It was not politic to mention Esmé. ‘I was on my way to England,’ I said. ‘Travelling with a friend. The friend decided to go on without me, taking virtually everything I owned, including most of my documents.’
He was suitably horrified and sympathetic. This gained me an extra line of cocaine, since he now remembered not to touch me. ‘Oh, my dear. As soon as your trouble is cleared up, you must move in with me. I’ve tremendous amounts of room, as you can see. You could have your own bedroom. Your own dressing-room. Honestly, you’d be so welcome. You know how much I’ve always liked you, Dimka.’
I pretended to be delighted at the prospect. ‘That’s wonderful, Seryozha. I’ll go round to the doctor now and see if he has the lotion. It must only be a matter of a couple of days.’
‘You poor thing! I had no idea you were suffering so dreadfully. What happened? Were you picking up women? Or Belgians? They never know if they have lice or not, in my experience. That’s my rule in life, Dimka dear. Never have anything to do with women or Belgians - and be careful about American transvestites, too. They don’t change their underwear. But then you know Pigalle, down there, do you?’
‘Don’t worry. I’d have no part of them. In this case, however, I think a Turk was the culprit.’
‘Oh, well, Turks!’ And Seryozha shuddered. I had mentioned the almost inconceivable knowing that to him a Turkish louse must somehow be even more disgusting than any other kind. ‘You poor, poor thing. Were you raped?’
‘One day I’ll tell you of my adventures in Constantinople, Seryozha. Is it all right to come back at the same time tomorrow?’
‘Of course, my darling. Or later tonight, when I get home. No. Not tonight. Yes, the morning. Just after twelve. Wonderful.’
I went straight to the outfitter in Rue de Turenne. Happily my figure, except when it inclines to plumpness, has always been good: the ideal ‘standard’ for a man. I had no difficulty in selecting a three-piece suit, a fresh shirt, some collars, a tie and some shoes. Seryozha’s money - including that which remained from the previous day - covered the bill. I wore the clothes when I left, my others wrapped in a neat parcel.
Back at Rue de la Huchette I drew a few stares from the local clochards as I entered our miserable doorway and climbed the stairs. Esmé was no longer in bed. She sat in her dressing-gown at the table, slowly writing on a form torn from a magazine, ‘It’s a competition,’ she said. ‘The prize is a holiday for two in Egypt.’
I did not tell her the magazine was out of date. She needed to keep her hopes up quite as much as I. She had not noticed my new suit and in a way I was grateful.
That evening when I went to Lipp’s I took a cab and found that although the restaurant was quite as full as the day before I was now fitted into a corner of one of the long tables upstairs. This did not quite satisfy me, since regular and favoured customers tended to use the ground-floor restaurant. I ate sparingly of the food, which was more German in some ways than it was French, although I developed a relish for their asparagus, so that although my bill was relatively small I could leave a generous tip. Such things impress waiters. The news is swiftly carried to their fellows. I wanted to be certain next time of getting a seat downstairs. When I left, I looked about for Kolya, but he was not there. On my second visit I would ask the head waiter. But before I could come back to Lipp’s it meant going through the distasteful business of seeing Sergei Andreyovitch. My tale of the doctor and his lotion could not last me for more than two further visits before I must either succumb or run. Again I waited outside Lipp’s for a while. It was midnight before I went home. Esmé was asleep and did not wake when I got in beside her. I went immediately to sleep.
Three more visits to the increasingly impatient Seryozha, three more meals at Lipp’s. Seryozha had warned me he could not keep lending me money for ‘treatments’; my doctor seemed to be charging me without curing me. Seryozha knew a very good doctor, his own, whom he felt would be sure to help me. On the fourth visit I was forced to tell him I was cured but, on the excuse that I was still very sore, managed to avoid the worst of his passion, though his self-control (never his strongest virtue) was severely tested. There was little else I could do. I needed the money if I was to find Kolya and if I did find my friend, then anything would have been worth while. Soon, after a week or so, my main problem became how to refuse moving in with Seryozha, who also wanted to see where I lived.
