But the United States at that time had never captured my imagination, although the pictures of redskins, frontiersmen and buffalo (gleaned from my reading Karl May and Fenimore Cooper) were romantic enough. I believed there were no true cities in America and precious little civilisation. It took time, in my view, to develop a true city. I shook my head. ‘It’s not my ambition to build farm-machinery or locomotives, or work out means of mass-producing cheap clocks. Let the miners keep their gold; I’ll not part them from it in exchange for a few penny toys!’
Mr Thompson shrugged. ‘You might find you’re glad to be free of European squabbles. Yankees like to keep themselves to themselves. I know how they feel. The British are too fond of taking care of other people.’
‘I’m a Russian and a Slav, Mr Thompson. I couldn’t leave Europe in the lurch. Also I am a Christian. My loyalties are clear. But for the Bolsheviks and the Jews I should not be an exile at all. Everyone knows that Jews already control New York. I have nothing in common with the self-serving bourgeoisie aboard this ship. Let them go to America if they wish. They are all deserters.’
We were leaning against the funnel for warmth while this particular conversation took place, contemplating the black, featureless ocean. Our various lights, red, green and white, were reflected in the water and we might have been riding on dark clouds, through infinite space. Mr Thompson relit his pipe. ‘You Russians seem a hopeless bunch of creatures, I must admit. I’ve seen the refugees in Constantinople, already. A man with your qualifications is welcome anywhere. But what do you think will become of the rest? The women and children? Will they be allowed back when the war is over?’
I could not answer. In those days no one believed what hideousness was yet to come. Many went back, during the so-called New Economic Policy period. Most were dead before 1930. I will not pretend that as the years passed I looked for hope of welcome, or at least recognition, in my homeland. I would not be alive today if I too had clutched at the straws offered by the Reds in the middle-twenties.
When Mr Thompson returned to his duties I was melancholy again. Against my usual habit, I sought the company of Mrs Cornelius. As usual she was enjoying herself in the dining-saloon with some of the officers. Jack Bragg was there, singing the choruses of Knock ’Em In The Old Kent Road and Two Lovely Black Eyes. I think he flushed when he saw me, confirming my suspicion of his amorous feelings towards my companion. He could not know how sympathetic I felt. Mrs Cornelius wore her yellow and black dress (she called it her ‘tango frock’) and was performing the traditional English dance known as the Knees Up. I took a glass of rum and sang along with the others, imitating every one of Mrs Cornelius’s inflections and gestures. It was how my rather formal English, inherited from Pearson’s Magazine and various novelists, began to gain that neat touch of colloquialism which would often confound native Britons and enable me to move gracefully in all walks of life.
Mrs Cornelius winked at me, as she usually did, and persuaded me to sing one of the songs she had taught me. I willingly displayed my mastery with a rendering of Wot a Marf, Wot a Marf, Wot a Norf An’ Sarf. This has always remained one of my favourites. It was greeted with huge applause. Those Russians who had remained at the far end of the saloon, nearest the doors, were completely baffled. Mrs Cornelius gestured kindly for them to join us, but they displayed either embarrassment or downright surliness and disapproval. I too called they should ‘let their hair down’ and then, to my sudden horror, saw Brodmann, who had been huddled in a shawl and hidden by a fat dowager, rise from his seat. I could barely contain myself. It was a tribute to my iron will that I did not cry out. I forced myself to continue smiling and held my hand to the figure who hesitantly approached us. The smile turned to what was probably an inane grin of relief as I realised this creature was not, after all, my enemy. In response to me, he began to beam all over his red, greasy face, stumbling forward, singing some popular ditty familiar to me from my early days in Odessa. I would never normally have shown such welcome to a Jew, but now it was too late. ‘I am so glad,’ he said, when he had finished the first verse. ‘I have been ill, you know. Afraid they would turn me off the ship. Measles or something, but I am completely recovered. I have seen you once or twice, have I not? At night when I was getting some air?’ Before I could extricate myself, Mrs Cornelius put one plump, pink arm around his shoulders and the other around mine and was soon kicking up her legs in a kind of can-can. I had no choice but to make the best of it. By the time Mrs Cornelius broke away to dance with Jack Bragg I was left with the drunken, sickly Jew whose name, he said, was Hernikof. In his expensive, gaudy suit, with his gold watch-chain and huge diamond rings, he looked grotesque. He sweated a great deal, mopped his head and neck and insisted over and over again that he was ‘perfectly recovered’. He began to tell me how terrible it had been for him in Odessa; how his family had died in a pogrom, how his mother had been crucified by White Cossacks: all the familiar exaggerations of his race. When a short time later he leered at me and asked me if I, too, were going on to Berlin ‘with the attractive Baroness’ it was all I could do to hold back my temper. Yet, of course, I remained relieved that the ghost had been laid. At last I managed to return to the table where Mrs Cornelius sat panting. I squeezed in between her and Bragg, refilled my glass and made a great show of concentrating on the words of O, What A Happy Land Is England. It was bad enough having to travel in close proximity to the likes of Hernikof, but it was far more hateful when they assumed an intimacy and similarity of ambition and character. True, I had left Odessa considerably richer than I had arrived, and with military promotion into the bargain, but these fat brokers, wailing for sympathy, had had nothing of the real experiences, had seen nothing of the true horror. They had neither been imprisoned by anarchists or Bolsheviks nor had they known what it was to give up any hope of living. They had not seen men and women kneeling in the snow beside the railway tracks waiting to be shot in the head. They had not been forced to keep company with corpses and crows, with louse-ridden Cossacks who might kill you casually from mere boredom. They had heard of a few arrests, the occasional execution, seen some Jews being pursued through the streets, but their indignation was chiefly aroused by lost bills-of-lading, requisitioned houses, stock purchased with useless money.
That night I felt as if I had been driven back into my former mental condition; ‘within the nightmare’ as Russians say: that perpetual dreamlike state of frequently unadmitted terror I had known for over two years. My life and sanity had been attacked, my whole existence thrown upside-down by the cruel madness of Revolution and Civil War; my brain and body had throbbed, night and day, with fear. The terror becomes manifest. The dry mouth opens. Any words will come out of it. Anything which might save it. When the danger passes it is impossible to remember exactly what that frightened mouth has said. Neither does it matter, because you are still alive. Yet people look at you in contempt and call you a liar! They are lies, of course. I am not a fool. I will not deny it. My survival depends on self-knowledge. But are they like the lies Hernikof doubtless gave the British simply to gain sympathy and a passport to the rich pickings of Berlin? Such slimy untruths would not work on me. While not proud of everything I have done, I scarcely feel guilty; because I survived. What did it matter if the Jews tried to ingratiate themselves with me? What if those jumped-up kulaks snubbed me? The condemnation of the privileged is meaningless. Besides, I was admired by the British. I was loved by a woman of noble blood. I was watched over by another who was both mother and sister to me. The Jew was somehow shaken off and I found myself swaying between Mrs Cornelius and Lt Bragg, singing one of the sad Cossack songs I had learned when a prisoner of the Reds. Jack Bragg was plainly moved. He would have remained to hear the rest of the verses but he had to go on duty. I was halfway through and had reached the part where the second pony has died, giving up its life for the heroine, when Mrs Cornelius fell with a gargling noise backwards into my lap and looking up at me through her large, candid eyes said s
lowly, ‘I fink ya’d better put me ter bed, Ive.’
I helped her back to our cabin. This time she controlled her stomach until we were both undressed and then, as I reached to pull the blankets over her, she was sick on my only nightshirt. By the time I had washed it out in the ship’s toilet (the cabin had no running water or individual heating) she had gone to sleep. I stood supporting myself with a hand on the bunk looking at her in the yellow light from a hurricane lamp Jack Bragg had managed to find for us. The throbbing of the ship became indistinguishable from the throbbing of my own loins. Once you become used to lust being satisfied it is much harder to control. I longed for her to want me, to open her arms to me. I leaned down to stroke her hair. She murmured gratefully and smiled. ‘Thass loverly …’ I touched her neck. ‘Oo,’ she said, ‘you wicked fing,’ and she wriggled in the bed. I sat down on the edge. I kissed her ear. Her eyes opened and her smile changed to an expression of shocked surprise, ‘Ivan! Yer littel bleeder. I fort you woz …’ It was evident she had forgotten the name of her Frenchman.
