Paris continued to dance. Every street maintained its nightclubs, whorehouses, bars. Jaded people poured in from all over the world, eager to join the party. Americans could be found everywhere. They had money to spend, though typically they always claimed poverty. In my favourite Left Bank cafés I began to meet international journalists, painters, poets. I asked those from the USA if they knew Mary Pickford or Lillian Gish, but they could give me less information than I could find for myself in the film magazines. Some of them (mostly New Yorkers) did not even know who Douglas Fairbanks was! It would be like a Russian not having heard of Stenka Razin or Tsar Saltan. I pitied them their deep ignorance. They had come to Paris frantically anxious to prove themselves ‘high-brows’, reading impossible French novels by Gide, Ouida and Mauriac, salivating over the filth Willy-Colette issued in the guise of literature. At the same time they spoke grandly of the ‘popular taste’ and flung their limbs about in imitation of black cottonpickers experiencing the last throes of some lethal palsy. They laughed at me, I knew; yet I was far more in touch with the pulse of the age than ever they could be. They did not know it, but they actually represented the past. I was a true Man of my Time. They were merely trying to relive a nostalgic, nonexistent fin-de-siècle fantasy. Nonetheless some of them condescendingly bought the shares I issued for my Aerial Navigation Company. It was on this money, carefully accounted for in a notebook, that we lived. Esmé again began developing headaches; a lassitude similar to the condition which had overwhelmed her on Kazakian’s boat. At first I would stay with her, working at our only table, drawing up my plans, writing to anyone who could help us get to England. Gradually it became necessary to go out more, to leave her with an oil lamp and the second-hand novels I bought for her on the nearby quays. Money had to be gathered somehow and it was not always easy to pay for our necessities. The price of cocaine alone in Paris was exorbitant. It was suddenly a fashionable drug amongst the demi-mondaine; waiters openly sold it in nightclubs and restaurants. I became panic-stricken, certain Esmé must soon decide to leave me, for she was not meant for poverty or drudgery. London was set aside. I had no choice but to spend more time than I liked seeking a main financier for my great airship. People were increasingly wary of anyone wanting their money, no matter how sound the scheme. Parisians were concentrating on taking it from others. I grew at once horribly obsessed and miserably overtired, following one wild goose after another. All the while Esmé withdrew deeper into herself until even the cocaine was of no help.
I prayed I should find Kolya. I left messages everywhere. I pinned them on notice-boards in émigré hostels; I left scraps of paper with strangers. I took advertisements in the Russian language press. Meanwhile I wrote to Mrs Cornelius, to Major Nye, to Mr Green, begging them to send us the fare to England and to use their influence with the English authorities both there and in Paris. I was making myself a laughing-stock with the Russians. They would mockingly ask me ‘Has your Prince come yet?’ or ‘Is the airship flying today?’ It was hideous. At last, just to avoid this sort of cruelty, I began to deny I was Russian.
One day I was standing outside the Cirque d’Hiver, near the hotel in Rue du Temple where we had originally stayed, waiting for the artistes to emerge from their afternoon rehearsals (for I had heard that many Russians were now performing as equestrians), when I definitely saw Brodmann, dressed to the nines in black homburg and overcoat, striding rapidly towards Place de la République. He hailed a cab with his umbrella and got in, waving to another man to join him. The man was more casually clothed, in brown cords, evidently a French intellectual. He carried a bundle of newspapers under his arm. It was obvious to me he was a radical. Smiling and laughing Brodmann gave no attention to the outside world. He was plainly doing well for himself, as that sort will. Doubtless he had made himself out to be a revolutionary hero. Almost certainly he was a Chekist bent on infiltrating some non-Bolshevik organisation. Shivering, I immediately hurried home. Esmé was pale, eating little, mouthing her way through something by Gautier. I could say nothing to her. I was terrified of distressing her further. But I stayed in for the rest of the evening. Next morning I left my face unshaven with the intention of growing a beard.