I was sitting at a downstairs table, near the door, at Lipp’s one evening, considering my plight and trying to imagine a valid excuse for not going to Seryozha’s when he returned from the theatre. As I lifted my first piece of asparagus to my mouth a tall, handsome man, dressed entirely in black save for his linen, came through the revolving glass. On his arm was an equally startling woman. The head waiter approached them with obvious pleasure. When the man turned his wonderful eyes towards me he frowned slightly, then grinned broadly like a schoolboy. My heart leapt. The head waiter was already pointing towards me (I had by now asked after my friend). Prince Nicholai Feodorovitch Petroff had never looked better. I was ecstatic. My body trembled. I could hardly rise to my feet. My asparagus fell to the floor. I was weeping. He was laughing. We embraced. ‘Dimka! Dimka! Dimka.’ He patted my shoulders. He kissed me on my cheeks. I became so excited I believe I flushed, breaking into a light sweat. ‘Oh, Kolya, I have looked for you everywhere.’
We gathered ourselves, still weeping and smiling, and he introduced me to the woman. ‘The Princess Anäis Petroff, my wife.’ I felt no jealousy. She had eyes of black plush and skin as white as Kolya’s, like new ivory. His hair remained pale blond, almost the colour of milk, while hers was raven. Her tawny evening frock had a summer cloak of pale fawn thrown over it. They were impossibly attractive: a pair of storybook lovers, the Prince and Princess of Fairyland. I kissed her hand and in my confusion knocked the rest of the asparagus to the floor. Amused, Kolya waved for a waiter to pick it up. ‘You’re dining alone?’
‘As I have dined night after night in the hope you would come.’ I shrugged, embarrassed by my own revelation. ‘My companion is not well.’
He was sympathetic. ‘Is your companion Russian?’
‘By origin, yes. But I met her in Constantinople.’
‘So you’ve been in Turkey, eh? Lots of adventures, Dimka? Join us at our table!’
We moved to the back of the restaurant, to a more secluded area. I was brought a new plate of asparagus. Kolya ordered their hors d’oeuvres. He told Anäis I was his oldest friend, his dearest companion from the days before the Revolution, that I had inspired his poetry and informed his sense of the future. Again I felt the blood rise to my cheeks. It was not wrong to love a man, particularly a man like Kolya, a sort of god put amongst mortals to make them aspire to perfection. He asked for my news. I told him briefly what had befallen me since I returned to Kiev, that I believed the Cheka was even now looking for me in Paris.
‘And I thought I had suffered!’ He had been in Paris for two years. A year ago he had met and married Anäis, who belonged to an old French family. He still hoped to get to America, but continued to have problems obtaining his visa. He suspected this was because of his service with Kerenski - or rather his political affiliations at the time he joined the Government. ‘But how do you pass your time in Paris, Dimka?’
‘Chiefly in seeking a backer for my new company. And I go to the cinema a great deal.’
‘That has become our passion, too. We have just seen Otets Sergii. Do you know it? I believe the director’s in Paris now.’
‘His name is Protazanov.’ Anäis spoke a soft French which was not Parisian. It was both melodious and humorous. Her lips were always smiling. She very evidently worshipped Kolya as much as I did. Perhaps because we had this passion in common. I liked her a great deal.
‘I scarcely ever see Russian films these days.’ I admitted. ‘They are too painful.’
Kolya poured white wine for us. ‘I understand. Have you a favourite director?’
It could only be Griffith. I spoke of Birth of a Nation. Where other films were concerned, I thought in terms of actors and actresses. Lillian and Dorothy Gish, Douglas Fairbanks, Charlie Chaplin, Buster Keaton. Mary Pickford. I had seen everything of theirs.
‘You must love Harold Lloyd!’ Anäis was delighted. ‘Isn’t he wonderful! So frightening! So funny!’
‘And Fern Andra or Pola Negri, don’t you find them as attractive as all these Americans?’ Kolya was sardonic. ‘Really, Dimka, you’re becoming an Americophile! I thought you hated the place. Is that where you plan to go?’
