Byzantium Endures

EIGHTEEN

CITY OF SLEEPING GOATS; city crime; city of bleating crows; the wide-boys lie sprawled in the alleys; the little birds sing untruthful songs. The synagogues are burning.

Steel Tsar marching from the South-East; from the sloping city of goats; ancient ruins. Steel pressed them back to the ruins. To old, alien seas, washing rock that was rotten. Adrift from their homeland. Down into dishonour; bereft of God. Where could they go? These noble people had fought too long for their land; too long for memory. Why did they fight? Why do they not fight now, those Russians? The stars were destroyed. To hell with the yashmaks. The stars marched into that vast, dark sun. The sun set over Russia; and Chaos and Old Night reigned dreadfully. We were just learning subtlety. From the mountains, from the sloping city of goats and ruins, came the black, Georgian Tsar, wailing for a Russia his master had destroyed: praising the Devil but longing for God. Praying for the vibrancy, the silence, the secrets of old times; and yelling at pious eyes, at old beards, their stinking superstitions: their khans and their pharisees: and shooting in the back of the head any who reminded him, in word or deed, of what he had lost. Mad, steel man; spoiled priest, you brought a religion of vengeance and despair to Russia. Two heads, two souls, two wings. Doomed king of the crushing hammer, the reaping sickle. Disguised and deadly, those tools. I have seen the peasants with those weapons in their hands. They are the weapons of the brute. I have seen them advancing on the Jews. They were robbed of their innards and made a virtue of despair. They put a piece of metal in my belly. They bled me. They drank my blood. They polluted it. And the metal is a cold foetus, and I shall not let him come to life. Not until I die shall the world know what I carry; my little, dancing, agreeable, grinning tin doll. It threatens my whole being. I will not let him grow. I shall not let him jig. I shall not let him bow. In his turn he will not let me bend. Is this pride? Conscience? I have no conscience, save my duty to God. I have no duty to Man. Only to Science. I follow no flags. I am myself. Why do they make of me more or less? What can I not possess? God is my father. My father betrayed me. Christ is Risen. Why do they punish the people of the Lamb? The Greeks came in to the city of Odysseus. The French, the Australians, the British and the Italians. In those days they had recalled the nature of the Turk. They were still fighting him. And Islam was being crushed. Britain fell in love with Islam and let her rise again. Britain and her romantic stupidity, her Jewish prime-ministers, her bankers and her brothel-masters. She lied to me. She was not raped. Educational trains. Happy kulak husband. Dead husband. Oh, Ukraine, heartland of our Empire, bastion against Islam. Did you die with so much dishonour, turning on your own flesh, rending your own children, attacking all who loved you? The hyena laughs over your churches. The Greek went away from Odessa. He had been hiding in Moldovanka. The old houses were in the place they had been in before the war, but they smelled of moisture and mould. Nobody had bothered to come out as far as Arcadia, except a few Jews. It was a Jew who took me to a house which could not possibly have been his. It was too fine. It was in good taste. He walked easily and his sadness was open; his touch was friendly. He was quite young. He had a job writing for a newspaper in Odessa, but now he had lost it. He said the newspaper came and went, with different conquerors. And you are safe? I said. I am safe enough, he said, but I am fascinated by terror, aren’t you? It could be the end of me. I lay in a little white bed. The sheets were damp.

‘No,’ I said, ‘I have had my fill of it.’

‘You have been in there?’ He pointed towards Kiev.

‘I have.’

‘That’s what I shall have to do.’

‘They’ll kill you. You’re a Jew.’

‘Jews survive.’

‘Some do,’ I said. I had to be polite to him because he had helped me. Besides, I always had a soft spot for the cosmopolitan Odessa Jew who is a different type altogether: A Jew of the better kind, we used to say.

He laughed as if I had made a joke. He laughed appreciatively, unlike Petroff; but I was thinking the whole world was convulsed. It was possessed. I became wary. And I had fallen in love with him, this southerner, this soft-mouthed sardonic Jew. I wanted him. I admit it. I am ashamed. I admit I trembled as he brought me broth, ‘It’s made of sea-weed,’ he said, ‘but it’s good for you. Not that you’ve been starving. Are all the stories wrong?’

‘I was with a tank unit.’

He had dried my clothes. He had polished my guns. The silver was bright. They lay on the seat of the chair, with the military kaftan behind them. He had found a shapka to match.

‘You were in that plane,’ he said.

‘An observer.’

‘So they’re attacking.’

‘Well...’ I wanted to kiss his long hands. He fed me the soup with a dull wooden spoon. ‘Well...’

‘You’re not allowed to say, of course. There goes my job. As I guessed.’

‘You’ll get out?’

‘No need. I’ll join the next newspaper. They have dozens of newspapers and dozens of political creeds, but good journalists are in short supply.’

‘I have seen how they can destroy. Anyone.’

‘I’m facile.’ He shrugged, it’s those with strong needs who die, you see.’

‘You said you were going inland.’

‘Later. When things are more settled. Will they still kill me, then?’

‘Possibly.’

‘I can’t understand it, can you?’

‘I understand them,’ I said, ‘It is all the fault of the Poles.’

‘My sentiments exactly.’ He opened a small, green book. He showed me a line of poetry. I do not recall it.

What was my fascination for that intellectual Jew? Christ on the Mount? No, that is blasphemy. I loved him. I cannot feel disgust. I owed him nothing. I was an audience for him, I suppose. He was living alone in a house he had never been able to afford. He would soon be kicked out of it. He knew. I asked him if the trams were still running?

‘You know Odessa?’

‘I spent some of my youth here. I was happy.’

‘There’s a tram runs sometimes. A horse one. A steam one. An electric one. Depending what fuel’s available. It’s a long walk and you’re hurt. You could wait near the fountain, but I can’t offer much hope.’

‘I have relatives there.’

