The Madonna of the Sleeping Cars

by Maurice DeKobra

  The romance of my past rapidly unfolded itself on the foolscap of my memories. I could see myself again, a ruined gentleman, saying goodby forever to Paris. I recalled that smelly deck covered with immigrants on the transatlantic liner, my miraculous good fortune in New York, my conquest of the beautiful Mrs. Griselda Turner, my adoption by the venerable Prince Séliman in Vienna, my foolishness with Evelyn, the drama in Palm Beach, my parting words to Griselda, my Bohemian life in London and my association with Lady Diana. And now, my expedition into the unknown Caucasus, strangely interrupted by an enigmatic intermission on a yacht whose owner I was about to meet.

  Then I heard Mrs. Maughan’s voice saying, “Come along. We ran into a charming boy on the dock at Trébizonde—I know you will love him.”

  I turned around. And then I stood up, pale as a ghost, my heart beating madly. Griselda was there.

  CHAPTER TEN

  MOST UNWELCOME VISITORS

  GRISELDA ALSO TURNED PALE. BUT SHE QUICKLY regained her self-possession. Some inexplicable emotion came over me. I contemplated her tiny aquiline nose, her rougeless lips, her deep blue eyes and her bare white arms, slightly bronzed by the Mediterranean sun.

  Mr. and Mrs. Maughan had discreetly moved away. Griselda sat down opposite me in a huge armchair and asked with an indifferent politeness which I found most disconcerting:

  “What are you doing here, my dear? I thought you were in London.”

  I told her briefly what had transpired since my departure from New York.

  She listened to me without apparent interest and finally remarked, “In other words, you have become the knight errant of Lady Diana Wynham?”

  “At least, I do my best to be of service to her.”

  “You are absolutely right. It would hardly be proper for the Prince Séliman to accept favors from so heralded a beauty without giving something in exchange.”

  “Griselda, you are quite mistaken. Lady Wynham is not and never will be my mistress.”

  The Princess displayed no great regard for my affirmation. She only smiled sarcastically and remarked, “Without any doubt, you are the strangest individual I have ever met. You are a combination of the sublime and the ridiculous, if you will forgive me for saying so. A distinguished gentleman at noon—a clown at midnight—you excel in every capacity! Here you are moving heaven and earth for the sake of a woman who is not even yours. To my mind, that isn’t logic.”

  “Sometimes, Griselda, it is dangerous to challenge logic, that angular old maid with flat hips. And, another thing, don’t forget that my curious behavior is a little bit your fault.”

  “Oh!”

  “Yes! You have treated me with extraordinary cruelty. When I left America, I took nothing except a melancholy sketch of Lake Placid on an April afternoon. Do you remember what you did? My last letter, torn into little pieces and dedicated to a springtime breeze. My poor effort mutilated! A perfect picture of the death of my hope! Do you realize that you sent away a broken man, a virtual suicide? Not knowing and caring less what would happen, the veriest chance took me to London. Having nothing else to attend to, I accepted the position of secretary, counsel, and mentor to an extremely important member of the smart set. I know you will say that there are positions more suitable to a man of my rank. Unquestionably! But that is no excuse for trying to break my spirit. Every man, no matter how weak, hopes to do something great some day, and to leave his mark on history’s crowded page. A wandering student of nature, I was amused to observe British Society through the yellow glasses of an unprejudiced aristocrat. Comfortably cradled on the Ocean of Snobbery, I had only one ambition: to wait until Fate would throw us together again. And now my wish has come true. I have rediscovered you, Griselda, more seductive than ever, and I admit frankly that you upset me terribly.”

  I paused. I looked at Griselda. She seemed unmoved. Finally, I added in a low voice:

  “It was just two years ago that we knew our first moment in the sweet-smelling splendor of the lovely blooms of your roof-garden whose spell held us trembling in the warm and aphrodisiac June night. Do you remember?”

  I drew nearer to her. I drank in her beauty.

  Lying back in her chair, she was thinking deeply—a lovely picture with the sea-struck sun playing facetiously on her glorious hair. The quiet waters lapped against the yacht with a nonchalant ripple. Down below, the sailor who piloted the launch was whistling an old American tune. In the distance, a snorting iron crane plunged its claw into the hold of a freighter.

