder, with its extravagance of blue and yellow tile, woodstoves as long as divans, and the welcome sight of large wooden tables for rolling out dough. It will be a pleasure preparing the daily repast here for the visitors, and any feasts required for evening gatherings.

  Household directives noted here: No food from unknown sources to be served, under any conditions. No unknown person to enter the house. HS is to assist the Visitor with typing and correspondence (recommended by Diego R.) and to retain this written record of events (requested by Sra. Frida). The first report from Coyoacan is here complete for the week Jan. 9-16, submitted for inspection.

  19 January

  The Coyoacan house is proving a good accommodation. Old houses have their wisdom. Despite the bricked-up exterior, the main rooms are comfortably lit by the courtyard. That jungle enclosed by high blue walls is a comforting world for visitors who are not at great liberty to roam elsewhere. Perpetua is taking care with her lilies and figs; it remains a cheerful world, in no way resembling a prison. Perpetua said Guillermo had this house built for his family more than thirty years ago, and through all those years no one saw a need for turning it upside down, until now. (Her resentment of the current upheaval is understandable.) The deep adobe walls keep a good temperature all day. The contrasts between this house and the modern one built by the Riveras in San Angel are many, most particularly their kitchens. But on that subject no opinion is given here.

  Sra. Frida's choice of blue walls is greatly approved by all here.

  A note on meal preparations: The visitors prefer tea over coffee. Another exceptional preference is unsweetened bread cut into thin slabs, toasted in the oven until somewhat hard, as if stale. Otherwise they are generally agreeable to normal foods. Natalya made plain their disinterest in pickled fish, after a long Norwegian winter of almost nothing else. They request mashed turnips and a green vegetable unknown to these parts, translated by Van as "the Sprouts of Belgium." Tomorrow Perpetua will be driven into the city on a search, as the Melchor market here has neither tea nor turnip. But they are adapting well to customary foods: sugared fritters, baked guava, and fermented cream are all favored. This morning they took enchiladas with eggs, and tea.

  On days when no special meals are scheduled, all hands go to helping Lev unpack and arrange his study. He is curious about Mexico: the altitude of mountains, population of the city, its history, and so forth. Perpetua on her trip to town is to fetch the Geographic Atlas owned by HS, from his mother's apartment. It is outdated but will serve for now; Pico de Orizaba has not changed its height in a decade.

  Lev communicates with help from the secretary Van, since Lev's Spanish and English are rudimentary, and clever Van seems to speak everything possible: French, Norwegian, Russian. He claims both French and Dutch as native tongues. He makes a point of moving the largest crates, insisting no extra help is needed in Lev's office. It can't be argued really; Van is tall and strong as an ox. (Though more handsome.) He complains sometimes in English about the "native typist," apparently not realizing HS also has two native tongues. But Lev is agreeable to having an extra fellow to help him. Plainly, Van has a habit of protecting his chief from outsiders, which is natural. He first became Lev's assistant in France, where they lived from 1933 until 1935. That was before Norway. Prior to that, Lev and Natalya were hiding in Istanbul, and before that, Kazakhstan. Lev Davidovich has been living in exile under threat of death since 1927. "I am a man in a very large world," he said slowly today, "with a very small place to be."

  Mexico is fairly good sized, sir. You'll see.

  Van said, "He's speaking metaphorically. He means that he lives in the planet without a passport."

  21 January

  A telegraphed message came this morning, delivered by Diego wearing his holster and gun. The message was in a code. Lev spent many hours in his study working it out, rejecting even Van's offers of help, with Natalya the whole time walking between the study and the kitchen, pulling on her fingers, making Perpetua burn the milk. The message concerns the son in Paris. Van says there are two sons; the younger was taken to prison camp three years ago, almost certainly dead. Two daughters are also dead.

  Lev is not very sure of the message except for one important part: the telegram is definitely from Lyova, so he is alive. They have a code for his identity that is known to no one else on earth, not even Natalya. Lev speculates that GPU killers in France have tried to assassinate Lyova, and we can expect the newspapers to report him killed. To spare distress, he wanted his parents to know he is alive, in hiding.

  They seem little spared from distress, though. If her son escaped murder this time, Natalya asks, what about the next? Lev rages that his children have done nothing to earn a death sentence from Stalin. The younger one, Sergei, only ever cared for books, sport, and girls, but ended in a concentration camp. "And now Lyova. His crime is to be the son of his father. Who can change the things that brought him into the world?"