He shrugged. I did not want to leave him. He was gentle. I trusted him. Was he pretending to be Jewish, the way Tertz does? An affectation? I waited for him to touch me. He never touched me. I went with him to the tram-stop. My clothes were dry, from the sun. My pistols were clean. The whole resort was tranquil and decayed. Since then I have had a liking for deserted seaside towns. I used to go to them in the winter, with Mrs Cornelius, but, in those circumstances, she was never the best companion. She liked, she said, a bit of fun when she went to the seaside. Russians long for solitude. It is our only commodity now. Even that is being taken from us. They are trying to turn Russia into America; America, with its sentimental social conventions, destroying its culture, its language, its intellectual strength. America before the war was a very different place. It was harder.

I sometimes think there has been another War: the third. And that I am living after it. This is a sign, I suppose, of my old age. They say I am paranoid. But paranoia is only fear. And I am afraid. I try to warn them. They say I am afraid of the wrong things. How can that be, when I am afraid of everything? My head is full of possibilities. I do not care for life. I do not care if I die. I have never cared. But I have cared for what I carry in me. My honour. My gifts which God took back in return for the gift of Himself. It is knowledge and a generous spirit which is precious. I never understood people who did not recognise this. Mrs Cornelius would not talk about it. She liked me. She did not ever do me the disservice of telling me she loved me. Love grows from within. There is a coil in my womb. It is copper. It conducts electricity. It is cold. They put it there. It forbids love. Children are fond of me, are they? Why do they persecute me, if that is the case? Quartz sparks? Diodes? Printed circuits? Ask me any scientific question. I am afraid of betrayal. I have been betrayed. There was never enough love. The little I had was taken. Or did I lack an amplifier? No more grew in its place. I became strong in the company of that journalist, on the outskirts of the city of black, sleeping goats. The tram came. It was half-full of SR volunteers. They had the same uniforms as the Whites. I fitted in easily. They paid no attention to me or my companion who had decided, he said, to ‘see the action’. Half-way to Odessa the electricity was cut off. There were no horses for the tram. The soldiers decided to stay where they were. We walked into the twilight. The city grew larger. There were a few fires. It stank. My Odessa had become a cess-pit. Vandals had used it carelessly. The Reds had gone. The Whites had not yet arrived. I went with my friend to Uncle Semya’s house. It had been gutted. My room was a jagged hole. I asked at the only shop still open in the square. It sold ‘mixed meat’. All the trees had been cut down. The railings had gone for scrap. From Moldovanka came the smell of old smoke. They said that Uncle Semya had ‘sold up’. He had not been there when the house was burned. Someone had heard he had been caught profiteering and had gone to prison. This had already become a euphemism. He had been robbed and shot. And Shura? Conscripted. Dead. And Wanda? They did not remember Wanda. And Aunt Genia? They thought she might have gone to the Crimea. Quite a lot of people had left for the Crimea. The proprietors of the shop were planning to go themselves if they could get passage money and permission. They said they were not eligible for evacuation. They would have to pay a ‘private fare’. My friend was weeping as we came out. He had overtired himself, I suppose.

‘You’re a hard one to read,’ I said.

‘Oh, yes. I am. Do you want to come with me while I find out which paper I am working for now?’

I shook my head. He left. I was glad that he went. Such a relationship would have been impossible. He walked towards the Goods Station. Soldiers were coming in now. Horses and motor-vehicles pulled gun-limbers towards the docks. I went to look for Esau’s in Slobodka. It was rubble. I went to find the ironmongery shop where Katya lived. It was looted. There were broken shutters all over Moldovanka and hardly any people on the streets. Those few were, by the way they slouched, to be feared. I went to the St Nicholas Boulevard, by the church, and looked out over the harbour. There were no fashionable people here now. A French cruiser was coming in. They must have waited until they learned Odessa was in friendly hands. I found a fragment of blue-veined marble and put it in my pocket. Why had Petroff wanted to kill me? Had Kolya said something which his cousin had misinterpreted?

There were still crowds on the quays. There were limousines and carriages. All that remained of Russia’s decent people were here, hoping to leave. I saw them fighting. I decided I must return to Kiev, bring my mother back by force if necessary and get her to Yalta. In those days Yalta was considered permanently safe.

Diseased children gathered around me. I think they were threatening me, but they were too weak to do much. I laughed at them and gave them my Petlyura money. Let them spend that, if they could. They began to tug at me. I was too tired to play. I was busy. I had to think. I drew a black and silver pistol and they ran away. I returned the pistol to its pocket. A group of soldiers was coming towards me. They asked for my papers. I told them I was Major Pyatnitski and that I was working for Military Intelligence, I would rather not be seen talking to them. They believed me and went on. There was some firing from the harbour but it hardly lasted a moment.

I decided I must go to the station. People would be travelling back to Kiev soon. It would be as well to get in the queue as early as possible. But the station, which had emergency oil-lamps burning, was so full I knew I would not have the strength to cope with it. I realised, too, that I had no real money. I tried to find some tanks, to seek the hospitality of my Australian friends. The tanks were probably still on the outskirts. I could hear artillery fire from the northern suburbs.

As usual flags and proclamations were the first priority. They were spreading over the city like cosmetics on a leper’s face. Military cars went by. Everything seemed very busy. The Volunteers and their Allied friends were in control and were feeling, as new conquerors always did, efficient. The ‘representatives of the true government of Russia’ were issuing orders not so different from those I had read before. There was a curfew for ‘all civilian personnel’. I was glad of my kaftan and shapka. I tried to walk with more of a military gait. I entered a small café in Lanzeronovskaya, near Theatre Square. There was to be a performance that night, judging by the comings and goings. It was, someone said, a sign of the Odessa spirit. ‘We live through anything - and enjoy ourselves through anything,’ said a waiter. He called me comrade by accident and apologised. It was difficult, he said, to remember who was who, these days. Had I come with the ‘new troops’? I had, I said. He asked me if I knew what had happened to the aeroplane which had been seen flying round St Nicholas earlier that day. Was it hit?

‘It was hit,’ I said. ‘I know, because I was in it.’

