by Banine
Considering his future escape a fait accompli, he praised unreservedly his own decisiveness, his resolution, his courage. This departure should really have been kept secret, but most people knew about it. They were to make the journey in three stages: first by train, then by cart and finally by boat to Persia.
Asked why he wanted to leave his country, my uncle would strike his chest with pathos and cry in his coarse, enthusiastic voice: ‘I want to flee the horrors of the revolution. I need air.’ But he didn’t explain what he needed air for other than to breathe. He kept to this vague formula and no one challenged him. Only his pugnacious wife dared do so, to the great fury of her husband, who thought it compromised the aura of respect for his person. My aunt was highly critical of the planned escape. ‘I want to die in my own country!’ she declared angrily.
‘What’s stopping you, you idiot? We’ll be back as soon as the Bolsheviks have gone.’
‘And that will be tomorrow morning, will it?’ my aunt would ask sarcastically.
‘No, but it will be soon. Mark my words, my words.’ And he emphasized ‘my’ in tones that demanded total, unquestioning respect.
‘And are you never wrong?’
‘Yes, I am. I was wrong the day I was stupid enough to marry you.’
A row would ensue about their respective merits and faults. When it had run its course, they would return to the precious subject of their escape.
‘I’d like to know why you can’t wait quietly until the Bolsheviks have gone. We’ve still got money. What more do you need?’
‘I need air to breathe.’
‘There’ll be just as much here as with those bloody fools,’ my aunt retorted in her usual crude language. (The bloody fools were the inhabitants of Persia, where my relatives were planning to take refuge.)
‘No, I need air, air. I need air.’ This declaration would be automatically accompanied by blows of pathos against Uncle Suleyman’s emotional breast.
‘The Devil take you, you and your children! I want to stay here in the city of my forebears, among my brothers and sisters. I want to die in peace.’
‘It’s a pity you don’t do it right away!’ my uncle cried, his eyes bloodshot. ‘Then I would be rid of you! Pest, idiot, pox!’
But these quarrels with his wife did not weaken my uncle’s resolve. The escape was fixed in Uncle Suleyman’s mind and no human power could divert him from it. All their relatives, their relatives’ friends and the friends’ friends knew the supposedly secret date of departure. This constituted a lot of people and, though officially still secret, the escape unofficially became an event in which half the city took an interest. Their chances of getting to Persia, the practicalities of the journey and the necessary precautions were all popular topics of discussion in the city.
Gulnar wept to see her family go, less from affection (somewhat lacking where her relatives were concerned) than from jealousy. Not that she really wanted to leave Baku: it’s just that she was always inclined to jealousy.
Only Gulnar, Selim and I were to see the travellers off at the station. They took a minimum of luggage lest they weigh themselves down on the difficult journey ahead. They did, however, take a fortune in jewellery, hidden in the most imaginative, unexpected places; luggage could be closely searched at the stations and they had to think of everything. ‘Tether your horse to a tree, then put your trust in Allah,’ a wise Muslim proverb says.
We arrived at the station around eight in the evening. It was very cold. The lights flickered feebly as though exhausted, and everything seemed sad and dark. I was devastated by their departure, as I am by almost all partings, which are invariably a wrench for me. The train was late, so we sat on the suitcases to wait. Everyone wept, except Uncle Suleyman, as it was beneath his dignity, but it was written On High that we were never to see that train. A dozen fearsome militiamen burst into the waiting room where we were perched on the suitcases, sobbing. They began to search the luggage. I heard one of the militiamen ask my cousin Asad a question to which he mumbled an unintelligible reply.
‘What, can’t you speak clearly?’ By far the scariest of the militiamen, whose tangled beard and burning eyes made him look like a fairy-tale giant, lost his temper.
Asad replied again, but in the same incomprehensible fashion.
‘Goddamn it!’ the militiaman shouted. ‘You must have something in your mouth that’s making you talk like that. Open your mouth!’
