Heart of Iron

Chapter 9

Moscow greeted us with fresh snow and blazing golden cathedral domes. We had to cover our eyes to protect them from the brilliance from above and below.

A hired coach took us to Balchug Street in the Zamoskvorechye District by the river. Tsar’s Tavern dated back to the sixteenth century, but its old-fashioned name was now a misnomer. After recent renovations the establishment was a small hotel, with a portion of the first floor still occupied by a kitchen and a dining hall that served food and liquor.

We took rooms on the second floor. We did not plan to stay longer than was necessary, but we needed papers to travel abroad. Thankfully, my aunt’s letters were enough to hasten the process.

After lunching, we went to see the Minister of Oriental Affairs. The ministry was instituted in Moscow after Siberian exploration started — as the sad result of Prince Nicholas’ eagerness to exile his enemies as far north as possible. The landlocked and eastern location suited it and a few other agencies better than the imperial capital of St. Petersburg.

The ministry was not far from Balchug Street. We had only to cross the bridge over the Moscow River, already seized with black and green brittle casing of ice, pass the Kremlin, and enter a labyrinth of small twisting streets. Snow slushed underfoot, dirty and weeping, kneaded by a multitude of feet.

I kept looking at the street signs. Moscow’s warrens depressed and confused me, and it seemed that no two streets met at the right angle. I was used to the orderly grid of St. Petersburg, streets razor-straight, wide. We got turned around a few times, but finally found the three-storied building of white sandstone decorated with a carved dragon painted red. I assumed the dragon was intended to be symbolic of the Orient.

Inside we found a roomy foyer with a marble fountain that was not working, and a dusty waiting room adjacent to the main office. It appeared to have been converted from what might previously have been an apartment for a struggling merchant family. A guard in full uniform nodded to us.

“What can I do for you, poruchik…?”

“Menshov,” I said and presented the papers with a confident flourish. “Poruchik means lieutenant,” I explained to Jack’s puzzled look. “This is a friend of mine, Mr. Bartram from England. We are traveling to China, and need travel papers. This is a letter from my aunt.”

“Wait here,” the guard said. He took my papers and disappeared into the office. We sat on the narrow sofa in the waiting room.

“I do not understand Russian bureaucracy,” Jack whispered.

“No one does,” I whispered back. “Just go along with it.”

I was grateful to Eugenia for laying out the places for us to go to, and writing letters to present so we did not need to do or say much. It made me feel as if I wasn’t really on my own, alone in the strange city.

An hour or so passed. The dusty clock on the wall ticked loudly at first, but when three in the afternoon arrived, it rang out the hours while a counterweight traveled downwards until it touched the floor and the clock stopped. There was no longer any way for me to keep track of time. Jack had a pocket watch, but it seemed improper somehow to ask him to look at it — as if the empty waiting room would be offended by my rudeness.

Finally, the guard reappeared, carrying our papers. They had been properly stamped and signed, and the guard handed them to me. “The minister asks after your aunt’s health,” he said.

“She is well,” I assured him.

“He says he did not know the countess had a nephew.”

“A distant one, on her father’s side. Thrice removed.” I had that small story memorized and was ready to diagram a Menshov family tree if necessary, claiming to be one of the provincial Menshovs descended from my great-grandfather’s bastard brother.

The guard only nodded. “Good family. And the old countess takes care of her relatives.”

It was already dark when we left the building and walked back to the tavern — the sun set early here; it wasn’t even six and already the lampposts had grown hazy round halos of light, like ethereal giant dandelions. Shadows pooled by the walls of the townhouses and engulfed the river, an insatiable black mouth swallowing everything.

The tavern keeper, a man as stout as his bow-legged oak furniture, sent a kitchen boy to fetch us a courier, and Jack and I took our supper in our room while preparing the package for Eugenia. The room was furnished with two beds, a stand with a basin jug of cold water, and a couple of chamber pots. Modest but sufficient, and it allowed me an opportunity to practice washing my face while carefully avoiding my mustache.

Jack sat on his bed, his elbows on his knees, his hands dangling. The tray with his supper stood by his feet, and he didn’t pay it much attention. “Are you not uncomfortable sharing a room with me?” he said.

I shook my head, still marveling at the sensation of breeze on my bare neck. “It’s better than being alone in a strange place. If Nightingale and her underlings catch up with us, I’d much rather you be here than behind a wall.”