Naturally, I became their hero. I was bought whatever there was to buy. Vodka, bread, sausage. People of noble birth shook my hand. Bankers saluted me. There was music. I was getting some small satisfaction from my adventure. I was asked my advice on every topic and gladly gave it, since it was in the main very good advice. When I said I needed to get back to Kiev to find my mother, I was offered almost every form of transport. I made an arrangement to see some prince or other on the following day at his hotel. I lost the card. In a carriage owned by an industrialist from Kherson I drove through the dark and foul-smelling streets to a small, undistinguished hotel. It had been, he said, the best he could find. We knocked on metal shutters and were cautiously admitted. The industrialist was drunk. He introduced me as his brother to a sour-faced Georgian woman. She said that I would be extra. The industrialist laughed and said: ‘Panye, I was prepared to pay for a suite at The Bristol, so I do not think it will mean much if I have to bribe you for an extra blanket and a mattress for my brother.’ We were, he said, as we went upstairs, all brothers now.

I slept on his floor. He was still snuffling and murmuring when I left. I was hungry. I had no money of any value. I had no gold. I would have to sell the pistols. I went to the old market. There were finer pistols for sale at a few roubles. I walked until I reached Preobrazhenskaya and stopped at the doorway. The dentist’s name plate: H. Cornelius: was still there. I began to vomit in the gutter where the cabs had once plied for hire. I have never been so ill in that way. There was a weight on my head, perspective distorted, lights flickered, a searing pain in my buttocks and thighs, a chill in my stomach like a piece of iron. I was cursed as a drunk by passers-by. A woman in a fashionable dress screamed. I thought she was Mrs Cornelius. I reached out. A gendarme, who might have been released from prison that morning, came along and escorted me to a side-street. He had every respect for the military, he said, but I should choose less public places to make a spectacle of myself.

I was shaking. I sat on a step in the doorway of an abandoned shop and watched the cars and horses come and go. The city had achieved a peculiar radiance, like a half-resurrected terminal patient: they seem to gain health just before they die. I think it is because they begin to relax and become reconciled to making the most of what is left. When I was strong enough I walked to the harbour, but the Nicholas area had been for some reason cordoned off. I heard more shooting. I found a church. It was as crowded as the railway station. I squeezed in and let the other bodies hold me upright. I did not, then, know the words of the prayers or the responses, so I mumbled. The crucifix was displayed. The priests chanted. Censers were waved. White and gold. White and gold. But God was gone from Odessa and a black sun was setting over Russia.

I wanted some milk. This made me smile.

I had discovered that cocaine was impossible to obtain; or that it could be obtained in exchange for solid gold, nothing else. If there had been anything to steal in Odessa I would have stolen it. That evening, I went to the café where I had met my prince and my industrialist. The café was shut up. It had been, said a chalked notice, harbouring profiteers. There was a reminder that Odessa was under military law and that looting and profiteering would receive the death sentence. I was very hungry. I visited several newspaper offices, looking for my friend, whose name I had forgotten. Some of the journalists knew him but thought he had left Odessa or was ‘in hiding’ at his house. Had I tried there?

There were no trams running to Arcadia. I did not have any money for the fare. I prayed for the tanks or for someone who would recognise me. I was sure Mrs Cornelius would rescue me. Eventually I found myself outside a military headquarters in Pushkinskaya, not far from the Alexander Park, which was now a wasteland. I entered, introduced myself in my usual fashion, and said that I had become separated from my unit. I said I had been with the tanks. I was told that I might be able to get a train to Nikolaieff. The tanks were on their way to that city. They were needed to help put down an uprising. I asked if I could send a cable to Kiev. They said that unless I had a priority order I would have to wait. They were kind enough. They offered me a chair. I told them I had been the observer in the aircraft. They were sympathetic to learn of the crash. ‘The ridiculous thing is, we had more information than we could handle.’ It grew colder. It was almost September. I sat in the military post with some tea and a piece of biscuit and chatted with the soldiers on duty. I was all but starving to death. I had become quite used to it and almost enjoyed the sensation of euphoria and self-possession which comes. We made jokes together as I wasted away.

He came out of the city of ancient tiers to impose his will on what little was left of our Enlightenment. Revenging atavist, furious failed priest. He descended upon the city built at the command of the woman Voltaire advised: Catherine the Great. Odessa was founded on August 22, 1794, in the first era of modern revolutions: the Age of Reason. A city of Pushkin and Lermontov. The Bolsheviks have left their statues alone. They have put up new ones. They have named ships after them. Russia has become a Disneyland of Human Dignity. There is a deep insult, if you like. They name ships after writers who would have cried out against everything the Bolsheviks have done to our Russia. The Steel Tsar rode through our streets and he spoke quietly so that none should know how many he killed. The Germans rode through our streets. Odessa, built on Tatar foundations, built on Phoenician foundations, fell into dishonour. Carthage came in on a red tide.

They will not admit that Russian humanity is their best publicity. Even the beggars on the trains, the dirty station-sellers, the gypsies, the poor, the murderers, the drunkards, are part of our ancient dignity. But what do they show the world? Science fiction. Tractors. Sputnik.

I wrote a letter to my mother and told her I would return to Kiev soon or would send for her. I told her to bring Captain Brown, if she wanted an escort; that I would pay. I asked one of the soldiers to see that the letter was put in the mail bag for Kiev. He accepted it and issued a receipt. I had done all that I could, for the meantime, in that area. My mother, at least, had seemed happy. I hoped that she was still happy.

By morning the telegram had gone to Nikolaieff, to the tanks. A reply stated that Captain Wallace sent his compliments. He was no longer in need of a Russian intelligence officer. He added that he was glad I had survived and he wished me luck. Two captains came out of their room and invited me in. They, too, they said, were with Intelligence. They said there was no record of me and apologised. A picture of the late Tsar was hanging on the wall. It was like old times. I became calm.

