The People's Act of Love

by James Meek

  ‘It’s fine. Don’t worry,’ said Samarin. ‘And the truth is that I didn’t have light to see the picture by, before your men took it from me. May I see it now?’

  Mutz took the photograph out and gave it to Samarin, who sat down on the cot and held it in the candlelight by the thumb and first finger of each hand, pincering the white border with his black, broken nails to avoid smudging the print. It was the same Anna Petrovna as Mutz’s engraving on the Czechs’ one-crown bill, the same mass of kinked hair tied at the back and the same hungry eyes, but a few years younger, and happier: Anna before the war. The dark dress with the high collar would have looked old-fashioned now but by the apparently careless unfastening of the top two buttons, and by the way Anna’s head leaning on her hand made a thin pale jagged line of throat visible, it moved outside fashion. Where the studio photographers would have made a smooth white complexion under flat light, this picture was divided into extremes of light and shade. The harsh contrast between the darkened and the lit planes of Anna’s face was echoed by the contrast between the severity of the chiarascuro itself and the happiness of her smile. The light – it was hard to tell whether it was sunlight or some theatrical contrivance of electricity – picked out the tiny wrinkles and blemishes even on her young skin, and this against the stark simple way her cheekbones and slightly upturned nose were outlined made her seem youthful and wise at the same time.

  ‘Beauty,’ said Samarin. If he’d said it any other way, Mutz would have become angry, and regretted showing him the picture. As it was, he said it matter of factly, as if being beautiful were a profession like carpenter or drayman, and every little town would have its beauty, as a matter of course.

  ‘Not everyone thinks so,’ said Mutz. ‘Do you recognise her?’

  ‘No. I wonder when this picture was taken. Whoever took it, he’s good.’

  ‘It’s a self-portrait,’ said Mutz. He took the photograph back and put it away. ‘Do you have any reason to think she might be in danger?’

  ‘I don’t even know her name. I can tell you that everyone in this town is in danger. The second convict has been pursuing me. The Mohican by alias. I don’t know his birth name. He’s very businesslike when it comes to killing. A few dozen Czech soldiers aren’t going to trouble him.’

  ‘Do you know a man named Balashov?’

  ‘No. Tell me, what is that woman’s name?’

  ‘It’s not necessary for you to know.’

  ‘Is it Anna Petrovna? It is! I can tell from your expression. My guards here were telling me about her. Do pass on my compliments on her photography. That picture will last longer than we will.’

  There was a moment’s quiet. Mutz sensed Samarin was watching him. He turned and the prisoner was gazing at him with an expression of natural friendliness. Sure enough, when he spoke, it was with the most delicate, intimate concern, as if the two men had been close for years. For an instant Mutz found himself running back through his acquaintances. Did he know this man? Ridiculous. And yet could men exist with the power, by tone of voice, expression and an ability to read others, to make it seem as if they were every man’s friend? To make it seem that a second of affection was of no less value than years – that time made no difference? Did memory have so little meaning when it came to putting a value on the present?

  ‘You’re fond of Anna Petrovna, aren’t you, Jacob?’ said Samarin.

  ‘Is – it’s not Jacob,’ said Mutz. A cheap trap.

  ‘Abraham?’

  ‘My name is Josef. I’d rather keep it formal. Did you know the shaman was dead?’

  Samarin shook his head. Then he snapped his fingers and pointed at Mutz. ‘Alcohol poisoning!’ he said. ‘You gave your suspicion away already. Why would I – listen.’ He lowered his voice, licked his lips and glanced towards the tiny window in the cell. He was serious and frightened. ‘What if the Mohican was already here? The shaman knew what he tried to do to me! This is hard to understand, but while a great robber can boast to other thieves about eating a man, he can’t allow the shame of the common herd knowing. And I know he was carrying spirits with him. Please, lieutenant. You can see how tired I am, and this tribunal tomorrow – if one of your sentries isn’t on duty under the window through the night, I’ll not sleep. Every one I tell about what happened in the taiga is in particular danger. You, now. But tomorrow I tell so many people even he can’t kill them all.’