  “Gerard,” Griselda said at last, “there is no use in referring to a dead and buried past. Let me go my own way. Chance has brought us together. You can plainly see that I haven’t tried to avoid you. But don’t make things too difficult. I could have told Ruth that I would not receive you on my boat. I didn’t do it because that would have been too unkind. I am no longer angry with you for having wanted to deceive me with my own stepdaughter. Time heals all wounds and distance takes away the suffering which comes from wasted love. You digressed because I couldn’t hold you. I forgive all that. I even admit that I still consider you worthy of my friendship. After all, you are honest, and, with every mistake you’ve made, you have somehow managed to be a man. That I admire. And besides, you did one thing which touched me to the core and which made me respect you beyond measure.”

  “What was that?”

  “When my lawyer suggested a divorce, he offered you a huge settlement provided that you would allow me to use your title. Your refusal, both of the divorce and the money, forced me to consider you as an unusually fine man.”

  “Oh, Griselda, how could you ever have supposed that I would sell you a crown which I had already given you out of love!”

  “There are plenty of men who would.”

  “Yes, but they are not fit to know a woman like you.”

  Griselda’s face, indifferent enough in the beginning, was gradually becoming animated. I could see that she was less and less hostile. I took her hand in mine.

  “Darling, I still love you. My heart is still yours. The thing you sent to Europe was nothing but a puppet. Thank you for your offer of friendship, but I want much more than that. What I want is the Griselda whom I knew one night in New York, pressed close against me and whose pulse beat furiously between the coils of the serpent of pearls wound about her wrist. I want the Griselda of St. Margaret’s Island, who with half-closed eyes listened rapturously to nocturnal serenades and breathed in the melodies of a homesick Hungarian. That is the Griselda I want back again and the one I am always seeking as a lost navigator seeks a white sail on the horizon.”

  But the Princess only shook her head. She gently removed my hand which had somehow crept above her wrist and said:

  “No, Gerard. We can be friends. Just great friends. Don’t try to play on my feminine frailty by referring to those short but inimitable hours of our mutual happiness. Carry on with your mission. That is where your duty lies. And let me finish mine. Because my voyage is in reality a charitable pilgrimage. I agreed to come personally with the gifts of the Armenian-American Committee of which I happen to be the president. I brought the Maughans and some other friends with me. Some of the party stopped off at Constantinople. I shall be in this vicinity for two or three weeks. Then I plan to return to the Cote d’Azur. After that, I don’t know. I find that it is never safe to look ahead more than three months. If you do, your check on the future is invariably returned unpaid.”

  Griselda arose. Our intimate conversation was over. She beckoned to Ruth Maughan, who was just coming out of her cabin, ordered tea, and asked me smilingly:

  “Is it really true, my dear, that you came all the way to Trébizonde on that awful little boat over there?”

  “Absolutely. It’s a freighter—the Djoulfa.”

  “Far too pretty a name for such an ugly hulk,” remarked Mrs. Maughan.

  “Well, you see, Mrs. Maughan, at the present moment, there is no White Star Line running from Monte Carlo to the Caucasus.”

>   Time passed. The tea was poured. Mr. Maughan discussed the latest Wall Street scandals. His wife commented on the marriage of Dorothy Leewet, the dancer on the Century Roof, to a Spanish marquis. At six o’clock, I prepared to go. The Northern Star’s launch was to take me back to my freighter. For the last time, I implored Griselda’s forgiveness with a despairing look.

  She held out her hand: “Friends?”

  I did not move. She repeated—her hand still outstretched, “Please, Gerard—can’t we be friends?”

  I protested by lifting her hand to my lips.

  But she only stiffened her arm and insisted, “No! Nothing like that. Good luck to you, Gerard, and may God be with you. If you have nothing to do about three months from now, you can find me in Paris or London. Call me up. By then I shall have decided whether to get a divorce or to prolong our status quo for another year.”

