by Teffi
Suddenly the saloon door swung open and in rushed my landowner.
Hatless. Dishevelled. Eyes darting from side to side.
“Are you looking for me?” I called out. “I’m over here!”
But he didn’t hear me. He flung open the door of one of the little cabins and thrust his head inside. There was a wild shriek, then something like the bleat of a crazed goat—and the door slammed shut.
“He’s looking for me!” I thought. I tried to catch his eye.
But he didn’t see me. He rushed to the next cabin and again flung open the door and thrust his head inside. Again there was a crazed bleat and a wild shriek. This time I even made out a word: “Outrageous!”
He leaped back again and the door slammed shut. “He must think I’m in one of those cabins,” I said to myself.
“Nikolay Petrovich! I’m over here!”
But he was already at the third cabin. He thrust his head inside, bleated something incomprehensible—and was met by wild shrieks of feminine outrage.
“What on earth’s gotten into him?” I wondered. “Why does he keep bleating like a goat? Why doesn’t he just knock and ask?”
Then he thrust his head into the fourth cabin, nearer to where I was lying, and was immediately propelled back out again. Looking like death, he stopped, shouted, “For the love of God, where the hell is it?”—and rushed toward the fifth door.
At this point I understood. I hid my face in my scarf and pretended to be asleep.
By now the other women were getting indignant: “This is outrageous! Opening the doors of ladies’ cabins and—!”
“That gentleman’s traveling with you, isn’t he?” asked one woman.
“No, he most certainly isn’t,” I replied, sounding shocked and offended. “I’ve never even set eyes on him before now.”
I doubt she believed me, but she must have understood that I had no choice: I could hardly admit to having such a companion.
After equally brief visits to the fifth and sixth cabins, he shot out into the corridor, to the accompaniment of yet more furious shrieks.
When we reached Yalta, I found him by the gangway.
“At last!” he said in an unnaturally bright voice. “I was waiting for you all day long. It’s been wonderful up on deck! Open horizons, the incomparable might of the sea! The beauty of it all, the elemental power! No, no words are enough. I spent the whole time on deck—it’s been an almost mystical experience for me. But such things, of course, are not for everyone. The captain and I were the only people who managed to stay on our feet. The first mate’s got good sea legs but—though I’m sorry to say this—even he lost his nerve. And the passengers were all flat on their backs. Yes, a truly lovely, bracing trip.”
“I got myself a private cabin,” I said, trying not to look at him.
“Yes, somehow I knew things would be complicated with you,” he muttered, trying not to look at me.
25
HOW IT warms the soul to discover—amid naked rock, amid eternal snow, beside a cold, dead glacier—a tiny velvety flower, an edelweiss. In this realm of icy death it alone is alive. It says, “Don’t believe in the horror that surrounds us both. Look—I’m alive.”
How it warms the soul when, on an unfamiliar street in an alien city, when you are tired and homeless, an unknown woman comes up to you and says, with a delightfully Odessan accent, “Hello! Well, what do you say to my new dress?”
There I was—wandering around Novorossiisk, unable to find shelter—when an unknown lady comes up to me and, in the way of women all over the world, asks, “Well, what do you say to my new dress?”
Noticing my obvious bewilderment, she adds, “I saw you in Kiev. I’m Serafima Semyonovna.”
Reassured by this, I look at the dress. It’s made from what looks like remarkably nasty muslin.
“It’s an excellent dress,” I say. “Very nice.”
“But can you guess what it’s made of? And do you realize how impossible it is to find any kind of material here? You can’t even get hold of calico—not for love nor money. Well, what you see here is medical gauze that was being sold to make bandages.”
I don’t feel so very surprised. In Petersburg we had made underwear from tracing paper. We soaked it in something or other and ended up with something not far from batiste.
“Of course, this gauze may not be all that strong,” she says, “and it does tend to snag, but it’s cheap, and it comes nice and wide. But you won’t find any now—it’s all been snapped up. The only gauze left is the kind with iodoform. It’s a pretty color, but it smells rather nasty.”
