The Madonna of the Sleeping Cars

by Maurice DeKobra

  I had arisen in my turn. “Do you really feel so bitterly toward me, Madam Mouravieff?”

  “You have been the purveyor of unhappiness for me. You stole my lover only to place him in the arms of a woman whom I hate. I know all about it. Lady Diana knocked Varichkine’s feet out from under him. She wanted the Telav concession. To make sure of it, she threw herself at him. Then, more to humiliate me than for any other reason, she refused his proposition and forced him into an offer of marriage. They will be man and wife within a month because, up to now, I have been unable to annul the concession. If Moscow, for political reasons, refuses to comply with my request, I shall act in my own way. You were foolhardy enough to disregard my warning! You will regret that audacity, Prince. You will learn in a cruel school that true love is something one doesn’t scoff at in the land which lies between the Dnieper and Ural.”

  She moved toward the door. I followed with the intention of asking her to wait a little. But she turned abruptly and with her back to the door and her right hand in the pocket of her leather coat, she ordered:

  “Stop where you are. I don’t want to shoot a hole in my uniform. Besides, this little experience is far too interesting to end so abruptly.”

  “Do you imagine that I could ever forget myself where a woman is concerned—even an enemy?”

  “You haven’t inspired me with much confidence.”

  “Permit me to say a few words before you go, madam. You have full power to determine my fate?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “You are the supreme judge?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then do you mind telling me when you will make your final decision?”

  “I can’t tell you that. Perhaps tonight. Perhaps not for two weeks. I have spied on you through this peep-hole. I enjoy that and I want to do it some more. I won’t be satisfied until I see you a little more anxious—a little more disciplined—and a little bit dirtier. I will choose my own hour for returning you to your soft berth of Royal Highness. That is, if I don’t decide on the supreme chastisement. I don’t know myself. Living is such an absurd occupation.”

  Irina turned her back. Her short khaki skirt swished through the door. The heavy bolt plowed into the damp wall. Solitude was again my only companion; solitude, that silent monster swollen with sadness.

  I am never able to think without a shudder of the hours which followed Madam Mouravieff’s visit to my cell. Uncertainty’s icy drops fell on my naked heart. I trembled. My life depended on that woman’s whim. Paralyzed in her claws, it only remained for me to see, pictured in her pupils, my pardon or my death sentence.

  I did my utmost to set at rest the thoughts which zigzagged through my tortured brain, to regain bit by bit the delightful insensibility which had pervaded me before; but the blue eyes set in the pallid face of that Muscovite cut like knife-blades through my tightly shut lids. Irina had gone. And still I could feel her presence. She seemed to be beside my bed. I saw her sitting on the bench, haughty and impenetrable. I can still remember uttering an exclamation of impatience and revolt like a trapped beast manifesting helplessness. I clenched my fists in an effort to convince myself that I was regaining control of my will-power. I dug my nails into my palms, I drove my head down into the hard bed and I scowled terribly. Irina’s ghost still watched me.

  Time passed. The night was nearly gone. A light shone through the grilled window of my cell. The heels of heavy boots ground on the pebbles in the courtyard. A door slammed. I missed Ivanof. He would have been able to interpret the significance of all this noise.

  Suddenly hurried steps echoed through the corridor. A brutal hand turned the key. My jailer appeared in the company of a Red guard whom I had never seen. A revolver in his hand, his cap pulled down over one ear, he growled the fatal words:

  “S veschtami po gorodou!—Your street clothes.”

  The heartless ruffian uttered the awful phrase as indifferently as a corporal of the guard would awaken one of his men for duty. I quavered under the blow. My befuddled mind was incapable of fast reaction. I remember that in the shipwreck of my intelligence, only one thing stayed afloat: the necessity of not trembling before the woman who had condemned me.

  I struggled to my feet automatically. I followed the Red guard. The barrel of his revolver was pressed between my shoulder blades. He made me climb a flight of stairs and cross the courtyard. I had a fleeting look at a black sky sparkling with golden stars and I descended into the basement of the next building. As my foot touched the bottom step, I heard the roar of the engine.

