by Teffi
We agreed that he would go down to the quay and order a cab to pick me up around seven. It was better to get there early. I didn’t want to make my friends anxious.
I went back up to my room.
There was something hopeless about these empty corridors, these gaping doors, these floors strewn with scraps of paper and pieces of string that no one was sweeping up.
A whirlwind had passed through the hotel, leaving only dust and litter. . . .
I sat down in a chair by the window, wanting to gather my thoughts, to look quietly inside myself and think things over.
My eye was caught by my little cypress-wood cross, tied to the headboard of the bed. It was from the Solovetsky monastery, which I had visited a few years before this.[93] I was always forgetting it, then remembering it at the last moment and taking it with me. And it had become a kind of symbol for me . . . though that’s not something I want to talk about.
I untied my cross. A simple cross, carved from wood, it was the kind one places on the breast of the deceased. My thoughts went back to the Solovki islands, to the melancholy, sudden cries of the seagulls and the eternal wind—the cold, salty wind gnawing away at the scrawny branches of the pine trees. And the novices’ gaunt faces, pale locks of hair poking out from beneath shabby skullcaps. Severe northern faces. Like icons.
An elderly monk at a tiny church deep in the forest. On the church walls were all seven of the archangels. Michael with a sword; Raphael with a censer; Barachiel the gardener of Paradise, with roses in his hands;[94] Gabriel, the angel of the Annunciation, with a stem of lilies; Jehudiel the avenger, with his whips; Selatiel, the angel of prayer, hands crossed over his chest; and Uriel, the mournful angel of death, holding a candle the wrong way up, its flame pointing down.
“Your saints are all angels, father?”
The little old man blinked, not understanding, not hearing. “Where? Where?”
Then the lines of his wrinkled face radiated out into a smile.
“Holy angels, my dear, holy angels!”
In the little monastery shop were crosses, prayer ropes, woven prayer belts.[95]
A gaunt, weathered-looking old woman, with round hawk-like eyes and an air of foreboding, was rummaging through the belts.
“Death, father, give us everything we need for death. Last rites for all t’ family, we be nine. We Orthodox must prepare, Father. It be war and more war. Then, who knows?”
There was indeed no knowing. I chose a small cross made of cypress wood. . . .
Ever since then I had kept it with me, hanging it at the head of my bed. During black and sleepless nights I had buried a great deal beneath this small cross.[96]
There was a knock at the door.
Without waiting for an answer, in rushed P—a minor public figure. His hair was disheveled, his beard all askew, as if from the wind, and one eye slightly swollen.
“Oh, the struggle it’s been to get here!” he cried out. He seemed confused; he was looking straight past me. “Shooting on one side, and all cordoned off on the other . . . I only just managed to slip through.”
“How very good of you to think of me at a time like this.”
“How could I not think of you? You were the first person who came to mind! You’re sure to be able to help. You know everyone, everyone who matters—you’re famous. We’re in a terrible situation—we’ve been let down badly. S promised to get us all onto a steamer for Constantinople. He swore the French would let us on board and told us to go and collect our passes at eleven o’clock this morning. So along we go. And then there we sit, waiting like idiots in front of the locked doors of the French consulate—until finally, at three o’clock, a secretary comes into the courtyard and professes total astonishment at our presence. Monsieur S, apparently, had found it necessary to depart at eight o’clock this morning and had left no further instructions. Well, what do you make of that? Now you’re our only hope.”
“But what can I do?”
“What do you think? Make some arrangements for us. Have a word with people on the Caucasus and explain our situation to them. After all, they’ll all know who you are.”
“First, I don’t even have a pass for myself. K has promised to take me with his family on the Shilka. If it weren’t for him, I’d be staying here in Odessa—”
“I don’t believe it! You, whom the whole of Russia . . . Bligken & Robinson named one of their caramels after you. ‘Teffi’ caramels. I’ve eaten them myself. And that you, of all people—”
“My caramels are neither here nor there. If it weren’t for K, I’d be—”
“In that case we’ll go on the Shilka with you,” P resolved. “You must get us on board. After all, we’re hardly nobodies. Russia, at this historical moment, owes us something. Listen—I’m going to go and look into one or two other possibilities. If they don’t work out, then you must get us onto the Shilka. It’s your civic duty. History will be your judge. Give me your hand—I place my trust in you.”
I could hardly believe my ears.
He threw open the door, banged his forehead on the lintel, and rushed out. But a second later the door flew open again.
“I assume you have foreign currency with you?”
“No, none at all.”
“Dear oh dear oh dear! How on earth? How can you be so improvident? Really, madame, it’s as if you’ve been living on the moon, entirely unaware of the historical moment and failing to consider your options.”
He thought for a moment, then added severely, “What if we do end up having to go abroad? Where am I going to get hold of foreign currency now?”
And with that he left, evidently disappointed with me.
It was getting dark—time to go down to the harbor.
My young friend was waiting for me downstairs. He had arranged for a horse-drawn cab to come and pick me up at seven, for an unimaginably steep price.
The boy suggested I have some supper.
“Cook’s still here—and two waiters. They’ll put something together for you.”