I express my sympathy.
“You know,” the woman continues, “my niece bought some dressings at the pharmacy—very nice they were too, edged with blue—and she used them as trimmings on a dress just like this one. She sewed some strips along the hem and it really does look very nice indeed. And it’s good hygiene too—thoroughly sterilized.”
O sweet and eternal femininity! Edelweiss, living flower on the icy rock of a glacier! Nothing can break you. I remember how, as the machine guns rattled away, officials told people living in central Moscow to go down into their cellars. And there, while people wept or gritted their teeth, another such edelweiss, another Serafima Semyonovna, had heated her curlers over a small tin in which—since there was no methylated spirit anywhere—she was burning some foul-smelling anti-parasite solution.
And there had been another in Kiev, rushing out—under machine-gun fire—to buy herself some lace for a blouse. And yet another in Odessa, sitting in a hairdresser’s while panicked crowds besieged the ships.
I remember her wise words: “Well yes, everyone’s running for it now. But really! How can you run anywhere without a proper hairdo?”
No doubt, during Pompeii’s last minutes, there had been edelweisses hurrying to fit in a quick pedicure.
Calmed by these thoughts, I ask this unknown Serafima Semyonovna if she knows of a room anywhere.
“I do know of one, and it’s really not at all bad, but you won’t feel comfortable there.”
“Heavens—what’s comfort got to do with it? I’m hardly in a position to pick and choose!”
“No, I really do advise you to wait a little. There are two typhus patients living there. If they die, there’s a chance the room will be disinfected. You’d be better off waiting.”
I remember searching for a room in Odessa. Here—typhus; there—it had been that terrible Spanish influenza. I had been given a letter of introduction to an engineer who was going to let me have a room in his apartment. On reaching Odessa, I had gone straight to this address. I had rung the bell repeatedly. Finally someone opened the door a crack and asked in a whisper what I wanted. I passed him the letter and explained why I’d come. The door opened a little wider and I saw the miserable, exhausted face of an elderly man. It was the engineer.
“I can’t let you come in,” he said, still in a whisper. “I have got a room, but I must tell you that five days ago I buried my wife and two sons. My third son is dying now. My last son. I’m on my own with him here. I don’t even dare to give you my hand—I may already have the flu myself. You really mustn’t come in.”
Yes, there it had been Spanish influenza; here it was typhus. Serafima Semyonovna launches into the details with gusto: “One young lady goes to church for a friend’s funeral. Some woman asks her, ‘Why are you in such deep mourning?’ She replies, ‘I’m not in mourning, I’m just wearing a black dress.’ But the woman points at her skirt and says, ‘Then why do you have a gray band sewn onto your hem?’ The young lady looks down—and sees her dress is crawling with lice. Well, what do you think happens next? She passes out. They start trying to bring her round, but then they see the telltale signs. Typhus rash—all over her body.”
Cheered by these tales, I go back to look for the Shilka, which has been moved to a distant pier. There are no other ships there. Silent and naked, she stands high in the water, her long gangways now almost vert
ical.
A quick look is enough to convince me that I won’t be able to get back on board. There aren’t even any footholds on the gangway, which is little more than two narrow planks. I try to take a few steps but my feet slide back down—and beneath me lies a sheer drop into deep water.
Losing heart, I sit down on an iron bollard and try to summon up pleasant thoughts.
Say what you will, I think, I’ve really not done at all badly for myself. It’s a lovely day, there’s a splendid view, no one’s threatening me or driving me away. I’m sitting like a lady on a comfortable bollard, and if I tire of sitting I can stand up for a little while or go for a walk. I can do as I please and no one will dare to stop me.
High up above me, someone is leaning over the ship’s rail. A man with a shaved head is looking down at me.
“Why don’t you come on board?” he shouts.
“How?” I shout back.
“Up the planks!”
