17 February 2025
by Aleksandr Podrabinek
Source: Facebook
As I already wrote, I recently published a new book – Kletochnikov. Today it appeared on Ozon. The book was written a long time ago, but sat around. And it all started like this.
About 15 years ago, I wrote the memoir Dissidents, and when it came to the fate of Captain Orekhov from the Moscow directorate of the KGB, my doubts got the best of me. Everything was rendered credibly and precisely. But behind the documentary description of events, this extraordinary man was not visible, his motives were not clear, his worries and hopes were not known. And then I decided to follow in the footsteps of his fate and guess at that which I did not know myself.
It turned into a play. As with any compulsive writer, it struck me as good. I showed it to Shenderovich first. Flipping through from the end, Viktor immediately encountered a poem written by one of the characters. Horror appeared in his eyes. “Is it all in verse?” asked Victor in a strangled voice. I appeased him somehow. And to lend extra weight to my work, I added that the plot was based on real events. “Ha-ha,” laughed Viktor, “Gogol’s Vakula is a much more real character than some Pavka Korchagin.” I agreed. After some time we met and Viktor summed up: “There are interesting things. For example – how the search goes. It could make a decent TV show. Somewhere in Israel.”
I understood everything, but the soul of the compulsive writer knows no barriers. I showed the play to Yursky. Having read it, Sergei Yurievich, who was always on the best of terms with me, asked directly: “Should I tell you what one is supposed to, or the truth?” I felt the approach of catastrophe, but said: “Tell me the truth,” secretly hoping that he would say what one is supposed to say. But no, my secret hopes were not realized. “For some reason, everyone thinks that it is very easy to write a play,” Sergei Yurievich said with slight indignation. “But the theatre has its laws. What you have written cannot be staged. The stage has its rules; you cannot get around them. This is fit for the cinema, but not for the theatre.”
If I had been a playwright, I would have been in despair. But I am a journalist, therefore I was not discouraged.
No sooner said than done; I wrote a screenplay. I didn’t know what more to do with it, and after tinkering around with it a bit, I soon abandoned the whole enterprise. I busied myself with more important and contemporary matters. However, the image of a man who betrayed his military oath for the sake of a just cause haunted me. I returned repeatedly to the play, made a story out of it, and published it in the Petersburg journal Zvezda.
One would think this would have put my mind at ease, but the story turned out not to be enough. I was eaten at as before by a feeling of unfinished business. Last year, I returned to this story: I rewrote it, added to it, thought it over again, and a couple of weeks ago I printed it at my own expense at a Moscow publishing house.
Now you can decide for yourselves how it turned out. And even if, like the wonderful Sergei Yursky, you tell the truth, and don’t say what you’re supposed to say, I’ll easily survive – after all, writing is not a profession for me, but a lighthearted hobby.
P.S. Oh, and if someone wants me to sign a copy of the book, order it in the Libro store on Ozon and tell me the order number right away – I’ll be happy to sign.
Translated by Alyssa Rider