“Safety in numbers,” he agreed.

I finished wrapping the letters into a silk scarf I had purchased on our way to the tavern earlier that day, and wrapped the scarf in butcher’s paper. This way, a casual inspection would present the package to be a modest gift. I even enclosed a note saying, “Dear Auntie, I hope you like this scarf. All is well. Love, Sasha.”

We ate some cold bread soup, fortified with no small amount of sour cream, and started on the potatoes and fried fish.

“There has been a great deal lot of paper sent back and forth,” I said somewhat unintelligibly, since the food in my mouth interfered with the clarity of my enunciation.

“This is what politics is all about, I think,” Jack answered. “Paper. It’s a good thing you have a letter from Wong Jun — it should help us.”

I thought of how sad Wong Jun looked in his cell. “Yes, it should. But we also need to remember his advice: while we are in China, we will be judged by their laws.”

“Ignoring that is what brought on the Opium War,” Jack said, “although the Chinese call it the Unfair War — and it was. The English are… uninterested in behaving in any manner contrary to their own immediate benefit. It’s a national shortcoming.”

“Chiang Tse mentioned an official in Canton,” I said. “Lin, I think — Commissioner Lin. Lin Tse-Hsu. He wrote letters to your queen, and he said again and again it was wrong to smuggle opium, that profit was a poor excuse for spreading such misery. He thought that if only she knew about it, she would stop the trade on moral grounds. I thought it fascinating that someone expected others to forego self-interest for the sake of doing the right thing.”

Jack shifted uncomfortably on his bed, the plate on his bony knees tilting perilously before he steadied it. “I was not proud to be English when the war started. However, Lin and the rest of the Qing are not so innocent — just ask your Manchu friend.”

“I know about the Han people not liking the Manchu,” I said. “I know they conquered East Turkestan. But you studied philosophy, you know that this is a poor rhetorical maneuver: whatever the Chinese had done does not justify what the British did.”

Jack looked suitably chastised and continued picking at his supper in silence. I finished mine, addressed the package, and headed down the stairs to hand it to the courier.

The tavern was full for dinner, mostly with merchants and an occasional freedman. The owner and his contingent of waiters — all greasy young men in long aprons that once were white at some point in their tragic existence — hurried to and fro with dishes of borscht and heaping plates of pickled herring and boiled potatoes, sauerkraut and thick slices of bread.

“Hey, poruchik!” a loud voice came from behind me and I turned, feeling my stomach turn to ice, afraid to see the Nikolashki or Nightingale’s spies. Instead, there were three hussars sharing a table in the corner, and they all gestured at me happily.

I held up one hand indicating I had some urgent business but I would join them as soon as I could, and went to look for the courier. He — a tall thin man whose face expressed great doubt that there was anything in the world at all worthwhile — took my package.

“Request a response,” I said. “When will you return?”

“I take a train tonight,” he said. “Return tomorrow, early afternoon.” So he would be taking the same train we did; it seemed reassuring. “Any instructions in case you have to unexpectedly leave?”

I pressed a few silver coins in his palm. “Yes. Forward as fast as you can in care of the stationmaster at Nizhniy Novgorod.” The courier nodded and even managed a wan smile once he counted the coins. With that, he disappeared, leaving me with nothing else to do but talk to the hussars.

Judging by the color of their faces and the empty vodka bottle in front of them, they were sufficiently inebriated. While Eugenia enjoyed an occasional nightcap of brandy with lemon, I had never picked up the habit of distilled spirits. It occurred to me however that in my male guise I could attempt it with minimum of judgment.

“Which regiment?” the tallest and burliest of them greeted me. He also had the most impressive mustache, and I almost felt dejected over my sparse stubble. I was sure a youthful lieutenant would have felt that way.

“Semyonovskiy,” I told them. A well-rehearsed lie.

They all nodded, and the burly one offered me his hand. “Rotmistr Ivankov,” he said. “And these here dolts are Cornets Petrovsky and Volzhenko.”

I shook hands as firmly as I could, but doubted I inflicted any damage.

“Sit and have a drink with us,” the Rotmistr said.

I nodded my agreement. The rotmistr looked like one of those people it was easier to say “yes” to than explain why you didn’t want to have a drink with him.

