The Story of a Life, page 75
I was relieved from my post by a bushy-haired student in thick glasses, probably the son of a priest. I went down into a foxhole. A small smoky paraffin lamp gave a bit of light. I pulled some bread and a piece of stale smoked sausage out of my knapsack and started to eat. The duty orderly came over, a little man with bright eyes, white scars all over his face and a tattoo on his hand in the shape of a woman’s pursed pair of lips. When he opened his palm, the lips puckered as though ready for a kiss. The tattoo made him enormously popular with the motor boys. He poured me a mug of hot tea, handed me three sugar cubes and patted me on the back, saying: ‘Tea by Vysotsky, sugar by Brodsky and Russia – by Trotsky.5 Right, aren’t I?’
Not waiting for an answer, he left and walked over to the gamblers at the trestle board. Cursing and clowning, he sat down and joined in the game. The guns in the direction of Svyatoshino boomed louder and louder. After every explosion, the lamp poured out ever more smoke. Warm and tired, I fell asleep leaning against the wall of the foxhole. I awoke in the middle of the night to the muffled sounds of swearing and commotion. The gamblers were fighting. They were holding the orderly face down on the trestle board and calmly, methodically punching him in the head. He wasn’t resisting. No doubt he knew he had earned a beating. Three men were needed for a new duty shift in the trench. The motor boys let the orderly go, and three of us – the orderly, a tall man in a cavalry greatcoat and myself – made our way over to the trench.
It was warmer now, and the melting snow sounded like mice scurrying around us. The orderly kept up a stream of cursing until the man in the cavalry coat hissed at him angrily: ‘Shut your trap or I’ll carve you up into little pieces. Got it?’
The orderly spat, moved a bit closer to me, sat back on his haunches, drew a deep breath and said: ‘You won’t carve me up, chum, I’ve already done it myself. Made a proper picture of my mug. I’ve got scars on top of my scars. Haven’t you noticed?’
‘Yes, I noticed,’ I said. I had no interest in talking to this ridiculous man.
‘They aren’t really scars at all,’ he said with unexpected sadness. ‘They’re a strange tale of love written on my hide. That’s how you have to read them.’
He laughed in a curious way, almost as if he were choking. ‘I worked some time ago on a Volga steamer that belonged to the Caucasus-Mercury Company. I was a waiter in the restaurant. Well, on one of our trips, a girl who was about to finish gymnasium boarded the boat at Kostroma on her way downriver to Simbirsk. I’d had lots of women by then – shipboard girlfriends mostly. I had an easy way with them. Some men weep, beat their heads against the wall if a woman falls out of love with them. Not me. I took what I wanted and got more than my share. And if some woman had had enough, so what – good riddance, I’d say! The greedy ones always seemed to fall for me. All the women I knew were greedy – either for love or for money. Most of them were waitresses or kitchen maids, young ones . . . Well . . . so this schoolgirl comes aboard and makes her way to the restaurant for some dinner. All on her little lonesome. Pale, beautiful, and by the look of her this was all new to her and made her feel a bit shy. Her plaits were of pure gold, thick and luxurious, pulled back around the nape of her neck. I brushed them with a hand while waiting on her. Sent a shiver right through me – those plaits seemed somehow so cold and springy. I begged her pardon, of course, but she just frowned, glanced at me, said not to worry and then tidied her hair. A proud girl, you could see it.
‘Well, I thought, I’ve had it this time! What really knocked me over was some sort of purity about her, like an apple tree in blossom, you know, sweet-smelling all over. I was hooked. Feelings took hold of my body, I even started moaning. The thought of her getting off at Simbirsk and me stuck on the boat with my damned broken heart was enough to make me want to bash my head against the wall and howl with misery. But I held myself together. I had to be patient – Simbirsk was still two full days away. I made sure to serve her only the best of everything. I even promised the cook a bottle of vodka if he’d add a little extra garnish to her plates. She was young, inexperienced, and didn’t notice a thing. She was a young lady, just a girl, to be honest. I tried talking to her, even though this was strictly forbidden. Quick, silent service, and no talking to the fine paying customers – those were our orders. Don’t go sticking your dirty mug in where it doesn’t belong, heaven forbid! You’re a servant, so act like one: “Yes, sir!” “Right away, sir!” “May I take your order, sir?” “Thank you very much, sir.” That was for if they tipped you.