I caught a tram for the Montparnasse Cemetery. There was a theatre near it and a café, called something like the Pepe Napa, which had once been a favourite of Italian actors but was now the haunt of Russian anarchists. I had sunk so low I now rubbed shoulders with scum. It was for Esmé’s sake. I would do anything to escape our present squalor. Descending from the footplate of the tram I crossed the street to the café, the railings of the cemetery at my back. Sunshine was pale in the cool autumn air. The café had only just opened for business. Inside waiters were still taking chairs off tables. The only customers were grouped at the bar drinking little cups of coffee and sharing out their cigarettes. Some spoke a dialect familiar to me—the country speech, part Russian, part Ukrainian, of the Katerynoslav gubernia. I knew enough of this dialect—at least its inflections—to greet them. Nonetheless they regarded me with surly suspicion. They had probably been in Paris for several months and they still had something of the wolfish look I associated with their kind. Most wore ordinary cheap working-class clothes, though a few still had the vestiges of uniforms—a cap, a pair of trousers or boots. They were unimpressed when I told them I was from Kiev. They warmed a little upon learning that I had ridden with Nestor Makhno. The little batko was still their greatest hero. A tall, thin faced man with a pronounced limp, his left arm hanging uselessly at his side, asked a couple of questions plainly designed to test me. He was satisfied by my answers. ‘What were you?’ he asked. ‘A Green? Or one of those city anarchists who tried to tell us how to fight the Reds?’
Instinctively I decided to tell them the truth. ‘Neither,’ I told him. ‘My sister was a nurse with Makhno’s army. Maybe you knew her? Esmé Loukianoff?’
‘The name’s familiar,’ said the tall man. ‘Pretty little blonde?’
‘That’s her.’
‘So what were you doing?’
‘I’m a teacher. And an engineer. I was with the education train until the Whites captured me. They locked us up in a synagogue to die. Then some Australians came through and took us to Odessa. Hearing that the Whites had overrun the whole place and that Reds were shooting anarchists, I got on a refugee ship.’
They did not wish to hear tales of heroism, these men. Many were themselves the defeated remnants of so-called Hulyai-Polye Cossacks. They had no call to point the finger at another escapee.
The wounded one was called Chelanak, evidently a German ‘colonist’ in origin, with a Jewish tinge to him which made me mistrust him. He said he had been left for dead after a Bolshevik ambush at Holta in September 1919. ‘We were winning, too, then.’ He paused and stepped back from me a pace of two, as if inspecting a painting. Then he continued. ‘I crawled to some woods where a troop of Greek infantry mistook me for a White officer on account of what was left of my jacket. I was sent to Odessa, put on a hospital ship. For Bulgaria, I think. But I got off in some little fishing village which we stopped at for no good reason. I tried to get back—it was near the border. I was captured by renegades who were overcome by Reds before I could be shot. I got away again, first into Poland, then down into Vienna and eventually into France.’ He frowned, his voice trailing off. ‘But I know you, I’m sure.’
I had never seen him before.
The café was beginning to fill with veterans. He leaned against the bar and sipped his coffee. His next statement had no particular relevance to what he had just said. He spoke significantly, however. ‘I was with Makhno when we executed Hrihorieff in full view of his own army. Remember that? Chubenko fired the first shot, Makhno the second, I the last. We did it because of the pogroms, I think. I do know you! You were one of the Barotbist liaison people we found with Hrihorieff. Brodmann!’
This was the most dreadful thing he could have said. I felt instantly sick. I tried to smile. He put down the journal he
held and snapped his fingers. ‘Brodmann. Someone said you were in Paris.’ He looked about him.
I was near screaming. ‘I am not Brodmann! For God’s sake, man! My name is Cornelius! It’s true I was captured by Yermeloff, but I got away. I was Hrihorieff’s prisoner for a few days, that’s all! Then I rejoined my sister in Hulyai-Polye. I swear it’s true.’ I was appalled. I had seen Brodmann only a day before. That in itself had been nerve-racking. But to be mistaken for the dreadful, treacherous Jew by ex-bandits was worse. ‘I met someone of that name. He was a Bolshevik, though he posed as a Barotbist for a while.’ I regretted even this admission as soon as it came out of me.