‘I’ll content myself with London. Do you remember Mrs Cornelius? She has agreed to help me when I arrive. But I’m also having visa problems. Perhaps if I were alone it would be easy, but my friend Esmé has no papers at all.’ He knew of my original Esmé. I told him a little of the meeting in Makhno’s camp. ‘She is the image of her. Esmé repurified.’
Anäis said: ‘Perhaps you could have her adopted by a nice English family.’
Kolya laughed at this. ‘You’re being cruel, Anäis. We’ll put our heads together and see if we can come up with a solution. Your father has business connections in England. Could he help?’ He turned to me. ‘Anäis’s father’s a Captain of Industry, a holder of the Legion of Honour and an ex-Deputy! You see what grand circles I move in now, Dimka. Yet I can’t get permission to go to the United States and teach Russian. I am, instead, a leech.’
Anäis was disapproving. ‘When hostilities finish in Russia you’ll be able to claim at least part of your fortune.’
Kolya winked at me. ‘Do you think so, my dear? Russians have become everyone’s penniless guests. Poor relations to the rest of the world. People will soon lose patience with us.’ The waiter began to serve us our main course.
‘How far advanced is your Airship Company, M’sieu Mitrofanitch?’ Anäis pushed the chuckling Kolya back against his chair and bent across the table towards me. Naturally I had been introduced under the name I used in Petersburg.
‘I’ve some interest from the financial world, but nothing concrete as yet.’
‘You think it’s a good business venture?
‘It would take advantage of the increase in tourism since the War. The volume of passengers between New York and Paris alone has grown considerably. My ship would be far faster than a liner, in many ways smoother and safer. My designs are advanced, of course, but I’ve absorbed everything about airship construction I discovered during the War. Presently the Germans lead the field. The British plan to begin a commercial service in a year or two. In a matter of months we could be ahead of both: if the ship received appropriate publicity; a maiden flight, for instance, which crossed the Atlantic in record time.’
‘You’re fascinating, m’sieu.’ She sliced her liver. ‘And convincing. What do you think of it, Kolya?’
‘He’s a genius,’ said my friend simply. ‘I believe him capable of anything.’
The conversation drifted onto more general topics. Suddenly I was completely happy and consequently at my most charming. It was a very successful evening. We were eventually the last to leave Lipp’s. Both deities kissed me goodnight and Kolya took my address, swearing he would get in touch with me very soon. ‘We must never be parted again.’
It was only as I walked, whistling back along the Rue Saint-Sulpice I realized I had forgotten to tell Kolya of his dead cousin, Alexei Leonovitch, the pilot who almost killed me when he crashed his plane into the sea. Perhaps it would not be tactful, I thought, to introduce such a note at present. I could tell him soon enough.
As usual Esmé was asleep when I returned, but tonight her breathing was rapid and shallow. She had a temperature. I held her sweating little body in my arms and rocked her as she moaned: ‘Don’t leave me, Maxim. Don’t leave me.’ I brought her some water to drink, some aspirin to relieve the fever, then I lay beside her trying to tell her about my meeting with Kolya, but she fell back into delirious sleep again.
Next morning I went out to find a doctor. The nearest was in Boulevard St-Michel. Doctor Guilac stank of tobacco and rose-water. His walrus moustache was yellow with nicotine: he had a skin spotted like tortoiseshell, grey, thinning hair, over-polished boots and an old-fashioned frockcoat. After his examination of my girl, he told me firmly Esmé must have ‘real rest’. He gave me a tonic. He insisted she take it three times a day. She was anaemic, he said. She was suffering from nervous exhaustion, ‘But she is young,’ I told the old fool. ‘She is full of natural vitality. She’s a child!’
Doctor Guilac offered me a disbelieving glance. ‘Her ingestion of alcohol has been prodigious, I would say, and I hesitate to catalogue the drugs she has doubtless been taking. Someone should keep a responsible eye on your sister, m’sieu, if you will not.’