But I didn’t feel like eating.
I went outside and listened. People seemed to be shooting haphazardly, in one quarter and then in another, just for the hell of it, to send us on our way, like a peasant boy tossing a stick after a gentleman’s carriage.
Everyone was on guard. Everywhere was a groundswell of tension—ripples and echoes from a storm that was raging more fiercely elsewhere.
The boy was standing by the entrance and beckoning to me. The promised cab had arrived.
We drive down to the waterfront.
Silence . . .
We locate the Shilka.
The boat is deserted. Not a single light. The entire shore is deserted.
What’s going on? I get down from the cab and walk closer.
“Hello there! Shilka!”
A figure appears on deck. A Chinaman!
“Hey! Is there anyone on board? Is the Shilka sailing tonight? Hey! Yes or no?”
The man disappears below deck.
“Wait! Chinaman!”
From somewhere behind us comes a shot. It’s very close.
“Oy!” shouts the cabbie. “Look, lady, you can do as you please, but I’m getting out of here. I’ll unload your luggage for you, but I’m not hanging around.”
“Oh, just wait a few minutes, my dear!” I beg. “I’ll pay you. Any moment now my companions will be here. We’ve arranged to meet here.”
“I don’t care what you pay me—I’m not waiting any longer. Can’t you hear? There’s shooting. Or someone will cut through the traces and steal my horse. I’ll unload your luggage for you—and then you can do as you like. If you want to, you can sit here all night.”
I stand there a little longer. Not a soul. I call out again: “Chinaman!” It gets darker.
Another shot. Pebbles grating, close by.
The cab driver resolutely descends from his box and takes down a suitcase.
What will I do all by myself on the waterfront
? With no lights and no sign of any crew, the Shilka clearly isn’t going anywhere tonight. But what about the Ks? Have they gone to collect me at the International—or sent me a message there?
The cab driver agrees to take me back for twice the original price. If I have to pay to come down to the harbor again, I may not have enough money.
The hotel is now dark. Only on the ground floor, in the lobby and restaurant, are there still a few lights.
“Has anyone come and asked for me? Or sent me a message?”
No one has come for me, and there are no messages. Just silence, peace and silence.
I feel hungry now, but I’m frightened of spending my money.
I stay below in the lobby. I don’t want to walk alone down the empty corridors. I find some little book—Ibsen, I think—and sit as close as I can to a lamp. This feels comforting.
My future was a matter of complete indifference to me. I felt neither anxiety nor fear. In any case there was nothing I could do. In my mind I retraced my strange journey from Moscow, always south, always further south, and always without any deliberate choice. In the form of Gooskin, the hand of fate had appeared. It had pushed me on my way.
“You’ll only be away for a month. You’ll do a few evenings. The money will be yours. And before you know it, you’ll be peacefully back home again. Ri-ight?”
And then there I was, rolling down the map. Fate had pushed me on, forcing me wherever it chose, right to the very edge of the sea. Now, if it so wished, it could force me right into the sea—or it could push me along the coast. In the end, wasn’t it all the same?
A waiter came over. All that remained of his uniform was his starched shirt and black tie. His tails had been replaced by a frayed little jacket.
“The chef wants you to eat something,” he said.
“Well, if that’s what the chef wants, we must do as he says.”
“In spite of everything, dinner has been prepared. There’s soup, lamb, and stewed fruit.”
“That’ll be perfect.”
He put some cutlery on my small table, then brought me some soup. As he was serving me he kept looking around, listening, and glancing out of the window. Then he disappeared.
I waited and waited. In the end I decided to do a little reconnaissance. I glanced into the dining room.
“Where’s the waiter who was serving me?”
“Your waiter?” said a voice from a dark corner. “He’s run away. There’s shooting in the streets. The Moldavanka will be here soon. Your waiter’s a capitalist toady and he’s run away.”
I went back.
A tall young lady was now dashing about the lobby—from window to door, from door to stairs. Seeing me standing there, she came straight over.
“Are you in room number six? My brother and I are on the same floor, but at the other end of the corridor. Listen—this is the plan we’ve come up with. We’re going to lock all the doors into the corridor but leave the communicating doors open. If they start by breaking into your room, you can escape through the other rooms and lock each door behind you as you go. And if they start with our room, we’ll do the same. We’ll join you in your room.”
“Do you really think they’ll break in?”
“Of course they will.”
And then, yet again, the all too familiar words: “The Moldavanka’s already armed. They’re just waiting for the last soldiers to leave before they attack the hotels—the International and the London. They think this is a refuge for bourgeoisie and capitalists.”
“Maybe we’d be better off somewhere else?”
“Where? It’s nighttime. There’s shooting on the streets. Can’t you hear? And what about your things? And who’s going to take you in at this time of night? No, we’ve thought it all through. We’re staying here. Is this your luggage?”
“Yes, it is.”
“I wouldn’t leave it here if I were you.”
She looked round behind her, then whispered, “The hotel staff, the ones who’re still here, are in cahoots with the gangsters. The decent ones have all left. Well then, my brother and I are going upstairs now. We’ll start locking the doors.”
