I was very glad now that I wore Vanya’s suit, for here everything was light: white silks and ostrich feathers and pale frock-coats and cream-coloured uniforms. The steps actually did lead to heaven.
‘Now we go down again.’ Shura took my arm. Slowly we descended past souvenir-sellers, newspaper-vendors, hawkers of toys and photographs. Shura bought us ice-creams and pointed far away to the right. There was Fountain, with its summer datchas and its parks. You could look in one direction at the sea and back in the other at the steppe. But the ‘really rich pickings’ were on our left, the limans and health-resorts. ‘There are lots of silly old ladies who have nothing to do but cash cheques all day, or get someone to cash them for them. There are casinos, too. I have friends in the casinos. We’ll go there one evening.’ In the distance were more fine buildings, churches and monuments (Odessa was full of them) and more green spaces. ‘A lot of really rich people live up there. They live in impregnable fortresses. They’re only vulnerable when they go strolling on the Nickita, or go shopping in Wagner’s.’
I could not quite come to understand what Shura meant. Was he envious of the rich? Did he have revolutionary sympathies? He never displayed them openly. Perhaps it was the way all Odessans thought and spoke?
Shura led me back into the city. I had hoped to eat lunch in one of the small cafés overlooking the harbour. He told me that they were too expensive. The food was poor. ‘We’ll go to one of my regular places. You’ll meet my friends.’ This prospect alarmed me. I had never been able to mix very well with other people. But my mood was far more relaxed than usual. I walked with Shura through pink sunlight admiring all the advertisements, even those which suggested I join the army. Most of the foreign signs were in languages I could read, though some were in Greek or in Asian script which was meaningless to me, in spite of my Podol-learned smattering of Hebrew. Odessa seemed at once the oldest and most modern of cities. Like New York she combined all nations in one. The streets were crowded with soldiers and sailors from the harbour. There were French, Italians, Greeks and Japanese. There were also some Turkish sailors, mainly from merchant ships, together with Englishmen of all ranks. The Turks and Japanese stuck together in larger numbers. They were regarded as the next best thing to German belligerents in a town so closely involved with the War. We were not so far from the Galician front and since our initial successes in East Prussia we had had some setbacks.
The city was, in Shura’s words, ‘a bit too full’, but it meant good business for the natives. The black market was booming; the whores were ‘having to take on three customers at a time. They’d take on four if they had bigger belly-buttons.’ So innocent was I that I had absolutely no idea, then, what he meant.
We dashed through crowds of Frenchmen who were far more bewildered than I. Because of Shura I had begun to feel as if I had always lived in Odessa. We jumped for our lives in front of screaming two-car trams, caused Steiger horses to rear, made old ladies shout after us, and we laughed at all of them. We ogled the crowded windows of the Magasin Wagner (Odessa’s Harrods) and flirted with the flower-girls there, then we left the more fashionable streets and entered a labyrinth of smaller alleys. This was a ghetto. Tiny shops sold second-hand boots and tools; Jewish butchers and bakers advertised in Yiddish; tailors and funeral parlours and circumcision salons (as we called Jewish grog-shops) were side by side. There were washing lines and yelling children and garrulous old women and bargaining, black-clad Hasidic men, and rabbis and beggars and a richer mixture of junk, canned goods, peasant-carvings, German toys, ready-made clothing, hardware goods, poultry, live birds, fishing-gear, musical instruments, cooked food than I have seen before or since. Like the Jews themselves, the district repulsed and attracted, was frightening and romantic, comforting and disturbing, and if I had been alone I would never have dared enter it.
