‘I told yer. I’ve come ter see me cuz.’
I recognised the English words, if not exactly the sense of what she said. ‘The lady is English,’ I informed the girl who, in apron and uniform, looked like a baffled sheepdog. I removed my hat. ‘Can I be of assistance, mademoiselle?”
The English girl was delighted. She seemed to relax. ‘Could you inform this stupid cow,’ she said, ‘that I am ‘ere ter visit me Cousin Haitch - Mr Cornelius. It is Miss Honoria Cornelius, who he’ll doubtless remembah as the little girl ‘e used ter dandle on ‘is knee. I ‘ave been stranded in ongfortunate circs - circumstances - and need ter see ‘im in private.’
‘You have not come to receive his professional ministrations, my lady?’
‘Do what?’ I remember her saying. This puzzled me. She added: ‘Come again?’ I gathered she had not understood me.
‘You have nothing wrong with your teeth?’
‘Why the ‘ell should I? Every one a bloody pearl and sound as a bell. ‘Ow old d’yer fink I am?’
I spoke directly to the bobbing receptionist in slow, clear Russian. ‘This lady is related to his excellency, the dentist. Her name is Mademoiselle Cornelius. She is, I believe, his cousin.’
The receptionist was relieved. She smiled and escorted the English lady into another, even more luxurious room. With a ‘Ta very much, Ivan,’ to me, Mrs Cornelius vanished. I was to learn from her much later that the dentist was not in fact a relation at all. She had come across his name in Baedeker’s at a nearby bookshop and had decided to visit him. She had been travelling with a Persian aristocrat, a well-known playboy of those years, when they had had a difference of opinion in their hotel (the Central). He had left on an early steamer, having paid the bill only up to that morning. She was unable to speak a word of Russian but even then she was making the best of things. She had been very grateful to me, it appeared, because she had almost been at the end of her tether. This was how she recognised me when we came to meet again. She had given up hope of finding an English-speaker anywhere in Odessa and I was ‘a godsend’, even if, in her words, I ‘talked like a bleedin’ book’.
After she had gone, and Wanda and I were seated, the English lady’s perfume (crushed rose-petals) was all that remained of her. I was called into the surgery. Wanda still accompanied me. She was curious, I think, to see the inside of a dentist’s workshop. A handsome middle-aged man, murmuring in what I supposed to be Dutch, peered into my mouth, clucked his tongue, put a mask over my face and made his receptionist turn the tap on a nearby cylinder. A strange smell replaced the scent of roses. I was gassed. A peculiar humming began in my ears - zhe-boo, zhe-boo - and black and white circles became a moving spiral. I felt sick and dreamed of Zoyea and Wanda and little Esmé, the warm, comforting body of my Katya. All were dressed in the salmon-pink costume of the English girl who was cousin to Heinrich - or was it Hans? - or Hendrik? - Cornelius.
I remember leaving with an emptier jaw and a fuller, throbbing head. When I asked what had happened to Mademoiselle Cornelius Wanda giggled. ‘Her cousin seemed only too pleased to be of assistance.’ I was reassured.
With regular supplies of cocaine from Shura and from other sources, I was able to continue with my studies and with my new, adventurous life. I developed a firm, regular friendship with Katya. Eventually, I fell in love with her almost as deeply as I had with Zoyea. The holiday seemed to be without end. Uncle Semya had assured me that I was welcome to stay until my place at the Polytechnic was ‘firmly arranged’. There was no certainty when this would be. I was awake sometimes twenty hours in the twenty-four. Sometimes I did not go to bed at all. My letters to my mother were regular and optimistic. Nor was my whole life given over to adventure. Uncle Semya and I regularly visited the theatre and Opera (usually just the two of us). He proved an astonishingly tolerant host.
