by Jasper Kent
КЪ ГРАЖДАНАМ РОССІИ.
TO THE CITIZENS OF RUSSIA.
The Provisional Government has been deposed. State power has passed into the hands of the organ of the Petrograd Soviet of Workers’ and Soldiers’ Deputies – the Military Revolutionary Committee, which heads the Petrograd proletariat and the garrison.
The cause for which the people have fought, namely, the immediate offer of a democratic peace, the abolition of landed proprietorship, workers’ control over production, and the establishment of Soviet power – this cause has been secured.
Long live the revolution of workers, soldiers and peasants!
Oddly it was dated at 10 a.m. the previous day – around sixteen hours before the Winter Palace had actually fallen. It only went to show that this was no spontaneous uprising; the whole thing had been carefully planned. I wondered how much of what was listed was what the ‘people’ had actually fought for. The thing they really wanted was food in their bellies. If the abolition of landed proprietorship, workers’ control over production, and the establishment of Soviet power helped with that, then so be it, but none were things that had been widely demanded until the Bolsheviks had put the thought into people’s heads. Peace was another requirement, but that wasn’t quite what was being suggested. Instead we had ‘the immediate offer of a democratic peace’ – the Germans would laugh in our face.
And there was no mention of the one thing that Russia really needed, that most of us in the Duma had spent our political lives striving for; no mention at all of democracy.
‘Are they going to move the Soviet in here then?’ I asked the man with the leaflets.
He seemed taken aback for a moment. I realized that there was little prospect that either Lenin or Trotsky had taken him into their confidence about such things, but it went against the aura of petty authority that came with the leather coat for him to admit he did not know.
‘We’re not going to make the same mistakes Kerensky did,’ he replied. It was his own assessment, but probably an accurate one.
I went round the side of the palace to the Neva. Here I had expected to see greater signs of the previous night’s assault, but the state of the building on the side facing the river was little different from the front. Many of the windows were broken and the plaster was in tatters. In two places there were gaping holes in the walls, undoubtedly caused by shells from the Avrora, but nothing like what the ship could have done with a full-blown barrage. It would have been pointless destruction, considering how incapable the Provisional Government had been of defending itself.
I followed the Palace Quay to the east. If the Winter Palace was no longer the seat of authority, then either the Tavricheskiy Palace or the Smolny Institute would be – and of those two I had a good idea where the true power lay. The Military Revolutionary Committee might have been formed as a part of the Soviet, but it was Lenin who ran it from the Smolny. Lenin was our new leader.
As I walked alongside the river another sensation gripped me. I was hungry. I hadn’t eaten since the previous afternoon. My path along the river took me close to home. It would be easy enough to slip in there and get something to eat. With luck Nadya wouldn’t even be home, and I’d be able to defer the moment when I had to face her and tell her the truth. I pushed the thought quickly from my mind. I’d buy myself some food. I reached into my pocket, but found that my wallet wasn’t there. It wasn’t even my coat. I remembered I had – Iuda had – picked this up in the church. It wasn’t a huge issue; I had plenty of money at home and—
Again I tried to suppress the thought, to find alternatives to smother it. My own overcoat should still be at the Church on Spilled Blood. With luck no one would have pilfered it. It was certainly worth a try. I turned back the way I’d come and before long came to the Field of Mars. That would be the shortest route. In the distance I could just see the highest dome of the church as I approached it for the third time in less than a day.
It seemed an uninspiring plan to me. I had no desire to sample Nadya’s home cooking – much as I was curious to meet the lady herself – and I had no reason to suppose that Danilov’s wallet, even if we found it, would contain sufficient funds to provide for what would be my first meal in almost four decades. I stopped walking and emitted a slight laugh. It was longer than that. We were not considering a feast of human blood. It now seemed clear to me that whatever the state of our minds the body in which they resided was entirely human and must be fed as a human. We would sit and have food cooked and served for us. It was closer to a century since I had indulged in that sort of pleasure. It deserved the finest restaurant in Petersburg … in Petrograd. And I knew precisely where that was. Things couldn’t have changed that much, could they?
I began walking again, and only then realized it. I had stopped walking. I had emitted a laugh. I was in control again. I tried to determine what had caused the transition. When Danilov had managed to take back his body beneath the church I’d thought it was because I had been attempting to sleep. That didn’t seem to be the case here. Perhaps the fact that I had been considering food – so bodily a concern – had returned the body to me. But Danilov had been thinking of eating too. Perhaps our body preferred my plans to his.
I knew that I must take advantage of what time I had. At any moment the process could reverse and Danilov could once again be taking us to a pitiful meal at some humble tavern. With the application of a little thought I would find a way to exclude him permanently from participation in any of the choices as to what we did and where we went, but I could not do it straight away. And I would have to be circumspect. Just as he attempted to hide his thoughts from me, so must I do likewise. If I worked out a way for one of us to take full possession over this lump of flesh, I would have to make sure that it was I who received the benefit of it and not he.
