Report to Grego (61 page)

“One medium-sweet!” he cried in a waiter's singsong.

Memories of Greece arose in him, and his Cephalonian blood began to boil. He started to sing some ancient songs he had heard in the Greek quarter of Br
ila:

O to be a butterfly,

and fly near you . . .

Greece was rising from his vitals. The prodigal son yearned to return to the land of his fathers now. Suddenly, full of passion, he made his decision: “I'm going back to Greece!”

He had grown tired. Coughing, he returned to bed and sipped his coffee.

Sitting up in bed and lighting one cigarette after the other, he began to talk with passionate slovenliness about Russia, then
about his work and its principal hero, Adrian Zographi, who suffers because he searches for a friend all his life and does not find one. His desires are undisciplined, his heart insurgent, his mind incapable of regulating chaos.

I regarded Istrati with much love and compassion. I sensed that his life was undergoing a decisive change but that he still had not settled to himself which road to take. He kept looking at me with his tiny inflamed eyes, as though seeking my aid.

“Adrian, the hero of your books, is you,” I said to him with a laugh. “Identical! You're not the revolutionist you think you are; you're the
homme révolté!
The revolutionist has system, order, and coherence in his activity, a bridle on his heart. You are a rebel and find it very difficult to remain faithful to one idea. Now that you've set foot in Russia, however, you must put things in order inside yourself and come to a decision. You have a responsibility to do so.”

“Leave me alone!” he cried, as though I had grasped him by the throat. But a moment later he asked me in an anguished tone, “Are you sure?”

“The Romanian Adrian Zographi is dead,” I declared, and I caught hold of Istrati's emaciated arm, as though wishing to console him. “Long live the Russian Adrian Zographi! Panait, it's time you left Br
ila's narrow districts. The world's anxiety and hope have broadened, and Adrian has broadened as well. Let the personal, disorderly rhythm of his life join with the world-wide rhythm of Russia, so that it may finally acquire coherence and faith. The time has come to put into effect the lofty equilibrium which Adrian—and Panait—sought in vain for so many years, because now it can base itself not on the inconsistent destiny of a single individual, but on the dense struggling masses of a colossal people.”

“Enough!” cried Istrati, irritatedly. “Enough! What devil brought you here? I've thought about all you've said day and night as I've lain here on my bed. But you don't ask if I can. You shout ‘Jump' at me, but you don't ask ‘Can you?'”

“We'll see, Panaitáki,” I replied. “Don't get excited. Jump, and we'll see how far you get.”

“Good God, this isn't a game! How can you talk like that? It's a question of life and death.”

“Life is a game and so is death,' I said, rising. “A game—and whether we win or lose depends on just such a moment as this.”

“Why did you get up?”

“I'd better go. I'm afraid I've tired you.”

“You're not going anywhere! You'll stay, we'll eat, and in the afternoon we'll go out somewhere together.”

“Where?”

“To see Gorki. He sent a message; he's expecting me. Today I shall see this celebrated European Istrati for the first time.”

His embittered voice revealed a childish envy of the great model.

He jumped out of bed and dressed himself. We went outside. He kept a tight grip on my arm.

“We shall become friends,” he kept saying to me. “Yes, we shall become friends, because I already begin to feel the need of giving you a punch in the nose. You'd better learn that I can't feel friendship without punches. We've got to quarrel now and then and crack each other's skulls—do you hear? That's the meaning of love.”

We entered a restaurant and sat down. He took a tiny vial of olive oil from around his neck, where it hung like a talisman, and poured the oil into his thick meat soup. Next, he sprinkled the soup with ample pepper from a little box which he removed from his waistcoat pocket.

“Oil and pepper!” he said, licking his lips. “Just like in Br
ila.”

We ate with zest. Istrati was recalling his Greek little by little; each time a word rose out of his memory he clapped his hands like a child.

“How do you do!” he shouted at each word. “How do you do! And how are you today?”

He kept his wits about him, however, and every few minutes looked at his watch. Suddenly he got up. “It's time,” he said. “Let's go.”

Calling the waiter, he purchased four bottles of good Armenian wine, filled his overcoat pockets with little packages of mezédhes, loaded his cigarette case to overflowing, and we were off.

Istrati was excited; he was about to see the great Gorki for the first time. He doubtlessly expected hugs, tablefuls of food, tears, laughter, and conversation followed by more conversation, then, hugs and more hugs all over again, without end.

“You're excited, Panait,” I said to him.

No answer. Irritated, he quickened his pace.

We reached a large building and climbed the stairs. I kept looking at my companion out of the corner of my eye; I enjoyed watching his slender, gangling body, his workingman's hands that had known so much labor, his insatiable eyes.

“Can you control yourself now that you're going to see Gorki?” I asked him. “Can you keep from launching into hugs and shouting?”

