Back in ’83, the KGB planted a little story: The AIDS virus had been cooked up by the U.S. government in a laboratory in Maryland. The little piece of disinformation spread like a virus, in fact. It was repeated by American celebrities and lots of ordinary Joes on the street. It lives today — as Aaron Rodgers, the star quarterback, recently proved.
Forty years on!
I begin my Impromptus today with this issue. I have a variety of other issues too, ending with a little photo album — of the American Southwest, and Arizona in particular.
Here it is. Give it a go.
Maybe a month ago, I interviewed Michael Lockshin, a film director, who has adapted Bulgakov’s classic novel, The Master and Margarita, for the screen. For the resulting piece — “A Stalin-Era Story, Roiling Russia” — go here.
A reader writes,
Jay —
I haven’t been moved to email you since 2006, when I responded to one of your missives from Davos. . . .
I was thrilled to read your story today on the film version of The Master and Margarita, being shown in Russia. The novel is my favorite work of fiction — ever — and I have read and re-read it in multiple English translations over the years. I work with a woman named Margarita who emigrated from Russia with her parents years ago. I once asked her if she knew of the book, to which she replied, “Are you kidding? I’m named after the title character!” Her parents were obviously big fans (I forwarded your article to her).
I’m emailing you to share the story of how The Master and Margarita came to be my favorite work of fiction. It’s a story that involves National Review in the early 1980s and an amazing sequence of events.
One of the editors recommended The Master and Margarita, and, based on the description, I felt that I simply had to read it. I also figured there was no way I would find a copy in a run-of-the-mill bookstore, so I went to my “go to” private bookseller in North Dallas, who could always find absolutely any book for me. Alas, after a month of searching, he told me that he didn’t think there existed a copy for sale in all of North America. I was disappointed to say the least (as was he).
In the spring of the following year, I was visiting a friend in London for a couple of weeks. One evening, I was walking from Green Park towards my friend’s apartment in the West End to meet for dinner. It was rush hour and in addition to the traffic jams in the streets there were huge traffic jams on the sidewalks. I was desperate to get around the foot traffic, but there appeared to be nowhere to go.
I was at a complete standstill in front of an apothecary, and I happened to glance to the left through the door and noticed that I was able to see all the way through the shop to another door which opened onto the next street (parallel to the one I was on). I also noticed that the next street did not have a pedestrian traffic jam, so I ducked into the apothecary and headed towards the back door.
About halfway through the shop, the establishment changed from being an apothecary to being a bookstore (!?!?), and one with fairly narrow aisles. The aisle I was walking down was clogged and, being in a hurry, I “shifted right” to the next aisle. Also clogged. I continued to “shift right” looking for a clear path through and eventually ended up at the very last aisle in the store.
Out of options, I headed down the last aisle. There was only one man in the aisle, and I figured it would be easy enough to get around him and continue my journey. His back was to me as I approached, so I paused for a second to decide whether to tap him on the shoulder or say something to alert him that I was there and could he please let me pass. As I paused, I glanced to my right at the shelf next to me. Sitting there, at eye level, exactly where I stopped, was one and only one copy (paperback, Michael Glenny translation) of The Master and Margarita.
Bought it and devoured it in a day, sitting on a bench in Green Park. . . .
Perhaps it won’t be 18 years before I email you again.
Cheers.
Write anytime!