Into one of those dingy little Slobodka basements Shura ducked with me and through a battered door we entered the noisy, smoky gloom of a tavern. There were old travel posters decorating the walls, all of which had been scribbled on with sardonic comments. On the floor were the remains of fancy tiles. At the far end was a tiled counter with a monstrous samovar and two jugs for dispensing vodka or grenadine. Behind this sat an ancient, bearded Jew with his hand on an iron cash-box and a permanent expression of mixed ferocity and benevolence. He was dressed almost entirely in black, save for a collarless grey shirt, his waistcoat buttoned in spite of the smoke and heat. Shura greeted the Jew in tones of bantering familiarity and got no response save a slight inclination of the head. There were women and girls here, as well as youths and men, all dressed in the flashy Odessa styles, eating exactly the same dishes - a thick bortsch, lamb-knuckle (kleftikon), a shashlik in tasty, greasy sauce, with macaroni and black bread. There was also a plate of peppers, pickled cucumbers and tomatoes, known as a salad. There might have been other kinds of food sold in ‘Esau the Hairy’s’ as the place was known, but I never saw it eaten and never had the nerve to order it. A thin-faced, haughty black-eyed Jewess brought Shura and me bowls of bortsch and some bread almost as soon as we had found a place to sit. I was a little nervous; my mother had never liked me to associate with Jews, but they seemed to accept me quite readily and I was prepared to live and let live. Indeed I must say I felt almost at home amongst Odessa’s Jews who are really a different race.
Near the counter, one booted foot on a bench, an accordionist played topical songs about well-known actors and actresses, about Rasputin, about our defeats and victories in the War, about local celebrities (these were the most popular but obscure to me). I was more disturbed by the songs than the company. Some of the songs seemed dangerously radical. I whispered to Shura that the tavern was likely to be raided by the police. This made Shura laugh, ‘It’s protected by Misha,’ he told me. ‘And Misha rules Slobodka district. Nobody - the army, the police, the Tsar himself - would dare raid Esau’s. Only Misha would dare, and why should he? It’s one of his investments.’ I asked who Misha was and several of the other customers overheard me and clapped me on the shoulder. ‘Ask who or what God is!’ said one. They were referring, I discovered, to a notorious local gangster, the Al Capone of Odessa, known as Misha the Jap. He was supposed to have five thousand men at his command and the authorities were inclined to parley with him rather than threaten him. Almost everyone in Odessa had a nick name. I was to find myself introduced by Shura as ‘Max the Hetman’ because of my reference on the train to my Cossack blood. ‘He’s Hetman of Kiev,’ said Shura.
Although his friends took this as a joke, they also looked at me with respect. I began to realise I had been accepted. A day before, I should have been horrified at finding myself in the company of these bohemians, but now I had learned Odessan tolerance. I determined not to judge them by their appearance, just as they did not judge me. Shura had a knack for making the most of himself and those he knew. He was at once admired and admiring of all. He was a great favourite in Esau’s with the older men and women. He had dozens of friends of his own age. He would boast of each of them: ‘This is Victor the Fiddler, he’ll be a great musician one day. This is Isaac Jacobovitch, the smoothest spieler in the market. This is Little Grania, you should see her dance. Meet Boris - he may not look much but figures are magic to him, everyone wants him to do their accounts - Lyova here is a better painter than Manet, ask him to invite you to his room - buy a picture while you can - the canvases. A new Chagall!’
Everyone was a hero or heroine in Shura’s words and, although he spoke lightly and was never taken very seriously, he could somehow dignify the meanest person and bring them to life. Before lunch was over, I myself had become the great inventor of my age, with patents pending on a dozen different machines, with ten gold medals from the Academy, with a career in Petersburg already guaranteed. I began to believe it. At least, I believed in Shura’s optimism. He was to remain an optimist all his days.
I was intoxicated on vodka and grenadine and on the company of young girls in petticoats and brigh
t blouses, with their thick, dark hair, kindly oriental eyes, brilliant laughter and rapid, trilling, almost incomprehensible, patois. The world had ceased to consist entirely of duty and education. It could be amusing, pleasurable. I began to laugh. I tried to join in a song, my arm around a fat matron smelling of cologne and Georgian wine who cheerfully helped me with the words.