“I’m too frightened!”
“Oh!”
The man steps back from the rail. A moment later he is gaily stepping sideways down the planks.
It’s an officer from the engine room.
“So you’re frightened? Take my hand.”
This time it’s even worse. The planks spring up and down. If you take a step with your left foot, the right-hand plank jumps up almost to your knee. A step with your right foot—and up jumps the left plank.
“Tomorrow they’re going to put up a rope,” the officer says reassuringly. “Then there’ll be something to hold on to.”
“But I can hardly wait till tomorrow,” I reply. “Go and get me a stick. Maybe that’ll help.”
Obediently, the officer runs off down the pier. He returns with a long stick.
“Good,” I say. “Now sit here on this bollard and sing me a circus song.”
“I don’t know any circus songs. How about the ‘Tango Argentina’?”
“All right—let’s try.”
“In far-awa-a-a-y sultry Argenti-i-ina!” the officer begins. “But how does it go after that?”
“For heaven’s sake, don’t stop! Keep singing and keep to the beat!”
I grip the stick with both hands and, making sure it stays horizontal, step onto the planks.
“Where the ski-i-i-es are so-o-o cra-a-a-zy and blu-u-u-e!” sings the officer.
Good grief! What a ridiculous voice. The last thing I need is to start laughing.
Now: Don’t look down. Look straight ahead. Look at the planks. Walk straight. Keep to one plank. Keep humming.
“And the w-i-i-i-men are pretty as pictures!”
Hurrah! I’ve done it. Now I need only lift up one leg, step over the side and . . .
And then my feet slip backwards. I let go of the stick and close my eyes. But there is someone above me. Firm hands grip my shoulders. I lean forward, seize hold of the ship’s rail, and step on board.
•
When I told him I hadn’t yet found a room, the diminutive captain suggested that I stay on board as a guest. I could have a small cabin at a very cheap price and eat, along with the crew, “from the common pot.” And in time, no doubt, it would become clear where the Shilka was going next. If it truly was Vladivostok, then I was welcome to stay on board.
This was just what I needed. I thanked the kind captain with all my heart.
So began our strange, dreary life on a steamer moored to a long, white, empty pier.
No one knew when we would set sail, or what our destination would be.
The captain stayed in his cabin with his wife and child.
The first mate made boots for his wife and his sister-in law Nadya, an enchanting curly-haired young woman, who darted up and down the ladders in a muslin dress and ballet shoes, disturbing the peace of mind of the ship’s young men.
Midshipman S strummed on his guitar.
Engineer O was eternally tinkering with one thing or another in the engine room.
V, who had enabled me to get out of Odessa, was also staying for the time being on the Shilka. All day long he would wander around the city, hoping to happen upon friends and acquaintances. He would come back with some smoked sausage, have a bite to eat, let out a sigh, and say yet again how frightened he was of starving to death.
The Chinese cook prepared our dinner. The Chinese laundry-man washed our linen. Akyn cleaned my cabin.
The sun would go down in the evenings, quietly marking off the lackluster days with glowing red sunsets. Waves would slap gently against the hull; cables would sigh and chains rattle. White in the distance stood the high mountains, cutting us off from the world.
It was all very dismal.
26
THEN CAME the northeasterly.
Back in Odessa I had heard many stories about it.
A colleague from the Russian Word had returned from Novorossiisk all bandaged up and covered in plasters. He’d been caught by a northeasterly. He’d been quietly walking along—and then the wind had knocked him off his feet and rolled him along the street until he managed to catch hold of a lamppost.
I’d also heard of steamers being ripped from their moorings and blown out to sea. Only one had been left in the bay—a cunning American who had got up full steam and headed into the wind. By making straight toward the shore, he had managed to stay in one place.
While I didn’t exactly believe all these stories, I was, nevertheless, eager to see what this northeasterly was really like.
People said it could only count in threes. It blew for three days, or six days, or nine days, and so on.
