Foreigners (18 page)

David saw this in Yekaterina's face as well and his own features in response became gloomy. Whereas a sulk on the face of some can make them strangely more attractive, it had the opposite effect on David. His petulance caused his bottom lip to fatten and his cheeks to sink into his skull; his eyes became hollow and his brow furrowed so that he looked a man much older than his twenty-five years: any semblance of his handsome dark-eyed, strong-jawed Georgian aspect vanished. He had turned himself out well in a sombre grey serge suit with a waistcoat and a white, buttoned shirt and black tie— the costume of the movement's intelligentsia, fashioned carefully after the clothes worn by Comrades Lenin and Trotsky. But he might as well have been wearing a burlap sack for all
Yekaterina noticed. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared at the floor.

From where he was standing in the doorway, Alexander could see that David was preparing to speak, and from the way he held his body, Alexander knew that what the other man had to say would be an incitement to Iosif. The two men had attended seminary together, and although they both eschewed the priesthood for the same cause, they had taken divergent paths: David now followed the path of thought, Iosif that of force. It had often put them at odds with one another. And there was, of course, the question of Yekaterina to consider.

So to avoid any confrontation—knowing full well that an exchange of words would benefit David, who in the eyes of his mother, if not in Yekaterina's, was held in far higher esteem— Alexander stepped forward and made to speak himself. But before any words could pass his lips, his mother pushed by him carrying a tray of tea and
kada.
David was quick to get to his feet and relieve her of her burden. As he set it down on the table, she patted him gently on the cheek.

“You are such a good boy, David Suliashvili,” she said. “Your mother must be very proud of you.”

David offered a brief bow. “All sons should try to make their mothers proud,” he said and looked openly toward Iosif still standing propped against the mantelshelf. Then he took a pastry from the tray, popped it into his mouth, and chewing it said, “And I do not think I have ever tasted such wonderful
kada.
You must give me the recipe so I may pass it on to my own dear mama.”

In the corner of the sitting room Alexander's father stirred in his chair. He had fallen asleep after dinner, but the
commotion of tea and pastry had roused him. Seeing that his wife was pouring out strong black tea into tall samovars he grunted his dissent, then pulled himself from his deep chair and crossed to where his drinking horns hung from a peg on the wall beside an ikon of the Virgin. He took one down, found a bottle of wine on the sideboard and removed the cork.

“Koba,” he said, his voice still gruff with sleep, “have some wine with me and leave the tea and cakes for the women.”

Iosif offered his own semblance of a bow, an awkward and somewhat insufficient imitation of David's, and replied, “I thank you, sir, but I must refuse. It muddles the senses.”

Again Alexander's father grunted and proceeded to fill his horn with wine. He took a long drink, then wiped his lips with the back of his sleeve. “I do not trust a man who refuses a drink,” he said, eyeing Iosif.

“Some people do not trust a man who takes one too easily.”

It was Yekaterina who spoke, and all turned to look at her in the rocking chair, where she continued to embroider as if nothing had been said.

“And some insolent daughters deserve to be punished when they speak,” said her father as he took a step toward her, his barrel chest thrust forth in indignation.

Iosif moved away from the mantelshelf, not so far as to bar the bigger man's path, but enough just to catch his attention. The room went very quiet, and there appeared now in the aspect of Alexander's father a pellicle of fear; it descended over his features like an early spring mist, growing thicker and more obscuring as Iosif spoke.

“I do not think Yekaterina meant you any disrespect,” he said, his voice taking on a wintry tone. “I believe she only
spoke of imbibers in general. There are those who lose their reason when they are in their cups. Not you, of course, sir, but others. Is that not what you meant, Yekaterina?”

Alexander looked to his sister, to the warmly appreciative and satisfied smile that touched her lips.

“Why yes, Iosif Vissarionovich,” she said sweetly. “You have understood me well. As have you always.”

Not liking the confidence that had just passed between her daughter and her son's shabby friend, Alexander's mother spoke up in a harsh voice.

“Tell me, Soso,” she said, using the hated pet name that his own mother had called him by, “are we to understand that you are now an Ottoman?”

Iosif turned his dark eyes on her, but did not allow her taunt to upset the pleasure he had taken from Yekaterina's obvious affection.

“You might say,” he replied, touching the top of his fez with his crooked left hand, “that this is my one concession to fashion. Besides, it is the headwear of our worker brothers to the west. When the revolution comes, it will spread well beyond Tsarist boundaries, and so we must be prepared with the foreknowledge of our comrades' ways. And how better to understand them than to walk in their clothes?”

“That is utter foolishness,” said David, finding himself able now to release his frustration at being overlooked by Yekaterina.

“Really?” said Iosif with undisguised contempt. “I would have thought it the reason for your dressing like a bourgeois office clerk, so that you might know how better to cut them down when the time is ripe.”

His words hung in the air like an implicit threat. Alexander moved quickly to diffuse the tension. He set his samovar back down on the tray and kissed his mother on the cheek.

“It was a lovely supper, Mama,” he said. “But Koba and I must go now. We have much still to do this evening.”

“More juvenile intrigue, I suppose,” David said, though his voice now lacked all authority.

Iosif stepped close to him.

“It is only by virtue of our juvenile intrigue,” he said through a hollow grin, “that thinkers like yourself, David Suliashvili, can claim any importance. You should not forget that.”

Then Iosif executed a second bow, this one far more graceful than his first, and said, “I thank you all for your very kind hospitality.”

Alexander waited in the shadows while Iosif spoke to the watchman in the guardhouse of the brickworks. After a moment his friend waved him over. The guard, drawing a large key from his ring, unlocked the gates and let them swing open for the two men. Iosif put a hand on Alexander's shoulder and ushered him through, saying, “Kamo and the others are already inside waiting for us. The tools have arrived.”