While I sang I saw someone point in our direction. A man in a pin-striped suit, with a yellow waistcoat, yellow bow-tie, yellow-and-white two-toned shoes, stood in the doorway fingering his moustache. He seemed uncertain of himself and yet supremely arrogant. He was like a king mingling with commoners whose activities were not entirely clear to him. He pushed between the tables and came over to Shura. He spoke politely in perfect Russian. I turned my head and said he must be French. He smiled faintly and said he was. We conversed for a few sentences. Then he gave his whole attention to Shura, whom he knew. ‘I’m still interested in the dental supplies. They’re hard to get in Paris now.’
‘The War’s creating all sorts of shortages, M’sieu Stavitsky.’ Shura was amused. ‘Last year you were in the export business. Now you’re in the import business. You’ll find the Dutchman easy to deal with. He has something of a habit himself and his connections are astonishing.’
‘Where shall we find him?’ Stavitsky wished to know.
‘You’d better let me arrange the meeting. He doesn’t like callers at his surgery. Got some paper?’
Stavitsky produced a silver-covered note-pad. Shura took a pencil and wrote a few words. ‘See you there at about six. I won’t let you down.’
Stavitsky squeezed Shura’s shoulder. ‘I know. I hear he’s almost one of the firm.’
I had been feeling twinges of toothache since my accident, perhaps a loose molar. When Stavitsky had left, I asked about the dentist.
Shura smiled. ‘All the family goes to him. If you’ve got toothache, he’s the one to see. He’s posh but we have mutual investments, so it’s cheaper using him. And you’re guaranteed the best job in Odessa. You can come some time when I go. Perfect excuse.’
I said if the toothache got worse I would take Shura up on his offer. My family’s connections seemed to cut across all normal social barriers. This might not appear unusual in England or America, but in Russia in 1914 there was an almost infinite number of castes. Only in bohemian or intellectual circles could there be any mixture, and even here it was often strained. That was why I think Esau’s in Slobodka so impressed me. I was never to recapture that particular experience of comradeship. Doubtless I felt it as I did because I had no knowledge of any underlying tensions in the relationships there. I was, in a word, innocent. Nonetheless I lost preconceptions and prejudices overnight. I was not to learn common-sense for a few months at least I would grow up in Odessa.
‘He’s a Dutchman,’ Shura added, ‘though I’ll swear he’s a Hun in disguise. I hope no one finds out.’
‘You mean a spy?’ I asked. I had read the newspapers.
‘That’s a thought.’ Shura grinned, it’s not exactly what I meant. Come on. We’ve time to go to Fountain. You ought to see a bit of country. And I could do with the fresh air.’
‘I’d rather stay here,’ I said.
He was pleased with this. ‘You can come back again as often as you like, now that you’re known as a friend of mine.’
As we left, everyone was singing an ironic song about a Chinaman who had fallen in love with a Russian girl and, thwarted in his passion, had burned down her entire apartment building. This had actually happened a short while ago in Sevastapol. The Chinese have always been mistrusted in Russia. The irony was, of course, that they would be seen working hand-in-glove with the Jews during the Revolution: the Jews with their brains, the Chinese with their cruelty. We Slavs can be excused for our wariness of the Oriental, whatever his guise, for he has sought to encroach on our territory for hundreds, if not thousands, of years.
Shura took us to the tram-stop in a quiet, wide street. Eventually we boarded a Number 16 for Little Fountain. From a seat near the front Shura pointed out various places of interest, none of which I remembered. I have a memory for tram numbers and people’s names, but I can never remember much about cathedrals or museums. We left the long, straight streets behind us and entered more open country. Beyond it was the broad emerald sea. Shura said we should not have time to stay. We took the open-sided tram for Arcadia and went straight back on it. He had to get me home for supper and had some business at six. Innocently I asked him what his main business was. I thought I must have embarrassed him, but he remained cheerful enough, though vague, ‘I fix things up for anyone. But I work mostly for the family.’
‘For Uncle Semya.’
‘That’s right. To do his buying and selling, his importing and exporting, he needs information. I’m a sort of liaison officer.’
