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He opens his mouth to speak, and I know he will ask the same question he always asks: am I doing this right? And I will answer, I suppose there is nothing wrong with it. That is a lie. But he looks at me, always, with such hope, as if he’d never felt that emotion before in his life.
He says it is because I am his teacher. Perhaps, even, a father that he never got to have, or a brother that he bitterly lost. However, it is apparent that these, too, are lies. His bashfulness betrays his words. There is something behind that eagerness to learn, that willingness to follow, that loyalty in arms. He thinks I do not know.
He expects me to understand it all. They all do, really. I am barely older than the rest, but I suppose it is the price I pay for being a pioneer. If you don’t know, ask Soviet. As if they ever listen to me. As if they will not turn away the moment I oppose their misguided interpretations. The West sees us as a monolith; as irony will have it, we are more fractured than they are.
He shifts through expressions like those opera masks of his. Shock, anger, hurt, confusion. Admirably, he justifies these reactions as purely political, grounded in the fracturing of his trust in me. As an ideological leader, of course. It’s impressive, really, how he manages to twist meaning. I tell him this, that he has potential, that he will fare well without me. He chokes on his disbelief. How could I be so cold? How could I be so cold to my best apprentice when he’s seen my warmth for my worst enemy? I do not answer him. I let him hold on to the belief that he feels nothing for me; it is the least I can do.
He opens his mouth to speak, and I know he will ask the same question he always asks: am I doing this right? And I will answer, I suppose there is nothing wrong with it. That is a lie. The fault is that he expects me to give an answer I cannot give. He expects me to know what I do not, act years beyond my age, be the version of me he created in his own mind. He is not doing this right, he never has.
But he looks at me, with such hope, as if he’ll never feel that emotion again in his life.