Aunt Genia was inclined to fret over me, feeling that, quite rightly, I was overdoing things. But at dinner Uncle Semya would laugh and say: ‘Wild oats must be sown, Genia.’ This in spite of his standing in the community (high-ranking officials would often take dinner with us and on these occasions it was usual for Wanda and myself to eat in the kitchen with the cook).
Of course life with the pleasure-loving bohemians of the Odessa taverns was not without its problems. There were fights - or threatened fights - almost every day. In the main I was able to escape trouble, either by assuming a friendly or neutral stance (something which became second nature to me) or by talking myself clear. But I was not always able to avoid the revolutionaries my mother had warned me against.
In the main any political talk would send me away at once, unless it was the simple irreverences of Odessa small-talk, but when my engineering experience and scientific skills became known I was courted by more than one socialist. There was a particular scoundrel who might have given me trouble: a morose and introverted Georgian ‘on leave’, as he put it, from Siberia. He wanted me to make him some bombs for an attack he planned on the Odessa-Tiflis mail train. I trembled with terror at the very idea of being overheard, let alone involved. If my mother had known, it would have killed her. But I could not merely walk away from him. This sinister bandit with the unlikely name of ‘So-So’ had a low, persuasive voice and smouldering eyes staring from a heavily unshaven and pockmarked face. These aspects alone were enough to make me address him with at least superficial politeness. I said I would look into the problem of producing the bombs. I planned to complain next time I saw him that it had been impossible to obtain the materials. I thought it wise to return to the tavern when I had promised, but to my huge relief he was not there. I never saw him again. Perhaps he was arrested. Perhaps he was shot by the police. It was even possible that, like the man who had double-crossed Misha the Jap over some morphine supplies, he wound up being fished from the Quarantine Harbour. There was only a certain, limited sort of honour amongst the thieves of Moldovanka. Anyone who broke his trust was submitted to sudden, swift justice of a kind which, if the Tsar’s police had been prepared to dispense it in a similar fashion, would have at once put paid to any revolution, Bolshevik or otherwise.
It is even possible that the Turks saved me from So-So’s furious mouth. It was just the next day, when I was lying with Katya, that I was awakened from a wonderful, drowsy half-dream, by a whistling scream and the sound of a distant explosion. I thought there had been an accident in one of the factories or that a ship had blown up. But the screams and explosions became regular and, as I ran downstairs with Katya, a skinny friend of mine called Nikita the Greek dashed past in the street shouting that the Germans were shelling the city. Into the fog we. went, with some idea that it was dangerous to stay inside, through a tiny, tree-lined plaza like an impressionist’s painting of autumn, and still that unreal, fascinating death (such things were new to us then) went whistling on. Everyone was panicking. It was terrible to see so many frightened people appearing and vanishing in the fog. Most of the shells had been intended for the harbour and the Allied ships there and soon Odessa’s defences came into action. The damage was chiefly in Persuip, the industrial district by the sea where the shipyards were. The enemy was driven off with comparative ease. The following morning we learned it had been the Turks who had shelled us. Turkey was not at that time officially at war with Russia. A couple of days later we declared war on the cruel and cunning Moslem.
Until this raid I had been entertaining thoughts of remaining always in Odessa and going to the engineering school there (which was very good, though it did not have the prestige of St Petersburg). I do not think Uncle Semya would have objected had it not been for that bombardment, which showed how vulnerable Odessa was. ‘The sea is reminder enough of our death!’ he said feelingly, that evening at dinner. For the first time I was allowed to join him and two of his guests. One was a local police-chief and the other the captain of a French ship which had been slightly damaged during the shelling. He regretted, Uncle Semya said, that he could not take his whole family to Kiev or even to Mosc
ow. His business affairs were so complex that they could not safely be left to other hands. This made the police-chief laugh. My Uncle Semya was displeased, but gave a faint smile. He said that he had thought of going into the entertainment business, into kinema-displays. It was the sort of thing people wanted during wartime. Everyone agreed that the ‘kino’ was the business of the future. In America fortunes were already being made. ‘It would suit me,’ said Uncle Semya, ‘to be at least in one respect a patron of the arts.’ He had considered opening a theatre, but the investment in these troubled times was a bit uncertain. Kinema equipment could be moved, however, from place to place. You could give shows in barns, in the open air at night if need be. He visualised himself and Aunt Genia in a horse-drawn caravan - ‘a gypsy life on the open road’ - with his projector and stock of films, going from town to town. ‘How popular we should be. How pleased people would be to see us.’
