Byzantium Endures: Pyat Quartet

by Michael Moorcock

  I told him that there was no such thing as freedom, that in my view it was a revolutionary’s idea of heaven. He was amused. Nikita the Greek (who was only Greek in name) pushed his workman’s cap back on his head and leaned across the table, giving one of his strange, menacing grins. ‘Only a man without a soul is a free man,’ he said, ‘It’s possible to live a free life, but only if you renounce your immortality. That’s what I think.’ Nikita had been trained for the priesthood until he had run away from Kherson. He added: ‘One cannot have God and freedom.’

  It was pretty much what I had said. I glanced triumphantly at Shura, but he had lost interest and had his shoulder up. He was insouciantly chewing sunflower seeds and staring at the emaciated singer. Behind Shura’s back, Nikita widened his big eyes and jerked a thumb at my cousin, as if to indicate that Shura was showing unusual interest in the girl. I grinned. I was to remember that grin with some bitterness, but at the time I said: ‘All the Turks have done is to wake us up to the real danger. Now we’ll fight properly. Nothing can destroy Russia.’

  Lyova, the painter, came back with a handful of drinks and lowered them to the table. His dark hair fell over his eyes and he pushed it back. ‘That’s what they said about Carthage. They were probably going about saying “Carthage is indestructible. It’s one of the oldest civilisations in the world.” Then look what happened. The Romans destroyed the whole thing overnight. And why? Because of a failure of imagination. They simply couldn’t conceive of their fate. If they’d been able to do so, they’d have been here today.’

  ‘They are here,’ said Boris the Accountant, tapping his round spectacles. ‘Why do you think there are so many Semites in Odessa? The New Carthage.’

  ‘The New Gomorrha, more likely,’ said Shura, turning back and draining his tea-glass. ‘Let’s have some vodka.’ He seemed gloomy. He wouldn’t look at me. I thought he must be upset at the prospect of our parting.

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Nikita. He sneered. ‘Russians and Jews are all too innocent. They are still serfs at base. We behave like kids, we’re cruel to one another, because we are kids. We treat our own children badly ...’

  Grania, the curly-haired dancer with the heart-shaped face, would not have this. She made a disapproving sound. ‘Nobody loves children more than Russians!’

  Boris said feelingly, ‘Cossacks aren’t too finickety about Jewish children...’

  ‘Careful what you say, Benya,’ Lyova warned him with a smile. ‘We have a Cossack hetman in our company.’ We all enjoyed this.

  ‘We are children,’ insisted Nikita. ‘We love our “Little Fathers”, our “Batkos”. And it’s why we’re such materialists. Because we are poor, most of us, as children are poor. We have no power, no wealth, no justice save the justice of the autocrat. We are always quarrelling about possessions. We must be the only race in the whole world to equate sentimental lyricism with emotional maturity. Our literature’s full of trees and naive protagonists. There are more trees in Russian novels than it took to make the paper they’re printed on.’

  I do not think any of us followed Nikita’s wild arguments too clearly. It was the first time he had expressed them. He was to become a journalist on a Bolshevik newspaper and disappear in the mid-30s (I met his sister briefly in Berlin). Boris the Accountant seemed to agree with Nikita, however. ‘We are in the power of mad children,’ he said. ‘Russians will do anything to resist growing up. Thus they are easily ruled.’

  ‘And that’s why we could lose the war,’ said Shura, giving Boris his talented attention and evidently making the Accountant feel as if he had something profound to say. Boris merely developed the same theme:

  ‘It’s a vast, infantile nation. Its notion of maturity is a romantic youth’s notion that he’s mature when he becomes sentimental about general ideas like Love, Death and Nature.’

  We laughed as only sentimental youths, who had not really lost such ideas, can laugh.

  I report these conversations, as I remember them, not because I believe they had any special profundity, but to give a flavour of the ideas current in Odessa in those days.

  ‘It’s the reason Tolstoi is so popular with the young and passionate,’ said Boris. ‘Natasha is Russia. Even the oldest, noblest greybeard is a kid. How else could they embrace Marxism so easily?’

