White Blood

by James Fleming

  "I thought the Drutskoys had the easier time of it—no choices, you see. First there was the stallion, I've told you about that. Then the peasants broke down the front door with the butt of the oak. They made my friends watch as they ransacked the house. They overwound all the clockwork toys and pissed into the helmets which generations of children had worn in history plays. They burned the wonderful old moustachioed daguerrotypes, danced round the courtyard in the coronation robes that Alexander Alexandrovich had worn a century ago and sawed up Arkady's best furniture to make it fit into their ghastly hovels. Pieces veneered with our beautiful pale Karelian birch— imagine the scene. Worse than Breughel. A shepherd took offence at a collection of French porcelain shepherds and pounded them into paste under his boot. They cut up the tapestries with sheep shears to make them into blankets. They drank everything they found, that goes without saying. Even a bottle of Arkady's hair lotion, so he said.

  "Here's another instance of their stupidity. Arkady had a pair of silver stirrups that had been the Tsar's gift at some great ceremony. What did they do? Instead of taking them to the smithy to melt them properly they threw them into Arkady's furnace. The idiots are still picking through the ashes.

  "The stones of the mansion they took to build pigsties with, and the panelling and floors and timbers to burn on their fires; roped it onto their wagons with the carvings and shrines from the chapel which they themselves had used for their marriages. They took their own saints as firewood. To do such a thing is so unlike a Russian peasant I can only think a professional agitator had been working the area.

  "They bared the site. Then they ploughed it criss-cross and sowed it with nettle seed so that Arkady and his children would have nothing but stingers to return to—no birthplace, no memories, nothing. They gave them a cart and a donkey and told them to go away forever.

  "The greatest treachery was that Arkady had built a school for them as well as a hospital; was paying the salaries of a teacher and doctor; had even lent them money, as Nicholas has done here."

  "If he hadn't, they might have murdered them," I said.

  "But why? You do someone a good turn and he turns round and says, Here's my thanks, and shoots you. How can it be? It's beyond reason. In Arkady's province at that time it was fatal to be caught wearing a clean shirt even. Rope, river, or pitchfork, that was the usual reaction, whichever was handiest."

  "I remember that year," Liza said. "Father had just died. Nicholas stayed very calm."

  "After these events I thought to myself, What a noddy you are, Mikhail Lvovich Baklushin, that the only clever opinions you possess are from your friends' letters. So I began to read ferociously. Kropotkin. Hegel. Herzen. I learned phrases from them by heart so that I could shine in company and pretend to be an intellectual. But after a time I thought, this is tripe—I could have written it myself and done so much more clearly. It got to the point that whenever I saw the word 'history' in this type of book I quivered like a dog that thinks he's going to be taken hunting. Because I knew—knew—knew that what they were about to foist on me for the hundredth time was the idea of 'history' being responsible for some foul, execrable, bloody, obscene, nightmare of a deed for which the only person culpable was the person who did it. The killer with the knife, or with the rounded stone for bludgeoning—the perpetrator. For his own reasons. Nothing to do with 'history,' all to do with the exercise of power and the cost of guns. History is pish."

  He sank into the chair next to me. The room fell silent. He wiped his brow. "Was I shouting? Well, damn Kropotkin and the rest of the scallywags. I've learned my lesson. Nowadays I stick to Sir Doyle."

  "Where did all this start?" asked Liza.

  "I was telling Charlie that once guns became affordable to the peasants we could expect trouble. The next thing I knew—"

  "Kropotkin."

  "In a word. The source of all our woes, my dearest Elizaveta. People should be allowed to think what they please but not to publish it. That's a dangerous game."

  "And now," I said, "after three years of war guns are in everyone's hands. The Jews are already getting out. I've seen them. In fact Liza and I—"

  She interrupted me with a look and said to Misha, "If you knew that what happened to Arkady and Nyusha was going to happen to you, would you consider leaving?"

  He frowned magnificently. "Leaving—you mean leaving our country? Running away?"

  "Yes."

  "Leaving Russia?" His tone was one of incredulity.

  "Yes."