  I realized that I had only two or three minutes to live. A perplexing problem coursed through my brain: Should I allow myself to be slaughtered like a spring lamb or should I attack the Red guard and die fighting? Strange telepathy. My escort must have divined my thoughts because the cold steel of his revolver touched my neck and by a curt threat, in surly Russian, he conveyed the absurdity of rebellion.

  I entered a sort of underground shed, whitened with chalk and brilliantly lighted with three acetylene lamps. At the back, on the right, there was a box of sand, some brown spots on the wall and some dark stains on the floor. Mesmerized by the spectacle, I stood motionless. I could not keep my eyes off that constellation of spots which enlivened the ghastly white wall.

  Then a feminine voice startled me: “Well, Prince Séliman! Are you choosing your mural decorations?”

  I turned quickly. Irina was there. The Red guard barred the door. My pride kindly lent a smile to my drawn face and I replied:

  “Madam, as a crematory oven, this isn’t bad at all. As a Caveau Caucasien, I have seen better.”

  “You will admit that you’re frightened this time.”

  “Yes, I am afraid of staining that pretty little costume of yours.”

  Irina gazed at me with more amazement than ever. She was trying to penetrate my mask and to assure herself that the awful sweat of terror was moistening my body. She sought with an inflexible look for some manifestation of anguish. It was as though some strange pleasure were making her nerves vibrate and as though all her instincts, aroused, were secretly palpitating with anticipation. She came still nearer. She stopped only when her face was a few inches away from mine. She was a picture of sadistic irony. I could detect the perfume of crême de menthe on her breath. Her pale eyes, luminous rays, shaded by half-closed lids, sought the iris of my pupils to discover the dilation caused by fear.

  Her hands clasped behind her back, she smiled drily. “You conceal your apprehension beautifully, Prince Séliman. But I know that your heart is beating desperately. The movement of your jugular vein tells me that. However, you make a very good showing in the face of death. The Tcheka’s executioner will soon be here. Please pardon the delay.”

  I heard the noise of footsteps. In spite of myself I turned toward the door. A man appeared, followed by another man.

  Then Irina remarked, in the most indifferent tone in the world, “Enough of this play-acting. It is not your night to die. You are merely going to see how we dispose of counter-revolutionists. Let us sit down on this bench, Prince Séliman. The ceremony won’t take long.”

  The man about to die was a small type of Russian, badly built, with bloodshot eyes and a bushy beard. He walked mechanically in front of the executioner. Resigned, overpowered by fate, he was marching like a soldier to his grave. Was he still in his right mind? Was he still conscious of the existence of the outside world? I watched him, controlling my emotion with extreme difficulty. After having placed me before the mirror of death, Irina was now inflicting on me the atrocious spectacle of a dress rehearsal. I often ask myself today by what miracle of will-power I was able to endure that nightmare.

  Suddenly I started. Irina, seated beside me, spoke in a low voice. She was explaining everything and her remarks intrigued me about as much as those of a neighbor at the theater who explains the plot:

  “His name is Tchernicheff. Moscow telegraphed his death sentence this afternoon. A former volunteer in Deniki
ne’s army. Pfft. Excrement of the worst kind.”

  In the meantime the executioner had conducted his victim to a spot between the white wall and the box of sand. The Tchekist executor of such worthy deeds was an old sailor of the Baltic Fleet, a swarthy ruffian about six feet tall, with the features of a lymphatic gorilla, scarred and pock-marked, with flat ears and hands like veal cutlets. He emitted an order. The condemned man did not move. For the first time, he appeared to appreciate the frightful reality. His eyes bulging from their sockets, he stared at us, Irina and me. I had the horrible sensation that this man, on the threshold of death, was reproaching us for the incongruity of our presence.

  The executioner’s order rang out a second time. Still the man failed to move. He only shrieked out something, intended for our ears. His raucous, trembling voice grated on my nerves, like the rasp of a saw on metal. The Tchekist turned to Irina and exchanged a few words. She seemed amused. The executioner guffawed. His bass voice along with Irina’s, which was like the pizzicato of a harp, completed my discomfort.