  At this mention of politics I was automatically on my feet. Most Jews like Boris were radicals and had to be avoided. Marxists, Kropotkinists, Proudhonists, they were all the same to me. They displayed a disease of the brain which could be highly contagious, for it was transmitted, as I once said of hypochondria, by word of mouth. Also I was still afraid of ‘So-So’. Talk of that devil might cause him to reappear. I decided to see if Katya’s customer had left yet. As I got up, she came in. She dashed forward to throw her arms round me, kissing me in a way I found uncharacteristic. The bombardment had caused many of us to have second thoughts about our lives and, perhaps, put a slightly higher value on our relationships.

  Shura remained in his strange mood. He was far from friendly to Katya and took a brooding interest in the singer, who had continued to pipe her peculiar Yiddish songs above the noise of our conversation. More vodka arrived. We all drank. We toasted the singer. Boris lost interest in politics when his fat girl-friend arrived to let him know their parents had met and decided they should marry. He became quite pale and began to make calculations in the margins of his anarchist newspaper.

  That was the day the Cossacks rode through Moldovanka and every Jew in the city shook in his shoes. The girl singer had stopped her wailing and we had grown rather stupefied. Katya had gone home, to prepare for her evening’s business, but it was not yet dark. The sound of cavalry in a city is very peculiar to one who has not heard it before. At first we thought we were to be bombarded again, because the noise was unfamiliar, and that is why we fell silent.

  When it is distant, the sound of cavalry in a city is like the wind which comes off the steppe, almost a hissing; slowly it grows louder and more irregular until it is a series of syncopated, broken beats, rising and falling, like water running at different speeds over rocks; at this stage it becomes suddenly much louder - the rushing noise of a clattering express train in a tunnel. And that is when it is galloping and you must get out of its way at any cost.

  The Cossacks galloped past our alley and the bravest (or in my case the most curious) of us stuck our heads out of the doorway and watched the Cossacks charge through the streets of Moldovanka ghetto.

  ‘They’re frightening us because they failed to frighten the Turks,’ said Boris, it’s what they always do.’

  Shura mocked him. ‘They’re just on their way to the garrison. It’s the shortest route from the Goods Station where they disembarked. Look at them. They’re not show-cavalry or militia, those boys. They’re a fighting unit.’

  It was true that the Cossacks had well-worn kaftans and that there was dust on them. Their weapons looked as if they had been used in real action, rather than in the service of some pogrom.

  ‘Nonetheless,’ said Boris, ‘the City Council had a reason for making them get off at the Goods Station and for telling them to come through here. Why are they galloping in streets? On cobbles? It’s bad for horses.’

  We all shut him up. The Cossacks had done no harm (unless you counted the odd heart-attack) and I for one had been inspired by them. With fighters like that we were assured of victory. And there were thousands - perhaps hundreds of thousands - of Cossack horsemen of half-a-dozen major hosts, not to mention all the minor ones - who would rally now that the Turk had dared attack us. I could imagine the joy in the Cossack villages when the news came that they would have another chance to kill Turks. I envied them. Only traitors and out-and-out Zionists could fail to be reassured by the sight of our wild cavalrymen of the steppe.

