Byzantium Endures (40 page)

By the time I reached our quiet, unlit street, I had realised I must support any authority, even if it were socialist. My arms and back ached horribly. I tugged the bags up the dark, smelly staircase to our landing. I knocked at the apartment door. There was silence. I went up a flight and pulled Captain Brown’s bell. Soon the old Scot stood quivering in the opening. His breath was heavy with homemade vodka. His eyes were scarcely able to focus.

‘It is I.’

He coughed in surprise. He wiped at his untrimmed moustache as if it were a piece of food he had found adhering to his lip. ‘Your mother will be very pleased.’

‘Mother isn’t in.’

‘Bring your bags.’ He gestured a welcome. ‘Thieves everywhere. You might have been murdered. The envious wretches will kill anyone with a hint of refinement.’ He stumbled down after me and tried to pick up a suitcase. He failed. I had never seen him so helpless. He was old and pathetic.

We entered his hollow flat. Through all my childhood it had been a piece of the Britain I loved: trophies on the walls, English pictures and books. Even the carpets had seemed English. Now the captain had sold everything of value. I was appalled. I wished someone had warned me of his decline. He sat on a bare table and apologised. ‘Hard times. The War. Your mother works late at the laundry. They had to release half the staff. Others have gone off God knows where. Into the countryside, probably, to join the looting. The government’s trying to stop it. Could be worse. The first days were horrifying.’ He poured cloudy vodka into a glass. ‘A dram?’

I accepted. It looked poisonous. He said, ‘With luck things will soon be normal. Prince Lvov isn’t interested in Ukrainian independence and Kerenski wants us to go on fighting the Germans.’

I smiled and sipped the awful stuff. ‘You’ve been infected by politics, Captain Brown.’

‘It’s a political world.’ He slumped. ‘Esmé went to Galicia. Did she write?’

I was disappointed. ‘When did she leave?’

‘Two weeks ago. Mixed force. British motor division and Cossack cavalry. A lot of desertion. Hope the little girl’s all right.’ He became hazy. Again he wiped at his moustache as if bewildered by it. ‘They’re not kind to women are they? They conscripted peasants. And Mongols?’

I began to worry. ‘The nurses should be recalled.’

‘Won’t come back. Too noble.’

I explained to Captain Brown that I needed rest. Could he let me in downstairs? He regretted there had been an incident. He could not remember it clearly, but he had insisted afterwards that my mother take back his set of her keys. There was now a spare at the laundry. I did not have the energy to walk to the laundry so I remained seated on one of the captain’s last decrepit chairs. The vodka made me light-headed. I had no desire to greet my mother smelling of cheap alcohol, but the stuff jolted me awake whenever I began to doze. Captain Brown had lapsed into English. He was telling a story of Pathans on the North West Frontier, mixed with almost identical tales of the Malay Archipelago, and of coal-mines in Welsh valleys, where dynamite had caused subsidence, destroying villages. Dynamite was the common feature of all three tales: its misuse by people who did not understand it, its need to be properly placed, to be fitted with the correct detonators. Captain Brown kept confusing the various locations. Pathans appeared in Merthyr Tydfil and Celtic pit-men in Surabaya.

At length I heard a sound on the landing below. I went to the banister and looked down. My mother, straight-backed as ever, with her marvellous hair piled neatly on top of her head, wearing a smart, black overcoat, black dress, and black boots, was opening our door. ‘Mother!’ I descended.

She turned. She began to weep. She made no attempt to come to me. I was unable to move towards her. Perhaps she had reconciled herself to my disappearance or even to my death. Now she could not believe her son (elegant and poised, if rather tired) stood before her. Eventually I reached her and embraced her, kissing her hand as she kissed my forehead. She asked me if I would be staying for a meal. I assured her I would stay for some time. Shaking with emotion, she took me by the arm and led me into the flat. I found the place homely, simple and comforting. With a sigh I paused and looked around me. I smiled, it is good to be here.’

‘Oh, my dear son.’ Again we embraced.