‘I was having trouble finding a chance to talk to her. The other waiter, Nikodim, was always hovering around. Then I had a bit of luck – Nikodim went off to the kitchen. I asked her immediately: “Miss, where might you be going?” She raised her eyes – they were dark and grey, her lashes as velvety as the night – and said: “Simbirsk. Why?” That “Why” brought me to my knees. “No particular reason,” I said. “It’s just that since you are travelling alone, I feel I ought to warn you that there all sorts of people on board. One might say dirty people, shameless people, especially when it comes to defenceless young ladies such as yourself.” She looked at me and said: “I know.” And then she smiled. At that moment I knew that I would give all the blood in my body – drop by precious drop without so much as even a groan – for every one of her smiles.
‘I never got another chance to speak to her. I did, however, take the flowers from a couple of the other tables and put them on hers – a small token, I thought, to show her she was dearer to me than all the world. Not that she noticed.
‘Just before Simbirsk, Nikodim kicked up a row, and right in front of her too. “What are you doing taking my flowers from the table? Tulips, no less!” She guessed immediately what was going on and blushed but kept her eyes down.
‘Believe me when I say I’ve never before told this story to a soul. You’re the first. It’s not a thing you can tell the boys. They’ll turn it into something dirty, but I swear to you on the life of my old mother, it was the finest thing I’ve ever known. I may be a crook, an honest-to-God thief if you like, but I’d never stoop so low as to tell this to the gang. Do you believe me?’
‘I do. Tell me, what happened in the end?’
‘It’s not over yet,’ he said, and then repeated himself in an unexpectedly threatening voice: ‘It’s not over yet! That’s what I believe. And you’ve got no right to put doubts in my head. Stop trying to confuse me. So . . . we were supposed to arrive at Simbirsk the next morning, and you wouldn’t guess what I was thinking. I now knew for certain that I couldn’t bear to be parted from her. Whether from afar, or on the sly, I had to follow her until my dying day. I didn’t need much. Just to breathe the air around her would be enough, for any other air was poison for me. Can you believe this? You’ve read books about love – this kind of thing has to be in there. Well, that night I worked out a nice plan in my head. While it was still dark, I stole the takings from the restaurant’s cash box and as soon as we tied up at Simbirsk, I hopped ashore still dressed in my waiter’s outfit as if I were on my way to buy some radishes. Except I never came back.
‘My clothes looked suspicious, but since I had some money, I was able to buy myself a jacket. You can bet I tracked her down. To my good fortune, just across from the house where she was living with her grandmother – an old kind of place with a garden and goose-berry bushes – there was an inn. It was small and rundown, didn’t even have a canary singing in a cage. I took a seat and made myself comfortable. I made up a story about how I was waiting for a friend to buy some geese from him in Simbirsk. The man was obviously late. What I didn’t know myself at the time, you never buy geese in summer, only in autumn.’
‘Well, did you see her?’ I asked.
‘I did. Twice. She waltzed right through my soul and took everything with her. I had no idea what was happening, but I did know this: I was happy. She didn’t suspect a thing, of course, and had no doubt already forgotten all about me. I know, I’m not much to look at – got the teeth of a ferret and the eyes of a rat. What’s more, one eye goes one way, the other another. Damned things. Might as well tear them out. Nope, you can’t buy or steal beauty, try all you will.’
A Petlyura machine-gun fired a lazy burst from the edge of the woods and then went quiet.
‘This is all nonsense,’ he said. ‘The Hetman, Petlyura. And all this fuss and running about. I have no idea what the point of it is, and I don’t care to find out.’
He was silent for a while. I said: ‘Well, go on. Since you’ve started, don’t stop.’
‘I’m not going to. I’d been in Simbirsk no more than ten days when the innkeeper – a kind but sickly sort – took me aside and said in a whisper: “The police have been nosing around here, asking about you. Careful, young fellow, they don’t catch you. You a thief ?” “No, I’m no thief and I never would have been if it hadn’t been for the love of a woman.” “Well, the court won’t take love into account. It’s not in the book. You’d better not come around here anymore. Look out for yourself.” And I decided – nope, no jail for me. I had to be free as a bird if I wasn’t going to lose my woman. I had to give them the slip, cover my tracks.