  I had begun to develop one of the headaches which have since bothered me all my life, and so I made my excuses and returned home. The streets were unusually quiet, virtually deserted. I found the hou
se absolutely silent. Nobody was in. I went to my room, thinking of having more cocaine, but I decided to lie in the darkness of the room, whose blinds had already been drawn, and try to sleep. There were disadvantages to taking stimulants. Sooner or later one’s resources cried out to be replenished. I spent that evening in bed and went down to dinner, where I found Uncle Semya, Aunt Genia and Wanda. My uncle lacked his usual detached benevolence and Aunt Genia spoke brightly, but with even less substance than was normal. At one point she suggested we should all think of going to Kiev. Uncle Semya said that property was expensive there and we could not afford to live as we did in Odessa. After dinner I asked Wanda what the matter was. She said that it was nothing specific. The war news was depressing. Uncle Semya had taken them out to Fountain to look at a datcha he was thinking of renting for the winter. I found this in itself bewildering, for one did not rent summer datchas for Odessa winters, which were apt to be quite severe. He had decided against the idea, Wanda told me. A touch of war-hysteria, I suggested. I had read about war-hysteria. We had been warned against it. She said that was probably the case. She seemed sad as she sat in my room, but was reluctant to leave. I felt an urge to comfort her, but thought that any move I made would be misinterpreted. I said that I was very tired and that I must sleep. There would be no need to bring me any breakfast in the morning. I would sleep at least until noon. Usually Wanda was sensitive to my needs, but she continued to pass the time for a few more moments until at length she left. I began to wonder if she had fallen in love with me and whether this accounted for her unusual behaviour. Everyone was a little strange since the bombardment. They had taken it far more to heart than I had. Perhaps they had intimations of miseries to come.

  Now that I think back, the ‘peculiar behaviour’ of some of my relatives might be my own interpretation. I could be overly acute. Sometimes with prolonged use of cocaine one begins to analyse far too deeply, suspecting motives and attitudes in other people which are simply not there, at least in any exaggerated form. I had been using cocaine almost every day for more than a week and was probably not far short of experiencing that confusion and doubt which comes from over-indulgence (something I have been careful of since: Everything in moderation, as the Poles say). In those days, of course, I did not know how to measure my intake of any drug, whether it be narcotic, alcoholic, or, indeed, spiritual.

  For the first time since I had arrived in Odessa, I felt depressed and homesick as I went to sleep. I thought of lilacs in the summer rain, of smoke hanging over the steep yellow streets, of my mother’s kindness and attentiveness, something which even my lovely Katya could not replace. This mood had left me when I awoke the next day, but it was to recur from time to time. However, I was determined to stay in Odessa as long as possible, even though winter was drawing on and the heavenly, unreal summer and autumn were giving way to a more prosaic, colder life.

  I thought that Shura guessed my slight depression. He took to inviting me to parties (private houses tended to be the meeting places in winter) and to introducing me to different girls. It became harder to see Katya. At first I did not realise that I was seeing her only two or three times a week when before I had seen her every day. I became suspicious of her. I missed her comforting warmheartedness. I became increasingly homesick.

  There was a little light snow in November. It seemed to me that the whole of Odessa had been covered with cocaine. By early December I was using about two grams a day, most of it supplied by Shura. My mother had written to me to say that she thought I should return. I had written to say that the news had been sensationalised and that I was safe. I would go home ‘at about Christmas-time’. She did not write to Uncle Semya and I was able to tell him my mother was reassured. Then, on the morning that the first real snow came I received a letter from Esmé telling me my mother had influenza and that Esmé had moved in with her, since her father’s pension had stopped with his death and she could not, anyway, afford the rent on his apartment. This seemed an ideal solution. I was glad that my mother had companionship and someone as competent to look after her as Esmé. I wrote back to say that I would visit Kiev ‘some time after Christmas’, that studies and so on were keeping me in Odessa and Uncle Semya was anxious that I should get the maximum benefit from my stay. None of this was a lie, but the prospect of poverty and simple food over the holiday was too much to contemplate. I could have done very little for my mother in Kiev. Indeed, with myself and my mother to look after, Esmé would have been hard-pressed. Of course, I did not know that the influenza was a very bad attack or I should have returned home at once.