  "Of course not. You must be insane. What would a man like me do in France? My friends, my cattle, my hens . . . How could I die properly with all those Jesuits around? Women who walk as if they're gripping a rare piece of porcelain with their knees— no farting after a good meal—how would a Russian like me survive? Descartes this, Descartes that, none of our common silliness permitted . . .

  "Listen to my morning. My housekeeper brings tea and my dogs to my bedroom. I have at least an hour before they insist I get up. If the sun's shining I hum Strauss waltzes. I read Sir Doyle and look at the view from my window. I've looked at it on over twenty thousand mornings. It never bores me. Something is always a little different—or about to be different. Every tree, every bird, every cloud is my personal friend. In the spring, when the rooks are nesting, I become drunk with joy that God has arranged that I can share His world with rooks, which are the most human of all birds. I don't care if they ignore me. That they're out there squabbling in my elm trees is quite enough. French rooks would be intolerable. I don't know how, but they would.

  "Only in Russia can I lie there as I please. The Americans would shout at me. Work, you Russian dog! Improve the world! Fulfill your destiny! But why shouldn't I stay in bed if I want to? Am I disobliging someone? I'm happy. We should all be happy. It's the whole purpose of living. Our government should pass a law entitled For National Prosperity: Not Work But Happiness. Then it wouldn't have any more trouble, I guarantee it."

  He rumbled, groaned and sighed. He stitched one frown after another across his face, superimposing them so that his forehead and cheeks resembled a violent ocean. Then he'd wipe the lot away with a single smile or recollection. Liza and I rapidly became acquainted with a multitude of reasons, the large, the small, the practical and the childlike, why exile would erode Misha's belief in himself and thus condemn him to a premature death. His chickens and Scotch cattle were joined by his showing of hydrangeas and the garden party he always gave to celebrate the fruit season. He'd trust no other person than Vasili to turn the potatoes in his cellar or the apples in his loft. French fingers touching them would be the equivalent of feeding him poison.

  Here he found there was a quarrel available with French laundresses. They'd be certain to infect his undergarments.

  "Come, come, Misha, explain yourself," I said. "By dressing up in them?"

  "Possibly."

  "With what disease, then?"

  "Syphilis. Everyone in France has it. Their politicians spread it like jam."

  "Don't be absurd."

  "Even though I'm blameless, I'll catch it somehow. The street boys will run after me and make fun of my nose as it starts to fall off. Then the disease'll take over completely and I'll ruin myself buying expensive furniture. You ask any good doctor and he'll tell you that that's what happens to syphilitics at the end. They buy indiscriminately—insatiably—the best—enough to fill five houses unless their heirs lock them up in time. So no thank you to France."

  But in all this we were just catching sprats. His greatest reason for staying at Zhukovo swam beneath our conversation, usually out of sight but occasionally reminding us of its presence by a swishing fluke of its mighty tail. I mean Russia itself, the vast and moody leviathan that constitutes the heart, the spine and the soul of its peoples and lets none escape.

  "Enough. You go. I give you my blessing . . . I'll be lonely." He diddled his fingers on the arms of his chair. "I thought I might see your children grow up—visit me—spend their hol
idays at Zhukovo. But Chicago . . . Tell you what—no, I'm lying, I'd never get to the frontier. It's better to be truthful. My legs would give way, I'd be incapable of any movement—paralysed."

  His voice sank to a whisper. "Not ever to see Russia again— piteous Christ no, it would kill me. Even thinking about it is driving a stake through my heart. I can feel it beginning to split. Not exile, Lord Christ, please not exile, ever."

  He tossed his crumpled face from side to side and began to howl, the hot fat tears streaming over his cheeks and his lips shaking.

  Fifty-five

  Shubrin came in without knocking, hoping that a game was to be had. He glanced swiftly at us. "What's the matter?" He began tapping a ball round the angles.

  Misha and I glared at him from the depth of our armchairs. Liza went on staring out of the window. None of us moved.

  I said, "How many men have you recruited in Popovka? Or is drinking all you're good for?"

  "It's hopeless. Only an idiot would want to enlist. No ammunition, no food, no medicines. What's the point of preaching to them? Besides—the money—what's ten roubles these days?"

  "A bottle of Moet et Chandon Brut Imperial," said Mishka.