  ‘Bublik! Racansky!’ called Mutz, getting up and moving to the door. ‘Come in here.’ The two shuffled in. Mutz looked around. ‘Mr Samarin has asked for some close guarding tonight, and I know you all want to get better acquainted. I suggest you spend the night together.’

  ‘Honoured,’ croaked Bublik.

  ‘Don’t give him a weapon. Otherwise, share what you have.’

  ‘Leave us the lantern, then.’

  ‘I’m not going yet.’

  Bublik stepped a pace forward. ‘We are honoured to have as our guest a genuine member of the Russian revolutionary class, an intellectual, an active friend of the workers, a lamp post – a beacon for the peasants, a man who has witnessed from within the nature of the greatest revolution the world has ever seen, who can help us understand the death throes of imperialism, capitalism and bourgeois nationalism, who can be our guide through the works of the great Karl Marx. Comrade Samarin!’ Bublik clapped. Racansky joined in.

  ‘Give me a cigarette,’ said Samarin. Bublik nudged Racansky and Racansky gave him one and lit it. Samarin smoked greedily.

  ‘Has there been a revolution?’ he said.

  ‘Yes!’ shouted Bublik, raising his fist in the air.

  ‘I suppose there were flags, marches, a change of government, the punishment of property owners, a certain amount of burning and looting, a redistribution of land and floor space, a quantity of swift justice?’

  ‘Yes!’ said Bublik, half-lowering his fist, less certain. ‘Everything has changed.’

  ‘And have you changed?’

  ‘Yes!’ said Bublik, raising his fist again. ‘No!’ He slapped his forehead, his chest, banged his rifle butt on the ground, punched Racansky. ‘I feel … ignorant. That is, uneducated. It’s not my fault. We’re all victims of the bourgeois-controlled Austro–Hungarian education system. There are so many … processes.’

  ‘I’m only a student, you know,’ said Samarin, sucking grey heat into his lungs. ‘I’m not a revolutionary, as you say. Five years in a labour camp.’ He laughed. ‘For a misunderstanding! But, for what it’s worth, this is how it seems to me: a revolution happens when it happens in here.’ He tapped his head.

  ‘Excellent!’ said Bublik, standing up and sitting down several times. ‘You see? Concise, direct. Comrade Samarin, what is the best way to carry out this inner revolution? Many of the soldiers and officers …’

  ‘There are those who are naturally virtuous,’ said Samarin.

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Naturally generous. Selfless people, who work for the common good, who share without looking for profit, who make sacrifices without expecting gratitude. People who don’t need to be organised.’

  ‘Yes! I myself –’

  ‘All the rest have to be destroyed.’

  ‘Destroyed … I see.’

  ‘It’s very easy to see but it’s very hard to look at. It’s this way: even though there’s no God, a true revolution has got to be like a divine punishment. Its agents must seem to the virtuous like agents of an inevitable, irresistible will – their own – taking the wicked to their doom. Give me a cigarette.’

  ‘Give him a cigarette, Racansky.’

  ‘It’s the last.’

  ‘Do you want to be destroyed by the will of the virtuous? Give it to him!’ Bublik snatched it away and gave it to the prisoner, who leaned easily into the flame of the candle and lit up. ‘Go on, please, Comrade Samarin. Tell us how this destruction is to be carried out. How will the virtuous be recognised? Is there a danger of mistakes?’

  ‘That’s for sure,’ said Samarin
, laughing. He rolled over onto his side and propped himself up on his elbow, waving the smoke out of his face. ‘Remember, I don’t know how it’s going to happen. I’m only a student.’

  Racansky said: ‘But if the destroyers kill the innocent along with the guilty, don’t they also deserve to be destroyed?’

  ‘Shut up,’ said Bublik.

  ‘Racansky is right,’ said Samarin. ‘In the end, the destroyers will destroy each other, and it’ll be over. That’s why they may permit themselves to behave, as it must seem, like monsters. They’re outside guilt and innocence. They’re terrible, frightening, bloody. But you don’t judge them, any more than you judge a flood, no matter how much it has terrorised you, no matter how many of your kin it has slaughtered. The waters will recede, and the flood is gone, though the land has changed.’

  Bublik and Racansky looked at each other, Bublik nodding, Racansky staring at Samarin with his mouth slightly open. He lowered himself to the floor and sat cross-legged, rifle over his lap, looking up at the prisoner. Breathing heavily with effort, Bublik did the same.