  A quarter of an hour later, I scrambled up the rope ladder on to the freighter. I watched the little launch speeding toward the beautiful white yacht and an irresistible melancholy haunted me while the Djoulfa’s second officer, leaning over a dark opening, vomited mortal insults at an invisible stoker.

  The hours passed. My thoughts returned ceaselessly to the yacht, that white swan gone from sight on the horizon of the Black Sea.

  My neighbors were asleep. The second officer was on the bridge. I could catch a glimpse of his rugged face now and then by the green light to starboard. Then I consoled myself with the thought that tomorrow evening I would have no time to dream.

  At seven o’clock, with the help of the stars and the lights of Batoum, I could dimly distinguish the smoky outline of the port. There was great activity on board the Djoulfa. The commotion preparatory to landing began. The whistle of a locomotive in the distance sounded plaintively through the night air. We passed a torpedo boat of the Red fleet, like a long burned out cigar ringed with the Soviet arms.

  I went ashore, brandishing my passport very bravely. Two exceedingly unsympathetic individuals scrutinized the various visas, examined the quality of the paper, and rubbed their noses on the signatures. Another scoundrel in an indescribable uniform pulled everything out of my valise on the floor of a dusty and badly lighted office.

  I was astonished that Mr. Edwin Blankett was not on hand to receive me. I spent the night at a hotel and, having inquired about trains for the little port of Nikolaïa, I set out at noon the next day. I arrived at two o’clock, after having been crowded in between two nuns from the convent of Santo Nino—two nuns dressed in somber raiment and coiffed with black stove-pipe hats.

  I was certain that Mr. Edwin Blankett would be waiting for me at the Vokzal Hotel, opposite the railroad station. The patron of this modest establishment, whose pale face was featured by its huge nose, with inflated nostrils, greeted me with great cordiality. He appeared astonished that a touring foreigner should come, in such troubled times, to visit the insignificant little town. Mr. Tzouloukidze—I believe that was his name—spoke German to my great gratification.

  I immediately declared, “Mr. Edwin Blankett is waiting for me. Would you mind telling him that I am here.”

  “Who did you say the gentleman was, sir?”

  “Mr. Edwin Blankett.”

  The hotel man’s surprise alarmed me.

  I insisted, “Haven’t you an English engineer, named Blankett, among your guests?”

  “No, sir.”

  “And you have never heard the name before?”

  “Never.”

  Thoroughly disconcerted, I stared at Mr. Tzouloukidze. “But you must be mistaken!” I exclaimed. “I received a telegram in Berlin a week ago. It was sent from Nikolaïa by Mr. Blankett, who is the consulting engineer for a new oil company about to exploit some lands in Telav. He was here a week ago. Do you suppose he has gone to Telav?”

  “I beg your pardon, sir, but the gentleman you mention has never been here.”

  I was convinced that the man was telling the truth. My astonishment was only increased.

  “Nevertheless,” I added, “I sent a telegram to Mr. Blankett from Constantinople several days ago. Have you received it?”

  “Yes, sir—I kept it, thinking that a traveler by that name might arrive.”

  “Well, where is the telegram?”

  The proprietor carefully closed the door of his office and, almost in a whisper, confided hesitatingly, “I turned it over to someone—only last night.”

  “To whom?”

  Mr. Tzouloukidze lowered his voice even more and murmured most anxiously, “To a special police official.”

  I manifested my annoyance with a shrug of my shoulders and protested, “What! Have they authority in this country to pry into the personal correspondence of British subjects?”

  The hotel man sighed deeply. “Ah, sir! They have the right to do anything they please. Things are in a continual state of war out here. We are all forced to submit to their demands or to emigrate to the New World—that is, if we can. It is far easier to get here than it is to go away. But do you want a room for the night, sir? If your associate is in Telav, he will assuredly come here for you.”

  I went up to my modest room. An iron bed, a multicolored spread, a huge wash-basin, and a faded engraving of the Cathedral of Sion in Tiflis. But I was far too preoccupied to pay much attention to the decorations. Mr. Blankett’s failure to put in an appearance was most unexpected—and anything but reassuring. I felt that it was a consummate insult for the secret police of Nikolaïa to concern themselves with my telegrams.