‘So, I left for Syzran that very day to lie low, but they caught up with me like a sitting duck just three days later. They took me by boat to Samara under the watch of two armed guards. We were approaching Simbirsk. I looked out of the porthole and could see that very house and garden where she lived. I asked the guards: “I haven’t eaten in two days, would you mind bringing me up to the third-class buffet?” Well, they felt bad for me so they took me there. I softly asked the barmaid if I might have a glass of vodka. She poured me one. I drained it in one gulp, then smashed the glass, and began tearing at my face with the jagged pieces still in my hand. It was like I was washing my face with the bloody shards. Because of my unbearable anguish. The whole counter was covered in blood. Ever since I’ve worn these scars on my mug. Made me that much prettier.’
‘And then what?’ I asked.
He looked at me and spat. ‘As if you don’t know. And then . . . shit for supper. Give me a packet of Salve, or I’ll have you by the throat before you can even blink. I’ve got a good grip. Things would be over real quick. Ah, you dumb fool, I’ve told you a pack of lies. And look at you, snivelling like a pup.’
I gave him a packet of Salve.
‘Well, that’s that!’ he said, and got up and slowly walked away down the trench. ‘But if you ever mention a word of this to the gang – now or in thirty years – I’ll kill you dead. I bet you’re writing a little poem in your head just now – “O love, what an enchanting dream!”’
I watched him go, confused by this sudden outburst of anger.
Out of the early morning mist, a shell came screaming from the direction of Kiev. It seemed to be heading straight towards us, and I was not mistaken. The shell hit the parapet and exploded. It sounded as though the air around us had popped like a large iron balloon. Shrapnel whistled through the air like a flight of swifts. The orderly turned with a look of surprise, fell face first into the trench wall, spat one final curse together with a mouthful of blood, and then slumped down into a puddle of muddy snow. A crimson stain slowly spread over the snow.
A second shell exploded near the foxhole. Pan Sotnik jumped out of the bunker. Then the parapet was hit by another shell.
‘Our own guns!’ Pan Sotnik cried in a quivering voice, shaking his fist at Kiev. ‘Shot at by our own troops! Idiots! Scoundrels! You’re shooting your own men!’
He turned to us. ‘Pull back to Priorka. On the double! No panicking! To hell with your damned Hetman.’
We took off running. With the sound of each new shell, we hit the ground. Eventually, we made our way back down to Priorka. The first ones there were, of course, the motor boys. It turned out that the Hetman’s artillery had somehow decided that Petlyura’s men had overrun our trenches and so opened fire on them. As we were retreating, Pan Sotnik stepped over the orderly and without turning round said to me: ‘Take his documents just in case. Maybe we can find his relatives. We can’t really just leave him like a dog.’
The orderly was lying face down. I rolled him over on his back. He was still warm, and even though he was thin, he still seemed very heavy. He had been hit by shrapnel in the neck. The blue mouth tattooed on his hand was smeared with blood. I undid the buttons of the light blue Austrian greatcoat he was wearing and took out of the pocket of his tunic a crumpled and obviously forged identity card as well as an envelope addressed to a ‘Yelizaveta Tenisheva, 13 Sadovaya Street, Simbirsk’.
The bedraggled, dwindling troops of the Hetman’s army had begun assembling on the hay-strewn square in the centre of Priorka. The local inhabitants were coming back out onto the streets, discussing the departure of the Cossacks and rejoicing at their plight with unconcealed relish. But in spite of everything, detachments of German cavalry on their well-fed bays went on calmly patrolling the streets. Hetman or Petlyura – it was all the same to the Germans; the main thing was to maintain order. Upon Pan Sotnik’s command, we dumped all our rifles and ammunition in a pile on the square. The Germans immediately rode up and stood guard over it. They didn’t even bother to look our way.
‘And now, everybody go home!’ said Pan Sotnik, removing his yellow and blue epaulettes and then tossing them on the ground. ‘As best you can. It’s every man for himself. The city’s a mess. Petlyura’s men running up one street, the Hetman’s fleeing down another. So, make sure you look both ways – left and right – before crossing the street. I wish you good luck.’
He smiled awkwardly at his own lame joke, gave us a friendly wave and then hurried away. Some of the Cossacks removed their greatcoats and either sold them then and there to some of the locals for a few kopecks or just gave them away for free and walked away in nothing but tunics stripped of their badges. I was cold and so I kept my greatcoat on, although I did tear off the epaulettes. Wadding stuck out of the holes on my shoulders, and so anyone could immediately guess what I was.