  I said to Shubrin, "So is everything comfortable for you here? No other little thing you might need?"

  "I hate sarcastic people, Doig. We don't allow that sort of talk in the hussars. But if that's your idea of a conversation, let me observe that you're not doing too badly here either. Plenty of men in the trenches have typhus. Many have broken legs, if not worse."

  "And many'll soon be dead from these causes," interrupted Misha roughly. "What are you getting at, Shubrin?"

  "Glebov was right. That's a reward of ten roubles sitting beside you. He's married to a Russian, had a Russian mother, has Russian papers, eats our food, uses our trains—why isn't Doig fighting? Got an aversion to it, has he?"

  I said that was a strong word and hoisted myself lazily out of my chair. Smiling guardedly, he moved to a safe distance. I picked up a billiard ball and tossed it from hand to hand until he relaxed. The reason he relaxed was because he was thinking only about my hand and how quickly it could smash his face up. I manoeuvred to get the others out of the firing line. Then I hurled the smooth white ivory ball into his gob from about six paces and carried straight on with the momentum of my hand, which became a fist.

  He screamed and clapped his hands to his mouth. Blood welled out from between his fingers in a most satisfactory way. I pulled open the door, swivelled him by the shoulder and booted his cauliflower arse into the corridor. "Pack and go," I yelled after him.

  "Just go," shouted Misha.

  Shubrin tottered away moaning. Louis, who was coming to tell us about luncheon, drew in to the wall to let him pass.

  We had soup and then cold venison cutlets, boiled potatoes, cabbage and pickled mushrooms. Nicholas was nowhere to be seen. Bobinski smelt the food from the attic. We heard him coming down the stairs. He stopped outside the door to straighten up, then entered saying coyly, "Goodness, what a lucky chance."

  "As if you didn't know," growled Misha. "How long are those worms of yours? Stretch down to your heels, do they? Could you use them for bootlaces?"

  We were the first people Bobby had spoken to that day. His prattle filled our ears until Misha told him to slow down or I'd shut his mouth for him with a billiard ball, as I had Shubrin's.

  "Children, why didn't you say so before? I could have eaten in the kitchen. I'm not proud. They listen to me avidly—as if I were Socrates. But Shubrin . . . No! . . . How dare he say such a thing! . . . and that Glebov . . . I've never cared for either of them from the first. I'm as likely to be the saviour of Russia as they are. A pair of apprentice butchers, that's what I thought when they walked in. I'm glad I have Kobi sleeping near me."

  This was too much for Misha. He was brooding about exile and would have preferred a meal eaten in total silence. "Give me a hush, Bobby! I have to think. The future—a great question has just been asked of me. I may have replied too emotionally. Your chatter is ruining my brain."

  "But the past is infinitely more rewarding! Let's talk about that instead. Who wants to know about tomorrow—oh, Mikhail Lvovich, please don't send me out, I so enjoy talking to intelligent people. I promise to be quiet. I'll hold my tongue with my thumb and forefinger."

  No one spoke. The shuffle of feet as we got down to it—the chink of soup spoons on china—the tap of Misha's signet ring. Several times he looked sorrowfully at Liza and myself, sitting together.

  Suddenly Bobinski said, "Look!"

  A dollop of snow fell from the stiff sprig of the holly tree outside—then another.

  "But it was so cold this morning," exclaimed Misha. He rose, opened the window and stuck his hand out. "Nevertheless, it's thawing. God give us a slow thaw and no floods. Well done, Bobby. Well done, the herald!"

  Bobinski beamed like a paper lantern. Louis, who'd just brought in a plate of warm jam and pastry confections, said to him, "What's there to be so pleased about, Bobby?"

  "Put that down and get on with your work," Bobinski said. "Look after the big stove, iron the napkins for this evening, watch out for leaks in the roof. That's what work is, Louis, should you have forgotten."

  Of course Louis had to answer him back, and during this ruffling disturbance I rose and, standing behind Liza's chair with my hands on her shoulders, said into her ear—lips touching the warm skin—"Now the snow's going, Shubrin and Glebov'll be going too. If they look like staying I'll throw them out myself, whatever Nicholas thinks."