And then my wish was granted.
Our Shilka began shrieking, screeching and groaning. Not one of her bolts, chains, or cables was silent. The rigging whistled; every bit of metal clanged.
I set off into town with the secret hope that I too would be knocked off my feet and rolled along the street, like my colleague from the Russian Word.
I got as far as the market without incident and was buying a few little bits and pieces when, suddenly, splinters were flying, a dark cloud of dust was soaring into the air, and the awning above the stalls gave a great clap. Something crashed to the ground—and then something pink and frothy closed me off from the rest of the world.
I desperately tried to shake myself free. The world opened up again and the pink thing—my own skirt, which had billowed up over my head—wrapped itself around my legs.
Embarrassed, I looked around. Everyone was screwing up their eyes, rubbing them, shielding their faces with their bent arms. My first introduction to the northeasterly appeared to have passed unnoticed. There was just one woman some way away, a bagel seller, who was still watching me, and shaking with laughter.
The northeasterly continued to rage for twelve days. Every kind of howl in the world—anguished, spiteful, sorrowing, savage—could be heard from the ship’s rigging. Sailors were swept off decks and traders blown away from the market; the streets were emptied of people. Not a boat was left in the roadstead, not a cart on the shore.
Yellow columns of dust roamed about the town as they pleased,[122] rolling stones down the road, whirling debris of every kind through the air.
One day the waves brought us the bloated corpse of a cow.
Evidently it was not uncommon for the wind to hurl cattle into the sea.
The cadets tried to push the cow away with long boat hooks, but it kept coming back. It floated about for a long time, a monstrous, swollen balloon, now moving away a little, now bobbing up right beside us.
Those of us still left on the Shilka wandered about dejectedly.
To your left, if you went up on deck, you saw a silent city, all dust and debris, exhausted by anxiety, fear, and typhus. And to your right lay the boundless sea, the waves hurriedly and mindlessly buffeting one another, mounting one another and then dropping back down, crushed by other, newer waves that spat at them in foaming fury.
Agitated gulls were swooping about, bitterly flinging what sounded like last words—hopele
ss, fragmentary last words—at one another.
Gray sky.
It was all very dismal.
At night, the thudding and crashing overhead made it impossible to sleep. If you left your airless cabin and went up on deck, the wind would spin you round, seize hold of you, slam the door behind you, then drag you away into the darkness, where it whistled and howled as it harried a frightened crowd of waves, driving them off, driving them away. . . .
Away from these shores of despair. But where? Where to?
Soon we too might be driven away by the raging elements, but where would we go? Where in the wide world?
And so you would return to your cabin.
And lie on your hard wooden bunk and listen to the midshipman strumming his out-of-tune guitar and to the violent coughing of the old Chinese cook—the man who had once “got so angry his heart broke.”[123]
•
I was wandering about the city, hoping to find something out. I came upon what had once been the editorial office of what had once been the Novorossiisk newspaper. But nobody there knew anything. Or rather, everybody there knew a great deal, each knowing the exact opposite of what everyone else knew.
On one thing, however, they were all agreed: Odessa was now in the hands of the Bolsheviks.
Once, as I was walking about the town, I saw Batkin, the famous “sailor.”[124] He turned out to be a young dandy of a student, always strolling about the city with a crowd of admiring young ladies. He would tell them the story of how he had almost been shot by a firing squad. Only thanks to his extraordinary eloquence had he gotten away with his life. But he told all this without much conviction or flair and didn’t seem particularly bothered about whether or not his story was believed. The only dramatic moment was when he was facing death with the name of his beloved on his lips. At this point the young ladies would all lower their eyes as one.
Looking at this sleek, well-groomed student, I remembered the fiery sailor who used to come out on stage at the Mariinsky Theatre, stand in front of a large Saint Andrew’s flag,[125] and passionately exhort the audience never to give up the fight. Correspondents from the Evening Stock Exchange[126] would then clap and cheer from the royal box.