I could not tell him Esmé consumed no more drugs or drink than did I.
‘She’s suffering from a common complaint for these days,’ he continued disapprovingly. ‘Have you no parents she can stay with?’
‘We are orphans.’
He sighed. ‘I cannot judge you. But you need a wiser hand to guide you, m’sieu. I advise you to leave Paris. Visit the country for a month or two. Reconsider your way of life.’
I had asked for a doctor, not a priest. His moralising made me impatient. Nonetheless I thanked him politely, saying I would consider his suggestion, and paid him with our last money. As I sat by Esmé’s bedside, holding her warm, limp hand, which was moist with sweat, I wondered if I were being selfish. Should I demand she lead the same life as I? I had always been famous for my prodigious energy; the mark, I suppose, of an active mind. Others had rarely been able to keep up with me. It was probably unfair of me to expect it in Esmé. She was young enough to have no real sense of her own capacities. This collapse into an almost completely comatose state might well be her own way of resting. I determined to nurse her until she was recovered. Then I would review the situation, sure, once we had a fresh direction in our lives, matters would arrange themselves better. She had every reason for uncertainty. Instinctively she probably knew I was worrying about the Cheka. Moreover I had told her we were going to England and we were still in Paris. Her grasp of language remained rather weak. She might easily be homesick without wanting to tell me. There is no feeling of helplessness worse than watching someone mutter and sweat their way through a fever which has no obvious medical cure. I controlled my panic, however. I considered requesting another opinion. I decided, as soon as I saw him again, to ask Kolya to recommend a doctor: someone rather more eminent than this local quack. Depressingly this would almost certainly mean more visits to Seryozha.
Had Esmé, I wondered, always been subject to such fits? Some form of epilepsy? Perhaps that was why her parents had seemed so glad to see her go with me. As soon as I could, I visited the nearest library and took out medical books. There was no suitable description of her case. She had been without her ‘coco’ for several days. Could she be suffering from withdrawal? I managed to get her to take a little cocaine, but it did no apparent good. My frustration with the medical profession, which to this day remains, frequently, in the Dark Ages, was never greater. I sometimes wish fate had allowed me to become a doctor. With my analytical and creative gifts I could have done much more, I think, than anything I achieved as an engineer. My abiding desire has been to help the human race; to be of use: to lift mankind out of ignorance and animalistic, reflexive behaviour, a little further towards Heaven. I shared a misconception of my time, believing social conditions were the chief cause of the world’s ills. I thought a technological Utopia would solve the misery of the human condition. I now believe most people suffer from serious chemical imbalances. We should be searching for the correct mixture of substances which directly feed the brain. Even I am not always as clear-headed as normal. It is probably the food. We know the calories and vitamins, but what of the minerals, the subtler materials we ingest? Tiny pieces of metal, which never affect us physically, could be entering the cortex, reacting,
say with magnetism in the streets, with random electrical impulses. These metallic atoms might be more terrifyingly crucial to our daily lives than the Hydrogen Bomb itself. One day we feel like making friends with the world and the next we want to blow it up. This could be for instance why personalities change so radically during thunderstorms. I wish someone had given me facilities to research this field. I made every effort. I applied to London University some years ago, listing my qualifications, and prepared my paper Electrical Emissions in the Atmosphere and their Effect on Human Higher Brain Functions, hoping they would at least allow me to address their doctors. In the end I was reduced to paying a Jewish printer to run off a few hundred copies which I distributed in surgeries and clinics in the Kensington and Chelsea area. I had one or two letters about my theory, but they were from lunatics, from hippies who wanted to tell me the electrical discharges were really messages from flying-saucer people! I disdained to reply. Whether Esmé’s malaise was due to electricity or some other, as yet undiscovered, source, I do not know. At that time I could only nurse her. I got a woman in to make her soups and change the bedding until she should recover. Unknowingly, Seryozha paid for this service.
The Laughter of Carthage: Pyat Quartet Page 29
