‘Aristotle’s dead,’ she replied. ‘We want to live.’
Yesterday I was Fridlyand; today I’m Shpak. I took the name from a movie so I wouldn’t forget it. I signed a resignation letter “of my own free will” with no date, because, I was told, the date is for if I fall out of a window. Then I became “Bukashin.” I wanted to give my son a lecture on Aristotle, and instead I got a lecture on how elections equal love.…
I’m a kind man. It’s just that here you leave through a window, a pistol, or poison. Fill out the forms carefully, don’t write the date, and save your questions. We don’t like traitors, and you’re not one, are you? Wonderful. Your wife will be treated very well in prison, provided you’re a good boy.
All I said, quietly, was “Don’t write the date.” The rest isn’t my business. I saw nothing and will tell no one, just as the chapter title says.
He wanted to raise his son clean, with books, quiet, and trust. Now he must hand him corruption wrapped in his father’s own voice. And he doesn’t yet know that the system that built its theater so carefully has missed one thing: its lead actors stopped playing for it long ago.
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