  ‘Does anyone know any jokes?’ said Samarin.

  ‘You see?’ murmured Bublik to Racansky. ‘Now he lightens the mood, and draws the peasants and workers in, with entertaining and instructive anecdotes.’

  ‘Here’s one,’ said Samarin. ‘A murderer takes a little girl into the woods at night. It’s dark, the trees are moaning in the wind, and there’s no one else about. The little girl says to the man: “I’m frightened.” And the murderer says: “You’re frightened? I’m the one who’s going to have to go home by myself!”’

  There was silence for a few moments. Bublik’s face crumpled, he squeezed his eyes shut, opened his mouth and gave out a long, croaking laugh. Samarin, Racansky and Mutz watched him while he whined, shook his head, wiped his eyes and giggled. ‘Home by myself!’ he said, and doubled up again. ‘Oh dear. You see?’

  Mutz came forward into the circle of the three men and put the lantern down in the middle. ‘Here,’ he said.

  Bublik looked up at him and turned back to Samarin. Samarin said to Mutz: ‘You’re a generous man, Josef, to leave your lantern when it’s dark. Of course nobody will see you, either. If you’re going to Anna Petrovna’s, I’m sure you know the way.’

  ‘I don’t like familiarity,’ said Mutz. ‘See the prisoner is deloused and cleaned, with new clothes, by nine tomorrow. Sergeant Bublik. Please.’ And he left for Anna Petrovna’s house.

  Anna Petrovna

  Anna Petrovna Lutova was born in 1891 in a town in Voronezh province, on the European steppe, at a time of famine in the land around. Her mother went into labour on a rainy October afternoon and her father rode for the doctor. When the two men came back her father was pale. While the doctor went upstairs to attend to Anna’s mother, her father sat in the kitchen without talking, drinking tumblers of cognac, spilling half of it on the floor because he filled the tumbler to the brim and then his hand shook, and he wouldn’t let the maid pour for him, but looked dumbly into her eyes when she tried to prise the empty glass from his fingers. To find the doctor he had ridden out beyond the edge of town. On the way he passed a family by the roadside, three starved-looking children with their faces drawn over the teeth and their ears stuck out, asleep on the wet grass, and their parents standing over them, the father with a black jacket over his smock and a flat cap and his hands behind his back, staring into the distance; the mother with her sodden headscarf stuck wrinkled to her forehead moved forward as the horse approached, and shouted to him. She called him ‘sir’ and asked for help. Anna’s father rode on without stopping. Why had the mother and father let their children go to sleep on the soaking ground, with the rain falling on their faces, and the children so weak and malnourished? It worried him and didn’t worry him. On the way back he told the doctor and the doctor looked at him without saying anything until, half a mile further on, he’d stood up in the saddle and turned round and said to Anna’s father: ‘The children died of hunger, probably.’ When they passed the spot the family had gone. The doctor said only the richer peasants were left in the villages, the rest had gone to the cities, or into the woods. People were eating bark and lizards. On the edge of town, they saw the family again, in a cart. The mother and father sat with their backs to the carter. The dead children lay under a piece of canvas with puddles in the folds, and the surface of the puddles puckered as the cartwheels rolled over crossruts and the rain slipped into the water. The parents didn’t look up as Anna’s father and the doctor cantered by.

  Anna heard the story for the first time from her father when she was fourteen. Until then she’d believed what she heard from her younger sister, who’d heard it from the maid, that their father was so frightened at the thought of childbirth that he’d got himself drunk in panic. The father she knew only drank on holidays and picnics, or when he was with his friends, and they drank long, serious toasts to each other and to people with strange names like Obri Berdsley and Gustav Klimt, and Anna had been proud that when she was being born her father felt so deeply about it that he reached for the bottle, and crooned a song in the kitchen for his daughter while she was being born, perhaps.

