CHAPTER 9. AND HE WHO WALKS THROUGH LIFE WITH A SONG

“You don’t need to torture me,” he backpedaled. “Tell me your version of the truth and I’ll say it on camera so we can part on good terms. After all, you said if I confessed, I’d be set for life—rolling in clover…”

“On camera we’ll start by saying Lyudmila recruited you into an underground terrorist organization called ‘The Tower,’” the new director dictated. “Next, that you were assigned to kill the top man during a private meeting after filming in space. We’ll shove a mop handle in—you’ll sob and spill your guts on camera. It’ll be Oscar-worthy. Cry and confess dramatically.” Then he asked: “Have they taught you to cry yet?”

“No, but they say it depends on what you think about. If it’s something really sad, you can squeeze out a tear,” he offered.

“Exactly,” the sadist praised. “Picture your whole family in prison—mop handles waiting for them. Let that fuel your tears.”

“That won’t work,” he protested. “You don’t want me grinning sinisterly and rubbing my hands together on camera. They’ve tormented me my whole life. Are you trying to cheer me up or upset me?” He remembered an instruction that such an ironic response could exclude his relatives from the sadist’s equation.

“I’d rather think about Russia’s fate if the leader dies. He must live forever. Without him, my soul will perish!” he added, in a tone that tried on passion for effect.

The film turned out nothing like their rehearsal. Instead of staged confessions, he began singing songs from The Diamond Arm—a lament about a doomed heart, about a cursed island, and, most strikingly, the little song about rabbits that simply don’t care. They tried every device on him, but he only grew more spirited. In his mind he really was thinking of the Motherland after the leader’s death and imagining a beautiful future Russia.

Then she entered—and the obscenity stopped, as if someone had flipped a switch in hell.