‘I worked in Kiev,’ I said, ‘and for a while was a liaison officer with Hetman Skoropadskya’s forces. Then I was employed on behalf of General Krassnoff’s Don Cossacks. I was gathering information at Bolshevik headquarters. I was responsible for anti-Petlyurist sabotage in Kiev.’ They wrote down what I told them. Times, they said, were confusing. I said I had had to destroy my military identification, but I showed them my diploma. I mentioned that I had been a friend of Prince Petroff and that I had been with the Prince’s cousin who had crashed in the sea. They asked me if I had done much civilian interrogation. It was dull, routine stuff. This was their main problem at present. I told them I had done nothing worth speaking of but I was willing to work in any capacity. I was given papers, a new uniform, a side-arm, a bread ration, a bunk in a room shared with only three others, and some bits and pieces of kit. I also had a pay-book but was warned that pay was erratic and one was expected to forage a little. There were shortages of every kind of equipment. I had become an Intelligence Officer in the Volunteer forces, attached to the 8th Army Corps. It would be my job to vet and to issue passes and other papers to those applying for them. I began work the next morning.

Within a week I had become rich enough to purchase some good cocaine. I can still remember the frisson as I took my first delicious sniffs. I was not alone. All the other officers joined me.

Odessa, it seemed to us, had begun to come fully alive again. The houses of pleasure, in a certain familiar street near the Quarantine Harbour, were in full bloom, with a host of fresh buds and petals, and roulette remained the favourite game of the sportsmen, mainly soldiers, who visited them. We would wear our dress uniforms when ‘on the town’ and I had mine at last. It was white and gold, with green and black insignia, made by a local military tailor. He was very cheap. While I was in his shop he offered to modify another fine uniform for which the customer had never returned. It was, he said, exactly my measurements. It was the dress uniform of a colonel in the Don Cossacks. I inspected it and told the tailor I would accept it as it was. Both were delivered two days later to Madame Zoyea’s, where I had taken up residence.

Madame Zoyea was young, plump and witty. Her colouring was the same as my gypsy’s from the canyon, but she would never tell me if she were the same girl and she would never let me make love to her, for all she seemed to hold a special affection for me. Perhaps she had a disease. Although it was impossible to recapture the old days completely, I was fortunate in meeting several friends from the past, including Boris the Accountant, who had married his girl. He was working for one of the few shipping offices still operating. As a result I came into frequent contact with him. He would do me favours and we would split the proceeds. He wanted me to help him get to Berlin and I was able to supply the necessary documents at a reduced fee. Boris told me that Shura was not dead, that he had deserted, spent some time in Moldovanka and then ‘gone East’, he thought. Wanda had become a whore, in common with almost all girls of her class, and had been killed during a fight. The child was being raised by relatives in a small port further up the coast. Uncle Semya and Aunt Genia had been arrested during Hrihorieff’s occupation and Boris thought they must have been shot ‘since so many of us were’. I put the past behind me and considered the future.

My fellow interrogators and I were all doing excellent business. None of us was too happy about the system of vetting people and issuing passports. Our attitude was simply that we could not blame anyone for wanting to leave. Red or White, they would at least be clear of Russia. We worked in a large room which was always full and, even as winter advanced on the city, always stuffy. We worked hard. We were conscientious enough. Our main job was to check for too much gold being taken out and to consult a list of people wanted for questioning. As Christmas approached, I began to make plans for leaving both Odessa and my job behind. I had my real work to start. It was obvious that I should be hampered at home. I would go abroad, send for my mother when the time was right, and make my reputation either as a teacher at a Western university, or as an engineer and inventor, perhaps in France or America. The cocaine had restored me to my old optimism, judgement and vigour. I was able to work during the day, calming, consoling, making arrangements for people, weeding out the undeserving from the mass of petitioners; and I was able to play at night.

Once, at the roulette in Zoyea’s, I was drinking a glass of bad anis when I thought I saw Mrs Cornelius, in an Erté frock of gold and black, pass through the room. But I had become used to hallucinations by then. Esmé, my mother, Captain Brown, Kolya, Shura, Katya, Grishenko, Yermeloff, Makhno, even Wanda and Herr Lustgarten, seemed to appear in crowds from time to time. My money was on the black. I lost it.

I asked after an Englishwoman amongst my companions. I asked Zoyea. She shook her plump head and said that Englishwomen did not frequent such establishments. She was amused. ‘Very few English men come here. They have an Empire which speaks English, just so they can feel at home wherever they go.’

East is East, says Sir Rudyard Kipling, the poet, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet: but they met in South Russia, in my Ukraine; the borderland, the no-man’s-land, the marches where the Heroes of Kiev fought for Christendom as no other Heroes fought before. Russian chivalry was destroyed in Ukraine in 1920. The mother-city was raped; the Mother of God was cast out. Later the Germans came. I think the X-rays are wrong. There is a piece of shrapnel in my stomach. It is a war-wound. But so much for doctors and their socialist health schemes. Why should they care for an old foreigner? They used to be kinder to us in France. I met Willi. Colette offered me a position. I knew them all. But these days everyone is ignorant. I hated Gertrude Stein. At least I knew her name. Bely and Zamyatin? Who speaks of them today, even in Russia? I used to like the early stories of Nabokov-Serin, though I could not always understand them. He had talent then. Later he went mad and looted his peers because no one outside Russia knew about them. That was why he decided to write in English. And his Russian became coarsened. Gerhardi, apeing the worst of our people, was never my cup of tea. As I stamped passports and approved documents, I thought I was cleansing Russia of decadence. Who was to guess I should still be suffering from that particular delusion?

