‘How about a game of backgammon?’ he asked, putting his hand under the table and taking out a board.
I shrugged. He opened up the board and began setting out the black and white pieces.
‘Comrade Chapaev,’ I began, ‘what will my work consist of? What questions are involved?’
Chapaev adjusted his moustache with a careful gesture.
‘Well, you see, Pyotr, our division is a complex organism. I expect that you will gradually be drawn into its life and find your own niche, as it were. As yet it is still too early to say exactly what that will be, but I realized from the way you conducted yourself yesterday that you are a man of decisive character and at the same time you have a subtle appreciation of the essential nature of events. People like you are in great demand. Your move.’
I threw the dice on to the board, pondering on how I should behave. I still found it hard to believe that he really was a Red commander; somehow I felt that he was playing the same insane game as myself, only he had been playing longer, with greater skill and perhaps of his own volition. On the other hand, all my doubts were founded exclusively on the intelligent manner of his conversation and the hypnotic power of his eyes, and in themselves these factors meant nothing at all: the deceased Vorblei, for instance, had also been a man of reasonable culture, and the head of the Cheka, Dzerzhinsky, was quite a well-known hypnotist in occult circles. And then, I thought, the very question itself was stupid - there was not a single Red commander who was really a Red commander; every one of them simply tried as hard as he could to emulate some infernal model, pretending in just the same way as I had done the previous day. As for Chapaev, I might not perceive him as playing the role suggested by his military garb, but others evidently did, as was demonstrated by Babayasin’s order and the armoured car in which we were riding. I did not know what he wanted from me, but I decided for the time being to play according to his rules; furthermore, I felt instinctively that I could trust him. For some reason I had the impression that this man stood several flights above me on the eternal staircase of being which I had seen in my dream that morning.
‘Is there something on your mind?’ Chapaev asked as he tossed the dice. ‘Perhaps there is some thought bothering you?’
‘Not any more,’ I replied. ‘Tell me, was Babayasin keen to transfer me to your command?’
‘Babayasin was against it,’ said Chapaev. ‘He values you very highly. I settled the question with Dzerzhinsky.’
‘You mean.’ I asked, ‘that you are acquainted?’
‘Yes.’
Perhaps, comrade Chapaev, you are acquainted with Lenin as well?’ I asked with a gentle irony.
‘Only slightly.’ he replied,
‘Can you demonstrate that to me somehow?’ I asked.
‘Why not? This very moment, if you wish.’
This was too much for me to take in. I gazed at him in bewilderment, but he was not embarrassed in the slightest. Moving aside the board, he drew his sabre smoothly from its scabbard and laid it on the table.
The sabre, it should be said, was rather strange. It had a long silver handle covered in carvings showing two birds on either side of a circle containing a hare, with the rest of the surface covered in the finest possible ornament. The handle ended in a jade knob to which was tied a short thick cord of twisted silk with a purple tassel at the end. At its base was a round guard of black iron; the gleaming blade was long and slightly curved. Strictly speaking, it was not even a sabre, but some kind of Eastern sword, probably Chinese. However, I did not have time to study it in detail, because Chapaev switched off the light.
We were left in total darkness. I could not see a single thing, I could only hear the low, level roaring of the engine (the soundproofing on this armour-plated vehicle, I noticed, was quite excellent - not a single sound could be heard from the street), and I could feel a slight swaying motion.
Chapaev struck a match and held it up above the table. ‘Watch the blade,’ he said.
1 looked at the blurred reddish reflection that had appeared on the strip of steel. There was a strange profundity to it, as though I were gazing through a slightly misted pane of glass into a long illuminated corridor. A gentle ripple ran across the surface of the image, and I saw a man in an unbuttoned military jacket strolling along the corridor. He was bald and unshaven; the reddish stubble on his cheeks merged into an unkempt beard and moustache. He leaned down towards the floor and reached out with trembling hands, and I noticed a kitten with big sad eyes cowering in the corner. The image was very clear, and yet distorted, as though I were seeing a reflection in the surface of a Christmas-tree ball. Suddenly a cough rose unexpectedly in my throat and Lenin - for undoubtedly it was he - started at the sound, turned around and stared in my direction. I realized that he could see me. For a second his eyes betrayed his fright, and then they took on a cunning, even guilty look. He gave a crooked smile and wagged his finger at me threateningly.
