March 17th 2024
Lenin
The whole group kept silent for a while, as if they were poker players, each carefully observing the glance of their opponents. The consultant did not totally trust the art dealer. She had never trusted any. It came from the education received from her father. “Keep your treasures away from the eyes of anybody who does not belong to your household. Experts and dealers are the most dangerous persons with whom to share the pleasure derived from the possession of an unique artwork”, he continuously repeated to her. Most probably referring to Heidi's book. The young lady had the precious volume with her. She had thought that, if something serious should have happened, it would have been better to be in the open space of a hotel hall, where everybody could observe the unexpected scene. The former business consultant had however no bad opinion about Lenin, or his mummy. In the end, he was an old fashioned man, a bonhomme grown up with the petite-bourgeoisie. She sympathised with him and understood his desire of revolt, the passion that brought him to cynically take the power and annihilate one of the most splendid aristocratic traditions the world had ever been able to observe, or admire. Her mother also came from the middle class and it had been hard to tolerate their cultural limitations of those descendents of millers and small landowners. Not to mention the Roman Catholic school she had to attend, where those upstarts reaching the building on a luxury car and wearing a Rolex were kept in high consideration by a good number of the teachers. Those latter, loyal to the Roman Catholic Church as much as to the Christian Democratic Party, also believed to be brilliant and gifted. Their only skill was to promote the most standard mindset and suppress, or denigrate, any original form of expression. The lady realised she was now enjoying a cup of tea in Helsinki and, after all, she was in good company. The British Art Gellerist, or employee of an online gallery, revealed himself to be gifted with a brilliant and earnest conversation. Even Lenin seemed to appreciate his witty sentences. The young man did not always play with the guidelines enforced by the politically correct thought, or antithesis of any kind of logical thought. The former consultant could thus find herself at ease and confident enough to tear down the first level of defence she used to build everytime it was necessary to interact with new people. “Do you also know about Heidi's book?”asked the young lady, suddenly breaking the silence. The question implied that Lenin was fully aware of it. The art dealer slightly moved the head, leaving a free interpretation to the answer. “I cannot really understand what you mean”, reacted the young land, but let’s assume that all we need is a summary of what it is known to me. Perhaps comrade Lenin can fill the gaps of my story. An adventure that began more than one hundred years ago, while my grandfather was stationed on a Greek island. He was part of the Italian garnison, waiting to be repatriated to Italy and be honourably dismissed after four or more years of service. Under that circumstance, by the hand of a Russian spy, most probably an agent of the just born Soviet Union, my grandad received the book that I am going to show you right now. According to the legend, that looks to be true, such a volume conceals the power to keep the body of the Father of the Revolution alive”. Lenin shaked his hand, “Bravo, my young lady, I knew you could do it!”, complimented the Russian mummy. The Briton smiled, convinced that, if Lenin was still alive, there should have been a well grounded, although whimsical reason. He had worked for so long in a market where nothing is impossible, that his mind was open to anything. Lenin spoke again. “I never believed in Kabbalah, nor in anything like magic. Yet, I am aware that my biggest fault, my most horrible crime, has been my aversion to what concerns the needs of the human soul. By depriving the Russian people of its spiritual traditions, I condemned not only the long term goals of the Revolution to fail, but a whole country to die. If Russia is still nowadays in the hands of a tyrant and few irresponsible gangsters, it is all my fault. I signed that book with my blood, joking about my gesture about the request of an old rabbi. We must also recognise his good sense of humour, like those peculiar of the yiddish short stories. Among all the options available in his rich library, the rabbi chose Johanna Spyri’s novel”. At that point, the former consultant extracted Heidi's book and put it on the table. The Briton opened his eyes, fully admired by what he saw. “However, my comrades rarely understand good jokes, as do most fanatics. To avoid offering the Trotskyists or any other among my enemies the excuse of getting rid of me, I consigned the book to a loyal officer, who on his side was sure to be able to rely on a noble and loyal contact living abroad. A friend of the Revolution who could have never betrayed us, your grandfather. However I was not aware that by signing the book, I consigned my soul to those pages. I consequently felt ill and the sadness caused by my death could not have been better expressed as Majakovsky did.”
