‘You’re tired,’ I heard Aunt Genia say to me. ‘You’ve no appetite. Over-excited, eh, Maxim?’
I nodded. I could not at that moment speak. I felt if I opened my mouth a potato would pop out again.
The worst happened. Uncle Semya stopped speaking of the military skill of the Germans, the superiority of their equipment over ours, and noticed me: ‘What have you been up to, today?’
I grunted. Uncle Semya smiled quietly, ‘I hope Shura isn’t leading you into bad habits. I warned him you had been respectably raised, that you have been a recluse in Kiev. He didn’t take you to that casino ... ?’
I shook my head, anxious that Shura should not be blamed simply because I was too afraid to speak.
‘Or that house. What’s her name?’
‘We went to the harbour,’ I said. ‘And Fountain.’
‘Oh.’ Uncle Semya seemed almost disappointed. ‘So you saw the sea?’
‘Mm.’ Still the potato did not come out. ‘First time.’
‘It’s easy to get used to. And yet, living on the edge of the ocean as we do, it keeps our brains sharp. Not just the invigorating air, of course, but the sense of the world. Keeps perspective. Makes you aware, moreover, that you’re only too vulnerable. To the elements, let alone your fellow man.’ He enjoyed this. ‘We are prone to forget that we are mortal, we city-dwellers. But the sea reminds us. To the sea we came and to the sea, at length, we shall return.’ A fruit compote was put in front of him. ‘Mother to us all.’
This was my first encounter with my uncle’s mild pantheism. At that time I thought he was expressing some sort of evolutionary theory.
After the meal Uncle Semya went into his study and I sat with Aunt Genia and Wanda, reading a scientific article in Zanye (Knowledge), which because of its radical associations had never been allowed in our home. There were several copies here. All had articles I would normally have found inspiring, but I was still too full of my impressions of the day. I would read a paragraph or two then discover I was thinking about warm bodies and laughing mouths, of bawdy songs and comforting companionship. That sense of belonging to something at last was what chiefly obsessed me. Odessa was Life and I had been accepted by it so easily.
Perhaps I should feel bitterness towards Shura now, but I cannot. I believe that all he did was to introduce me to a world he dearly loved and knew I would love. I did love it, for those few months. I regret its ending. I did not value generosity then. Shura introduced me to Odessa in all her last, glorious, decadent days, before war, famine, revolution, the triumph of bourgeois virtues, came to turn her into just another port-city, built for traffic, with the people swept into grey concrete heaps on either side of ’motorways’, ‘fly-overs’ and ‘bypasses’. He introduced me to decadence and I saw it only as life and beauty and friendship. The hot sun of Odessa had ripened this fruit. Now, perhaps, it was rotting in the final summer of the old world.
Aunt Genia looked up from her novel. I seemed pale. I must take care of myself, for my mother’s sake. I must get brown in the sunshine of Arcadia while it lasted, not go with Shura to all his ‘dark holes of conspiring youth’.
I agreed that I was tired, but I could not think of sleep. My mind was analysing so much. ‘You will sleep,’ she said, ‘I’ll play you some music.’ She went to a large cabinet gramophone that was either German or English (it had the little dog on its metal label) and asked me if I had any preferences in music. I said that I had not. She had a good selection of the solid black discs with colourful labels we used to get in those days. She played me some operatic arias by Caruso (it was the first time I had heard Puccini or Verdi), some Mozart, two or three popular songs by a favourite singer of the day (I think it was Izya Kxemer) and a recent tango which, perhaps because the instrument wound down a little at the end, had a peculiar, significant quality which haunted me as I went up to bed and haunts me now, as I write. I fell almost immediately into a deep sleep.
