Darkness at Noon - Arthur Koestler [84]
You contest the charge that you were ready to pay direct or indirect support of your plans with territorial concessions--that is, by the sacrifice of certain provinces of our country?" Yes, Rubashov did contest this; and Gletkin repeated to him the day and occasion of his conversation with the foreign diplomat in question--and Rubashov again remembered that little, unimportant scene, which had bobbed up in his memory while Gletkin had been reading the accusation. Sleepy and confused, he looked at Gletkin and knew it was hopeless to try to explain that scene to him. It had taken place after a diplomatic lunch in the legation in B. Rubashov sat next to corpulent Herr von Z., Second Councillor to the Embassy of the very same State where, a few months ago, Rubashov had had his teeth knocked out--and pursued a most entertaining conversation with him about a certain rare variety of guinea-pig, which had been bred both on Herr von Z.'s estate and on that of Rubashov's father; in all probability, Rubashov's and von Z.'s respective fathers had even exchanged specimens with each other in their time. "What has now become of your father's guinea-pigs?" asked Herr von Z. "They were slaughtered during the Revolution and eaten," said Rubashov. "Ours are now made intoersatz fat," said Herr von Z. with melancholy. He made no effort to hide his contempt for the new régime in his country, which presumably had only by accident omitted to kick him out of his post so far. "You and I are really in a similar situation," he said comfortably and emptied his liqueur glass. "We both have outlived our time. Guinea-pig breeding is finished with; we live in the century of the Plebeian." "But don't forget I am on the side of the Plebeian," Rubashov said smilingly. "That is not what I meant," said Herr von Z. "If it comes to the point, I also agree with the programme of our manikin with the black mustache--if he only wouldn't shriek so. After all, one can only be crucified in the name of one's own faith." They sat a while longer, drinking coffee, and at the second cup Herr von Z. said: "If you should once again make a revolution in your country, Mr. Rubashov, and depose your No. 1, then take better care of the guinea-pigs." "That is most unlikely to happen," said Rubashov, and after a pause, added: "... although one seems to count with this possibility amongst your friends?" "Most certainly," Herr von Z. had replied in the same easy tone of voice. "After what your last trials gave us to hear, something rather funny must be going on in your country." "Then, amongst your friends, there must also be some idea of what steps would be taken on your part in this very unlikely eventuality?" Rubashov had asked. Whereupon Herr von Z. answered very precisely, almost as though he had been expecting this question: "Lie low.But there is a price." They were standing beside the table, with their coffee cups in their hands. "And has the price, too, been decided upon already?" Rubashov asked, feeling himself that his light tone sounded rather artificial. "Certainly," answered Herr von Z.; and he named a certain wheat-growing province inhabited by a national minority. Then they had taken leave of each other. ... Rubashov had not thought of this scene for years--or at least had not consciously recalled it. Idle chatter over black coffee and brandy--how could one explain to Gletkin its complete insignificance? Rubashov looked sleepily at Gletkin sitting opposite him, as stony and expressionless as ever. No, it was impossible to start talking to him about guinea-pigs. This Gletkin understood nothing of guinea-pigs. He had never drunk coffee with Herren von Z.'s. It occurred to Rubashov how haltingly Gletkin had read, how often with the wrong intonation. He was of proletarian origin, and had learnt to read and write when already grown-up. He would never understand that a conversation beginning with guinea-pigs could end God knew where. "So you admit the conversation took place," Gletkin said. "It was completely harmless," Rubashov said tiredly, and knew that Gletkin had pushed