Asad did not do as ordered, so the militiaman marched up to him, opened the boy’s reticent mouth and pulled out a large diamond ring. The militiamen shouted in surprise and triumph, while the unfortunate travellers sighed in sorrow and despair. Our whole group was led away to a distant room. Two female militia were brought in for the ladies and they began to search us. Expert hands ran over us in all directions. There were jewels in my aunt’s hair, in the children’s mouths, in the hems of their clothing. My poor relatives groaned and I pitied them with all my heart, but at the same time there was something so comical about this extraction of jewels from the most unlikely locations, hardly suitable as hiding places, that I kept having the urge to laugh.
‘Would you believe it!’ one of the militiamen cried. ‘There are millions here!’
Through her tears, my aunt hurled triumphant abuse at Uncle Suleyman. ‘You’re still right, are you, you old donkey masquerading as a lion? Just you try coming on all superior with me again, poor cretin!’
The poor cretin maintained an astonishing air of dignity and solemn disdain. Even when they debated taking him to prison, and us along with him, he remained fearless and his demeanour said this whole story had nothing to do with him.
‘Let them go!’ another militiaman intervened. ‘Now that we’ve stripped them of their treasure, what else can we do with them? If they’re in prison, we’ll have to feed them and that’s all we need!’
Heed was taken of these wise words. They let us go and we escorted the poor, fleeced travellers back to their house. What a pitiful return!
‘Ha ha ha,’ my aunt laughed hysterically. ‘Isn’t this marvellous! We’re much lighter now, all the better to breathe the air we were meant to escape and all because of that poor idiot’s madcap scheme.’
‘Shut up,’ her husband replied gloomily. ‘You know we’ve still got all the gold buried in the country. There’s enough to keep us going for years to come.’
If you were wondering what we were all living on, there’s your explanation. All those who used to be rich still owned large quantities of jewels and gold, which they sold on the black market as the need arose. As Uncle Suleyman had said, this treasure would last for many years; and as nobody believed the Bolsheviks would be around for very long, we lived under the impression that our future was assured. With the aid of Allah and a little patience, everything would be resolved in the most satisfactory manner. These childish platitudes brought the former oil barons great peace of mind; after all, they had always thought it natural they should be blessed by fortune. It never occurred to them that fortune might have changed sides. Certainty is the prerogative of the primitive, the weapon of the innocent.
Gulnar and I had dinner at Andrey’s. We told Selim we had been invited to dinner by Zeynab Khanim, who was in the know and delighted to provide our cover. The orderly with tousled hair served dishes he had made himself, which we enjoyed, though they were rather lacking in sophistication. I was in the mood to appreciate everything—food or anything else. For two weeks I had been seeing Andrey nearly every day. It’s not enough to say that I loved him: the feeling I felt for him was one of admiration, I would even say adoration if I did not fear ridicule. I will say it—I did adore him. Was it him I loved or through him Prince Andrey Bolkonsky? His attitude towards me was the same as Prince Bolkonsky’s towards Natasha Rostova: a protective, deferential tenderness, untainted by any physical desire; at least, that was my perception, and even if I’m wrong, aren’t things what we believe them to be? Andrey never offended me: he was always restrained in h
is words and gestures, a sign of rare mastery of oneself.
‘When you have overcome the fear of death, there’s not much left to conquer in life,’ Andrey said to me one day. ‘I have touched death so often that life seems to me a happy accident, not a stable state to which you have to cling at all costs. That’s why I despise so many things that most people covet. Do you understand me?’
He ended almost all his sentences with ‘do you understand me?’ He knew I could follow his train of thought, but never ceased to be amazed.
‘You’re still of an age to be playing with dolls, but I can talk to you like a woman.’
‘No, you’re wrong. I’m fifteen—the age when women here already have children. Don’t confuse me with your sisters in Russia.’
‘Yes, I’ll get used to this surprising precociousness one day.’
We could see Gulnar getting drunk. Biryukov was talking nineteen to the dozen, facetious as always. He told us about his highly improbable adventures, but perhaps he wasn’t lying after all. Andrey claimed that at least half of his stories were true, which would make Biryukov an extraordinary character.
