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They threw themselves on manuscripts, telephone numbers, addresses, receipts from Parisian dry cleaners. My wife, corrupted by Western notions about personal inviolability, couldn't understand for the life of her what business CUSTOMS had with her intimate correspondence and assorted panties and bras. She told the customs officers in some detail what she thought of them, and they, huffing dolefully, continued to read our personal papers: "Call Zhenya in the morning . . . don't forget about Yura . . . Sima . . . Sonya ; . . . Lyusya . . . In the evening -- 157-29-09 . . ." My wife didn't let up. I was bored. Why were they doing all this? After all, they didn't confiscate anything . . . Were they just trying to spoil the mood? Were they sniffing out bits and pieces now to remember for the future? Are they just waiting for the present freedom to end, and everything they find now will be usable then as operational material? Or perhaps it's simpler and cruder -- they don't want us to forget ourselves and give way to euphoria. "We, the KGB, are the masters here. We can do anything here, we can peep into any hole -- either from above or from below, and you have no business coming here." So we knew whom we were dealing with!
At passport control, Maria asked a severe and inaccessible young border guard, "Why are you so serious? Please smile!" The border guard loudly stamped her passport -- and suddenly he smiled. My wife said, "Try to smile more often. Then your life will be more interesting and easier to live . . ." Thus we bade farewell to Moscow.
"Well, even so," the correspondent persists, "aren't you thinking of returning to the Soviet Union?" The very posing of the question seems incorrect to me. As long as we are asked such questions, it's clear that we can't talk about any serious perestroika. Why, for example, when the English writer Graham Greene moved to France, didn't anyone ask him whether or not he was planning to return to England? Who cares where Graham Greene lives -- in England or in France? And Hemingway, he lived quite peacefully in Cuba (can you imagine! on an island!) and didn't hurry back to his Great Homeland. But Russia, it seems, possesses particular advantages (borders, the KGB, internal passports, patriotism, perestroika, nostalgia) that for some reason must be satisfied. The whole world begs you: Since you're a Russian writer, live in Russia. Especially since there's perestroika!
Seventeen years before my own (physical) emigration, I emigrated from Russia in my books, and I don't regret it. In the final analysis, isn't it all the same where the body of a writer dwells, if his books belong to Russia?