  Her father was an artist. He was self-taught and put it about that landscapes were a dead form. He despised photography, calling it corrupt, degenerate, debased, and refused to allow any member of his family to have their picture taken. Whenever they asked, he promised to fetch his sketchbook a little later, although once he’d finished the business that stopped him drawing – smoking, or reading a novel, or writing a letter – he forgot about the sketchbook. He painted portraits of businessmen, intellectuals and the Voronezh aristocrats, and their wives. He approached them to ask whether they would sit for him, rather than the other way round, but the truth was, sometimes they offered to pay. He waved the offers away, thrusting both palms forward forcefully as if he was penning bulls in a stockade, and said: ‘A true artist doesn’t work for money. A true artist doesn’t need money.’ It was true that Anna’s father didn’t need money, because the income from the brewery the family owned in Lipetsk was enough to pay for the upkeep of their house, the family’s clothes, their food, four servants, and the desired things which appeared in the house as the century turned – the bicycle, the gramophone, and electric light.

  Anna grew up with the scent of oil paint and canvas and freshly planed wood that breathed out when the door to the studio opened, with the sitters who stalked up the creaking stairs, the landowners who came in from their country houses with frayed hems and dandruff, smelling of damp, the middling bureaucrats stiff in mail-order new uniforms, the tall beautiful women, sometimes in twos, sometimes alone, rustling with hurried grace towards the light that filled the upper floor. After weeks, Anna’s father would let her into the studio and show her the painting, and she was astonished at how her father changed his subjects, how the red veins disappeared from the cheeks of the landowners and their noses became sharper, how the bulge in their stomach migrated north to their chests, how the beautiful women became younger and their waists thinner than they really were, how shifty-eyed bureaucrats with dead faces came to look out from their portraits filled with wisdom and a yearning to do good for humankind which you never caught if you saw them on the street. When she was a child Anna thought her father’s clients must be very grateful to him for smoothing out all their wrinkles, spots, lumps, warts and squints, for taking so much hair away from women’s faces and putting so much on men’s heads, for making, in fact, all the women and all the men look almost exactly the same as each other, so that none of them would be jealous. She thought they must pay highly for their portraits, in gold maybe.

  One afternoon, a few weeks before Anna’s fifteenth birthday, her father called her into his studio to show her his portrait of the local marshal of the nobility. Despite his fondness for contemporary art, in his own work Anna’s father was conservative. His subjects were dressed formally and always stood against a dark background, so dark that i
t was hard to tell whether it represented night, or a curtain, or simply a brisk coat of plain black paint. Perspective was provided by objects in the foreground, like a skull, or books, or a globe, lying on a table, on which the subject’s fingers rested delicately. Anna recognised the marshal by the quantity of medals and orders her father had detailed on his chest. On the table her father had painted three harvest mice which seemed to have starved to death. Their ribs stuck out, their haunches were wizened and the skin was stretched over their skulls, their mouths open in agony. He had never painted anything so real or so ugly. Anna saw that her father was excited, and nervous. The paint was almost dry but he was still wearing his smock. He hadn’t come down to lunch that day, they hadn’t seen him at breakfast, he hadn’t even been in to kiss his daughters goodnight the previous evening. There were specks of paint in his beard and rings of weariness and anxiety around his eyes.

  Anna knew her father wanted her to ask about the mice, so she did. He told her about the dead children he had seen on the day she was born, and how the marshal of the nobility, who was the biggest landowner in the area, had sold all the grain he had in storage and shipped it overseas while his tenants were dying of hunger, and then had tried to stop other aristocrats and townspeople raising money for famine relief, for fear they might think abroad that there was a famine. Anna looked at the painting, and looked at her father, smiling and frowning and blinking and chewing the end of a paintbrush. Her first thought was that it was very inconsiderate of other children to die on her birthday. Her second thought was that the marshal of the nobility, whom she had seen going stiffly up the stairs to the studio a week before, who had smiled and nodded at her, a small man with grey skin and heavily oiled white whiskers, was a monster. She sat down on the table where her father mixed his paints and a tear dribbled down each cheekbone. Her father put his brush down, put his hands on her shoulders, parted the hair from her face, kissed her on the forehead and told her not to worry, he probably wouldn’t be arrested. This did not make sense to Anna, who was crying because it seemed to her a grievous way to disappear from her family’s memory, dead and nameless under a tarpaulin in the rain, and she felt responsible, and ashamed that she hadn’t been there to help.