  A day or so later Shura asked me if I would like to go aboard an English steamer. I said that the idea was very attractive. Shura needed an interpreter in some business he was transacting with the mate of the ship. The captain was not aboard. He had gone sick and been put ashore in Yalta. I assumed that because of this the mate was interested in off-loading whatever his cargo was and taking on something else. There were fewer and fewer foreign merchant ships in Odessa, due to the winter and Turkish control of the Straits. I believe, too, they were taking different routes, to avoid German submarines. There were, from time to time, Australian warships in the harbour, but we rarely had any contact with their crews. I was glad of the rare chance to try out my English. That night we went down to Quarantine Harbour and showed passes Shura had obtained. Then we were met by two seamen with a ship’s boat and rowed to where the S.S. Kathleen Sisson was anchored, beyond the mole. She was not much of a ship; typical of the tramps trading along the coasts from the Aegean to the Sea of Azov. After Turkey entered the War, these began to disappear so rapidly that as a mercantile city Odessa went from riches to rags almost overnight. I think the Kathleen Sisson had been recalled to her home port of Piraeus and possibly her officers, who were the only Britons aboard, wanted to get out of the theatre of war. The rest of the crew consisted of Greeks and Armenians who would have made a company of laskars seem savoury.

  We went below the bridge, to the captain’s quarters, and met Mr Finch, the mate. At the time I found him a pleasant, quietly spoken Irish gentleman, but I suspect I would see him differently now. He was tall and dressed in a grubby white uniform. He offered us a drink of what must have been arak, but which I foolishly thought would be Scotch whisky. It tightened the muscles of my throat, making it hard for me to speak properly for several days. We sat down around a chart table and Mr Finch began the conversation, asking Shura if he had brought the money. Shura told me to tell Mr Finch that the money was on deposit and would be paid over at a mutually-agreed time and place. Mr Finch seemed displeased by this but became reconciled, giving us some more ‘whisky’ (I have never drunk much real whisky since that day). Shura asked to see a sample and Mr Finch took him away while I waited, impressed by the cabin with its wealth of instruments, charts and general seafaring paraphernalia. It was my first experience aboard a ship and even a run-down tramp was absolutely enchanting.

  Shura and Mr Finch returned. Mr Finch told me that if Shura were satisfied we should agree a time and place to meet ‘on neutral ground’. Shura suggested a seamen’s club near the harbour. This was a favourite of English and American sailors. Mr Finch would feel at ease. The mate agreed and he and Shura shook hands. Mr Finch said to me that it had been ‘a long haul from Malacca’ and that he would be ‘glad to be back in Dublin’. I expressed surprise that he had sailed all that way and he laughed. ‘I joined this old kettle at Trebizond. I’ve been in damned native trains since Basrah, worrying myself sick every minute I was on land. I started the whole deal before the war, see. Now I wish I never had.’

  It was not clear what the deal had involved. I began to suspect it must be illegal. Shura was inclined to sail a little close to the wind, but this was something which could land us in trouble with the police. We got back to the harbour and I said goodbye to my cousin. I was glad the venture was over for me. Shura came to the house two days later and gave me ‘enough cocaine to last you through the season’. He see
med even better disposed towards me than usual. I guessed he must be feeling guilty for involving me in something dangerous. The cocaine was of prime quality. This was probably what Mr Finch had been carrying all the way from Malacca.

  * * * *

  FIVE

  THE FOG IN ODESSA grew thicker and colder, muting the slow moans of the last ships in the harbour. People occupied the streets less frequently. They put on their long coats, their mufflers, their fur caps. Christmas approached and the better shops were filled with light and wonderful displays; posters started to appear for Winter Balls and entertainments, many of them to raise funds for the war-effort; ice-cream sellers gave way to chestnut sellers under the hissing gas-lamps, and the stevedores on the docks put on quilted jackets and gloves, their breath mingling with the thick, low-lying steam from the ships. My mood grew steadily worse. In winter Odessa became a fairly ordinary city. I was scarcely seeing Katya at all (she was tired, she said) and I was using cocaine in stronger and stronger doses to relieve an almost suicidal depression. I had overdone my adventures. I had packed years of experience into a few months. I had neglected my work at the very time I should have been concentrating on it. I tried to stay with my books and forget about Katya. It was impossible. I decided to get up early one morning and go to see her, to offer her anything if she would forsake her profession and see more of me. She was an intelligent, beautiful girl and could easily have got a job in an office, or in a shop. Uncle Semya would probably help.