* * * *
FOUR
IN THE DAYS WHICH followed, Shura was to introduce me to scores of new delights and against these I had absolutely no protection. My mother had warned me about revolutionists but not about the real attractions and dangers of Odessa: the gay, sardonic company of those slangy bohemians who did not give a damn for Karl Marx or the Tsar, who believed that their city was the world and that nowhere else on Earth was so beautiful. They were in many ways right. Very quickly I began to assume the tastes and manners of my friends. Odessans were regarded by the rest of Russia much as Californians are regarded by New Yorkers. The bright clothes we wore were natural to us, natural to the rosy light which made the city glow, and only appeared vulgar when removed from their locale. Even casual thievery in Odessa was not looked upon very seriously. It was almost as if property in that city were already communal, save that it was up to a person to hang on to as much of it as he could but not be resentful if he were outwitted and parted from it. Of course, not everyone shared this spirit. Such people were usually officials or immigrants of some sort, anyway: like the pompous burghers in their seaside cottages, or the holiday-makers who came to swim and lie in the sun. The women wished to flirt with sailors and our Odessa boys.
Odessa boys had dark eyes and white teeth and brilliant scarves. They wore painted ties, displayed a great deal of cuff with elaborate cuff-links, sported stick-pins and monstrous rings and cocky hats and chocolate-coloured spats; their waistcoats were of yellow mohair or Chinese brocade. Odessa girls wore feathered hats and dark, Ukrainian shawls, crisp, white blouses and light, swinging skirts. They patrolled the promenades in little, giggling gangs during the day and occupied the gardens, lit with strings of tiny electric bulbs, in the evenings. Then the huge Odessa moon would make the sea look like mercury, as volatile and indescribable as the Odessan character, while accordions or orchestras would play the tunes of the moment, as well as the latest songs from France, America, even England and Germany. Through the crowds would stroll soldiers and sailors, arm in arm with their lady-friends; gigolos on the look-out for the wives or widows of self-satisfied merchants; merchants on the look-out for girls; pick-pockets, confidence-tricksters, photographers, hurdy-gurdy men and postcard-sellers. Here, too, were families of Hasid Jews, conspicuous in their dark clothes, shawls, pe’os and other paraphernalia, who were an embarrassment to all, bourgeois Jew and Gentile alike. Yet they were tolerated, these fanatics, as they would not be tolerated elsewhere, in spite of the fact that members of the Black Hundreds, who had begun the pogroms ten years before, almost entirely comprised Odessa’s city council.
Shura introduced me to girls. They kissed my cheek and said that I was ‘lovely’ and ‘a duck’, which was not quite the impression I had hoped to give them. I was learning the rich, elusive speech of the city, however, as I had learned other foreign languages, and was soon proficient in it. It was this ability, which I gradually lost as I grew older, which helped me in many of my future situations. Where language was concerned, I was a chameleon.
Shura was very pleased with my progress. He took me up to the limans, those strange, dark, emerald-green shallows, full of mud and minerals. They are half-wild: the haunt of game-fowl and blind fish, where reeds wave and peculiar shadows move beneath the glinting, agitated surface. They are half-tamed where the large hotels and health-resorts crowd close together. Here I learned to run errands for rich women. There was a great deal of commission involved, for one was tipped by all parties involved in the transactions. At other times we would engage in business by the docks where there were always ships: steamers, sailing boats, schooners, loading and unloading. Cargoes of fish, fruit, wine, cloth or even coal were often sold directly they were landed. Traders were omnipresent and would pay for information of many kinds. Shura was well-known and I became almost as familiar to them by my slightly Frenchified nickname of ’Max the Hetman’. Also my relationship with Shura guaranteed me a place in the bohemian inner circle. There was already a small legend which suggested I was ‘something hot in Kiev�
�. Soon it was possible for me to wander freely about the district without Shura to guide me and I made acquaintances of my own. I never went to the docks without him, however. That grey world of overhead railways, derricks and worn-out dray horses had a sense of danger to it. It was where most of the revolutionaries came from.