For now, though, I would eat. I continued in the direction of the Church on Spilled Blood. I wondered if Danilov had realized the recent reversal of our fortunes, but presumed he must have. I didn’t go inside, but continued alongside the canal before turning down Italyanskaya Street. Soon we were at one of the many side entrances of the Hôtel d’Europe. I stood close by, leaning against the wall, waiting for the door to be opened. I wondered for a moment whether subterfuge was necessary. Danilov might be a recognized and regular customer. He was, as I understood it, a member of the Duma. I knew what the word meant, but I could only guess how significant an institution it had been in this new Russia. In any other nation a member of parliament could have found himself the best table in the best restaurant simply by walking in through the front door. But if I knew Russia it would take more than being merely elected to be granted the rights and benefits of the elite. And anyway, I was hardly dressed in a manner that would be welcomed.
There had been a time when I myself had been a customer at this hotel, with permanent rooms that I could do with as I pleased. It was Danilov who had tricked his way into them. Would they recognize his aged face now, if any of them were left from back then?
The door opened. Two women emerged. They were surprisingly well-dressed for hotel staff, but they were leaving by a side entrance, so I could only assume that was what they were – unless like me they were thieves. They walked in my direction and I began to walk too, towards them. They were talking with each other and hardly noticed me and so it was easy to catch the door before it closed. Inside was a kitchen. I was pleased to see that it was busy; as with all revolutions the rich still needed to be fed, regardless of the system of government. No one noticed me enter. I walked calmly to the far door, knowing from years of experience that an aura of confidence was the best way to go unnoticed. Beyond I found myself in a corridor which ended in a junction. I tried to orient myself towards the main entrance and turned left. We passed a service staircase, but I didn’t want to go upstairs – not yet. After a few more turns I could hear the hubbub of the lobby getting closer. The passageway ended in a curtain rather than a door and I could tell that the voices
came from immediately beyond.
I peeped through. I was just behind the main desk. There were two of them attending it – both occupied in dealing with guests. The one closest to me turned and hung up a key on a rack that I could not see, but which must have been on the same wall as the archway through which I was now looking. The keys would be in easy reach. I waited until both guests had gone. The two members of staff stood quietly, looking out into the lobby; they would see nothing that went on behind them. I moved quickly, stretching out my arm until I felt the shape of a key and then plucking it off its hook. I did the same thing a second time – in one room I might not find everything I needed.
I must have made a sound. One of the two men turned, but I had already withdrawn my hand. I pulled away from the curtain and waited, but he didn’t come through. Two keys – two rooms – would be enough for me. I looked at the numbers: 332 and 334. I went back to the stairs I’d passed and climbed them to the third floor. The door from the drab stairwell emerged on to an opulently decorated corridor. Things had changed since I stayed here, but it was still the epitome of luxury. I found room 332 and knocked on the door. The fact that the key was at the desk suggested that the guest was out, but I didn’t want to take any risks. Danilov’s body seemed too feeble to put up much of a fight if it came to it.
There was no reply. I used the key to let myself in and then locked the door behind me. I could tell immediately from the clutter on the dressing table that the room was occupied. The bed was made, which meant that the chambermaids had already done their work – I wouldn’t be disturbed by them. There were two wardrobes. The first contained only women’s clothes, but the second was filled with gentlemen’s attire. I took out a jacket and looked at it, trying to judge its size – and mine. I searched the pockets, but found nothing. In the wardrobe were another jacket and an overcoat. In the coat pocket I found a money clip containing several hundred roubles. I realized that I had no idea what that was really worth, but judging by the quality of the room this was a wealthy man.
I went to the bathroom and stripped off my existing clothes. I didn’t have time to bathe, but I certainly needed a shave. I looked at myself in the mirror, more closely than I had in the street. I could see obvious traces of Lyosha, and of Tamara, the mother of this latest Danilov. There was a cutthroat razor in the cabinet, and plenty of soap. I lathered up and began to shave. It is one of the incidental by-products of their nature that a vampire is able to shave entirely without the assistance of a mirror. It is a skill born of necessity; we cannot see our reflections and yet sometimes we must pass ourselves off in society. Thankfully the occasional cut as we are learning quickly heals.
As with everything I had experienced over the past few hours, I revelled in the simple pleasure of shaving with the assistance of a mirror. I did cut myself slightly, on the chin, but enjoyed even that as a new experience – a long-forgotten one, anyway. I wondered whether I should go further. I had in my hand a razor and a body under my complete control. Why not mutilate Danilov now? He would be fully aware of what was happening as the blade cut into his flesh, aware that the scars would never heal, aware that it was his own hand which had done this to him. But I still had need of this body myself – for the time being. I would defer such pleasures until I had discovered a way out. I contented myself merely to shave off his ridiculous sideboards.
I dressed in clothes from the wardrobe. They were a close enough fit. Fashion had changed considerably since 1881, but I had to take it on trust that whoever was staying in this room did not step outside each day to the ridicule of those around him for his preposterous dress sense. I pocketed the money, and also the razor. I looked around for a watch, but could not see one. Presumably it was in the possession of its owner. A clock on the mantelpiece told me it was a little after noon. Lunch beckoned.