Chapaev blew on the match and the picture disappeared. I caught a final glimpse of the kitten fleeing along the corridor and suddenly realized that I had not been seeing things on the sabre at all, I had simply, in some incomprehensible fashion, actually been there and I could probably have reached out and touched the kitten.
The light came on. I looked in amazement at Chapaev, who had already returned the sabre to its scabbard.
‘Vladimir Ilyich is not quite well,’ he said.
‘What was that?’ I asked.
Chapaev shrugged. ‘Lenin,’ he said.
‘Did he see me?’
‘Not you, I think,’ said Chapaev. ‘More probably he sensed a certain presence. But that would hardly have shocked him too much. He has become used to such things. There are many who watch him.’
‘But how can you… in what manner… Was it hypnosis?’
‘No more than everything else.’ he said, and nodded at the wall, evidently referring to what lay beyond it.
‘Who are you really?’ I asked.
‘That is the second time you have asked me that question today.’ he said. ‘I have already told you that my name is Chapaev. For the time being that is all that I can tell you. Do not try to force events. By the way, when we converse in private you may call me Vasily Ivanovich. «Comrade Chapaev» sounds rather too solemn.’
I opened my mouth, intending to demand further explanations, when a sudden thought halted me in my tracks. I realized that further insistence from my side would not achieve anything; in fact, it might even do harm. The most astonishing thing, however, was that this thought was not mine - I sensed that in some obscure fashion it had been transferred to me by Chapaev.
The armoured car began to slow down, and the voice of the driver sounded in the speaking tube:
‘The station, Vasily Ivanovich!’
‘Splendid,’ responded Chapaev.
The armoured car manoeuvred slowly for several minutes until it finally came to a halt. Chapaev donned his astrakhan hat, rose from the divan and opened the door. Cold air rushed into the cabin, together with the reddish light of winter sunshine and the dull roar of thousands of mingled voices.
‘Bring your bag.’ said Chapaev, springing lightly down to the ground. Screwing up my eyes slightly after the cosy obscurity of the armoured car, I climbed out after him.
We were in the very centre of the square in front of the Yaroslavl Station. On every side we were surrounded by an agitated, motley crowd of armed men drawn up in the ragged semblance of a parade. Several petty Red commanders were striding along the ranks, their sabres drawn. At Chapaev’s appearance there were shouts, the general hubbub grew louder and after a few seconds it expanded into a rumbling ‘Hoorah!’ that resounded around the square several times.
The armoured car was standing beside a wooden platform decorated with crossed flags, which resembled, more than anything else, a scaffold. There were several military men standing on it, engaged in conversation: when we appeared they began applauding. Chapaev quickly ascended the squeak
y steps; I followed him up, trying not to lag behind. Exchanging hurried greetings with a pair of officers (one of them was wearing a beaver coat criss-crossed with belts and straps), Chapaev walked over to the railing of the scaffold and raised his hand with the yellow cuff in a gesture calling for silence.
‘Now, lads!’ he shouted, straining his voice to make it sound hoarse. ‘Y’all know what you’re here for. No bloody shilly-shallying about the bush… You’re all stuck in there and you’ve got to get your fingers out… Ain’t that just the way of things, though? Once you get down the front you’ll be up to your neck in it and get a bellyful soon enough. Didn’t reckon you was in for any spot of mollycoddling, did you?’
I paid close attention to the way Chapaev moved - as he spoke, he turned smoothly from side to side, incisively slicing the air in front of his chest with his extended yellow palm. The meaning of his ever more rapid speech escaped me, but to judge from the way in which the workers strained their necks to hear and nodded their heads, sometimes even grinning happily, what he was saying made good sense to them.