  That's what I was saying, kneading her back with my thumbs and thinking about later in the afternoon, her creamy nakedness beneath me, when we heard the sound of Nicholas marching up the corridor from his office—clumping self-righteously. He still had his boots on—the house was his.

  He took his seat at the head. Louis dished him up his soup. Nicholas crammed a whang of bread into his mouth. "Thawing," he said, cheek bulging. "Thank God."

  He took a spoonful of soup. Pulling at his bread again, his mouth full of mess, he said to me, "Kobi wants to speak to you. He's just come in from the forest. Won't tell me what about. Said, 'I'm not your man.' To my face."

  "'But you eat my bread and live in my house,' I retorted. Rain off an oilskin." Nicholas jerked his thumb towards the back of the house. "In the kitchen by now, I expect."

  Kobi and I went out into the servants' courtyard. I felt the air with my nose. "It'll be a fast thaw."

  He said, "In Popovka they're saying it's too quick: back to snow in a day or two." He pointed to the clouds, which now could be distinguished from each other and were ranged across the sky in chevron formation, each bar taut and nearer black than grey. "First, they say, we'll get some wind."

  We left the courtyard and its staring windows.

  "Glebov: tell me about him."

  Kobi was wearing the padded, quilty garments of the villagers under his sheepskins. His leather boots were tied below the knee. He had on a sbapka as snug as a helmet, well down over his ears. Nicholas had lent him one of his hunting rifles, a Mannlicher .256 with a wonderfully smooth bolt action. They were best friends to each other. He had it with him now, over his shoulder. It had a leather cap over the muzzle to keep out the snow.

  He said, "The forest is full of soldiers. I see their marks everywhere. The snow is new. A small number could not possibly have left so many tracks."

  "Living off what?"

  "There are certain families in Popovka giving them food. Trading takes place at night. When the dogs bark."

  "Water?

  "Some springs are still running. At the worst, melting snow."

  "Go on."

  "There's a troop that Glebov visits. They look to him as their leader. Before or after the visit he shoots a deer to bring back here. As a pretext."

  "How many men?"

  "Ten. They have a good camp. In the shelter, well hidden. A spring comes out of the mosses. They've cleared a pool, right under
the bank. I nearly slipped into it. They light a fire only at night and then in a brazier. They don't shave or wash in case a stranger smells the soap. They bury their shit, however hard the ground—they don't do anything that might draw attention to them."

  "You were that close?"

  "Yards."

  "What else?"

  "Two army tents. The men were in a group outside them, listening to Glebov. He was making some sort of address the first time."

  "Any horses?"

  "No. I think they keep them in Popovka, hidden in the sheds of the people who feed them. I've seen tracks in the wood and near the village. So maybe yes."

  "Which?"

  "Yes."

  "Any machine guns?"

  "Rifles only."

  "Did Glebov see you?"

  His black eyes burned me with scorn. "Of course not."

  "Anything else?"

  Tiny creases flickered at his temples. "Pay me my money first."

  "I will when I can. What was it you saw?"

  But he wouldn't tell me anything until I'd given him two hundred roubles. He was as hard as when I'd tried to bargain for the white swift, at the tea-house in Samarkand. That's what he intended to have: two hundred—one price only.

  It was in the house, in my money belt. It was due to him. But I didn't want him getting ideas about Uncle Igor's inheritance. I said I'd have to borrow it from Nicholas. His look mocked me. He said he'd wait, his information also.

  When I returned he was in exactly the same place, staring up into the sky. He tucked the money inside his quilted coat. "Glebov was never in a cavalry regiment."

  "How?"

  "He knows nothing about horses. A horseman walks with bent legs, waddling like a parrot. But Glebov is like anyone in a city. His legs are straight. He opens them in the stride like someone who means to use his own legs and not a horse's. I would even say—" He leaned his rifle against the wall and thrust his hand down his neck, inside the padded collar. He glanced at the louse before cracking it. He nodded a couple of times in some internal discussion. "Getting warmer," he said. "I would even say he has never been a soldier in his entire life. You know how they stack their rifles, one against each other in a circle? That's how they've got them outside their tents. But when Glebov arrives he rests his rifle against a tree. I don't think a real soldier would ever do that."