History is a traitor. Human goodness institutionalised becomes a vice. The corrupt forces of cynicism attack. Virtue is mocked. Rationalise and destroy. My faith is in God and scientific analysis. What is race but the sum of geographical and social stimuli inducing a state of tribal shock? It can last for thousands of years. Diversify and survive. Serin became self-conscious of his own Russian being; that is where he went wrong. Fear Carthage. I am weak. My temperature is rising. There is no snow here. Stalin’s and Hitler’s racial experiments were too simple-minded. We must interbreed at once. But the thought of the result is terrifying. I am terrified. I do not deny it. As terrified as Man was when he conceived the idea of creating fire. Prometheus, the Greek, the Lord: Prometheus is betrayed. Christ is crucified. When shall he rise again? Byzantium must be purified. Banish guilt: it is the viper in the bosom of chivalry. Russia is betrayed and in turn betrays. Fear Islam. Fear Zion. Fear vengeance. Rome is in peril. Fear ignorant priests and stupid scientists. Fear politicians. Fear old Carthage. They come into my shop. They laugh at my voice. They hurt me. I hate them. I will not bargain. I would rather give them that antique schmutter. Let them mince in the robes of their elders and make a mockery of wisdom. They are unlettered and careless. They have no love. They think of nothing but themselves. This is the Age of the Ego. I blame artists, politicians, psychologists, teachers, for encouraging them. They cannot bear the sight of God. Even when they go to Church it is not to worship: not in their English churches where no one is allowed to weep eyen the most dignified of tears.

They are outraged by their parents as soon as they can climb onto two feet, as soon as they are human. They are imbued with cynicism. Yet let a man touch a child, be it in love and gentleness, and he is branded a pervert. There is no law to say that betraying words must be punished, that betraying ideas and received opinions are more dangerous than a poor old man who bounces a little girl on his knee and kisses her cheek and strokes her hair and reveals his need to love for just a few dangerous seconds. Imagination can be like the horns of the goat: useful until turned inward; whereupon, in the course of time, the horns pierce the brain and the goat is destroyed. Mrs Cornelius had no imagination, but she was fond of those of us who possessed it. She protected us. It was our downfall, perhaps. She used us, some say. She was a whore, a femme fatale. But I say she gave too much. Mother of God! She gave too much. The strong are often called upon in this way. They can expect nothing in return, save abuse and, very occasionally, affection. That is how God blesses them. They shall sit with Him in Heaven and help to bear the sorrows of the world.

And why, they ask me, has God created those sorrows? He did not create them. He created Life; He created Man. The rest occurred in Eden. God is not the Devil, I tell them. Goodness is not evil. It is the Devil, however, who speaks most piously of Justice and Love and he is in all disguises: artist, priest, scientist, friend. And they say I am paranoid because I loved Mrs Cornelius and she never betrayed me. She never betrayed my trust because she never asked for it. What harm have I done to others? I should have let Brodmann go to Riga. It was his fault that he insulted me.

We were working at our desks in that great office, which had once belonged to a shipping company. They would move along in their lines, rich and poor, old and young, trying to look confident, or humble, almost always in reverse to their station in life, and I would take some aside into the special interrogation room, where the business transactions were mostly done, and I would reject those who had not the means to get to their destination. It was a mercy: I knew of Ellis Island and what could happen there. I knew of Whitechapel and how refugees were courted by Jewish sweatshop owners and white-slavers. They would not have been worse off under the socialists. I did my best to be fair. We were not hard men. We were not cynical. We bled no one. Often we would let people through who had no business leaving.

On the day before Christmas Eve, during a difficult afternoon, I looked up at my next client. It was Brodmann, in his dark overcoat and his homburg hat and his spectacles and quivering lips. He looked older but more innocent. ‘Pyat,’ he said. I was easy with him. I had anticipated such a problem. ‘Brodmann.’ I looked at the application. ‘You are going to America.’

‘It is my hope. So you were a White all along?’ He became alarmed.

‘And you are still, then, a Red?’ I asked.

‘Of course not. They have reneged on everything.’ He sniggered. I lit a cigarette. I told him he had better go into the interrogation room and wait. I dealt with two young women who were planning to board a British ship bound for Yalta, then I left my desk and entered the small room. Snow was gathering against the windows and the skylight. I wished Brodmann the compliments of the season. ‘You’re not going to Germany, then? This application is to travel by train to Riga.’

‘From Hamburg I can go direct to New York.’ He was very frightened. I began to understand the power and the wonder of being a Chekist. I restrained that ignoble lust and sat down, hoping this action would stop him shaking. ‘I was never in Germany,’ he said, ‘It’s just my name. You know that.’

‘Your Red friends abandoned you.’

‘I was a pacifist.’

‘So you decided to leave the conflict?’ I was joking with him quite gently but he did not seem to understand that.

‘There is no more to be done. Is there?’ His shaking increased. I offered him a cigarette. He refused, but he thanked me several times. ‘Were you always with Intelligence?’ he wanted to know. ‘Even then?’

‘My sympathies have never changed,’ I said.

He gave me an adoring look, as one might compliment the Devil for His cunning. This made me impatient. ‘I am not playing with you, Brodmann. What do you want?’

‘Don’t be harsh, comrade.’

‘I am not your comrade.’ This was too much. I hate weakness. I hate the calling on common experience as comfort.

‘As a fellow Jew, you would help me?’

‘I am not Jewish.’ I stood up and pinched my cigarette out. ‘Is this the appropriate moment to insult me?’

‘I am not insulting you, Major. I apologise. I did you no harm. But in Alexandriya I saw...’ He became very white.

He had seen me whipped by Grishenko. I did not mind that. Why was he pursuing this? Then it dawned on me that he had seen me naked and had made a frightful assumption. I began to laugh. ‘Really, Brodmann, is that what you thought? There are perfectly ordinary medical reasons for my operation.’

‘Oh, for the love of God!’ He had fallen to his knees. He grovelled. I felt sick.

‘It will not do, Brodmann.’ I was losing control of myself. He was weeping. ‘Brodmann, you must wait. Think things through.’

‘I have suffered. Show mercy.’

‘Mercy, yes. But not justice.’ I was ready to let him go. I wanted him to go. Another officer, Captain Yosetroff, came in with a middle-aged woman wearing the same perfume as Mrs Cornelius. With some difficulty, Brodmann rose to his feet. He pointed at me. ‘Pyatnitski’s a Chekist spy. Haven’t you realised? I know him. He’s a saboteur, working for the Bolsheviks.’