‘Brodmann’s comrade, then? I know your face. I know it.’ He was not particularly unfriendly. It was as if he did not personally carry any hatred for his old enemies.
It was unlikely his tolerance would be shared by the others. I know I was sweating, almost pleading with him not to pursue this line of association. My hands implored him. I had never seen this half-dead creature before and could scarcely believe the accident which led him to associate me with one of the people I most feared and despised in the world. I tried to shake my head. ‘Which Brodmann? Red beard? Alexandrovsk?’
Chelanak began to laugh. ‘No! No! I saw you at the meeting! Day before yesterday. Near Rue St Denis. I thought you were Brodmann, then.’
‘I wasn’t at a meeting, comrade. Please don’t go on with this!’ Was Brodmann, after all, to be the death of me?
‘Brodmann claims now he helped kill Hrihorieff, did you know? You didn’t kill Hrihorieff, did you?’
‘Of course not.’
‘I apologise. We get Chekists in here quite frequently. You must have a doppelgänger, comrade. Unpleasant, eh? A doppelgänger who’s a Chekist!’
The chief danger seemed over, but I remained nervous. I had only come to this place in the hope of getting news of Kolya, who had had some anarchist associates in the old days. More and more exiles were crowding through the door, speaking every Russian dialect, as well as French, Polish, German. They carried their rolled newspapers casually, as they had once borne swords and rifles. I began pushing through them on my way out. Chelanak plucked at my coat. ‘But you are Brodmann’s friend, surely? Still a Barotbist, maybe? At least tell me what you’re here for!’
‘Prince Petroff,’ I said.
‘Why the hell are you looking for a Prince here?’ He was beside me again. ‘We’re a bit nervous of spies, Brodmann’s friend.’
‘I’m no friend of Brodmann. The only Brodmann I knew was caught and shot by the Whites in Odessa last year. As for Petroff, he’s done as much for the cause as anyone—and suffered as much. Is there now a class qualification for the Movement? If so you had better make plans to expel Kropotkin!’ I hated all the eyes now on me. I willed myself to speak levelly. ‘You’re a fool, Chelanak.’ I pushed at him, striking his dead arm which began to sway like a pendulum. ‘I can’t understand why you’re picking on me. I’ve done you no harm. We were part of the same group not so long ago.’
He took hold of his wounded arm with his good hand and stopped its swaying. He looked at the ground. ‘I apologise, comrade. We’ve no Petroff here, unless he’s changed his name and his caste. I’m not sure what got me going. Just something in you.’
Both of us were panting slightly. We stood outside the café now, staring towards the cemetery through the iron railings on the other side of the road.
‘You look a bit like Brodmann to me,’ he said, compounding the insult. ‘But I can see you’re not him. You haven’t the clothes or the complexion of a Chekist. It’s obvious in the daylight. I apologise again. What can I do for you?’
‘I’d hoped to find Prince Petroff, that’s all.’
‘Only exhausted and defeated anarchists come here. We share a common bond of bitterness and self-pity.’ He smiled, straightening his cap. ‘Maybe that’s why I mistook you for a Chekist. You don’t look crushed enough. Go in peace, comrade. But be careful. Your face is wrong for this kind of place.’ His mouth softened. ‘Your eyes have too much future in them. These cafés are citadels of a lost past. We don’t have the energy to take another step forward.’
I do not remember saying goodbye to him. I ran up the Rue Froidevaux, past the theatre. I was running not from Chelanak but from Brodmann. I was sure the anarchist was right. Brodmann was a natural candidate for the Cheka. He would delight in destroying me. At that moment I could have run all the way back to Rome. I had to be a fool so passively to have accepted Santucci’s lift. I had thought it would be easy to get to London from here. It would have been better to have remained in Constantinople. It was imperative, I thought, at least to get out of Paris, possibly to the South or to Belgium. From there we could choose Holland or Germany. I would sell all my clothes. Every treasure I had retained. I found myself in the Luxembourg Gardens with their thin, unfriendly trees. The place was far too exposed for me. I dashed into the Rue St Michel and its crowds, was almost hit by a tram and at last reached our alley. It had become a sanctuary. I was seriously out of breath by the time I got to the top of the stairs. Within, it was as gloomy as ever. Esmé, sitting up in our grey bed, read an old La Vie Parisienne and merely nodded as I entered. I went immediately to our little store of cocaine to pull myself together. She still had last night’s papers in her hair. She was turning into a slattern and it was my fault. Could Brodmann, I wondered, have come specifically to Paris to seek me out? The Bolsheviks had assassins in every major city. Their job was simply to wipe out those who had escaped them in Russia.