‘People are always pleased to see you, Semyon Josefovitch,’ said the police-chief. ‘You perform so many important services to the community.’
‘To the world at large,’ said the captain, representative of internationalism. ‘You are well-known in Marseilles and Cardiff. I have heard people speak of you.’
‘What, in France and England?’
‘To my certain knowledge.’
Uncle Semya was extremely glad to hear this. ‘They find me an honest merchant, I hope.’
‘Oh, indeed, I am sure they do!’The police-chief discovered more cause for baffling laughter. I remain confused to this day by much so-called humour. I had every respect for the man’s rank but I found his red, puffy face, his grey-mottled beard, his sly smiles, rather unattractive, particularly after he had had more than a few glasses of wine. The captain was much more pleasant. He had bright green eyes and wind-tanned cheeks. He carried a private, circumspective manner with him, as if he only attended the dinner from a sense of duty, or because he had to deal with Uncle Semya on business. It could be that he was as upset as I was by the police chiefs coarseness.
The following morning I received a depressing letter from Esmé. Her father had contracted influenza and had died quite suddenly in hospital. She said my mother seemed happy, though missing me. Esmé had gone with her and Captain Brown to the theatre once or twice. They had watched some kino pictures of the War. She reported that our soldiers were driving the enemy back on every front. The specific news from Kiev now seemed very provincial. I read the letter with a certain sense of superiority. Esmé said she had decided to try to become a nurse at the front. I wrote back at once before going to Katya’s, telling her that I thought this would be a perfect occupation for one of her temperament and character.
Before I could take the letter to the post-office, Uncle Semya called me into his study. He asked if the letter from Kiev had been sent by my mother. I told him that it was from Esmé, a childhood friend. He seemed relieved. ‘I am wondering at the sense of keeping you in Odessa. The experience has been good for you so far. It has helped you grow up and so on. That, frankly, is what I wanted. You would not have survived much longer in the world, tied to your mother’s apron - ‘
I came to the defence of my mother, but he raised a neat hand. ‘I am not criticising poor Yelisaveta Filipovna. She has done very well by you. Rather better, I would say, than other members of the family who have had children. Vanya has his virtues, but I have no son to be proud of as she is proud of you.’ I warmed with pleasure. That’s why I am so anxious you should not be in danger. It is still taking a little time to approach the appropriate persons in Petersburg but I think we are nearing success (you will have to be photographed). So it is not certain you will be able to begin classes in January as we originally planned. I am wondering about my duty. Should I let you continue your “life-studies” here in Odessa - I gather you have made many friends - or should I send you back to the safety of Kiev?’
‘You think there will be another bombardment Semyon Josefovitch?’
‘The Turks took us by surprise. They will not be able to do that again. We are probably all right. But your mother will hear of this. What will she say?’
‘She will want me to return, naturally.’
‘And you think you should go?’
‘Not until absolutely necessary. I am happy here.’
He was satisfied. ‘Genia Mihailovna and myself were both saying how much you had changed, how much brighter you have become. More self-confident. You’ll be able to perform services for me, I hope, in Peter, when you go there.’
‘Of course, uncle. I would be honoured.’
‘We have a man on our hands, I think.’ He frowned. ‘You must be careful of the girls. Max.’ It was not the first time he had used this diminutive. ‘There are diseases. You know of these?’
‘I think so.’ I knew very well the dangers of venereal disease, always present in a port like Odessa. I took the necessary treatments, recommended by Katya. We had so far escaped any evident problems.