Someone tugged at my sleeve. With an inward shiver, I turned round to see a short young man with a thin moustache, a face pink from the frost and voracious eyes the colour of watered-down tea.
‘Fu fu.’ he said.
‘What?’ I asked him.
‘Fu-Furmanov,’ he said, thrusting out a broad hand with short fingers.
‘A fine day.’ I replied, shaking the hand.
‘I'm the co-commissar with the weavers’ regiment,’ he said. ‘We’ll b-be working together. If you’re go-going to speak, k-keep it short if you can. We’re boarding soon.’
‘Very well.’ I said.
He glanced doubtfully at my hands and wrists. ‘Are you in the p-p-party?’
I nodded.
‘For long?’
‘About two years now,’ I replied.
Furmanov looked over at Chapaev. ‘An eagle,’ he said, ‘but he has to be watched. They s-s-say he often gets c-c-carried away. But the s-s-soldiers love him. They understand him.’
He nodded at the silent crowd above which Chapaev’s words were drifting. ‘You’ve got to go, no two ways round it, and here’s my hand-deed to you as a commander on the nail… and now the commissar’s going to have a word.’
Chapaev moved back from the railing.
‘Your turn, Petka,’ he ordered in a loud voice.
I walked over to the railing.
It was painful to look at those men and imagine the dark maze woven by the pathways of their fates. They had been deceived since childhood, and in essence nothing had (hanged for them because now they were simply being deceived in a different fashion, but the crude and insulting primitiveness of these deceptions - the old and the new - was genuinely inhuman. The feelings and thoughts of the men standing in the square were as squalid as the rags they wore, and they were even being seen off to their deaths with a stupid charade played out by people who were entirely unconnected to them. But then, I thought, was my situation really any different? If I, just like them, am unable to understand, or even worse, merely imagine I understand the nature of the forces which control my life when I do not, then how am I any better than a drunken proletarian sent off to die for the word Internationalism’? Because I have read Gogol, Hegel and even Herzen? The whole thing was merely a bad joke.
However, I had to say something.
‘Comrade workers!’ I shouted. ‘Your commissar comrade Furmanov has asked me to be as brief as I can, because boarding is due to begin any moment. I think that we shall have time to talk later, but now let me simply tell you of the flame that is blazing here in my heart. Today, comrades, I saw Lenin! Hoorah!’
A long roar rumbled across the square. When the noise had died down, I said:
‘And now, comrades, here with his parting words is comrade Furmanov!’
Furmanov nodded gratefully to me and stepped towards the railing. Chapaev was laughing and twirling his moustache as he talked about something with the officer in the heaver coat. Seeing me approach, he clapped the officer on the shoulder, nodded to the others and climbed down the steps from the tribune. Furmanov began speaking:
‘Comrades! We have only a few minutes left here. The final chimes will sound, and we shall set sail for that mighty shore of marble - for those cliffs on which we shall establish our bridgehead-’
He spoke now without stammering, intoning smoothly.
We made our way through the ranks of workers which parted before us - my sympathy for them almost evaporated when I saw them at close quarters - and set off towards the station. Chapaev walked quickly, and I found it hard to keep up with him. Sometimes, as he responded to greetings from someone, he would raise a yellow cuff briefly to his astrakhan hat. To be on the safe side, I began copying this gesture and had soon mastered it so well that I actually began to feel quite at home among all these super-neanderthals scurrying about the station.
On reaching the edge of the platform, we jumped down on to the frozen earth. Ahead of us on the shunting lines and sidings stood a labyrinth of snow-covered carriages. There were tired people watching us from every side; the grimace of despair repeated on all of their faces seemed to form them into some new race of men.
I turned to Chapaev and asked: ‘Can you explain to me the meaning of «hand-deed»?’
‘What?’ Chapaev asked with a frown.
‘«Hand-deed»’, I repeated.
‘Where did you hear that?’
‘If I am not mistaken, only a moment ago you were speaking from the platform on the subject of your commander’s hand-deed.’