‘The poor devil’s insane,’ I said calmly.

Yosetroff shrugged. ‘I’d like the room to myself for a little while, Major, if it’s possible.’

‘Of course. You’d better come back tomorrow,’ I told Brodmann.

‘It’s Christmas Eve. The office is closed. I read the notice. I’ve got to be on the Riga train.’

‘I had forgotten.’ I sighed. Yosetroff frowned. He apologised to the lady who grinned and scratched her ear. He stepped forward.

‘Can I help?’ Yosetroff’s neat, pale face blended thoroughly with his uniform so that it was almost indistinguishable. ‘Shall I take over?’

‘No need,’ I said.

‘He’s with the Reds. How did he come to be working here?’ Brodmann’s hysteria threatened both our lives.

Yosetroff hesitated. There was nothing I could say. I slapped Brodmann’s face with my gloved hand. I slapped it twice more. He was weeping as the guards came in at Yosetroff’s command. ‘Do you want him taken away?’ asked Yosetroff. It meant Brodmann would be imprisoned, possibly shot if his Bolshevik associations came to light. I owed him nothing. He had made his own mistakes. I nodded and left the room.

‘ ‘Ello, Ivan!’

Mrs Cornelius waved to me. She was dressed in high fashion and was on the arm of an evidently uncomfortable French naval officer. She had fresh papers. She waved them. She was delighted. ‘Thought I’d seen yer abart. Where yer bin ‘iding yerself?’

‘You were at Zoyea’s?’ I was still suffering from my encounter with Brodmann. He had been escorted discreetly out. ‘A few nights ago?’

‘That the ‘ore-’ouse wiv ther games?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘Yeah! Yore lookin’ smart. D’yer know me boyfriend? ‘E’s in ther navy. Francois ‘e corls ‘isself. Don’t speak very good English. Say ‘ow do, France.’

I told the naval officer I was enchanted to meet him. I asked which ship he was with. He was Second Officer on the Oreste. They were leaving for Constantinople tomorrow, with troops and passengers. There had been trouble with Kemal Pasha. We spoke French, of course.

‘The British are trying to take over the whole thing,’ he said bitterly. ‘They are acting in a very vulgar manner.’

I was amused. The quarrels between these allies was reminiscent of the Crimea. But I remained grave. I heard Brodmann squealing ‘Treachery!’ as he passed by outside. ‘And you are kindly giving Mrs Cornelius a passage on your ship.’

He shook his head. ‘We are already full. She will be meeting me in Constantinople. I have spoken to the captain of a British merchantman. He has agreed to add a few more passengers. We had to arrange Mrs Cornelius’s papers, of course. She was good enough to ask me to escort her here. It is a pity we were not acquainted before.’

‘A great pity,’ I said.

Mrs Cornelius nudged me. ‘Stop it, the pair o’ yer. Manners! Tork English!’

We both bowed. My CO had entered the room and was looking thoughtfully at me. I said to Mrs Cornelius very rapidly in English: ‘I have papers. Can you get me aboard the British ship?’

She could tell I was anxious. She smiled and put a girlish, beringed hand on my forearm. ‘We got married, didn’t we? Yore me ‘usband. It’s ther Rio Cruz. Yer’ll need a licence or summink.’ She once more became the lady. ‘Delighted to meet you again, Major Pyatnitski.’ I clicked my heels and kissed her hand. I saluted the Frenchman. My CO, Major Soldatoff, signalled for me to come over. I did so with alacrity. I had been impressing him with my military discipline for a couple of months. He was an old Okhrana man, not naturally suspicious, but very sensitive to discrepancies of any kind. He had a seamed, ruddy face of the Great Russian type, with a white beard and moustache. He wore a dark uniform. I entered his office. He closed the door. He offered me a chair and I sat down. ‘Brodmann?’ he said.

‘A Red,’ I said. ‘I met him in Kiev, I think. When I was doing sabotage work. I told him I was on his side, of course.’

‘He says you’re Cheka? That you were a link between Antonov and Hrihorieff.’

‘I let him think that. At the time.’

‘I shall have to look into this, Pyatnitski. But it is routine, naturally.’ Obviously he was in no way seriously worried. He was almost apologising. ‘You’re a good interrogation officer and we need everyone. The Reds are coming back and they’re much better organised. We’re a little worried about spies.’

‘I understand completely, sir.’

‘There’ll be an enquiry. An extensive one. I don’t want to waste a man guarding you. Will you promise to stick near your quarters until the morning?’

‘I am lodging,’ I said with embarrassment, ‘at Zoyea’s.’

‘I know that. You won’t need to leave, then, will you?’ He was like an uncle. ‘Brodmann’s accusations are heard every day. I’ll have him properly questioned tonight. It could be he’ll admit he knows nothing. If that’s the case, it shouldn’t take long for you. You’ll be back on duty by the afternoon.’

‘It’s a holiday,’ I said with a smile.

‘All the better. After Christmas.’

I thanked him civilly and left. Walking through the snow towards Madame Zoyea’s I stopped to buy a bundle of cigarettes from a ragged young girl. For some reason I gave her a gold rouble for them and thanked her in English. She replied in the same language. I was amused. ‘You speak it excellently,’ I said.

She was flattered. She was shivering worse than Brodmann had shivered. She had been attractive. In other circumstances I might have spent more time making her acquaintance. There was something about vulnerable young women which brought out the best in me. It was almost love. She told me her husband had been a White officer. The Bolsheviks had shot him. She was supporting her mother. There were many young women like her in Odessa, selling small things from trays. She had a quality of the sort Esmé had once possessed. I supposed she would lose it, if the Reds came again. The Allies were already regretting their enthusiasm for the Volunteers. They were horrified by what they took to be our moral weakness. It was, of course, only our despair. The British hate despair. They will do anything to fight it, even going so far as to let socialists hold the reins of power in their own country. The Americans share the British hatred but have so far resisted socialism. It will come, no doubt. The French have a healthier reaction. They are merely disgusted by poverty. Disgust was at the heart of their colonial policy. It enabled them to withdraw from Indo-China with rather more honour than the Americans. But, to the British, despair and moral weakness are synonymous. It took me some years to discover this fact.

