Y.T.

1984

Getting arrested, it seemed, was a bit of a laugh. At first. As long as the serious, remarkably similar faces that had suddenly surrounded me remained unfamiliar, as long as my grasp of the absurdity of the situation did not give way to an uneasy sense of reality, hard and irrefutable as stone, as long as I was freely able to feel and think, it was fun.

They began by searching the house. The search lasted twenty hours, even though all the Khanate documents they were looking for—diplomatic correspondence, reconnaissance reports, extracts from the government’s annual report—were lying on the window ledge in three messy heaps and in a folder on my desk. All they had to do was neatly gather the papers together, put them in special canvas bags, and seal the bags. It would have taken thirty minutes. Half an hour. As for the remaining nineteen and a half hours, they could have had some beer, or vodka if they wanted it. Mama would have boiled some potatoes, sliced up some sausage and got out a jar of pickled gherkins. My mother made the most wonderful pickled gherkins, with garlic and dill, cherry leaves on occasion, sometimes even black currant leaves. So, instead of wallowing in the dust under the sofa, rapping at the walls and the floor, moving bookcases and taking down shelves without putting them back again, disturbing my books and underwear and old notebooks, instead of all that they could have munched on gherkins and burnt the tips of their fingers and tongues on tasty hot potatoes, drunk some beer and had a laugh. Afterwards they might have had a little nap. And all the while the sacks with the Khanate documents would just have been lying there, safely sealed and in the corner of the room. Then they would have woken up and gone off happily to work. Taking me with them.

They certainly took me with them. But they went away feeling bad-tempered, hungry and sleep-deprived. And I went with them feeling bad-tempered, hungry and confused. I didn’t understand what was happening.

The interrogations began several days later. Major Sinevusov, round and sallow pink, alternately oozed oil and venom. Once he finished with formalities he asked me to draw him a map of the Zaporozhye Khanate. He handed me a light-blue topographic map, the kind used in schools, and a red marker, bright and moist.

‘Roughly like this,’ I said a few minutes later and handed the map back to him.

The red line demarcating the territory of the Khanate from adjacent states ran along the southern and western borders of Bulgaria, cut across Romania and Ukraine and headed east just north of the small border town of Kiev. From the confluence of the Voronezh and the Don, the line followed the Don until it emptied into the Sea of Azov.

‘Roughly like this, then… roughly like this…’ The pores of Sinevusov’s face were glistening with oil. He took a handkerchief and mopped his forehead, cheeks and neck. ‘So that’s the Khanate of Zaporozhye?’

I nodded.

‘What about the capital? Why haven’t you shown the capital?’

‘The capital is Uman.’

‘Uman?’

‘Two million two hundred thousand inhabitants, according to the 1980 census. Uman.’

‘Uh-huh,’ the major snorted. ‘Put it on the map?’

I shrugged. ‘Sure.’

‘Uman—Two million two hundred thousand… So what else can you tell me? Pretend I’ve never heard anything about this state… which, in fact, I haven’t. Tell me more.’

‘What do you want me to say?’ I asked uncertainly. ‘That’s all there is to the entire state.’

‘Take your time,’ he said. ‘There’s no hurry, right? Be thorough. Give me details. Let’s begin with the way it’s organized. What’s the socio-political system?’

‘Constitutional monarchy.’

‘Excellent. A constitutional monarchy. Like Britain?’

‘Not quite. Everyone knows that the British queen reigns but doesn’t rule. The khan, however, wields real power, and his power is handed down by succession.’

‘What an old-fashioned form of government you have in your Khanate,’ said Sinevusov, not quite asking but without drawing a conclusion either.

I wasn’t going to argue, but I added, ‘The prime minister is appointed by the khan but approved by the parliament. The laws are ratified by the parliament but approved by the khan.’

‘Like I was saying,’ Sinevusov nodded, ‘an old-fashioned form of government. Very nineteenth century. Who’s looking after the interests of the working class? Or the laboring peasantry? Hmm? Enough. We can discuss that later. Carry on. Population size? Key branches of industry?’

‘The population is 118 million—’

‘According to the 1980 census?’

‘Yes.’

‘Brilliant. Carry on.’

‘It has a territory of one million one hundred thousand square kilometers. The state language is Zaporozhian—’

‘Even its own language…’

‘The monetary unit is the grivna. The state religion is Judaism.’

‘You’ve got Jews living there?’

‘No, Zaporozhians.’

‘And the religion is Judaism?’

‘Yes.’

The major exhaled heavily and wiped oil from his brow.

‘Very well… Your Zaporozhians go to the synagogue and settle their debts in grivnas…’

‘Actually religion and state are separate in the Khanate, although history has brought about precisely the situation you describe. Most Zaporozhians are Jews. You can’t rewrite history.’

‘Really?’ said the major with far more emphasis than necessary. ‘You’re telling me?’

I looked around. ‘Is there someone else here?’

‘Stick to the subject,’ said the major, disregarding my question. ‘Back to the Zaporozhians. There’s so much you can learn in the course of an ordinary interrogation. Now tell me about the Khanate’s army. And its foreign policy.’

‘The Khanate of Zaporozhye is economically and industrially developed. Per capita income is slightly higher than thirty thousand grivnas… I can’t remember the exact figures, but they’re in the papers somewhere.’

‘Indeed.’ The major nodded. ‘How much is that in roubles?’

‘I don’t know.’ I shrugged. ‘We didn’t value them in roubles.’

‘What currency did you value them in?’ There was a metallic edge to his voice, and the pores of his neck and brow oozed oil and venom at the same time. ‘Dollars? Marks? Israeli shekels?’

‘The Zaporozhian grivna is a hard currency. Other states can use grivnas to value their income and budgets. You’re interrupting me a great deal.’

Sinevusov nodded and said drily, ‘Carry on.’

‘The Khanate of Zaporozhye has a strong economy and solid industry,’ I repeated out of spite. ‘Machine building, instrument design, chemicals and agriculture are all well developed. The army is one million strong.’

‘One per cent of the population,’ clarified the major.

‘More or less. The arsenal includes nuclear weapons, platforms for launching weapons of all ranges. But on the whole the Khanate is peaceful and hasn’t been at war for many years.’

‘Yet it has territorial issues…’

He knew what he was talking about. Itil, the Khanate’s ancient capital, had been captured five hundred years before by the Slovenorussians. But the Khanate wasn’t going to fight over it.

At first one interrogation was very like another. It was like helping schoolchildren who were about to take an examination and whom I was helping to prepare. The children asked me questions, and I’d answer them; they’d write down my answers and ask me more questions. The first interrogations were almost exactly like exam-preparation sessions. I was tutoring my investigator, Major Sinevusov. And waiting for him to come to the point.