I went out and locked the door. I was tempted to take a look inside room 334, but there was nothing more that I needed for now. I was hungry. I went back downstairs, this time revelling in the grandeur of the main staircase, and into the restaurant.
The newspaper I’d read told that the starvation of the working people was caused by the decadence of a rich few. I suspected there was more to it than that – not least the war – but it would be an easy conclusion to draw on seeing the menu here. I began with caviar and a glass of champagne – a 1914 Dom Perignon. I was tempted to chat to the sommelier as to how it compared with the 1821 – the last glass I had drunk before today – but it was better to keep a low profile. Moreover, I’d noticed a certain surliness in all the staff that would have earned their dismissal in my day. They were happy to take my money, but they displayed no gratitude for it. Such was the nature of a revolution.
I followed the caviar with steak and a claret. I asked for it to be cooked bleu, hoping to get something close to my more familiar diet, but in the end found it a little too raw for my taste – or for the taste of Danilov’s body. I remembered that when human I’d never been particularly keen to have my food undercooked. I’d always been revolted by the feeding habits of the voordalak and on the rare occasions that I’d been forced to emulate them I’d scarcely been able to keep myself from retching. I managed to finish the steak and rounded the meal off with a vatrushka, which had always been a favourite of mine.
I paid the bill with the money I’d taken and, once I’d received my change, decided I’d be generous with the gratuity, knowing that I might well come here again. I counted out the coins and placed them on the table.
Don’t. They’re not keen on tips any more.
I looked around to see who had spoken, but there was no one there; besides, the voice had been too clear – quite separate from the noise of the dining room.
Since the revolution they’ve insisted they just get paid a fair wage for what they do. They think tipping undermines their dignity.
It was not spoken words that I was experiencing, but thoughts. And they could not be my own thoughts, for two reasons. First, I had not brought the words voluntarily to my mind and second, I could have no idea of the facts I had just revealed to myself. Already the nature of my ménage with Danilov was changing. Even though I was still in charge of the body, he could make his thoughts known to me – that was assuming he had done it willingly. I tried to communicate with him by thought alone. ‘Can you hear me?’
He gave no response. It proved nothing. In the same circumstances I would have remained silent, if only to discomfort my opponent. Even so, I took his advice, and put the tip back in my pocket.
I left the hotel and walked along Nevsky Prospekt. I felt replete. The hunger I experienced in a human body was of a different nature to that which I had known as a vampire, but the sense of satiation was identical. I was contented, relaxed, lacking any immediate ambition. The wine had helped too. On a street corner was a boy selling newspapers. I bought one for three roubles, which seemed an extortionate price. The boy looked me up and down with a sneer. When I saw the title of the paper, I understood why.
РАБОЧІЙ И СОЛДАТЪ
WORKER AND SOLDIER
I didn’t look much like either. The front page consisted solely of a declaration issued by the Petrograd Soviet and addressed ‘To Workers, Soldiers and Peasants’. It covered much the same ground as the leaflet Danilov had read earlier, though in more detail. It made some mention of the democracy that he had found so lacking, even going so far as to talk of ‘introducing complete democracy in the army’, which I was certain the Germans would be pleased with. It ended with a warning of counter-revolution:
The Kornilov men – Kerensky, Kaledin and others – are attempting to bring troops against Petrograd. Several detachments, whom Kerensky had moved by deceiving them, have come over to the side of the insurgent people.
Soldiers, actively resist Kerensky the Kornilovite! Be on your guard!
Railwaymen, hold up all troop trains dispatched by Kerensky against Petrograd!
Soldiers, workers in the factory and the office, the fate of th
e revolution and the fate of the democratic peace is in your hands!
Long live the revolution!
Kerensky’s was the only name I recognized. It might well be true, but equally it would be convenient for this new revolution to have an enemy to face in its early days.
Despite my feelings of contentment, I knew that I had to plan for the future. Russia would not be an easy place to live in once these Bolsheviks really began to tighten their grip on it. I would do well to get away as soon as possible. But to decide where to go, I needed to learn more about this war and which countries were involved. If the Germans were as close to Petrograd as I had read, then the whole of Europe would be in turmoil. We were back in the days of Bonaparte.
If I had still been a vampire, things would have been different. That, though, raised a philosophical question: was vampirism a state of the mind or the body? Clearly there were corporeal aspects to it, and for me those had been lost for the present. But in my mind was I now as I once had been? Was I again Richard Cain, son of a Surrey rector, who had gone to Oxford and achieved some little fame for his studies of the wildlife of the Crimea? It was a moot point – for me more than for the majority of my kind. I had possessed the mind of a vampire long before I acquired the body of one. There might be those who if they found themselves in my shoes would rejoice at having the opportunity to undo an act of utter folly, but I was not one of them. I would treat this as a holiday. I would take what pleasures I could while I had possession of this human body – I had already indulged in food and wine – but I knew my goal must be to become once again a creature of darkness.