She began to engage herself with the stove, with the samovar, with the soup-pot. Captain Brown knocked lightly on the door before dragging my bags in. I explained I had bought presents which had then been stolen. They commiserated. Captain Brown collapsed onto my mother’s couch. He said I had been lucky to arrive with so much. How were things in the capital? I said they were not good. Captain Brown had heard that Americans were arriving in huge airships with some kind of ray to kill thousands at a stroke, ‘It might conclude the War and let the Tsar restore order. The end of trench-fighting. But the buggers seem to have become attached to those holes in the ground. You’d think they were all bloody Welshmen!’ He laughed heartily at this obscure racial joke. My mother had not realised he had sworn. In her presence he never swore in Russian. One Russian oath is worth twenty Greek ones. In the company of men, Captain Brown could have won any argument in any tavern in Kiev by the sheer force and colour of his vocabulary. Now his head fell upon his chest and he began to snore. He had left his bottle behind but its effects remained with him for an hour.

My mother hurried about laying the table, heating the soup, cutting the bread, complaining it was like sawdust. She had found two cockroaches in the last loaf. She had had to queue for those cockroaches the best part of an evening after work, in the freezing cold. She knew of several women who had caught bronchitis or pneumonia and died in bread queues. It was ridiculous when everyone knew Ukraine was the bread-basket of Russia. This sounded almost like the cry of a nationalist. I said we were luckier than people in Petrograd, but there were some living better than the Tsar in parts of Siberia and the Caucasus. Supply trains had been diverted and they had to eat their produce or let it rot. (All those nationalists ever aspired to was fat bellies and brainless contentment. I still see them with their silly banners and hunger-strikes near the Russian Embassy. I laugh at them. If I were in the Embassy looking out I would think what idiots they were. Their ‘nation’ is more independent now than it ever was. I wonder why they will not return. Could it be they prefer life in a country where they can complain freely as they fill themselves up with soup and meat every day? At home they would not see so much as a cabbage or slice of goose from one week’s end to another. I long to be buried in my native soil. It is Russian soil. But the Bolsheviks have long memories. They hanged Krassnoff, then over seventy, because he had been Hetman of the Don Host. They found him in Germany in 1945. They had his name on their list of enemies. He had done nothing except lead his Cossacks into honourable battle and write good books about the Russian problem. But the Reds took this doddering, harmless old fellow from his flat and hanged him. I, too, have attacked Bolshevism.)

Captain Brown woke to seat himself at the far end of our table. He stared for some while at the bowl of soup before he picked up his spoon and then, as one unused to the exercise, began to eat. My mother watched him affectionately. ‘I haven’t been able to feed him properly.’

Considering her long hours and hardships, I thought she looked well. She agreed. Something had brought out the best in her. She had gathered her strength. Doing the work herself was easier than supervising those girls. She had been more like a Mother Superior, sometimes, than a laundress. Captain Brown laughed at this and splashed some of his soup. He apologised. Placing his spoon neatly in the plate, he lapsed into sleep again. ‘He has not been well,’ said my mother. ‘The drink’s at the root of it. I’ve been too tired to cook for him every day, you know. We eat our main meal at the laundry to save time. I come home,’ she shrugged, looking about her, ’as you see, to sleep.’ It was true the flat had a neglected air, but I preferred it. Flat and mother both seemed more relaxed. ‘Of course, I miss Esmé.’ She sighed. ‘Such a beautiful girl.’ She asked me when I intended returning to Petrograd.

‘I was advised to let things settle down a bit,’ I said. ‘A month or two and I can collect my Special Diploma. It will be useful. I’d hoped to serve the government, but now I’ll try for a job, perhaps in Kharkov, with a good firm. I have plenty of ideas to be patented. It’s even possible I could work independently.’

‘What shall you do until you get your Diploma?’

‘Sleep.’ I patted her shoulder and bent forward to kiss her cheek .

‘You shall have Esmé’s bed,’ she said.