For once I was glad Esmé gave her entire attention to her magazine and did not see, thank God, my anxiety. How was I to tell her we must flee? She could only grow worse and it would be impossible to travel at any kind of speed with her an invalid and Brodmann in pursuit. He must surely be aware of my presence in Paris and since I had left my address everywhere in the hope Kolya would eventually be given it, Brodmann or one of his Chekist agents might discover it at any moment. I prayed they would spare Esmé. My first decision was to take my Georgian pistols to the expensive shops on the Quai Voltaire where tourists bought their old Louis XV chairs and Napoleonic medals, their carved saints looted from churches destroyed during the Siege. It was a short walk for me, along the Seine. I was bound to get enough for our rail fares out of France. However, I moved slowly. I felt I was renouncing the last vestiges of my heritage, selling my birthright, betraying a friend. But I had no choice. Refugees all over Paris were making exactly the same decision.
I believe I was singularly blessed in those days by a somewhat flamboyant and depraved Guardian Angel, the same who had started me into the bohemian Petersburg world and introduced me to Kolya. He now appeared, shrieking and waving his long, limp arms, on the Pont Neuf where it joined Quai de Conti. It was as if he had sprung from one of the grotesque buttresses of Notre Dame itself, dressed in a bright yellow cloak, green cravat, blue velvet jacket and white Oxford Bags. From habit, my first impulse was to avoid him; then I shrugged as he leapt across the roadway, cloak and trousers billowing like the silk of a deflated balloon, and seized me. He hugged me to his monstrous chest and breathed peppermint vodka into my face. He still had his exaggerated good looks, his theatrical speech and gesture. It was also obvious that his lust for me (first felt on the train when I was a boy travelling from Kiev to St Petersburg and the Polytechnic) was utterly undiminished. It was the ballet-dancer Sergei Andreyovitch Tsipliakov. ‘Your own Seryozha, my darling Dimka!’ He kissed me passionately on both cheeks and then again on my forehead. ‘Oh, Dimka! You are not dead! I am not dead! Isn’t it wonderful? How long have you been in Paris? You don’t look well.’ He held me firmly in his huge hands and inspected me. ‘I told you Paris was the place to be and you remembered! Wasn’t I a good judge? I came here in ’16 with some of the other Foline members. To entertain the troops. And I’ve been here ever since. Lucky, too, don’t you think?’
I seemed to remember he had once been absolutely firm that
I should stay in Petersburg. I wanted to know how he had managed to reach Paris when it had been almost impossible for Russian civilians to travel. ‘My dear, Foline is a genius. Heartless, selfish, thoughtless, but a genius. He talked someone into believing our performances would improve the morale of the troops fighting in Flanders. And they let us go. About half of us, anyway. They wouldn’t have me, dear, in the army. And I didn’t pout about it. A tremendous piece of good fortune. We’re loved by everyone in Paris. I’ve had offers from Diaghilev and from that plagiarist Fokine. Not only did he steal Foline’s name, he’s stolen almost all our repertoire. But it doesn’t matter. There are hundreds of marvellous composers here, as you know. Where are you off to, Dimka dear?’
Having gathered that Seryozha was doing well, I had begun to consider my ideas. Perhaps I could borrow the money I needed, or at least sell him some shares in my Airship Company. I told him I was merely out for a stroll, whereupon he insisted we must go to a nearby café, L’Epéron. ‘I was on my way to it anyway. It’s marvellous there. Everyone’s so handsome and beautiful. Do you feel like an omelette? They have wonderful omelettes.’
The Laughter of Carthage: The Second Volume of the Colonel Pyat Quartet (Colonel Pyat Quartet Series Book 2) Page 39
