Free Oswald's Tale by Norman Mailer Page A

this second day.
    The next morning was Sunday, the third day of his visit, and his birthday, October 18. By his passport she knew he was now twenty, but he looked younger. She gave him a gift. She bought a book by Dostoyevsky
—The Idiot—
for him. And they visited Lenin’s tomb in Red Square. No special reaction. He was waiting for news, but Sunday had no news. Ditto, Monday. Absence of new information. Still, there were reports to file.
    After he had told her of his desire to stay, she reported each afternoon to the proper people. It was very important, you see, for his fate. But she was surprised. They did not seem to pay much serious attention to his case.
    Today, thinking of herself as a source of information to her superiors concerning Oswald, she wonders what value a young girl could bring who had never had such an experience before. At least, she was sincere. But it’s difficult to say what KGB thought.
    Sunday and Monday he was saying maybe he could tell them some secret things. He had served in his armed forces and he had something to tell. Rimma went to her boss and reported that Oswald was now prepared to offer matters of interest. He knew about airplanes; he mentioned something about devices. He said he’d like to meet some authorities. Her boss said, “Oh, go and have another tour,” and Rimma had a feeling that maybe people from Internal Security had come around already to take a quiet look at him. Not to talk to him, just to keep a little watch on him.
    On Tuesday night, however, they told her that he wouldn’t be allowed to stay; he would be refused. She could not give him such bad news then. She waited until the next morning, which was the last day of his visa.
    He was shocked. Very depressed, very tense. She tried to calm him, but now it was as if he were dead. He spent a whole morning with her. So depressed. She did talk him into a trip for that afternoon.
    After taking her big meal at lunchtime, she waited for him downstairs; usually he was punctual—nine sharp was always nine sharp for him; ditto for 2:00 P.M. Now, this afternoon, they had their car and driver waiting, and it was very difficult with cars; you had to reserve carefully in advance. So, by two-thirty she was so worried that she went upstairs to his room without permission.
    The floor lady at the elevator landing said, “He’s still in his room, because I don’t have his key.”
    Rimma said, “Come with me.” They began knocking. Nobody answered. His door was locked from the inside, and so the floor lady couldn’t put her extra key in. They called someone from Internal Security, and a locksmith from their hotel crew joined them, but the locksmith had difficulty opening the door, and finally pushed it open with such a bang that both men fell into the living room. They saw nobody. Rimma, behind them, saw nothing. Then these two men went on to the left and into Oswald’s bathroom. Rimma doesn’t know where they found him, whether in the tub or on the bathroom floor; she couldn’t see from where she was in the hall, and she did not want to. Then they came out and said, “Get an ambulance.” Rimma went down to call, and soon after, a policeman told her that he had cut his wrists. He had said “cut his wrists,” but she didn’t know if it was one or two. “Old Italian method,” he said. Rimma was scared certainly, but also glad. From a moral point of view, she thought it was good that she had come in time. When they brought him out on a stretcher she saw that he was dressed. His clothes were dry. He was lying unconscious on this stretcher and she sat next to him in the ambulance. Up front was a man driving, and another fellow who had helped carry his stretcher. She was alone with him in back, and he looked so weak and thin. His cheeks were hollow; his face was bluish. He looked like a person about to die. If he did, there might be a bad situation for her country, a scandal between U.S. and USSR. Tourists come, and now this