‘François.’ I began to stand up.
‘Yeah.’
Aloft once more I fell into a troubled sleep, dreaming of Brodmann disguising himself as Hernikof and summoning vengeful Cossacks to torture and kill me. Waking from this I deliberately recalled the strong thighs, the red, eager lips of my Leda, her magnificent Slavic breasts, her hair, the sweep of her spine, the curve of her backside. Sex has always helped me to soothe away my fears. I became increasingly willing to risk a night or two in the Baroness’s company. The consequences, after all, would not be considerable, even if she did turn against me. And would it be any more than I deserved? I was guilty of dreadful greed in my desire to possess Mrs Cornelius as well as Leda Nicolayevna. How could I forget the bargain I had made with my one friend in all the world; the person who had saved my life more than once: my Guardian Angel? Sometimes, even now, when Mrs Cornelius and I have known carnal love, I recall that incident with shame. I am not a monster. But I suppose it is in all of us to behave like a monster occasionally. Looking back, I blame Hernikof. When those about you are cynical and assume your motives to be as cynical as theirs, sometimes you behave as they do. We are all social creatures, unconsciously moved by the desires and expectations of our fellows. I am no different to anyone else. I have never claimed to be.
Now I understand my behaviour a little better. Unquestionably I was still within the nightmare. It takes more than a week or two at sea to dissipate the reaction to years of familiar terror. Terror truly becomes an old friend. One misses him. The sudden absence of threat can be almost as traumatic as the loss of security. For the same reasons, small wars frequently follow hard on the conclusion of larger wars. Any habit, no matter how self-destructive, is hard to lose, particularly when it is never fully acknowledged. Perhaps, too, something happens to the body-chemistry when so much adrenalin is frequently summoned. We have all seen the small dog rescued from the fangs of the larger beast; frequently he will turn and fasten his teeth in the wrist of his benefactor. My love for Mrs Cornelius was far more spiritual than it was physical, though of course she was extraordinarily sensual. I was equally special to her, I know. She did not at that time wish to risk the destruction of our relationship by introducing common lust into it. She told me this many, many years later. I understand that perfectly now, of course. On the Rio Cruz, however, I found myself frequently baffled.
Next morning I got up as usual and went on deck. The air was considerably warmer and the light spray refreshed me. Two or three seamen were at work polishing our brass and scrubbing our decks almost as if they prepared for a special event. The sun shone through patchy, fast-moving cloud. I fancied I could smell the coasts of Asia, though I knew it would be some time before we sighted Batoum. The wounded English officer nodded to me as he limped past, leaning on his walking stick, his face pale with pain, his Indian batman a pace or two behind him, showing poorly disguised concern for his master. The woman with the cards, my own personal Moira, played on, her black shawl rising and falling on her shoulders like the wings of a lazy scavenger. And the Jew Hernikof was there, offering a feeble grin, as if our contact of last night had made us boon friends. There was something about his features which still reminded me of the pathetic Brodmann. I did not want trouble. I nodded to him distantly and tried to walk on. But he followed. He was eager. ‘I hope you weren’t offended by anything I said last night. I can’t remember too clearly. I suppose I’m not completely recovered. I’m normally not much of a drinker, anyway.’
‘It’s of no importance.’ To escape, I began to climb the metal ladder to the forecastle. He clucked like a sick chicken and his feet moved involuntarily as if scratching gravel. Evidently he was frustrated at not being able to follow me.
‘I think I might have lost my usual sense of decorum. The experiences were painful, you know.’ His voice was hoarse, even desperate, as he craned his neck.
‘We have all had them.’ I reached the forecastle and peered down at him. There was nowhere else to go. At my back was the sea, parting in white foam before the bow.
‘Oh, of course.’ Again the hesitant grimace of a smile. ‘They will never end, I suppose, for the likes of us.’