* * * *

NINE

I WAS SOON more at ease in a chaotic Kiev than I had been in Petrograd. I knew my city’s streets, its alleys, its short-cuts between buildings. I knew the areas hooligans preferred and where I could avoid the worst of them. I knew houses where I could hide. Our district, being a suburb, was relatively undisturbed. It was poor, offering very little for the wandering riff-raff. We were also lucky in that Podol was a main target for the looters. As the Dnieper ice began to break up, sending huge creaking, groaning and snapping sounds echoing throughout Kiev, I found I had developed something of Mother’s resilience. The ghost of my father had been laid to rest. My mother, as the widow of a martyred revolutionist, could not now be more respectable. Things might get worse, but it would make a change, as we used to say. In fact things improved for me. I decided to try taking over some of Sarkis Mihailovitch Kouyoumdjian’s old customers. Engineers were in short supply. I had met one or two people who had asked desperately after my ex-boss. Since he had left Kiev half the local machine-shops no longer operated. I had only a tenth of the Armenian’s practical experience and his feeling for broken-down engines. Even so, I knew I should have plenty of business.

I did a few small jobs for the Podol Jews who had been Kouyoumdjian’s main customers. They were overwhelmingly grateful. They paid almost anything I asked. Like my former master, I became a jack-of-all-trades, fixing electrical equipment, steam-engines, internal combustion engines, all devices not powered by man, child or beast. Indeed, I was willing to do what I could with anything containing cogs or levers. Thus, I soon had a fair bit of money with which to buy myself more sophisticated tools and some to set aside at home (the banks were not trustworthy). I used Captain Brown as a part-time assistant. With a job to do he became more sober during the day. My mother could have given up her laundry work, but she, too, was enjoying herself. It would have been pleasant to have seen Esmé from time to time, since we had been such good friends. She would have relished my success. There were more than enough women to satisfy my sexual needs. With money in my pocket, I became a very popular fellow in the cabarets where I spent an evening or two a week. The only shadow on my mind was the fact that I still had not heard from Professor Matzneff about my Diploma. Until I had it, I could not write off to the important engineering concerns applying for the job which would also help keep me out of the army. I had reduced my cocaine consumption to almost nothing, though our ‘Mother City’ became one of the main supply centres. Several of the women I saw were old friends from Petrograd. There were poets here, and painters and entertainers who knew me. My social contacts became very wide and useful. I took to dressing in expensively fashionable suits. Spring grew warmer. I bought myself a straw boater with an English-style band, and a silver-topped cane. I could go into any shop in Kreshchatik and purchase what I wished. I could hire carriages. And all this with honestly earned money. By day, and sometimes by night, I was a mechanic, in dirty blue cotton covered in oil. When I visited the centre of Kiev, I became the most elegant of youths. I always took the precaution of keeping only a minimum of money about my person and I preferred to travel in company. Many new little theatres and cinemas had opened up in the city, just as they had done earlier in Petrograd. The Foline Ballet Company arrived in Kiev and with it my old friend Seryozha Andreyovitch Tsipliakov. He greeted me elaborately when he came, at my invitation, to a private room of
The Hotel Arson.
The place had been renovated and taken over by Ulyanski. It was decorated in bizarre, explicitly sexual murals which never could have been tolerated a few months before. I found it convenient for a number of reasons. I chose to turn a blind eye to its vulgarities. It had become one of the main artistic and émigré meeting places in Kiev. Seryozha was impressed by my elegance and surroundings. He hugged me to him. I returned his embrace with affection. If it had not been for him I should never have met Kolya. We sat down to dine. I asked him if he had seen our mutual friend recently.

He told me Kolya had become too proud and had dropped everyone, that he was now a Prince and involved in the Arts Ministry but was unwilling to look after his old friends. Seryozha said he was planning to leave the Foline and go to America at the first chance. He asked where he could find some little boys and some cocaine. I told him and we parted. I had become oddly homesick for Kolya and Petrograd. I even considered returning there. But the fanatics were steadily gaining the upper hand in the government. The ‘Bolshevik coup’ of October was a natural consequence and everyone had expected it. Kerenski unleashed the whirlwind and was consumed by it. It is a shame Stalin could not have taken over at once, but History, that mystical force Bolsheviks invoke in place of God, was against him. He would never be able to rid himself of the Tatar Lenin and the Jew Trotsky sitting on his shoulders, whispering into his ears, even though he had killed them both.