  I spent an hour smoking cigarettes and rummaging stupidly in my suitcase. Klara’s dire warnings came back to me. Had her admonishments any real worth? Now that I found myself all alone in this little Caucasian port, forced to accept, unprotestingly, the rigorous practices of the Soviet Government, lost in a traveling salesman’s hotel, far from any friendly consulate, I had the unpleasant sensation of standing on a trapdoor which was beginning to sink beneath my feet. Into what wretched pit was I about to fall?

  Along toward seven o’clock in the evening, I regained my self-possession. After all, my anxiety was probably quite absurd. There was some stupid misunderstanding. I decided that I would return to Batoum the following day and go from there to Telav where I would be certain to discover the famous engineer.

  I dined in the hotel. At the next table, two Cossack officers in black tcherkeska were eating heartily, and carrying on a vulgar conversation with the laughing waitress. After dinner, I went out for a walk. I encountered several Red policemen who were lounging about and who eyed me with ill-concealed suspicion. At nine o’clock I returned to the hotel.

  Mr. Tzouloukidze offered me a glass of vodka and asked, “Did you notice anyone following you while you were out?”

  “No. Why?”

  “I’m surprised, that’s all.” He shook his head dubiously.

  I joked, “Come come, Mr. Tzouloukidze, the King of the Mountains has long since retired with his pockets full of money. You evidently enjoy hinting of grave dangers for passing tourists and adding a bit of spice to their sojourn in your little city!”

  “Alas, sir, everyone is persecuted here, even the Georgians of old standing. Our fellow-countrymen are under the yoke of Communist power. And do you know who orders arbitrary arrests and all the executions without trial? Bandits like Cobichvili, of the Extraordinary Commission of Tiflis, or Kavtaradzé, head of the Douchett militia.”

  “But for me—a foreigner? With a passport properly viséd at Moscow?”

  “Evidently. You are exempt up to a certain point.”

  “Well, never mind, Mr. Tzouloukidze! Here’s to the health of a free and independent Georgia.”

  “Be careful—if anyone should hear you!”

  We talked until ten o’clock, when I retired. I was soon sound asleep.

  At half past one in the morning, I was awakened by hurried steps in the corridor. I listened attentively. There was whispering outside my door. A ray of light shone through the sill. Then came two
sharp knocks.

  I cried, “Who is it?”

  “Tür auf!”

  I recognized the proprietor’s voice. I climbed out of bed and opened the door. Two men, with revolvers, wearing astrakhan papakha, clad in the traditional manner, with the Red star conspicuously placed, burst into my room. Mr. Tzouloukidze followed them. He had evidently dressed in great haste to receive the two Red policemen.

  “What do these individuals want with me?” I demanded ironically. “Do they want to examine my baggage? Or do they want to see my passport?”

  The hotel man appeared to be in great consternation and only muttered, “They have a warrant for your arrest.”

  I was about to make a strenuous protest when one of the officers, brandishing his revolver with a threatening air, approached and showed me a paper. With the barrel of his weapon, he pointed to my name, inscribed in large capitals:

  “The Prince Séliman. Is that you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then follow us.”

  I had no choice but to obey. I hurriedly closed my valise and turned to the proprietor:

  “What does this mean?” I said quietly.

  He replied in a like tone. “Tcheka.”

  Then I thoroughly understood. A shudder of real fear ran through me. Tcheka—the dread word for the Russian secret police.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  A WOMAN’S EYES

  IN THE LOBBY OF THE HOTEL VOKZAL, I ASKED MY enforced escorts whether they spoke German, French, or English. The smaller of the two, with the profile of a clam and bloodshot eyes, was courteous enough to answer me with an atrocious accent:

  “Oui—je parle un peau frrrancaise—”

  “Then, my friend, would you mind explaining what this means?”

  I offered him a gold-tipped cigarette. He accepted it without question. His companion, who possessed a polyhedric figure and a broken nose, along with bloody cheekbones, extended his flabby hand toward my case, removed the eleven remaining cigarettes and slipped them into a pocket of his leather coat without saying a word.