TIME: Almanac 1993/TIME Almanac 1993.iso/time/041089/04108900.060

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                                                                                BOOKS, Page 120

THE PLACE OF THE SKULL


One of Gorbachev's favorite authors, Chingiz Aitmatov, offers
a violent portrait of drug runners and nature-hating
bureaucrats in his latest novel. Cast as a morality drama of
Dostoyevskian power, Aitmatov's tale can also be read as a
literary reflection of Gorbachev's reforms

By Chingiz Aitmatov


    Few novels have caused as much of a stir in Mikhail
Gorbachev's Soviet Union as The Place of the Skull, by Chingiz
Aitmatov. Set in Soviet Central Asia, it is primarily the story
of Avdiy Kallistratov, a journalist who infiltrates a gang of
anasha (marijuana) smugglers. An ex-seminarian, Avdiy repeatedly
attempts to convert drug runners and wildlife predators to God
until he meets his own calvary in the Moyun-Kum steppes of
Kazakhstan.

    The Place of the Skull is a searing attack on drugs, the
destruction of wildlife, the stupidity of Communist Party
officials in the countryside. But on a deeper level the novel
is a metaphysical reflection on the confrontation between good
and evil, infused with the magical realism that dominates the
works of such novelists as Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Salman
Rushdie.

    When the literary monthly Novy Mir published the novel in
two installments in 1986, the magazine's print run of 427,000
sold out immediately, and millions of copies of the book have
been sold in the Soviet Union. Translated into English, The
Place of the Skull will be published later this month in the
U.S. (Grove; $20.95). A native of the Soviet Asian republic of
Kirghizia, Aitmatov, 60, is one of his country's best-known
writers. His most famous fan: Gorbachev, who says he has read
nearly every word Aitmatov has written.

    In the first excerpt, Avdiy has just been thrown off a
train by drug smugglers. Left to die in a railway ditch, Avdiy
conjures up the conversation between Jesus Christ and Pontius
Pilate shortly before the Crucifixion. In the second excerpt,
Avdiy undergoes his own crucifixion. Taken together, the scenes
create an allegory not only of good vs. evil but also of state
power vs. the individual.

    IT WAS A HOT morning in Jerusalem, promising an even hotter
day. On the Arched Terrace of Herod's palace, beneath the
marbled colonnade where Pontius Pilate had ordered his seat to
be placed, a gentle breeze blew from below to cool the sandaled
feet. The tops of the triangular poplars in the great garden
rustled quietly, their leaves prematurely yellowed in the
dryness of this year.

    From the Arched Terrace perched on this stony mount, there
was a view of the whole city, shimmering in the heat. The city
boundaries, always clearly demarcated, seemed today to merge
into the border of the white desert beyond.

    That morning, a single bird circled high above the great
garden, wings spread wide, passing in regular sweeps as though
swinging like a pendulum suspended from the heavens. It had to
be an eagle or a hawk, since no other bird would have the
patience to circle so slowly or so long through the furnace of
the sky. When he noticed Jesus of Nazareth, who stood shifting
his weight before him, glance upward at the bird, the Procurator
was indignant and even offended at the glance. He spoke
irritably and harshly: "Why look up, King of the Jews? That's
your death circling above!"

    "Death circles above us all," answered Jesus quietly,
automatically putting his hand to the dust-stained bruise on
his eye. As they led him to the judgment of the Sanhedrin, he
had been attacked by a crowd whipped up by the priests and
elders. Had they forgotten how they had once shouted as he rode
in through the city gates on the gray she-ass with her colt
running behind, how they acclaimed him in hope and threw flowers
beneath the hooves of the ass? "Hosanna to the Son of David!
Hosanna in the highest!"

    Now he stood frowning, his clothes torn, before Pontius
Pilate, waiting for whatever might happen next.

    The Procurator was badly out of sorts and mainly, strangely
enough, with himself, with the sluggish way his mind was
working and with his inability to accept a decision. Such a
thing had never happened to him before, either during his time
as an active soldier in the Roman army or during his tour of
duty as a Procurator. Laughable! Instead of giving his immediate
approval to the sentence passed by the Sanhedrin and cutting
down his work load, he was dragging out the interrogation. It
would have been so simple to summon the Chief Priest and his
retinue, who were waiting for his call, and say, "Here you are.
Take your prisoner, and do with him what you have decided." And
yet something prevented Pontius Pilate from taking this simple
step. Was this fool worth taking trouble over?

    "What do you really mean by `bringing the words of your
Father to the people'? You mean making fools of them, getting
the ignorant masses over to your side! Perhaps you should be
bringing His word to me as well? I'm a person, too, you know!"

    "You, Roman Governor, have no need of it as yet, for you do
not suffer or thirst for another kind of life. For you, there
is nothing higher."

    "Right. There is nothing higher than the power of Rome. I
hope that is what you meant to say?"