He was kissing Gulnar’s brown hand on the slightest pretext and these kisses were getting imperceptibly higher; Gulnar’s arm was a barometer clearly revealing the upward curve of Biryukov’s feelings.
‘When he reaches her shoulder, he’ll be lost,’ Andrey murmured, ‘or perhaps it’s your cousin who will be.’
I was alarmed at Gulnar’s behaviour; if she continued drinking vodka at the same rate—a liqueur glass every ten minutes—she wouldn’t be able to go home. I told her so.
‘Oh, don’t worry about it,’ cried Biryukov. ‘You can sleep here. Tell your husband you’ve missed the curfew and are staying with Zeynab Khanim. We’ll phone to warn her.’
We all wanted to stay together, so no one raised any objection. Fortified by a sense of impunity, Gulnar started drinking even more and Biryukov launched into a new story, even more unlikely than the others. Then he began to show us magic tricks, using a pack of cards taken from his jacket. He knew some impressive tricks and we watched him open-mouthed, uttering cries of amazement. Eventually he stopped the tricks and said, ‘And now I’ll show you my finest conjuring trick of all. In one second Gulnar will be sitting on my knee.’
He got up, waved his hands above Gulnar, then picked her up and placed her on his knee.
‘This is the most difficult trick, but I enjoy it the most.’
Gulnar laughed; she was very happy and showing no sign of wanting to get off Biryukov’s knee.
‘A veritable painting: Orgy of the People’s Commissars with the Daughters of Former Aristocrats. Come into my study,’ Andrey said, getting up.
I followed, glad to be alone with him.
The room was quiet, barely illuminated by a bedside lamp. We sat on the hard, cool leather sofa, and a moment later I was in Andrey’s arms.
‘I can do conjuring tricks too, just like Biryukov.’
Lying against Andrey, lying against a man’s chest for the first time, I had my apprenticeship in happiness. For the first time in my life, I knew total well-being, perfect harmony, with all my senses. The room where I had slept and lived as a small child saw me now, still a child, but with the happiness of a woman. My body felt completely relaxed, light as a feather, while my mind was free of questions and anxiety. I had forgotten my father, who should be released soon; I had forgotten Jamil, whom I had to marry; I had forgotten my sisters and my yearning for Paris. Lying next to the black knight who came to me one day across the sandy vineyard, bringing happiness, I knew that I should not refuse it. All the social considerations inculcated by my upbringing disappeared. They all seemed stupid and pointless to me, nothing but hot air produced by killjoys.
As I lay against the black military tunic, with its appealing smell of tobacco and leather, it seemed to draw me towards another, more beautiful existence, one closer to the truth than the confines of outdated prejudice allowed. I pressed closer to Andrey and his hand caressed my hair.
It must have been after midnight as no one walked in the deserted street, no car passed. Complete calm, perfect silence reigned in the apartment too. I wondered what Gulnar and Biryukov were doing, but just as quickly forgot about them and returned to my own happiness. How long did we stay like that, without moving or saying a word? Time was no more, just a perfect moment between the past and the future.
Finally, as though emerging from a dream, Andrey’s voice asked, ‘Would you like to come away with me? I have to go to Moscow first for two weeks to attend the party congress, then I’ll come back here for a few days, then we’ll leave together for Kiev. Would you like to?’
‘Of course I would,’ I replied, then stupidly began to cry tears of joy.
‘Don’t cry. We’ll be very happy.’
‘That’s strange,’ I thought. ‘Does he really think I’m crying because I’m sad? I’m crying for joy because I’m finding happiness.’
‘I’ll marry you, though it makes me rather uncomfortable to marry a minor.’ (I sensed rather than saw his smile.) ‘I will do it, however, out of love for you. Don’t cry.’