She ran off.
How sick of all this I now felt. It was all so boring! It was enough to make you think fondly of those early days, of that “springtime” of the revolution when your teeth would be chattering from fear, when you froze every time you heard a passing truck—would it stop at the gate or would it drive on by?—when your heart would lurch nauseatingly at the sound of rifle butts thudding against the door.
Now we were only too used to it all. Everything had become boring, boring to the point of revulsion. It was all just coarse, dirty, and stupid.
But what had happened to K and his wife? Why hadn’t he come round, or at least sent me a message? Perhaps the Shilka was going to sail in the morning and I’d be hearing from them any moment. . . .
“Nadezhda Alexandrovna!”
It was V, the engineer. He was breathing heavily and the corners of his mouth were turned down. He looked as though he were about to start crying.
“What’s happened?” I asked in surprise. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve been betrayed. I was promised a pass for the Korkovado. I waited all day—and nothing. I’ve been abandoned by everyone . . . abandoned like a d-d-dog.”
He blew his nose and wiped his eyes.
“I can’t be on my own any longer. I wanted to find you. Why haven’t you left?”
“I’m waiting for the Ks. We were supposed to meet in the harbor at eight and board the Shilka together. Maybe they’ll soon be here? What do you think?”
“The Ks? You’re waiting for the Ks? They’ve already gone!”
“Gone? Where to? How do you know?”
“I ran into them earlier this evening. They were on their way to the Caucasus, with all their luggage. They’re going to Constantinople.”
“That’s impossible! And they didn’t give you a message for me?”
“No, not a word. They were very agitated and they seemed in a hurry. She was wearing your fur stole. Remember? She was feeling cold and you said she could borrow it. Yes, they’re on their way to Constantinople.”
I was stunned into silence. And then for some reason, I don’t know why, the whole story suddenly struck me as terribly funny.
“Why are you laughing?” asked V, clearly alarmed. “They lied to you. They changed their plans and didn’t even bother to let you know.”
“That’s what’s so funny.”
V clutched his head.
“I’m in the deepest despair—and all she can do is laugh! What’s going to happen to my little girl? My little Lelusya, my darling little Lelusya!”
“But your little girl’s safe in her village. She’s out of harm’s way. What are you getting so upset about?”
“I’m so lonely, so terribly lonely! Like a d-d-d-o . . .”
“Please stop talking about that dog—you’ll just set yourself off again.”
“Oh please, please come with me on the Shilka! I’ve got two passes—one for myself and one for my wife. We can say you’re my wife. Please! I can’t be on my own any longer. I’ll go mad.”
“Are you telling me the Shilka is sailing tonight?”
“Yes, around eleven. That’s what I’ve been told.”
“All right. We’ll go together.”
“Oh I’m so glad! Is this your soup? I’ll have it myself. Heavens! We might end up starving to death! Now I’ll go and get a cab. My cases are here—I’ve been carrying them around with me all day. You stay where you are! I won’t be a moment!”
This time it seemed I really was going to get away. V’s suitcases were here in the lobby. Even if he forgot about me, he wouldn’t forget his cases.
I decided to go upstairs and speak to the young lady who’d been sharing her plans with me. I needed to tell her I’d soon be leaving.
I went upstairs and walked down the dark corridor, scuffing up scraps of p
aper and getting tangled in pieces of string, knocking on doors and calling out, “It’s me! I’m leaving!”
There was no reply. Either they didn’t believe it was really me or else they’d left the hotel and found somewhere else to hide out, leaving me to confront Odessa’s brigands alone.
I went back downstairs.
V was already waiting for me, afraid that I’d somehow disappeared. He was terrified of being left on his own.
“Well, let’s go.”
We drove along the dark streets to the harbor.
We heard the odd shot somewhere nearby; in the distance, though, the gunfire sounded more serious.
We got down to the sea. There she was—the Shilka. There were lights moving about the deck. Did this mean there were people on board?
We drove closer.
The harbor was full of people, trunks, bundles, and suitcases. Gangplanks had been put in place. Up on the bridge I could see the white cap of a naval officer.
“Quick! Quick!” said V, hurrying me along. “Before all the places are taken. Don’t fall behind! I’m afraid of being on my own!”
How lucky I was that V had suddenly developed this particular neurosis. Otherwise, I’d never have left Odessa.
“Come on! Come on!”[97]
17
A STRANGE ship.
No sound of a captain,
No sign of a sailor . . .[98]
And no sign of electricity either—everything was in darkness.
The subdued sound of the passengers’ voices as they moved slowly up the gangplank. The Shilka was evidently not carrying cargo—her waterline was far above the water and the gangplank was at a steep angle.
No sense of commotion, no hysteria. Everyone was quietly alert. Exchanging businesslike whispers. Only now and again did I hear a louder voice:
“Is General M present?”
“Present.”
“Warrant Officer R? We need the warrant officer.”
“Present!”
And again only the murmuring of the passengers. A warm, dark night. The very faintest of drizzles. Along with everyone else, I slowly made my way up to the deck. There wasn’t even anyone checking our passes.