In the meantime, of course, I tried to obey my mother’s wishes. I continued to study in the evenings (though they became shorter as my days grew longer) and to stay in the fresh air enough to show an improvement in my skin colour, so as to placate my aunt. Uncle Semya seemed to expect nothing of me save that I ‘learn a little of the world before going back to school’. I am grateful to his philosophy and experience which made me appreciate education all the more. But the wine and the euphoria could not sustain me indefinitely and sometimes I was forced to spend whole days in bed recovering from the excesses into which my enthusiasm led me. On one of these days a grinning Shura came to see me. ‘I heard you weren’t too well. I warned you about that rich Armenian wine, didn’t I?’ He picked up one of my journals. His lips moved as he tried to read the German words in the text. ‘What’s this?’ He pointed to a paragraph about Oddy’s work on chemical isotopes. It was the beginning of the end for practical science. Together with Bohr’s atomic theories, Oddy’s came to seem more like the mad abstractions of ‘modernist’ paintings, whose authors were part of the same mutual admiration society. I explained to Shura that it was probably nonsense. His reply was to laugh and say, ‘I see. You can’t understand it, eh?’
‘Well enough to see through it,’ I replied. ‘Why are you here?’
Shura rubbed his nose. ‘I thought you might like to come out to Arcadia today. You need to get yourself a girl.’
‘I’ve no energy,’ I told him. ‘I can’t even think.’
‘You need a doctor.’
‘Nonsense.’
He was sympathetic. A little reluctantly, he drew something from his waistcoat pocket. Throwing his scarf back over his shoulder he opened a fold of newspaper and held it out towards me. ‘Don’t breathe too heavily, Max. You’ll blow a lot of money away.’
I looked down at the small quantity of white powder which lay in the newspaper. It was like the stuff one took for dyspepsia or headaches. ‘What is it? For a hangover?’
‘Exactly.’ Shura went to my dressing table and put the fold of paper carefully down. Then he took a rouble note from his wallet and rolled it until it made a tight little tube. I was mystified, amused. ‘What on earth’s all this ritual?’
He brought the packet back, with the rolled rouble. ‘Do you know how to take it?’
‘I don’t.’
‘You sniff it into your nose.’
‘But what is it?’
‘It’s cocaine. You use it to pick you up. Everyone does.’
‘Like you get in hospital?’
‘Exactly.’
In those days there was little association in the popular imagination with cocaine and addiction. It was not illegal to use it or to sell it, but it was expensive and therefore tended to be the prerogative of the wealthy. As I inexpertly drew the first crystals into my sinus I felt not that I was doing anything particularly wicked but that I was party to yet another luxury hitherto reserved for my betters. At first there was nothing but a little numbness in my nostrils and I was disappointed. I told Shura that either I was immune to the effects or that I needed more. He continued to leaf through my books. Slowly a feeling of ecstatic well-being filled me. Good cocaine does not merely give a sense of one’s whole body coming alive, there is at the same time an aesthetic delight, a love for the drug itself, a love for the world which can produce it, a love for oneself and for every other human being, a supreme confidence, an exquisite sensitivity, a profound understanding of the tensions and forces controlling society. An habitual cocaine-user (whether he injects or sniffs) should learn to distinguish the reality and the fantasy, to marshall the energies released by the drug, but at that time I was as much in its power as I had been in Shura’s. Of course, I felt utterly my own man. ‘It works very well,’ I said. ‘I feel a hundred times better.’
‘I knew you would. Coming to Arcadia?’
I thought of the pretty girls I would see there, of the fine impression I would make. I thought of the foreigners I could meet and speak to, the inventions I could create, just lying on the sands. I dressed myself in Vanya’s best (along with one or two extra items which I had purchased for myself). ‘What’s the time?’
Shura shook his head and laughed aloud. ‘Oh dear, Max, you’re certainly a joy to know. It’s about noon. We’ll have lunch at Esau’s first.’