  23 January

  Diego arrived early, upset, with the bundle of newspapers he receives by special post. Two report the death of Lyova, as predicted, but they know this is false. There is worse news yet: headlines declaring L. D. Trotsky found guilty of crimes against the Soviet Union. His trial in Moscow has been going on for weeks, with the accused in absentia. Van says Lev petitioned to go there and stand trial, for the chance to defend himself,
but Stalin wouldn't lift the exile order. The aim of the trial is to discredit anyone who ever spoke against Stalin. Some of Lev's friends are also declared guilty: men named Radek, Piatakov, and Muralov, all three imprisoned now in Moscow.

  The charges are strange and diverse: derailing trains, collaborating with Rudolf Hess and the Nazis, acting as agents of the Japanese emperor, stealing bread. Attempting to assassinate Stalin by poisoning his shoes, and his hair cream.

  Stalin uses hair cream?

  "Careful, lad," said Lev. "That knowledge alone could get you the firing squad."

  The penalty for the charges against Lev is death. Yet he seems in good spirits, despite the newspapers from France and the United States calling him a villain, and the Mexican ones calling him a "villain in our midst." The editorials speculate on why he betrayed his principles. These newspaper men have never met Lev, yet confidently they discuss his innermost feelings and motives! They take it on faith that the treacheries were all committed. They don't even wonder how a man could derail so many Russian trains after he was put on a cargo boat for Prinkipo Island.

  The security regimes here are strictly maintained, as the news makes clear Stalin intends to have Lev assassinated. The guard in the street changes hourly. Lorenzo organizes drills in which Lev and Natalya must be hidden very quickly. When Diego comes in the car, Lev has to move to one of the inner rooms before the court gates are opened to let the car drive in. Snipers could be in Allende Street, waiting for a line of fire into the courtyard. And if any unknown person comes to the door, even a grocer's boy delivering eggs and flour, the intruder is patted down, relieved of belt and shoes, and made to open all packages for inspection. The GPU will certainly strike, and no one knows how they will do it. (Though entering in the guise of a grocer seems unlikely.)

  Lev says he has been a revolutionary from the age of seventeen, with a gallows waiting for him somewhere for forty years. His friends will know these new charges against him are invented. "And my enemies know it also. Which of these has written anything new?" He threw the newspapers aside and made Natalya come and sit on his knee. She obeyed him, but with a frown on her bottom lip, like the little dogs that have long wool in their eyes and a flattened nose. Lev took off his round-rimmed spectacles and sang to her in Russian. He asked to hear some songs of the Mexican revolution. Perpetua knew a surprising number. For such an old cook, her voice is steady.

  24 January

  Lev and Natalya went for a stroll in the Melchor market, their first venture outside the house since arrival. Between all the guards and Diego's machine gun, Coyoacan village must have entertained a commotion. But the so-called Villain in Our Midst means to hold his bearded chin up to the world without shame.

  With Lev and Natalya out strolling and all the guards escorting, the house was quiet. A slow afternoon passed, helping Van file cartons of Lev's letters and published writings. It's hard to believe such an outpouring of words could come from one man--"the Commissar," Van calls him. He works each day as if the calendar on his desk were on its last page, which it could well be. Today while he was out, Van took the opportunity to ask many questions, not friendly. Place of birth, education, and so forth.

  He revealed some scraps of his own life: a difficult childhood, the French mother losing her citizenship for marrying a Dutch husband, who died soon after Van's birth. Van has a weakness for what he calls Nederland licorices. They look like black glass beads, in a packet he keeps in the desk drawer, guarded rather anxiously, as he is sure they can't be bought in Mexico.

  Here are two fatherless boys, then, eager to be anything for Lev, with his own two sons so far gone from him, and the man so kind. Already Lev remembers which assistant takes sugar in his tea. He puts everyone through stretching exercises so they won't get backaches while typing what he himself stayed up all night to write. But Van will always be the favored son, of course. He has served Lev so long.

  Van was surprised to learn the "native typist" is also of hybrid origin, half gringo. He changed to speaking English after that. His Spanish is very imperfect. He needs help with interpreting at the political meetings, especially when the talk flies around the table like a flock of crows. Last evening it flew from Russian to English (for Mr. Novack), then Spanish (for the Riveras' colleagues), then back to Russian, with some French thrown in by Van, just for show, it seemed. Excuse this opinion, if it is one, but as Sra. Frida can plainly recall, no one at that meeting needed French.