At Madame Zoyea’s I packed two suitcases. I had jewellery and gold. I had never, of course, recovered my other baggage, with my plans, my designs, my hopes. All I had was a blood-stained diploma and a dirty passport. I should have to begin all over again. I did not relish being put off in Constantinople, but even that city would be safer for me now than Odessa. And I was no longer poor. Sooner or later I should have had to leave, anyway. In about two months the Bolsheviks would return. I should have become a victim of the Cheka.

In the large suitcase went my uniforms, including the one I had been wearing. I dressed in civilian clothes and put on an expensive fur coat. My pistols were still with me, in the pockets. Both coat and pistols could be sold if necessary. I had a file of forms, including marriage certificates. It was an easy matter to forge the appropriate information. I asked Madame Zoyea to come to me. I told the maid that the matter was urgent. Within half-an-hour the proprietress was there. She was not surprised by the signs. I put on a good fur hat which matched the coat. I gave her fifty gold roubles. My passport and papers were, of course, in perfect order. I asked her to tell any callers I was engaged with one of her girls. I wondered if she could arrange a discreet cab for me, to take me to the docks at about five in the morning. She agreed and she kissed me. ‘I’ll miss you,’ she said. ‘I think you were bringing us luck. What will happen when the Reds come back?’

I showed her my file of spare papers. ‘I’d advise you to make use of them for yourself and as many girls as you can. They’re all pre-stamped you’ll notice. They merely need names and dates.’

‘You’re very kind. But Reds are men ...’

‘They’ll be trying to deny that fact,’ I said. ‘You should listen to me, Zoyea. Gypsies and Jews will not be the only ones to suffer under the Cheka. They’re anxious to eradicate all signs of their own and therefore others’ humanity.’ (To be honest, I do not think I phrased my warning so elegantly. Time improves all conversations, particularly one’s own. I was to see Zoyea again, I am glad to say, in Berlin.) ‘You are only safe while men admit their vulnerability. When they pretend they are demigods, you should be afraid.’ We kissed once more. She asked if I would like to make love. I told her I needed nothing to distract me. We kissed shyly, then.

It was dark, of course, when I left for the Quarantine Harbour and the Rio Cruz. In a troika, we trotted through heavy snow, through an Odessa still excited, still alive. Some would call her sordid, but even in death she held a warmth and elegance denied more famous cities. Catherine had founded her. Catherine’s spirit, at once cruel and intelligent, feminine and aggressive, remained in her. Catherine had courted Reason and been confused by Romance, but in her they had reached a kind of harmony that was Russian, though she was not. I saw Dietrich as The Scarlet Empress by von Sternberg. I loved it. It ruined him. The only Hollywood film of its day to lose money. We reached the harbour and to my relief the ship was active. People were going aboard. They were almost all rich Russians.

I do not think I was followed. Indeed, I have the idea my Commanding Officer might have given me the chance to escape. I have been shown considerable kindness. I do not deny it.

My papers were checked several times, first by Russians, then by grim-looking Englishmen. I walked up the gangplank. It vibrated under booted feet. I was on the deck of my first large ship. She flew English colours, but was probably a spoil of war, taken from some South American state which, in the heat of the moment, had decided to ally with Germany. Many of the signs were still in Spanish. I climbed another gangway. There was no one to help me with my luggage. I reached a forward cabin on the upper deck. I opened the door. Mrs Cornelius was not there. It was dark. I switched on the weak electrics. The cabin had been converted for two passengers. There were two bunks. There were washing facilities. I put down my bags and took out my cocaine. I had to keep certain thoughts at bay. The cocaine had its usual positive effect. I began to think of Constantinople. It would be warm there. I was very cold. The cabin had no proper heating system. I stretched out on the upper bunk, assuming that Mrs Cornelius would require the lower. Her luggage, several trunks and cases, was stowed in one corner, near the forward porthole. I was still ready for trouble. It was possible I could be taken off before the ship upped anchor. The Rio Cruz rocked very slightly. The motion made me think we were leaving and that Mrs Cornelius had missed the ship, but I knew enough to understand that the engines would have to begin turning before we would be able to head for open sea.

I got up from my bunk. I looked through the porthole. The sea was black, almost as if ice had formed on it. People came and went about the ship. I thought I heard shots, but from a good distance along the dock. I had left too easily and yet I accepted my good fortune. I had hardly questioned the fact that Mrs Cornelius would again be the means of my salvation. Wrapped in my Russian fur, I fell asleep.

I was awakened by grey dawn and a song. It was Mrs Cornelius. She was quite drunk. She had her hat on the back of her head. She was singing something from the British music-hall. ‘We don’t wanter fight, but by jingo if we do, we got ther ships, we got ther men, we got the money, too. We’ve fought the bear before, an’ while we’re Britons troo-oo, ther Russians shall not ‘ave Constanti-no-pol. Oops, sorry Ivan. No offence.’

She sat on her bunk. ‘I feel a bit queasy on boats, don’t you? Orlways ‘ave done. Oo-er.’ She was trying to remove her boots. I glanced at her wonderfully rounded calves. She sensed me behind her and looked up. She winked. She was delicious. Her perfume, her clothes, her confident womanhood. ‘Don’t worry, chum,’ she said, to cover my embarrassment, ‘I’m not ashamed of ‘em. I’ve reached me maturity, yer know. I’m used ter a bit o’ admiration.’ She stood up in her stockinged feet and began to ease her back. ‘Cor! Wot a farewell party that was! Anyway, we’re spliced, ain’t we? They tol’ me you was ‘ere when them sailors ‘elped me aboard.’

‘Do you mean married?’ I asked her. I was not fully awake.