  She took me to witness for the absurdity of the thing: “He doesn’t want to get undressed! Because I’m here. You see, there is a regulation which requires that they die naked! And here is one who doesn’t dare—in front of a woman. It’s really funny.”

  Irina had arisen. She made some sarcastic remark to the condemned man. Then I saw this: the poor wretch, docile enough, took off his ragged coat and trousers, and then, modestly, turned to the wall to remove his shirt.

  Irina made a sign to me. “My word! Anyone would think he was a newlywed!” And she cried out to the poor devil, “Make a half-turn!”

  Galvanized by this order, beside himself, already tottering on his meager legs, Tchernicheff did as he was told. He stood there as God made him. Irina did not even look at him. She motioned to the executioner. Her gesture seemed to say, Hurry and put that poor wretch out of his misery. Then she sat down.

  Two shots rang out. Tchernicheff fell in a heap. The Tchekist spread a thick coating of yellow sand around the corpse and gathered up the widowed clothes. The roar of the engine ceased. The Red guard who had escorted me reappeared.

  Irina said, “Now, we’re going to take you back to your cell, my dear Prince. I imagine that what you have seen tonight will give you food for thought.” She was silent for a few seconds before she added very sweetly, “It is always a good thing to meet one’s destiny ahead of time.”

  We went out. The guard opened the door of my cage. Irina instructed him to wait at the foot of the stairs. She entered. She felt of my blanket and my mattress and remarked:

  “You see, I’m just like a sister to you. I’ve come to tuck you in.”

  She had leaned over to fix the bed. As she straightened up, I took her in my arms. What sudden impulse could have impelled me? I have no idea, but I drew her to me, and almost mouth against mouth, I said:

  “Irina, you are a she-devil. But I don’t hate you for it. I admire your iron nerve and your heartless heart which possesses all the splendor of a Hindu statue. Irina—let me go! I will repair the harm I’ve done. Irina—your lips must taste of blood and savage perfumes.”

  I had lost all sense of proportion. I only saw that pale little face in its ebony frame of straight bobbed hair. I only saw that hard, sensual mouth which made no answer. I placed my lips on hers. She made no resistance. I could feel the wild abandon of that cruel chalice which did not try to close. The silent kiss endured until Irina’s body suddenly broke loose from my embrace. With uncanny strength she threw me over on the bed, actually spat in my face, rushed to the door and hurled at me:

  “So you thought you could have me so soon! Imbecile! I am ashamed of the few seconds of weakness of which you, of course, took advantage. This time your die is cast—you have sealed your own death warrant on my mouth.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  A VERY SICK HUSBAND

  THE NEXT MORNING, AFTER A NIGHT DISTRAUGHT with atrocious dreams, I awoke, tired and despondent. In an effort to start my blood circulating I vigorously rubbed my dirty, bearded cheeks. I felt that I was already being conquered by that same mournful despair which hung about my fellow prisoners. An imaginary vulture was beating against my temples in its flight and the weight of a tombstone oppressed my respiration.

  Toward two o’clock in the afternoon the jailer opened the door. I was surprised to see Ivanof enter my cell. I hardly recognized him, so joyous was the light which shone from his eyes and so new was the energy which animated his every move. He walked with a springy step. He hastened to say:

  “This is my last night in jail! They have received orders to let me go tomorrow.”

  “Why?”

  “I haven’t any idea. I don’t suppose they have either. Chapinski told me the good news just now. He hated to do it; the words stuck in his mouth; he acted as though my liberation was a reproach for him. Infamous reptile that he is! How I would like to strangle him on my way out.”

  I felicitated Ivanof. He excused himself:

  “My poor friends. I know it’s selfish to be so gay in your presence but my blood is bubbling over with joy. I wish you were coming with me.”

  I only sighed resignedly. Ivanof evidently knew nothing about my situation. Had he been aware that Madam Mouravieff destined me for the executioner’s faultless aim, he would have been even more ashamed of his alacrity.

