Republican Party Reptile(11)

That night the Russians took me out onto the darkened fantail, where they had dozens of bottles of beer, cheese, bread, and a huge salted fish.

Sonya was concerned about my Republicanism. “You are not for peace?” she asked.

“I during Vietnam War struggle for peace very much [talk with the Russians for a while and you fall into it too], rioting for peace, fighting police for peace, tear-gassed for peace,” I said. “I am tired of peace. Too dangerous.”

Orlonsky began to laugh and then shook his head. “Vietnam—too bad.”

“Land war in Asia,” I said, “very bad. And some countries do not learn from an example.” All of them laughed.

“And in Middle East,” said Sonya, mirthfully pointing a finger at me, “some people’s allies do not learn also.”

“War is very bad,” said Nikolai. “Maybe U.S. and Soviet union   go to war over Lebanon—ha, ha!” This seemed to be a hilarious idea. The Russians all but fell out of their chairs.

“With all of Middle East how do you pick only ally without oil?” said Orlonsky.

I said, “With all of Europe how do you pick Poland?”

“You wish to make trade?” said Nikolai.

“Also, in deal, you can have South Africa,” I said.

“We will tell Reagan you are a progressive,” said Orlonsky.

“P. Cheh. [P.J.] was making faces at the Pravda news today. I do not think he is a progressive,” said Sonya.

“Oh, he is a progressive,” said Nikolai. “You remember, Sonya, he has almost all Americans on ship ready to defect.”

Marya made a strangled noise in the back of her throat. Sonya turned very sober. “Progressives,” she sighed. “Everything must be made perfect for them.”





THURSDAY, JULY 22


Our first scheduled conference took place while we sailed through the remarkably scum-filled Tsimlyansky Reservoir. The conference coordinator was a short, broad, overvigorous American woman in her sixties. Let’s call her Mrs. Pigeon, so she won’t sue, and also because too much truth doesn’t go with travel writing. Mrs. Pigeon was an authority on the education of children, and, in fact, had the personality of a teacher—the sort of teacher who inspires any feeling child to sneak back in school at night and spray-paint the halls with descriptions of the human love act.

Mrs. Pigeon introduced the Soviet experts and their two American counterparts, Reverend Bumphead (not his real name) and the volleyball coach, Nick Smarm (not his real name). Nick was a politician, but the sort who would run for city council in Youngstown on an antidevelopment, proecology ticket. He smiled too much. The Reverend Bumphead was a young man of Ichabod Crane lank. I never caught his denomination. My guess is Zen Methodist. He was either growing a beard or didn’t know how to shave.

Mrs. Pigeon opened the proceedings in a patronizing tone that propelled me back through twenty-five years to the vile confines of the fourth grade. It was a beautiful afternoon, hot sun, clear sky, and just the right crisp breeze. The conference was being held on top of the cruise boat, but the 120 or so participants had jammed themselves in under the shade deck, where they were surrounded by superstructure on three sides and the air was stifling.

The peaceniks took notes. I had a vision of newsletters, reams and reams of misstapled copier paper Xeroxed when the boss wasn’t looking, vomiting forth from the tepid organizations these people represented. “My Interesting Peace Voyage Through the Soviet union  ”; “An Interesting and Enjoyable Visit to the USSR with Peace in Mind”; “Not War and Peace but Peace and Peace” (one of the clever ones); “Peace in the Soviet union   and an Interesting Trip There Too.” Maybe America could be bored into nuclear disarmament.

Nick Smarm began to speak. It was the standard fare. He laid the greater part of the blame for a potential international nuke duke-out on the American doorstep. What he was saying wasn’t wrong, at least not in the factual citations he made. But suddenly and quite against my will I was angry. To stand in front of strangers and run your country, my country, down—I didn’t care if what Nick said was generally true, I didn’t care if what he said was wholly, specifically, and exactly true in every detail. I haven’t been that mad in years. I had to leave, go below. I was ashamed of the man. And it occurred to me that I would have been ashamed if he were Russian and we were on the Mississippi. That big fellow with the medals down his suit coat, my ally, he wouldn’t have done such a thing on the Delta Queen.

I had a drink and went back. Reverend Bumphead from the Princeton Coalition for Disarmament was speaking now. He said exactly the same thing.