I understood how Shura’s connections with the bohemians and their connections with the underworld could prove useful for a businessman wishing to keep his finger on the pulse of the city. My admiration increased for Uncle Semya’s good-hearted pragmatism. Rather than force Shura to take a regular job in the office, he paid my cousin to be his contact with the people he obviously could not deal with personally. People who would not trust him even if he did approach them. I asked Shura how he had first found Esau’s. He said that it was instinctive; he had grown up in the area. He had had to earn his own living for years. His mother, like mine, was a widow. When he was ten, she had run off to Warsaw with a farm-implement salesman. She must have felt, as he put it, that he was old enough to live on his own. I commiserated, but he laughed and patted my arm. ‘Don’t fret for me, little Max. She was my only dependant. When she went, I became a rich man.’
I said nothing about Uncle Semya. It was obvious that our uncle had taken pity on Shura as he had taken pity on me. He made the most of Shura’s talents as he planned for me to make the most of mine.
As we went by the parks and lawns, the trees and fretwork datchas of Fountain, we smelled the last of the acacias. Unspoiled beaches, cliffs yellow with broom, like scrambled egg; the white gothic mansions of industrialists; the more modest houses of people who had retired to Odessa for their health. There were famous artists living there, too, said Shura.
In the square Shura left me outside Uncle Semya’s. He was anxious to keep his appointment. It was about five. I had time to wash and change into my more familiar clothes, speak a few words to Wanda and ask when we were to eat. She said about six. I could go downstairs to the parlour, if I wished, to see Aunt Genia. The window was no longer quite the lure it had been that morning so I decided to do as Wanda suggested.
I knocked on the door of the parlour. Aunt Genia’s pleasant warble bade me enter. The room was full of light from the street. In it were books and magazines and newspapers of all descriptions. There were potted plants and photographs and deep chairs. A mirror, into which were stuck dozens of postcards, mostly from Vanya, hung over a modern art nouveau what-not. There were pictures on the walls, mostly romantic scenes of the provincial Ukraine. Aunt Genia put down her book. She invited me to sit in one of the comfortable chairs opposite her (there was no stove in the room, but there were radiators near the window and the far wall) and tell her how I had liked Odessa. I told her, of course, all I could, leaving out some of the parts which I thought might alarm her. I told her about the tram-ride to Fountain and she agreed that it was a very beautiful district, that she might like to retire there herself one day ‘if God spared her’. The district had originally possessed a spring which supplied the whole of Odessa with water. Nowadays half the houses were unoccupied during the winter. Since she was a girl they had come more and more to be used for holidays. There were, she said, too many restaurants and pleasure-gardens. Had I seen Arcadia? I said that I had. That, she said, was the worst. A gong sounded. She rose with a sigh. ‘Dinner.’ There were also, she said, too many children at Fountain in the summer and not enough in the winter, while the limans on the other side of
town had nothing but old people trying to prolong their lives by a few miserable months. ‘Women of that sort seek immortality,’ she said, ‘in baths of mud or the arms of monks. There’s not much to choose between them.’ I wondered if this was another reference to Rasputin. Odessans, for all that they lived close to many representatives of the Tsar, had extraordinarily loose tongues.
Uncle Semya had also changed for dinner. He now wore a dark suit and his hands were free of ink. Wanda served the three of us and then sat down to join in. Uncle Semya spoke of ’consignments’ and ‘bills of lading’ for a while as he enjoyed the delicious cold yushka of the sort we used to call ‘country-style’. During the pickled herring, which Wanda went to fetch, he complained about ‘Moscow crooks’ who had bargained him out of most of his profit on some barrels of olives. By the time we had reached the main course, which was boiled beef in horse-radish with potatoes in butter, he had mellowed enough to generalise about the progress of the War. I was unable to concentrate on my great-uncle’s soliloquy because I was overwhelmed by the food. Course followed course. I thought I had eaten my fill of the soup. Then I had found room for the herring. Now I was having to force my way through the beef. It was the first time in my life I had been embarrassed by too much food. And this, it appeared, from the way Uncle Semya was treating it, was an ordinary meal.
Byzantium Endures: Pyat Quartet Page 9