She shook her head. Evidently she had made her mind up on the moral score, ‘In name only, Ivan, old fruit. See, I give me word ter that Froggy. ‘E ain’t much, but ‘e ‘elped me get art o’that ‘ell-’ole. An’ I like ter keep me word, if I can.’

I accepted her decision. It would be many years before we were married in the carnal sense. The ship swayed. She was not of the latest design and had no sophisticated stabilisers, no Pratt and Whitneys, although, I was to learn, she had been built on the Clyde. I still felt cold. Snow was falling on the ship. It settled on rigging and rails. I thought it would sink us. But everything was purified against the blackness of that water. It was impossible to see the city through the blizzard. I searched for the outline of the Nicholas Church. Odessa was lost to me, as Esmé was lost, as Kolya was lost, almost casually.

I am not a Jew. I am not a racialist. I remembered how the Jew in Arcadia had been kind to me; how I had loved him. The thought was not pleasant. I recollected the incident a day or so ago, now that I am old and selfish and unattractive. The selfish are only attractive when young. I have given much, but never as much as I have received.

Later, I would go out on deck and stand in the Russian snow, letting it cover me from head to toe, while the ship sailed steadily for the heat of that Holy City, our Tsargrad, which, for the moment, the British had freed from Islam. We had fought for Byzantium more than once. We had been deceived by Patriarchs more than once. But we had known honour and we had taken that honour back with us to Kiev. From Kiev it had passed to Moscow. Bells rang from the shore. It was Christmas Eve. Moscow was lost. Christ was betrayed. Bells rang from St Nicholas for the birth of the Saviour whose trust was mocked. The Reds swept in; the red tide rose and disgorged its walking dead, its ancient reapers of vengeance with their sickles: Carthage come from beyond the sea. Ghosts of Tatars and Turks laughed together beneath the windy banners of Islam, beneath the flapping banners of Bolshevism, beneath the banners of barbarism and cynicism and a passionless vengeance which dared to grace itself with the name of piety. Down from his hillsides came the Bandit Tsar, the Steel Tsar from the East, with four faces. Oh, my sister and my brother and my mother. You are fallen beneath the chariot of the Antichrist. Those whom I loved and who loved me; they are all fallen. They would not come to the city of sleeping goats, the city of the Jew. They would not come to Odessa and be saved by me. They thought Byzantium would save them, but Byzantium could not. The Greek could not come to Odessa. We fled before Carthage. The Greek could not come to Russia. Russia, knowing only pride, fell. They put a piece of metal in my womb. They poisoned me with their kindness. They confused me. Why did they not let me die? The Germans came, with their Ukrainian Cossacks, and they put a camp in the gorge where I had flown. And they put an old woman into the sea of ashes and they drowned her with their bullets and the blood of thousands. Jew and Russian mingled blood at last. Black goats bleat. What sacrifice is worth their death?

They rode through Russia with their flags and their machine-guns and they took away our honour. We left it with them to die and had only our pride. They took away our language. They took away our Christ. But the Slavs know Carthage. The Slavs shall rediscover honour. They shall dig their weapons from the earth. Teach us your litany of revenge; speak to us in lies and feast yourselves on your caviar, your Georgian champagne, your game-birds and your soups. You are ignoble. You have dishonoured your land. You have dishonoured virtue. Clap your heavy hands as your tanks roll past the Kremlin: then put your hands to your eyes, for the great guns shall turn on you and Russia shall have vengeance. Is that what you fear? Traitors! You are weak. Zion! Rome! Byzantium! All are stronger than Carthage. Odysseus returns. The Greek sleeps. The Greek wakes. Those cities are lost to me. Those virtues are lost to me. Everything is lost to me. But it will be found. The Greek’s words were corrupted and his love was betrayed. Prometheus! Mercury! Odysseus!

Mrs Cornelius came waltzing through the snow. She was still singing her song. I suppose it popped into her mind because she was looking forward to the Bosphorus. She linked her arm in mine. Snow scattered. She began to drag me along the throbbing planks of the deck.

The Steel Tsar longed for God. He won back our old Empire and made us strong again, and though it seemed that cruel Carthage had conquered, the Greek is waking. Byzantium endures. There is an Empire of the Soul and we are all its citizens.

Mrs Cornelius said, ‘Yer get real snow in Russia, I’ll say that!’

I asked her how she had managed to leave Kiev and the jealous Trotsky. ‘I come over dead bored. ‘E come over worried, didn’t ‘e?’ she said. ‘I woz ‘angin’ abart there, waitin’ fer Leon till bloody May. Pregnant, an’ all. ‘E kep’ sayin’ ‘e woz comin’ an’ then when ‘e did it was on’y ter say goodbye. So I got ther lads ter take me ter ‘Dessa an’ ‘ere I am.’

‘The child? Was there a child?’

She turned her back on me as she brushed snow from her skirts. ”E’ll be orlright.’

I became silent.

‘It’s not as if ‘e’ll know any different,’ she said.

I went below. The Chief Engineer was sorry for the Russians. He showed me his machinery. I told him of my plans for new kinds of ships, for aircraft and monorails. He was interested. He was glad, he said, to have a fellow engineer aboard. I asked him when we would be arriving. He told me it would be on 14 January 1920. My birthday. I was amused by this coincidence. Guns fired from the shore. They fired into mist.

I asked him about other craft he had served with. He said he had known many better ships than this, but that the Rio Cruz was seaworthy. He was from Aberdeen and had always been interested in mechanical things. We became friendly. There is a kind of brotherhood which exists amongst engineers.

I told him about the flying machine I had invented in Kiev, about my Violet Ray. He said he had certain ideas of his own: ships which would be jointed so that they would ride the waves naturally. He showed me some drawings he had made. They were rather crude. I began to sketch again, to illustrate the sort of notions I had conceived in St Petersburg. I said that the future lay with us. It was our duty to lend our enthusiasm and knowledge in the cause of human comfort. We discussed such matters all the way to Constantinople.