“No!” he replied angrily. “What do you think I am, an Englishman? How many times do I have to tell you that I'm a Greek, a Cephalonian. I shout, I hug, I give of myself. Your worship can play the Englishman if you like. . . . And if you must know,” he added a second later, “I prefer to be alone. I find your presence annoying.”

The words were hardly off his tongue when suddenly there stood Gorki on the landing, a cigarette butt glued to his lips. He was huge and heavy-boned, with sunken jaws, prominent cheekbones, small blue eyes that looked anxious and afflicted, and an indescribably embittered mouth. Never in my life had I seen so much bitterness on a man's mouth.

Istrati mounted the stairs three at a time the moment he saw him, and seized his hand.

“Panait Istrati!” he shouted, ready to fall upon Gorki's broad shoulders.

Gorki offered his hand calmly, without speaking. He regarded Istrati with an expression which betrayed not the slightest sign of either joy or curiosity.

After a moment, he said, “Come in.”

He went first at a calm pace, Istrati following behind nervously, the mezédhes and the four bottles of wine protruding from his overcoat pockets.

We sat down in a small office full of people. Gorki spoke nothing but Russian, and it was difficult to start the conversation. Istrati began to bibble-babble with great excitement. I do not remember what he said, but I shall never forget the ardor of his discourse, the tone of his voice, and his broad gestures and fiery eyes.

Gorki answered calmly and succinctly in a sweetly modulated voice, incessantly lighting cigarettes. His embittered smile gave his
peaceful talk a deeply concentrated air of tragedy. You sensed in him a man who had endured much and who continued to endure much, a man who had seen sights so horrible that nothing, neither the Soviet celebrations and cheering, nor the honors and glory he had received, could ever again efface them. Flooding up behind his blue eyes was a calm, incurable sadness.

“My greatest teacher was Balzac,” he said. “When I read him, I remember, I used to lift the pages to the light, look at them, and exclaim with dismay, ‘Where can a person find so much strength? Where can he find the great secret?'”

“What about Dostoevski and Gogol?” I asked.

“No, no. Of the Russians, only one: Leskov.”

He fell silent for a moment.

“But above all—life. I suffered greatly, and I developed great love for everyone who suffers. Nothing else.”

He remained silent, following with half-closed eyes the blue smoke from his cigarette.

Panait brought out the bottles and placed them on the table; he brought out the packages and packets of mezédhes. But he lacked the courage to open them. He realized that it was not fitting. The atmosphere he expected had not developed. He had expected something quite different. He thought the two tormented heroes of trial would drink and shout, utter grand speeches, sing and dance until the very earth commenced to thunder. But Gorki was still plunged in his trials, still nearly without hope.

He rose. Several of the young men present had called him, and he shut himself up with them in the adjoining office.

“Well, Panait,” I asked when he was gone, “what do you think of the master?”

Istrati opened a bottle with a spasmodic movement.

“We don't have any glasses,” he said. “Can you drink from the bottle?”

“Yes.”

I took the wine.

“Here's to!” I said. “Man is a desert beast, Panait. Each man is surrounded by a gulf, and there are no bridges anywhere. Don't get upset, Panaitáki. Didn't you know this?”

“Hurry up and drink so I can have my turn,” he said disgustedly. “I'm thirsty.”

He wiped his lips. “I knew it. But I keep forgetting.”

“That's your great virtue, Panait. Alas if you didn't know it—you'd be an idiot. And knowing it, alas if you didn't keep forgetting—you'd be cold and insensitive. Whereas now you're a real man—warm, full of absurdities, a skein of hopes and disappointments—to the death.”

“Well, we've seen Gorki now. That's that!” He replaced the bottles in his pockets, collected the packages and packets, and we left.

On our way he said to me, “I thought Gorki extremely cold. And you?”

“I though him extremely embittered. Inconsolable.”

“He should have screamed, drunk, and wept to lighten his burden!” growled Panait indignantly.

“Once, when the dear ones of a certain Mohammedan emir were killed in a war, the emir issued an order to the men of his tribe: ‘Do not weep or scream, lest your sorrow be lightened?' That, Panait, is the proudest discipline a man can impose on himself. And that is why I liked Gorki so very much.”

T
he next day I went by Moscow's great Cathedral, and entered. The boundless temple which had been the boast of czarist Russia was empty, unlighted, and unheated, the multicolored processions of gilt-haloed saints freezing in the desolate winter darkness. The little old lady who kept watch at the offertory table over an empty plate containing not a single kopeck was not sufficient to warm this whole sacred, shivering flock with her breath, which issued like smoke from her mouth and nostrils.

Suddenly, I heard the angelic-sweet voices of men and women singing psalms in the women's gallery high above. Groping about, I found the marble spiral staircase and began to mount. Above me I could discern two or three little old men and women in the dimness. Wearing shawls, they were mounting also, gasping for breath.