    "That is what you think, Governor."

    "That is what clever men have always thought," Pilate
corrected him condescendingly. "That is why they say that Caesar
is not a god, but God is like Caesar. Convince me that it is not
so, if you are so sure of yourself. Are you sure that Caesar is
less than God?"

    "He is mortal."

    "Obviously. But while he is alive and well, is there God
above Caesar for men?"

    "There is, Roman Governor, if you choose another dimension
of being."

    "Enough!" cried the Procurator. "We're wasting our time."

    Pontius Pilate gives Jesus one last chance to recant, but
he refuses, explaining why he is prepared to die for what he
believes in. "Let us talk like free men," said Pilate. "I am in
no way dependent on you, and you, as you understand, are on the
threshold of complete freedom, so let's be frank. Did you tell
your disciples that if you were crucified, you would rise again
on the third day, and once arisen, would come back to earth for
a Last Judgment of those who are alive today, and those who are
yet to be born, of all generations since the creation of the
world? What of the Last Judgment?"

    "Has it not struck you, Roman ruler, that it has long since
commenced for us?"

    "Are you trying to say that the whole of our life is one
Last Judgment?"

    "You're not far from the truth. Since our first parents
were driven from the Garden of Eden, what a pit of evil has
yawned beneath us, what wars, cruelty, murders, persecutions,
injustice and humiliation the human race has known! And all the
terrible sins against goodness, against nature committed on this
earth since the world began, what are they, if not a punishment
far greater than the Last Judgment? Is not the purpose of
history to draw thinking creation closer to the divine heights
of love and sympathy? Instead of drawing closer, however, many
lives have been broken in the course of human history, with no
end in sight to the evil that surges up on every side like waves
in the ocean. Is not life in this hell worse than any Last
Judgment?"

    "Well, Jesus of Nazareth, I have listened most carefully to
all you had to say. Do you not have too much hope in human
faith, forgetting how fickle and venal they are out there in the
streets and the squares? One thing puzzles me: Why are you
lighting a fire in which you yourself will be the first to
perish? Without the Caesars, human society could not exist. It
needs the power and majesty of the few and the subjugation of
the many. That is why, in the name of Tiberius, I rule over the
Jews. This is my role in life, and my conscience is at peace.
There is no greater honor than to serve all-conquering Rome!"

    "You are no exception, Roman Governor. Almost every man
thirsts for power over at least one fellow creature. That is
man's misfortune. Nations will perish in the struggle for power
and land. They will tear each other up by the roots and
eradicate each other in the struggle."

    "Stop! I am not one of your pupils. He who is strongest
seizes power, and the strongest will always rule the world. This
rule is as firm as the stars in the sky. It is useless to care
for the human race, and useless for you to want to save it at
the price of your own life. Men will always follow the Caesars
as the sheep follow their shepherds and, bowing to strength and
privilege, will respect the one who proves himself most
merciless and most powerful. Reflect on your illusions and
mistakes at least now, when the hour has come for you to go
under guard to the Place of the Skull. You see the root of all
evil in men's love of power, in subjugating lands and people by
force, but by doing so you are only compounding your guilt in
the eyes of the authorities, for he who is against power is
also, de facto, against those who exercise that power. You wish
to hinder the growing power of Rome, to prevent its taking
control of all the world. Just to want such a thing is enough
to condemn you three times over!"

    The Procurator pulled himself up to his full height beneath
the arches of the terrace and stood there, tall and
broad-browed, with big features and a firm stare, in his
snow-white toga.

    "Just one more time, for the record," he said. "Father:
What do you say his name was? Joseph. Mother: Mary. From
Nazareth. Thirty-three years old. Unmarried. No children.
Incited the people to revolt. Threatened to destroy the great
Temple at Jerusalem and rebuild it within three days. Made
himself out to be a prophet, the King of the Jews. There's the
story of your life in a nutshell."

    "Never mind the story of my life. One thing I will tell
you, though, Pontius Pilate, is that yours will find a place in
history," said Jesus the Nazarene quietly, with a direct,
serious look into the Procurator's eyes. "Forever."

    Pontius Pilate brushed the suggestion aside, flattered,
however, by the notion. Suddenly he changed his tone and
announced triumphantly, "It's our glorious Emperor Tiberius who
will live forever in history. Glory to his name! We are merely
his faithful outriders, nothing more."

    "You know, you really will find a place in history, Pontius
Pilate," he repeated stubbornly, the man who was setting off
for the Place of the Skull, beyond the city walls . . .