‘Ah,’ said Chapaev with a smile, ‘so that’s what you are talking about. You know, Pyotr, when one has to address the masses, it is quite unimportant whether one understands the words that one speaks. What is important is that other people understand them. One has simply to reflect the expectations of the crowd. Some achieve this by studying the language in which the masses speak, but I prefer to act in a more direct fashion. In other words, if you wish to learn what «hand-deed» means, then it is not me you should be asking, but the men standing back there on the square.’
I thought I understood what he was saying. Indeed, I had long before come to very similar conclusions myself, only in regard to conversations about art, which had always depressed me with their monotony and pointlessness. Since I was obliged by virtue of my activities to meet large numbers of chronic imbeciles from literary circles, I had deliberately cultivated the ability to participate in their discussions without paying any particular attention to what was being spoken about, simply by juggling with such absurd words as ‘realism’ ind ‘theurgy’, or even ‘theosophical value’. In Chapaev’s terminology this was learning the language in which the masses speak. However, I realized that he himself did not even burden himself with the knowledge of the words which he pronounced; of course, it was not clear to me how he was able to do this. Perhaps, having fallen into some kind of trance, he could sense the vibrations of anticipation projected by the crowd and somehow weave them into a pattern which it understood.
We walked the rest of the way in silence. Chapaev led me on, further and further; two or three times we stooped to dive under empty, lifeless trains. It was quiet, with no sound except the occasional frenzied whistling of steam locomotives in the distance. Eventually we halted beside a train which included an armoured carriage in its complement. The chimney above the roof of the carriage was smoking cosily, and an impressive Bolshevik with an oak-stained Asiatic face was standing on guard at the door - for some reason I immediately dubbed him a Bashkir.
We walked past the saluting Bashkir, climbed into the carriage and found ourselves in a short corridor. Chapaev nodded towards one of the doors.
‘That is your compartment,’ he said, taking his watch out of his pocket. ‘With your permission, I shall leave you for a short while, I must issue a few instructions. They have to couple us to the locomotive and the carnages with the weavers.’
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‘I did not like the look of their commissar,’ I said, ‘that Furmanov. He and I may not be able to work well together in the future.’
‘Don’t go worrying your head about things that have no connection with the present,’ said Chapaev. ‘You have yet to reach this future of which you speak. Perhaps you will reach a future in which there will be no Furmanov - or, perhaps you might even reach a future in which there will be no you.’
I said nothing, not knowing what reply to make to his strange words.
‘Make yourself comfortable and rest,’ he said. ‘We shall meet again at supper.’
I was astounded by the absolutely peaceful atmosphere of the compartment; the window in the armoured wall was tightly curtained, and there was a vase of carnations standing on the small table. I felt absolutely exhausted; once I had sat down on the divan, it was some time before I felt able to move again Then I remembered that I had not washed for several days, and I went out into the corridor. Amazingly enough, the very first door that I opened led into the shower room and toilet.
I took a hot shower with immense pleasure (the water must have been heated by a coal stove) and returned to my compartment to discover that the bed had been made and a glass of strong tea was waiting for me on the table. Having drunk my fill, I slumped on to the divan and almost immediately fell asleep, intoxicated by the long-forgotten scent of stiffly starched sheets.
When I awoke the carriage was shuddering to a regular rhythm as its wheels hammered over the joints of the rails. On the table where I had left my empty tea glass, in some mysterious fashion a bundle had now appeared. Inside it I found an immaculate two-piece black suit, a gleaming pair of patent-leather shoes, a shirt, a change of underwear and several ties, clearly intended to offer me a choice. I was no longer capable of surprise at anything that happened. The suit and the shoes fitted me perfectly; after some hesitation, I selected a tie with fine black polka dots and when I inspected myself in the mirror on the door of the wall cupboard I was entirely satisfied with my appearance, although it was spoilt just a little by several days’ unshaven stubble. Pulling out a pale-purple carnation from the vase, I broke off its stem and threaded the flower into my buttonhole. How beautiful and unattainable the old life of St Petersburg seemed at that moment!
Buddha's Little Finger Page 9