We never reached Arcadia. Instead we spent most of the afternoon in Esau’s and I talked of all the things I knew, in all the languages I could speak; of all the things I was going to do; and my most attentive audience was little Katya, a year or two younger than myself but already a well-liked whore, who led me, still in a daze of cocaine-dust, by her tiny warm hand, out of Esau’s and along an alley and up into a sunny attic room with a window looking towards the smoky heights of Moldovanka and Vorontzovka, inland towards the ancient steppe, and here she took away all my clothes and exposed my body and admired it and stroked it and removed her own little silks and cottons and lay upon her white bed and taught me the trembling joys of manhood so that to this day the pleasure of cocaine-taking and copulation are mingled together in my mind. I have been a regular user of the drug all my life and apart from some mild trouble with my sinuses I have suffered no ill-effects. While I frown upon reefer-smoking and opium-taking, because they dull the wits and the will to do, which is the supreme human quality, I know many great men who have made use of cocaine to help them in their work. Of course, it can be abused - Bolsheviks and pop-stars, for instance - but that is true of all the gifts we have on this Earth.
After my experience with Katya I slept very deeply. Next morning I found that she was still there, still as tender as she had been, but anxious for me to leave because she stood to lose business. I asked when I could return. She said that I could come and see her the next day, when she had restored her routine. It might seem strange to my readers that I did not feel jealousy towards her customers. I never sought to analyse my feelings. My love for Katya, with her small, boyish body, her wealth of black hair, her humane and profoundly benign eyes, her delicate lips and fingers, was one of the purest loves I ever knew. Even when I saw her with her ‘friends’ I felt nothing but comradeship towards her. I do not think, in spite of what was to happen, that I managed to discover quite such a balanced relationship again. My life with Mrs Cornelius was altogether more complex and her role towards me, in the early days at least, more maternal.
My meeting with Mrs Cornelius came only a day or so after my first experience of sexual intercourse. My toothache had grown worse and Uncle Semya said I must have the best dental treatment. Again the dentist, Cornelius, was mentioned. Wanda must take me at once to Preobrazhenskaya (one of Odessa’s most fashionable streets) where the tooth would be pulled. My debauched life had left me pale, with bloodshot eyes. I think he believed my toothache to be worse than it was. He did not want the responsibility of telling my mother that I had, perhaps, poisoned my jaw.
In a smart Steiger, the driver a stiff silhouette on the seat in front, Wanda and I drove through foggy, autumn streets. The wheels rolled over rustling leaves which had become gold as the sea-fog turned yellow. The Odessa fog muted all the colours of the season. It muffled the sounds of the ships in the harbour and the traffic in the main boulevards. We passed the cemetery, clad in a canary shroud. Shadowy ladies in their brown autumn coats and hats, and gentlemen also in darker colours, anticipated the approach of winter.
By the time the cab turned into the long, straight avenue of Preobrazhenskaya I felt extremely lordly in my new three-piece suit, with white shirt, stiff collar and cravat, like a Count on his way to visit a Prince. My nervousness of the dentist had partly been offset by a soupçon of cocaine, taken just before we
left, and partly by a sense of my own elegance. We disembarked outside an impressive building (it was in the district close to the Theatre and University) just as sunlight began to fall again upon the city. We entered a lobby and took a flight of stone, curving stairs up to a door which bore a brass plate announcing H. Cornelius, Dentist.
We were expected, but there was another visitor in the well-appointed waiting-room. She seemed very much a lady of fashion, in her mutton-chop sleeves and her hat with fruit and flowers on it, with a little veil. She smelled of expensive perfume. She was, I now realise, only about Wanda’s age. But she had a romantic, foreign air to her.
She had not, it seemed, been expected. The dentist’s receptionist was saying as much when we entered. I cannot reproduce the lady’s wonderful English so will leave that to someone else. She seemed very confident as she stood in the middle of the room, holding her salmon-pink sunshade in one hand, her matching reticule in the other. She was dressed almost entirely in pink with some white decorations and, of course, the various colours of her hat. She was a picture from one of my French or English magazines. The feathers swept round, like the train of a savage monarch, as she turned to look at us. She had blonde hair (not in those days very fashionable) and a pink and white face, with a little paint on it. She smiled down on us, although she was not particularly tall, and it might have been the Tsarina herself condescending to notice me. She was speaking English, as I say, and seemed a little put out by the stupidity of the receptionist who had addressed her in German and then in French.
Byzantium Endures: Pyat Quartet Page 10