  “I heard the engine again last night,” he continued. “Another murder in the slaughter-house next door.”

  “Yes. It was Tchernicheff.”

  Ivanof gazed at me, astounded. “How do you know?”

  “I was present at the execution.”

  He drew himself up and said, “You? You were—”

  “Yes. By special invitation of Madam Irina Alexandrovna Mouravieff.”

  “The Tchekist from Moscow? Is she here?”

  “Yes, on my account. She wanted to give me an idea of the fate which awaits me. She is a very sentimental lady.”

  “My poor friend.”

  Ivanof’s sympathy was so very real that I spontaneously seized his outstretched hands. He no longer laughed; himself escaped from death’s clutches, he nevertheless showed his sincere sorrow at my sad lot. He questioned me in a subdued voice. I explained my case in fullest detail.

  He asked, “What can I do for you, my friend?”

  “Nothing, unfortunately.”

  It was late in the afternoon. I lay down and slept for a time. Ivanof crouched in a corner. He in no way displayed the happiness which must have been his. Quantities of ideas were running through his head. Toward the middle of the night I awoke with a start. A thought had penetrated, like a feeble but persistent light, into my befuddled brain.

  I whispered excitedly, “Ivanof!”

  “Yes.”

  “Listen.”

  He sat down beside me.

  I confided, “I have saved a thousand American dollars out of the mess.”

  “A thousand dollars!”

  “They are hidden over there between two tiles. Wouldn’t a thousand dollars buy some complicity or other?”

  “Yes and no. It’s a gamble.”

  “I don’t mean from the Red guards. I have another plan. Ivanof, listen carefully to what I say. Some American friends of mine are cruising near Trébizonde on board a yacht called the Northern Star. The yacht is equipped with a wireless. As you would lose too much time should you try to locate it by crossing Armenia, even supposing that you were allowed to leave Georgia, couldn’t you manage to send a wireless from Nikolaïa to the Northern Star?”

  “I doubt whether there is a private post in Nikolaïa. But the signal station at the entrance to the port, if I am not mistaken, has an apparatus. Everything depends on the operator.”

  “For a thousand dollars, that man, no matter who he is, would probably consent to send a message to a foreign boat. What do you think? And for fifty thousand dollars, a sum which my friends would gladly lend me, Chapinski might perhaps be induced to set me free!
Do you want to try it for me?”

  Ivanof hesitated, then replied, “I run the risk of being incarcerated again for abetting an attempt to escape. I will, however, gladly expose myself to that danger if you will promise me that, in the event of your success, your friends from the Northern Star will take me to Constantinople.”

  “I give you my word that they will.”

  “Then I’ll see about it the first thing tomorrow. What message should I send?”

  “Have you a pencil?”

  “No, but I have a good memory. Besides, it’s safer not to write.”

  “Well, then, here you are: ‘Steam-yacht Northern Star Black Sea all speed to Nikolaïa. Husband desperately ill.’ ”

  “No signature?”

  “No, because some Soviet station might pick up the message.”

  “Are you the sick husband?”

  “Yes. A very sick husband.”

  “And will the owner of the yacht understand?”

  “She should. She is my wife.”

  Ivanof murmured incredulously, “And the Princess Séliman amuses herself cruising about in the Black Sea while you rot in a dungeon in Nikolaïa?”

  I explained the situation. He seemed greatly interested in my romance. He remarked at last:

  “Let us elaborate on our plan of action. As soon as I am free I shall go to the wireless station. Supposing that your dollars convince him and that he consents to send the radio. Then supposing that the Princess responds to your cry for help and that the yacht arrives. What shall I do?”

  “The moment the launch comes ashore, give the sailor a letter to the Princess Séliman explaining my situation. Suggest that she invite Chapinski aboard, and offer him fifty thousand dollars provided he consents to manage my escape. After that we shall see. I don’t need to tell you, Ivanof, that if you get me out of jail, not only will you escape from the Soviet hell forever, but your fortune as a musician will be made in America.”