Flight Without End

VIII

Every evening there was to be seen in the harbour at Baku, aloof from the cheerful brightly-clothed bustling crowd, a man who in any other town would have excited the interest of some people, but who passed unnoticed here, cloaked in a deep and impenetrable solitude. Sometimes he sat on the stone wall which bordered the sea as if it were a garden, his feet dangling over the Caspian, his eyes aimless. Only when a ship came in did he evince any visible emotion. He pushed his way through the dense throngs of bystanders and surveyed the disembarking passengers. It must have seemed as if he was expecting someone. But as soon as it was all over — the Turkish porters returning to lean against the white walls or play cards in groups, the empty cabs rumbling off slowly, the occupied ones at a fiery rousing pace — the solitary man went home in obvious satisfaction, not with the embarrassed expression we assume when we have waited for someone in vain and have to return home alone.

When ships arrived at Baku — and these were rare, only Russian ones, from Astrakhan — excitement reigned in the harbour. People knew perfectly well that no foreign ships would put in, from England or from America. But when the smoke was visible from a distance people would behave as if they were uncertain whether or not the ship might chance to be a foreign one. For the same blue-white smoke-trails blow over every steamer. Even when no steamer arrives, Baku is in a ferment. Possibly it is due to the volcanic soil. From time to time there arises the dreaded wind which meets no resistance, which sweeps over the flat roofs, over the yellow landscape devoid of vegetation, dragging with it windows, stucco-work and shingle, which makes even the drilling-rigs, substitutes for trees in this part of the country, seem to sway.

Tunda used to go down to the harbour whenever ships arrived. Even though he knew they were only the antique local ferries bringing local officials and, rarely, foreign caviare traders, he would nevertheless always imagine that the ships might have come from some foreign sea or other. Ships are the only available means for such venturesome journeys. They do not even have to be steamers. Any ordinary boat, leisurely raft, or wretched fishing skiff could have attempted the waters of all the oceans. For those who stand on the shore, all seas are the same. Each small wave is sister to a large and dangerous one.

Alas, he had become resolved no longer to await the unexpected. His wife’s reserve damped the noise of the world and slowed the passage of the hours. And yet he still escaped from his house, went down to the harbour, and was violently disturbed by the smell of this small sea. He would return home to see Alja sitting impassive at the window, watching the empty streets. She barely turned her head when he arrived and smiled if there was any sound in the room as if something cheerful had happened to her.

It was at this period that Tunda began to record every insignificant event, as if thereby they acquired a certain significance.

One day he wrote: