Libra - Don Delillo [72]
Oct. 31. I catch a taxi, “American Embassy” I say.
The receptionist asked him to sign the tourist register. He told her he was here to dissolve his American citizenship. Oh. She led him into the consul’s office. He selected an armchair to the left side of the desk. He crossed his legs, matter-of-fact.
“I am a Marxist,” he began.
The consul adjusted his glasses.
“I know what you’re going to say to me. ‘Take some time to think it over.’ ‘Come back, we’ll talk some more.’ I’d like to say right now I’m ready to sign the legal papers giving up my citizenship.”
The consul said the papers would take time to prepare. He had a look on his face like, Who are you?
“There are certain classified things I learned as a radar operator in the military, which I am saying as a Soviet citizen I would make known to them.”
He believed he had the man’s attention. He saw the whole scene in some future version. Three days alone. This convinced him he had to reach the point where there was no turning back. Stalin’s name was Dzhugashvili. Kremlin means citadel.
I leave Embassy, elated at this showdown. I’m sure Russians will except me after this sign of my faith in them.
He stayed in his room, eating sparely, living on soup for a while, racked by dysentery, nearly two weeks alone, nearly broke, sitting in the plush chair, unshaven, in his button-down shirt and tie.
They moved him to another room, smaller, very plain, without a bath, and charged him only three dollars a day, as if they knew he could no longer afford the regular Intourist rate.
He wrote his name in Russian characters in his steno notebook.
Days of utter loneliness
The first snows fell. He spent eight hours a day studying Russian, serious time, using two self-teaching books. He took all meals in his room, owed money to the hotel, expected a visit from an assistant manager.
No one came.
He went to the visa-and-registration department. He told them about his visit to the U.S. embassy, his wish to become a citizen. They didn’t seem to know what to do with him.
Out on the street a small boy figured him for American, asked for a stick of gum. Subzero cold. Broad-backed women shoveling snow. He was struck for the first time by the immensity of the secret that swirled around him. He was in the midst of a vast secret. Another mind, an endless space of snow and cold.
Lenin and Stalin lay together in an orange glow at the bottom of a stone stairway. It was one of the few sights he’d seen.
He was down to twenty-eight dollars.
He wrote in Russian in his notebook. I have, he has, she has, you have, we have, they have.
Two men came to his room before seven the next morning. He stood barefoot in his flannel trousers and pajama tops, studying their moves. He didn’t think it was Grandfather Frost and his head elf. The room was theirs now. He wasn’t sure how they’d taken it over so fast but he knew he felt like an intruder, some kind of bungling tourist. It was his fault they had to get up so early.
They weren’t dressed like the officials he’d met. They weren’t Intourist people or collectors of overdue bills. One of them wore a black car-coat and dark glasses like a gangster on the Late Show. The other guy was older, in snow boots, going quietly bald.
It was this second man who gestured for Oswald to sit on the bed. He said his name was Kirilenko.
Oswald said, “Lee H. Oswald.”
The man nodded, smiling faintly. Then he sat in the chair, in his coat, facing Oswald, his right hand dangling between his knees.
Lee volunteered the following.
“My passport is with the U.S. embassy. I surrendered it to them as a sample of no longer wanting to be a citizen. As I told them flatly.”
The man nodded one more time, eyelids falling shut.
“Do you know what