They followed the watchman across the yard, past the brick kilns to the warehouse at the back of the works. There they saw light through the windows. Alexander noticed Iosif shaking his head at the sight of this, and then reaching out with his crooked hand to grab hold of the watchman's sleeve.

“Did you not tell them to be secretive?” he said, his voice clipped. “Do they not know that the Tsarists are watching out for us?”

“I told them so, Comrade Koba,” the watchman said. He was a big man, thick through the shoulders with a great stone of a head, yet under Iosif's questioning he seemed almost to shrink in on himself. “But Simon Ter-Petrosyan . . . I mean Comrade Kamo, told me to mind my own business and showed me his pistol.”

“Very well,” said Iosif. “Lead on.”

As they reached the door of the warehouse they could hear laughter coming from inside. The sound of the voices, along with the burning lights, served to worsen Iosif's mood. And although Alexander could not clearly see his friend's face in the darkness, he knew that it had hardened with fury. Iosif himself took hold of the door and flung it back on its rusting hinges. The light flooding out momentarily blinded Alexander, whose eyes had grown accustomed to the dark. But Iosif stepped into the glowing warehouse as if the new brightness had no effect on him.

“If I were the
gendarmerie,”
he bellowed, “you would all be dead men.”

Those inside stopped what they were doing and stared at the figure planted in the door frame.

“Simon Ter-Petrosyan,” Iosif called out, eschewing the other man's party name in his flush of anger. “Come here at once.”

From the back of the warehouse a young man came forward. He was tall and handsome, his dark hair framing his olive face, his dark eyes offering a warmth that was
absent in Iosif's. He approached with almost sheepish steps, on his lips the shy smile of a child who knows he has been caught misbehaving.

“Koba,” the young man said, drawing close and opening his arms. “I am so happy that you have at last arrived. Tell me, how did you find Yekaterina this evening?”

The words seemed to catch Iosif momentarily off his guard, and he hesitated; it was interruption enough for his anger to diminish.

“That's enough, Kamo,” he said. “Do not try and change the subject. What is this with all of the lamps burning and the noise you are making? From outside, this place sounds like a reception hall. You know very well that the
gendarmerie
are trying to keep us under surveillance.”

“Koba, Koba,” Simon Ter-Petrosyan said, playfully putting his arm around Iosif's shoulder. “We took precautions. I have men outside keeping watch.”

“I saw no men.”

“You were not meant to,” said Simon. “They are very good. They could slit a man's throat before he had the chance to feel the knife. Not yours, of course. They know the great Koba by sight.” Simon turned to Alexander and winked. “But you, Alyosha,” he said. “You will need to take more care. I am afraid they do not yet know your face.”

Alexander did his best to share in the joke, but there was an undertone to it that disturbed him, a hint of warning that said Simon would not hesitate if such a thing were asked. The young man was devoted to Koba, and it was a devotion that caused in Alexander some concern—such fealty could prove dangerous.

“Enough banter,” Iosif said. “Show me what we have.”

“Yes, of course.” Simon's eagerness was as childlike as had been his earlier humility. He led them to the rear of the warehouse where there stood parked two phaetons, their harnesses empty. On the floor between the buggies was a collection of crates. Simon knelt beside one and pulled back the loose packing straw to reveal a number of small grey metal cylinders. Iosif shrugged.

“They are new,” said Simon with a catlike grin. “Comrade Krasin's latest noisemakers.”

“But do they work, Kamo?”

“Oh, Koba, they do indeed. The raid last week in Batum. One alone killed two draw horses and a
gendarme.
It exploded beneath the carriage wheels and lifted it clear off the ground.”

“Very good,” said Iosif, nodding with approval. “And weapons?”

Simon lifted the lid of a second crate, longer and thinner than the first. Inside, fitted into wooden slats, were five factory-new Mosin-Nagant rifles. “We have enough for each man,” he said. “And we have revolvers enough, as well. It is best that we have two guns each, in case anything goes wrong.”

Iosif continued to nod. “Very good,” he said. “Very good.” Then he looked around the warehouse at the other men. They appeared tired and haggard, their clothes worn and their hair dirty—like proper workers. “Yes, Kamo,” he said with approval. “I think it is all very good.”

“But the best is still to come, Koba.” Simon smiled. He turned then and reached beneath the seat of the nearest phaeton and withdrew a tunic. It was that of a Tsarist artillery
officer, and was brushed clean and had polished buttons.

“Mikhail Ivanovich shall wear it,” Simon explained. “His fiancée, Karolina, has agreed to ride alongside him. In the other phaeton will be Vasily Gregorovich, and he shall be accompanied by Mikhail Ivanovich's sister, Lidia. They will appear like nothing more than two lovesick couples courting in the summer's sun.”

“You have outdone yourself, Kamo,” Iosif said. “Tell me, though, where did you get the uniform?”

Simon lowered his eyes as if in apology and said, “Let me say only that the good officer no longer has need of it.”

Then, reaching a hand inside the tunic, he poked his finger through a small hole just below the left breast pocket. When he did this, his eyes widened again and he gave a hearty laugh.

“Oh, yes, Kamo. Very good, indeed,” said Iosif. “You do the revolution proud. Now, I shall let you finish your preparations, and then I would like to speak to the men.”

Alexander followed Iosif to a table on the far side of the warehouse near a small window that looked out onto the yard. Sitting down, he watched his friend pack his straight black pipe with tobacco and light it, the sweet-smelling smoke cutting through the mustiness of the warehouse air. Iosif appeared pleased with himself. For a long while he blew lazy clouds of smoke toward the loose windowpanes, watching as the draft coming through the gaps in the frames curled the fumes.