Alex looked at him, expectant.
“And then the Party cleanses itself,” Sasha said, answering his look. “And always after, it’s stronger. No weak elements. You say they’ve started asking for this?”
“I don’t know. Just the one. But wouldn’t this come from your—?”
“No. The Party itself. We’re instruments only. It’s always like this in the beginning—the element of surprise. An innocent review. But maybe not so innocent, not what it seems.”
Ivan nodded, familiar with this. “Sometimes the reward that isn’t a reward. They used to do that in the Comintern days. Call you back to Moscow for a medal, and then—”
“Don’t be an ass,” Sasha said, angry.
“Oh, not you, Sasha. An example only. How the mechanism works.”
“Mechanism,” Sasha said, sarcastic. “You’re drunk.”
“Well, all right,” Ivan said, backing off, making a zipper motion across his mouth.
“Ass,” Sasha said again, then looked over at Alex. “So maybe it’s nothing. But stay away from your friend. Until you know.” His eyes moved down to his glass again, an unguarded moment, suddenly anxious, then shot another angry glance at Ivan. “They don’t have to promote you to call you back.”
“No, of course not, I didn’t—” Stopping before he stumbled.
“I picked Saratov myself.”
“Who?” Alex said.
“My replacement here. A colleague.” Then, to Ivan, “My choice. Do you think they ask you to choose if they—?”
“Sasha—”
“Ach,” Sasha said, waving him quiet.
“Let’s have another drink,” Ivan said, making peace.
But Sasha had turned to Irene.
“It’s true, I will miss you,” he said, his voice maudlin now. “At first you think, ah, Moscow, you don’t think— We had some good times, yes?” He leaned forward to her neck again.
“Sasha. Not here.”
“Why not here?” he said, looking around the room. “You think anybody will mind? In a place like this? With a Russian? Those days are over.”
“I didn’t mean that.”
“No? What then?”
“We’re not alone here.” Opening her hand to take in the table.
“Ivan? You think he can see anything? After the vodka? Ivan, can you see?”
Ivan wiped the air in front of his eyes, a blind gesture.
“Alex? You think he minds? You think he’s jealous? You were children, you said.”
“Yes, and now you’re the child. It’s getting late. We should go,” she said, then turned her head, a commotion at the door.
Helene Weigel, making her entrance, hair covered in a kerchief tied in the back, her face gaunt, tired from rehearsal, but pleased at the attention, actually touching people as she passed, regal.
“Alex, how nice. Bert told me you were here,” she said, offering her cheek to be kissed.
Introductions were made, but neither Sasha nor Ivan seemed to know who she was, so the conversation became intimate again, Weigel and Alex standing, Irene trying to placate Sasha at the table.
“How is it going?”
“Exhausting. I get up tired. But it’s going to be good, I think. Well, you know the play.”
“Bert says you’re wonderful.”
She waved her hand. “He doesn’t say it to me. Well, Bert. You know what’s interesting? Everyone’s coming. Today, the French cultural officer—can he have four tickets? And where do I get them? The Americans, the British, they’re all coming. Even with this.” She raised her eyes toward the ceiling. “The planes, all this trouble, and everyone still comes to see Brecht. So Marjorie,” she said, shifting gears. “You’ve heard from her? The divorce, it’s official?”
“I haven’t had the final papers yet. Any day, I guess.”
“Well, I’m sorry. But maybe you’re not? And sometimes it’s for the best. You’ll see. Peter will come visit, and I’ll make my chocolate cake.”
“He’d like that.”
Helene nodded. “It’s better than Salka’s. But don’t say that to her.” As if they had just come for the weekend and were expected back to Sunday dinner on Mabery Road. “Anyway,” she said, glancing around, “the life here. I don’t think it’s for her.”
“No.”
“Well, for anybody right now. But soon. And they’re all coming for Brecht. They won’t sit with each other in the Kommandatura, but they come to the Deutsches Theater. So maybe they should meet then, eh? They’re all there anyway, just bring the agenda.”
“After the curtain calls.”
Weigel smiled. “Of course after. Look, there’s Bert. Now he’s going to give me his notes—everything I did wrong.”
“Do you listen?”
“Well, you know, he’s a genius. So I listen.” She looked up. “Sometimes.”
“Everybody knows you,” Sasha said when Alex sat down again. He raised his glass. “Our famous author.”
“Well, at the M?we,” Alex said, the mood pleasant again.
“We should go,” Irene said.
But Sasha was sitting back, comfortable, at peace. Ivan, half stupefied, was quiet.
“The new man—he’s a protégé of yours?” Something more for Campbell.
“No, no. Older. We met only at the Ministry.”
“But you recommended him?”
“I agreed he was the best,” Sasha said smoothly. When? “A good head on his shoulders. You need that here.”
“Like you,” Ivan said.
“You know, everyone lies. Were you a Nazi? Oh, no. And then you read the file.” He paused. “Denazification. How is such a thing possible anyway? Who else was here?”
“Not everybody was like that,” Irene said.
“Not you,” he said, touching her hair, “I know. But the rest—So you need something here.” He tapped the side of his head. “To pick out the lies.”
“A lie detector,” Alex said. “But no wires.”
“That’s right,” Sasha said, amused. “A lie detector. Up here.” He tapped his head again. “And then something here.” He held out a clenched fist. “A little steel.”
“And he has that?” Alex said.