  All papers filed today were letters from the past four years, most in French but some typed in Russian, pages of characters in that strange alphabet lined up like rows of little men doing bending exercises. So it's untrue that typewriters are restricted to characters of the English language. Van cracked his composure and smiled at the story of Officer Gringo and the Potomac Academy typewriters. He understands Spanish well enough to laugh at the joke about Senor Villanueva and his anos in the bano. Or he pretended. He seems fearful of losing his position as his commissar's sole interpreter.

  With apologies here to Sra. Frida, because the last paragraph undoubtedly contains at least one opinion. But not a fiction. The second weekly household report from Coyoacan is herein submitted for her inspection.

  30 January

  A wire came from Paris: Radek, Piatakov, and Muralov were executed in Moscow. Lev's spirits flag--more of his friends are dead--but he stays absorbed in work. What the newspapers say about Lev is shocking, charges more improbable every day. Lev said that when the public nerve is aroused, the most impressive capacity of man is his skill for lying. Van said, "It's good to hear you indignant, Commissar."

  But Lev maintained he was not at all indignant. He was holding a Russian newspaper with such ink-stained fingers he could be a printing press. "I'm speaking as a naturalist, stating fact. The urge to lie is produced by the contradictions in our lives. We are made to declare love for our country, while it tramples our rights and dignity."

  "But newspapers have a duty to truth," Van said.

  Lev clucked his tongue. "They tell the truth only as the exception. Zola wrote that the mendacity of the press could be divided into two groups: the yellow press lies every day without hesitating. But others, like the Times, speak the truth on all inconsequential occasions, so they can deceive the public with the requisite authority when it becomes necessary."

  Van got up from his chair to gather the cast-off newspapers. Lev took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "I don't mean to offend the journalists; they aren't any different from other people. They're merely the megaphones of the other people."

  "It's true, sir. The newspapers are like the howlers on Isla Pixol."

  Lev seemed interested in the comparison, and changed from English to Spanish. "What are these howlers?" he asked.

  "A kind of monkey, very terrifying. They howl every morning: first one starts, then a neighbor hears it and starts his own howl, as if he can't help it. Soon the whole forest is bellowing, loud as thunder. It's their nature, probably they have to do it, to hold their place in the forest. To tell the others no one has gotten the best of them."

  "You are a naturalist also," Lev said. He struggled but was determined to continue the conversation in Spanish. Van left the office. "Where are these creatures?"

  "Isla Pixol. It's a coastal island, south of Veracruz."

  "A monkey does not swim. How did they become isolated?"

  En isla, he said. Probably he meant, en una isla, on an island.

  "It wasn't always an island, an isthmus of rocks connected it with the mainland, but they dredged it for a shipping channel. It was during Maximilian, I think. The monkeys that had gone out there couldn't get back."

  22 February

  The jacaranda in the courtyard has put on its bloom. This purple can't be ignored, it's like a tree singing. The walk down Londres Street to the market is a concert: the small jacaranda on the corner hums the tuning note, then all others in the lane join in. Even Perpetua has a light in her eye, holding one hand to her flat old
bosom as she takes the cucumbers out of the market basket, one by one.

  From Lev's study, the view from the end window is a solid blaze of purple. Van sits there to take dictation from the Ediphone, with his square profile framed against the window like Poseidon in a purple sea. Or some Teutonic god who causes all he touches, and the air itself, to burst into purple flames. It is not a fiction or opinion to report that he is breathtaking. Perpetua is not the only one in this house thinking of cucumbers.

  1 March

  Octavio apprehended a man with a repeater, in the alley. After every fresh newspaper rant on the villain residing in Coyoacan, these men show up. So far it's only citizen-desperados vowing to protect their wives. Lev fears more sophisticated men, Communist Party operatives working under command of Stalin's GPU. But a bullet from a barefoot soldier is no less deadly than from a well-paid one. Lorenzo sleeps in the front dining room now. Those lovely windows will have to be closed with brick. The masons have made a mess, and Van had to move into the tiny cupboard with HS, close quarters for two. Though he left his multitude of serge jackets in a trunk in the other room.