I was offended by his presumptive claim to be Russian. As I turned away I heard him say: ‘Der Krieg ist endlos. Das Beste, was wir erhoffen können, sind gelegenliche Augenblicke der Ruhe inmitten des Kampfes.’
I understood him perfectly but chose to tell him coldly and in Russian, ‘I do not speak Yiddish.’
He protested. ‘It is German. I gathered you’re a linguist.’ He blinked, too short-sighted to see me properly yet trying to read my expression.
I became furious. ‘Is this a test, M. Hernikof? Do you think I am not what I say I am? Do you suspect I’m an agent provocateur? A Boche? A Red?’
He pretended innocence. ‘Of course not!’
‘Then please do not pursue me about this ship shouting at me in foreign languages.’
As he turned away his lips were trembling. Had I not guessed his intentions I might have felt pity for him. But he meant me no good. Also it was not in my interest to be seen hobnobbing with someone of his persuasion. Later it occurred to me that because of my dark hair and brown eyes he believed me a co-religionist; not the first time such a mistake had been made. The same looks were once likened to those of the Tsarevitch himself! Were the Tsar and his family Jewish? Friends have told me all my life I should not take such misunderstandings to heart. But it is a cruel thing, and sometimes dangerous, to be the victim of that particular error. On occasions it almost cost me my life. I was able to escape only by means of sharp wits, excellent credentials and a little good fortune.
After breakfast I joined Leda as usual. She was sitting outside the dining-saloon beneath the shadow of a lifeboat which swung gently in its davits. The sun was beginning to shine quite strongly and she held up her face as if a pale ray or two could warm her. She smiled at me. She pushed back her heavy hair so that the sun might touch as much of her flesh as possible. ‘Good morning, Maxim Arturovitch.’ We were always formal on such occasions. I lifted my hat and asked if I might bring a deckchair to sit next to her. I think she could see I was disturbed. ‘Did you sleep badly?’ Her strong hand moved a fraction towards me. She straightened herself a little. ‘Only for want of you,’ I whispered. Kitty came running up. She wore a maroon coat with matching hat and gloves. ‘Will you play with me today, Maxim Arturovitch? I’m beginning to think you don’t love me any more!’ I was frequently struck, as now, by her remarkable resemblance to her mother. For a moment I was filled with enormous lust.
Leda laughed. ‘You’re a bad girl, Kitty. A flirt! What will become of you?’ Yet I was forced to be her donkey, galloping round the deck two or three times with her warm little thighs pressed into my waist before I feigned exhaustion. When I returned to my chair I found Hernikof balanced against the bulkhead. He was chatting to the Baroness who, well-mannered as always, seemed perfectly
happy to give him the time of day. I seated myself without a word and pretended total concentration upon a paper aeroplane for the little girl, delighting in the sensation of her lovely, delicate flesh leaning against my own. I was so enraptured that I hardly noticed Hernikof leave.
‘That poor man,’ said Leda. ‘You have heard his story I suppose.’
‘I’ve heard a thousand like it. That poor man is, at best, an opportunist. I’ve been trying to shake him off since last night.’
‘He’s lonely.’ She had that streak of philosemitism so familiar in romantic German women of the same generation and since I had no wish to upset her I remained silent. It was not impossible, I thought, that her own husband’s origins had a touch or two of the Levant in them. ‘He’s a bore.’ I finished the aeroplane and handed it to Kitty. The child immediately launched it into the wind. It disappeared on the other side of the bridge and she ran off in pursuit. Leda was laughing. ‘You’re certainly out of sorts today. Have I offended you?’
I was actually half-mad with a mixture of lust and rage. ‘Not at all!’ I reassured her enthusiastically. I drew in several salty breaths. ‘If I seem in poor spirits it is because I’ve been separated from you for too long.’
Her face was glowing; she was at once amused and flattered. She controlled her own breathing. ‘Well, I want you to try to be polite to M. Hernikof. Everyone on this ship snubs him. He’s been very ill. And he lost his entire family, you know.’
The Laughter of Carthage: The Second Volume of the Colonel Pyat Quartet (Colonel Pyat Quartet Series Book 2) Page 6