I walked to St Cyril’s Church, where I had been long ago with my father and Vrubel. At that time, this whole neighbourhood, with its knotty elm trees and its deep ravines overgrown with hawthorn bushes, had seemed so mysterious and threatening to me. Now I was slowly trudging up the steep, dirty road to Lukyanovka, and I had no sense of the strangeness of the place, or even of the times. No doubt I was simply too exhausted to notice anything. I was aware, of course, that we were living in an epochal, practically fantastical period in history, but at times it felt like a nightmare or a grotesque distortion of reality. At that particular moment, all I could see was the same dreary sky that had been hanging over these tumbledown suburban streets and hovels thirty years ago. Vague ideas drifted through my mind, and I wondered, how much longer could this ridiculous third-rate show of Hetmans and Atamans and Petlyuras last? How much more of these noisy slogans, of these muddled and hateful notions, exaggerated beyond any sense of proportion, could we take? When would the curtain finally come down on this makeshift stage on which real blood, unfortunately, and not cranberry juice was being shed?
Back in the city I did not look left or right before crossing the street. I was sick to death of this cheap sideshow of war and politics, and anger robbed me of all sense of danger. I walked through a column of Petlyura’s men in my greatcoat with the torn epaulettes and was slammed in the back by rifle butts, although only twice. Groups of ‘true’ Ukrainians standing in sparse lines along the pavements cried ‘Hurrah!’ to the men and looked at me with rabid loathing.
Nonetheless, I managed to make it home, rang the bell, heard Amalia’s joyful voice call out, opened the door, and collapsed in a chair in the hall, light and happy thoughts whirling in my head, even though my greatcoat was pressing on my chest, harder with each minute as though it were some living creature trying to strangle me. Then I realised that it was not the coat, but the long, gnarled fingers of the orderly crushing my neck for a packet of Salve. I saw before my eyes the blue tattooed lips on his hand just before I groaned and passed out. I had had fainting spells like this as a boy. They were always a sign of exhaustion.
1 Symon Petlyura (1878–1926), Ukrainian independence leader, supreme commander (ataman) of the Ukrainian army, president of the Ukrainian People’s Republic 1918–21.
2 Reference to Pushkin’s 1830 drama of the same name.
3 Popular 1913 play by the Russian writer Mikhail Artsybashev (1878– 1927), best known for his scandalous novel Sanin (1907).
4 Alexander Vertinsky (1889–1957), famous cabaret artist, actor, poet and composer.
5 Common anti-Semitic slur of the time with reference to three Jews: Vulf Vysotsky (1824–1904), successful tea merchant; Israel Brodsky (1823–88), founder of one of Russia’s largest sugar manufactories; and Bolshevik Leon Trotsky (1879–1940).
81
The Violet Ray
Next morning, I awoke in my room to the sound of cheering outside and assumed that Pan Petlyura, Ataman of the Ukrainian Army and the Haidamaka Battalion,1 was making his triumphal entry into Kiev on a white steed. Notices from the city commandant had gone up around Kiev the day before stating with epic, humourless solemnity that Petlyura would be entering the city as the head of the government – the Directorate – on a white steed, a gift from the railway men of Zhmerinka. Why they had given Petlyura a horse rather than a railway coach or even a shunting engine, no one could say.
Petlyura did not disappoint the hopes of Kiev’s housemaids, merchants, governesses and shopkeepers. He truly did ride into the vanquished city on a white though fairly placid steed. The horse had a pale blue saddlecloth with a yellow border. Petlyura was modestly attired in a wadded khaki coat. His only ornament was a curved Zaporozhian sword, apparently taken from some museum, which slapped against his thigh as he rode along. Loyal Ukrainians gazed reverently at the Cossack sword, the puffy pale face of Petlyura and his guard of Haidamaks prancing behind him on their scruffy horses. The Haidamaks, their heads shaven except for a long single forelock of blue-black hair hanging from under their sheepskin hats, reminded me of my childhood visits to the old Ukrainian theatre. There Haidamaks just like these, their eyes inked blue, had wildly danced the gopak – ‘Hip, hop, shout! Now here, now there, turn about!’