But for a long while I couldn’t stop. Andrey said nothing more and just carried on tenderly stroking my hair. This went on for hours, until dawn. I slept intermittently, waking up to feel an acute, overwhelming happiness, the happiness I had always anticipated. Then I would fall asleep again. I wasn’t surprised that our embracing was so chaste; I found it entirely natural. I nestled against the tunic that smelt of tobacco and leather and allowed Andrey’s love to wash over me. I loved him too and repeated it a thousand times, but to myself, as I didn’t dare say it out loud.
There was a terrible scene between Gulnar and Selim. The poor man was ashen from insomnia and anxiety. Frightened at his own bravery in daring to confront his wife, he asked in what he hoped was a fierce voice, ‘Where were you last night?’
With regal disdain Gulnar shrugged her shoulders, took off her coat and said, ‘Where was I? Everyone knows where: at Zeynab Khanim’s of course, since we dined with her. But we had rather a lot to drink, forgot the curfew and there you have it.’
‘Oh no, you’re not getting away with that! Do you take me for that husband of Zeynab Khanim’s? You’re not to visit her any more. The whole city knows she’s a strumpet. And I’ve no intention of being like her husband and turning a blind eye. Let that be a warning to you!’
Gulnar turned pale, then red, then roared and leapt at Selim, snatching a clump of his hair and pulling it with magnificent energy. Selim gave a cry of pain.
‘How dare you? How dare you talk to me like that? To me… how dare you?’
She was choking with rage.
‘When I’m good enough to put up with a husband like you, large as a bear, fat as a pig, and a clumsy oaf to boot. How dare you? Don’t you understand that if I want I’ll divorce you tomorrow, in half an hour; I’ll ditch you and marry someone better-looking than you, who won’t dare make a scene for one little night out. You forget, my friend, you seem to forget completely that we are no longer living in an age of obscurantism, but in one of the greatest, one of the freest ages since the creation of the world.’ (I smiled to myself as I recognized Gregory’s ideas.) ‘Do you understand?’
No, Selim seemed to have understood nothing. He roared as well, though we didn’t recognize his small, hysterical voice, which was inadequate for the circumstances and didn’t suit his bulk. He cried various insults, including: ‘All I understand is that I’ve married a whore, a tart. I’m sure there were men at Zeynab Khanim’s. The whole of Baku knows she’s a procuress to beat them all, and I think she even receives gifts for it. Tell me who was there and what the two of you did, tell me.’
‘Well, we drank and we… Is that what you want me to tell you, you idiot? Very well, I’m telling you—are you happy now? If you like it, I’ll do it again, and if you don’t, I’ll do it anyway.’
Selim charged towards Gulnar, clearly
intending to hit her, but Gulnar was more slippery than an eel and darted behind a table.
‘With all that flesh you think you can catch me and hit me?’
Selim gave his wife a wild look, then collapsed onto a chair, crying like a baby. He sobbed and mumbled and we couldn’t understand a word. Tears ran down his poor, kind, ugly face, distorted by grief.
‘Tell me, tell me’—at last we could make out snatches of words— ‘tell me it’s not true. You’re breaking my heart saying such foolish things. Tell me…’
Gulnar raised her eyes to the heavens, ‘Oh, men!’
She was wavering between the desire to tell the truth and the desire to spare Selim.
‘Oh, of course I lied.’
Selim stopped crying, wiped his eyes and even managed a miserable smile.
‘On the other hand,’ Gulnar continued, ‘I want you to understand that I will be unfaithful to you one day. Really, it’s too sad to sleep with the same man all the time. It’s like having to eat the same dish every day. I’m going into a decline, I can sense it. If you would prefer a divorce…’ Gulnar conceded this indulgence with a regal gesture.
‘No, no, anything but that.’
‘Good, then we won’t discuss it any more.’
And Gulnar sailed out of the room with majestic dignity.
9
Jamil’s friend the commissar finally obtained my father’s release. He was freed in late December after nine months of incarceration. Since we hadn’t known his release date, no one went to meet him and he left the prison on his own. He went to his mother’s house, and as we lived close by, an elderly relative came to tell us of his arrival.