The Porcupine by Julian Barnes Page A

climbed Rykosha Mountain. It was late October, and snow had already fallen, and you could not see the summit of the mountain from the city because of the cloud level.’
    ‘You can’t see it all the year round now,’ Solinsky commented. ‘Because of the pollution. Such advances we have made.’
    ‘And we climbed all morning.’ Petkanov was unperturbed by the interruption; his story ran on tramlines. ‘The ground underfoot was rough, with many boulders, and the track was not always clear, and several times we had to cross the river of stones. It’s some … geological thing, I don’t know the name for it. Then we entered the cloud, and for some distance we couldn’t see where we were going, and we were glad that the path was clearly marked, that others had gone before us.
    ‘We were beginning to get hungry and a little disheartened, though none of the comrades complained, and our boots were wet and our muscles aching, when all of a sudden, we came out of the cloud. And there, above the cloudline, the sun was shining, the sky was blue, the snow was beginning to weep, and the air was pure. Spontaneously, without anyone planning it, we all burst into “Stepping the Red Pathway”, and just sang ourselves to the top of themountain, linking arms and marching together.’
    Petkanov looked across at his visitor. For decades the story had provoked sighing nods of assent and wiped-away tears; all Solinsky offered him was black-eyed belligerence.
    ‘Spare me your cheap analogies,’ said the Prosecutor General. God, he had listened to them all his life, the parables, the exhortations, the made-to-measure moralities, the scraps of peasant wisdom. He quoted one that came haphazardly to mind. ‘ To plant a tree, you must first dig a hole .’
    ‘That is true,’ replied Petkanov benignly. ‘Have you ever seen a tree planted without a hole being dug?’
    ‘No, I probably haven’t. On the other hand I’ve seen all too many holes dug where they forgot to plant the bloody trees.’
    ‘Peter, son of my old friend. It would be a mistake to imagine that I know nothing. I know that people live by what you call cheap analogies.’
    ‘I’m glad you said that. We always knew that deep down you despised the people, that you never trusted them. That’s why you spied on them all the time.’
    ‘Peter, Peter, you may be familiar with my voice, but you really should try to hear what I actually say. It might be useful to you in your mighty role as Prosecutor General, apart from anything else.’
    ‘So?’
    ‘So, what I said was, I know that people live by what you call cheap analogies. It is not I who despise them for doing so, but you. Your father was for some time a theoretician. Does he have nice theories about bees nowadays? You yourself are an intellectual, everyone can see that. I am merely a man of the people.’
    ‘A man of the people whose collected speeches and documents run to thirty-two volumes.’
    ‘Then, a hard-working man of the people. But I know how to speak to them, and how to listen.’ Solinsky did not even begin to protest. He was beginning to feel a certain weariness. Let the old man chatter on, they weren’t in court any more. He didn’t believe anything Petkanov said, and he doubted if the former President did either. Was there a rhetorical term to denote this kind of lop-sided conversation, in which hypocritical monologue met contemptuous silence? ‘Which means that I know what the people want. What do people want, Peter, can you tell me that?’
    ‘You seem to have appointed yourself the expert today.’
    ‘Yes, indeed, I am the expert. And what do people want? They want stability and hope. We gave them that. Things might not have been perfect, but with Socialism people could dream that one day they might be. You – you have only given them instability and hopelessness. A crime wave. The black market. Pornography. Prostitution. Foolish women gibbering in front of priests again. The so-called