    Avdiy awakes from his dream and eventually is enlisted into
helping local authorities boost their meat-production figures
by massacring herds of antelope. Assigned to a five-man team led
by the savagely cruel Ober Kandalov, who seems to be Aitmatov's
stand-in for Stalin, Avdiy is so appalled by the slaughter that
he implores the hunters to stop and turn to God. A drunken
Kandalov orders his men to beat Avdiy. Then, enthroned on a
crate, he gives Avdiy one more chance to recant. "SO, YOU
BASTARD, thought you'd frighten us with your God, did you?
Wanted to ram your God down our throats, you slime! You won't
frighten us with God; you chose the wrong congregation this
time, you filth.

    "We're carrying out an official government assignment,
fulfilling the plan, and you're trying to implement economic
sabotage. You're a bastard, an enemy of the people, an enemy of
the people and the state. There's no room for enemies, wreckers
and saboteurs like you! It was Stalin who said, `He who is not
with us is against us.' Enemies of the people should be rooted
out and destroyed! And you, you church rat, what have you been
doing? Sowing subversion! You wanted to take us for a ride, all
the way to the front door of the church perhaps, eh? I could
strangle you, you runt, as an enemy of the people, and I would
be thanked for it, seeing as you're an imperialist agent, you
snake! I'm your higher authority now, so you renounce your God
or it'll be curtains for you, you pig!"

    Avdiy could not stay up on his knees and fell to the
ground. They lifted him up.

    "Answer me, snake," roared Ober Kandalov. "Renounce your
God! Say there's no God!"

    "There is a God," groaned Avdiy weakly.

    "So that's the way it is!" screeched Mishash. "Like I said,
you tell the bastard one thing, and he answers just the
opposite!"

    Breathless with anger, Kandalov shook Avdiy again by the
scruff of his neck.

    "Let me tell you something, God lover, we're going to put
on a little show for you that you'll remember all the rest of
your days! Haul him over to that tree there, hang him up, hang
the bastard up!" They hauled Avdiy over to a gnarled saxaul
tree spreading its branches at the edge of the hollow.

    "Bring the rope!" shouted Ober.

    Their thuggish horseplay was taking an ominous turn. A
stupid practical joke now threatened to turn into a real
lynching. "There's only one problem, dammit, no cross and nails
in this stinking steppe! A real crying shame!" grumbled Mishash,
noisily cracking off twigs of the saxaul. "That would have been
the thing, to crucify the bastard!"

    "What the hell, we'll tie him on with ropes! It'll be as
good as any nails!" proposed Ober. "We'll stretch him out by the
arms and legs like a frog and lash him so tight he can't even
twitch! Let him hang there till morning, and then he'll learn
what's what! I taught worse than him to dance to my tune in the
army! Hang him up on that branch over there, the high one! Twist
his arm over the top branch and his leg under the bottom one!"

    The deed was done, and Avdiy was incapable of any
resistance. Lashed to the gnarled saxaul tree, bound hand and
foot with ropes, he dangled like a cured skin hung out to dry.
Avdiy could still hear his tormentors cursing, but as if from
a distance. There was a shooting pain in his abdomen, and his
back felt as if some ligament had been snapped or torn, so
agonizingly did it hurt.

    The look of him, something between a scarecrow and a
gibbet, amused them all no end. Ober was particularly inspired.
He had visions of far more impressive and extensive spectacles;
why stop at one rat hanging there in the middle of the steppe?

    "That's what I'd do with the lot of them, like it or lump
it, and don't you forget it!" he threatened, staring up at
Avdiy. "I'd string them all up, everyone who's against us, not
like this but so's they'd croak right away. Hang the lot of
them, and leave them hanging in a long line all around the
world, circling it like a hoop, then no one would ever dare
oppose a single word we said, and they'd all dance to our tune.
Come on now, Commissars, let's have another! What the hell, we
only live once!"

    The final flood of human life was moving in. Before Avdiy's
fading eyes there was a vision of water, an infinite,
uninterrupted expanse without beginning and without end. The
water seethed soundlessly, and silent white waves rolled across
its surface, like a snowstorm over a field. On the very edge of
that soundless sea he could just make out the figure of a man,
and Avdiy recognized him: it was his father, Deacon
Kallistratov. Then Avdiy heard his own voice, speaking as a boy,
repeating to his father his favorite prayer about a sunken ship,
just as he had repeated it so often at home in his childhood,
standing beside the old piano. Only now the distance between
them was immense, and he heard his father's voice ringing with
inspiration, reverberating across the surface of the earth:

    "I ask but for one thing, one miracle. As long as night
follows day and day follows night in the way ordained by You for
our earth, as it spins through the empty wastes of space, as
long as the spray beats salty into the air and the seagulls cry,
may the ship hold its course for the radiant city on the distant
ocean shore, though none may cast anchor there in all the eons
of time. Amen."

    All night long, the silence of the boundless Moyun-Kum
savanna was flooded with bright, blinding moonlight,
illuminating the stiffened figure of a man crucified on a saxaul
tree. The figure was like a large bird with outspread wings,
struck down as it soared heavenward and blown into the branches.