‘And you have been to the casinos?’
I admitted that I had.
Uncle Semya became almost jolly, ‘I used to enjoy the casinos. The trick is never to play with your own money. Invent a system and then offer to cut someone in for half the profit. You’d be surprised how many investors you attract. If you win, they are pleased and continue to invest. If you lose, well, you have lost their money and must admit that the system needs improvement. It is how I got my first real capital.’
I was astonished at this frank revelation, even a little shocked. But I realised my uncle had relaxed enough to offer me ‘man-to-man’ advice. It was an announcement that, in his eyes at least, I had come of age.
Uncle Semya seemed distracted then. He sighed. ‘We had thought of emigrating. Less than a year ago we planned to go to Berlin where I have a brother. Now we shall have to wait and see what happens. I heard a rumour we were forming a new alliance with the Germans against the Turks. Yet they don’t fear the Turks in Peter as much as they fear the Germans. We should move nearer to the middle. Perhaps to Kharkov. It’s safer in the middle of any country. But there are reasons - ‘ He waved a mysterious hand. ‘Let’s see what your mother has to say.’ His sharp, mild features clouded. He said something, I thought in German, about the Jews, but he spoke so softly it was impossible to understand him. He reached into his desk. He took out a passport, smiled at it almost wistfully, then replaced it in the drawer.
Feeling that I had been given even more freedom than before, praying that my mother would not be alarmed by the news of the bombardment (though I knew she would), I returned to my room. After I had reinforced myself with a little of my own supply of cocaine I went to call on Katya, to see if she would come with me to Esau’s. When I arrived at her place (which was over a hardware shop) her mother, who occupied the back first-floor room and was also a whore, said that she was busy. With habitual tact I left a message and went on my own to the tavern. I had expected to find Shura there, but he was about some business, and I fell into conversation with a couple of dancers from one of the cabarets. A man and a woman, they had just done a tour of the provinces and were complaining about Nikolaieff which they described as a ‘one-tram town’.
Shura came in shortly afterwards. He greeted me with a slap on the back and one of his winks. ‘Going to Peter, I hear.’
I said that it still wasn’t entirely settled. He ordered a glass of tea and drank it thirstily. He nodded. ‘When you get there, you want to keep in with all those well-connected young ladies at the university. They’re the daughters of rich men. I talked to a girl yesterday. She’s on holiday at Fountain and liked the look of me. Her father’s a factory-owner from Kherson. He sent me packing when he caught me giving her the eye. But he’s the sort. An industrialist who’ll back your patents.’ Another wink.
I said that it sounded as if he were recommending a con-game, and he laughed, ‘Isn’t it all a racket, Xima, dear? What if the War lasts forever? What if this is to be the world we’ll know for the rest of our l
ives? We must protect ourselves.’
I shared the general opinion that Germany and Austria-Hungary had bitten off far more than they could chew. The Hapsburg dynasty, for a start, was rotten through and through.
‘And you don’t think it’s true of the Romanoffs?’
I had heard more scandal about the Tsar and his family in Odessa than previously I had heard in the whole of my life. I had to agree that it looked bad. The Tsarina and most of her court, I had heard, were drug addicts. The Tsar’s ministers and military high command were all corrupt. It was easy to believe these things in the atmosphere of Odessa. I let the subject drop, however, in deference to my mother. I merely said: ‘Russia has the strength to beat anyone.’
A group of our friends entered and made towards our table. ‘Oh, we certainly have more cannon-fodder than anyone else.’ As the boys and the girl seated themselves around us Shura looked towards the bar. There a young woman was singing a frenetic song to an accordionist’s accompaniment. She was slim and neurasthenic while her musician-friend was burly and dirty, looking as if he had come straight out of one of the more miserable shtetls I had read about and, thank God, never had to experience. ‘But, as the Vikings used to say, free men fight better.’
Byzantium Endures: Pyat Quartet Page 11