The rotmistr ordered a round, and as we waited, the conversation took on a familiar form — we compared places of birth and length of service (I decided not to lie too much and pegged mine at six months, which provoked gales of laughter). The rotmistr in his thirties and the cornets in their twenties were clearly not old enough to had participated in the Patriotic War of 1812 —they had not even been born — and regretted it. Yes, they had traveled abroad — mostly to pacify whatever natives protested the construction of the railroads or somehow found themselves unhappy the empire’s influence had reached them. And wherever it was, there were these friendly, loud, drunk men on horseback, ready to burn houses and do unspeakable things. By the time four glasses filled with vodka arrived, I felt that I needed a drink.

I had seen people drink before, and I tossed my shot back rather confidently and took a quick bite of one of the thoughtfully supplied pickles to keep from coughing.

They asked me about my life and I answered truthfully that I traveled with a friend — an Englishman, I hinted, of considerable importance. I was his local guide but said I could not tell them more.

They nodded that they understood, and I could almost see the ideas forming in their skulls, the slow, laborious movement of minds used to only the simplest of operations — they saw my uniform and heard the word “Englishman,” and assumed I was on a secret mission of a great military and governmental importance. In fact, I was. In any case, I was grateful to be spared any additional lying. They started talking about their squadron — Rotmistr Ivankov was their leader— and I, relaxed by alcohol and warmth and fatigue, let my mind drift.

I thought of my conversation with Jack and wondered if I had been too harsh with him. If, really, one could not help but take the side of one’s country. And then I thought of the letters to the queen written by Commissioner Lin, and I felt so angry — one of the passages Chiang Tse quoted to me from memory spoke of sameness, of how essentially alike the Chinese and the English were. It was the English and the Russians who kept denying the similarity, and instead they found Professor Ipatiev and others like him who wrote stupid books about beastliness of everyone who was not them.

The word “Turkestan” caught my attention and brought me back to the table. My new friends spoke of their impending departure to that distant province, and lamented the fact it would take the cavalry so much longer to get there than the train.

“We’ve been there before,” the rotmistr told me, his voice made soft and intimate by alcohol. “You won’t believe what it’s like there, lad — steppe, yes, but also a desert. Not a single tree as far as the eye can see, just golden dry grass and red clay ringing under the hooves and the blue mountains on the horizon.”

One of the cornets (I had forgotten which was which) leaned on the table with both elbows and whispered to me, “I wonder sometimes, what right we have… The Turks who live there, they live on horseback and always move around. They take their yurts with them, and they just go — Turkestan, Mongolia, China-land… all the same to them. And there’s such beauty all around, I wonder why we have to take it and call it ours.”

“That’s empire building,” the other cornet said, without any noticeable trace of irony. “If the tsar-emperor wants it to lay a railroad through, then he can take it. Not like those people are doing anything with that land anyway.”

“Commissioner Lin was sent to Turkestan,” I slurred, both my memory and my tongue getting away from me. I felt his hurt, his puzzlement: If you know it is poison, why are you bringing it to us? If you know that opium destroys lives, if you know enough to make it illegal in your country, why do you keep selling it to our people? I felt like crying — I recognized that puzzlement of a noble man in the face of betrayal, I recognized it from Chiang Tse’s look back in the Crane Club. The inability to recognize such callous, cynical disregard for truth and justice because he was as unable to harbor such feelings as I was unable to fly.

“Cheer up, lad,” the rotmistr told me. “There’s hope for the empire yet. Now, how about a toast to the emperor’s health?”

Jack came down the stairs, concern written clearly on his long face, to find me in the company of three fairly drunk hussars — truth be told, I was getting a bit tipsy myself, because they kept calling me a bare-faced youth and buying me drinks. I consumed tremendous quantities of gherkins and pickled herring attempting to stave off intoxication, but by the time I saw Jack, my vision was blurred, I laughed quite readily, and the hussars had persuaded me to join them in a song.

“This… this is my charge,” I explained to my new friends, while poking Jack in the chest repeatedly. Then I swept my arm in the air, indicating the rotmistr and both cornets, and informed Jack, “And these are my friends. We were just singing ‘God Save the Tsar’.”

“How nice,” Jack said. “We do have to turn in — we have a long day tomorrow.”

“Just one more drink,” the rotmistr said in passable English. “Please, join us for one drink, and then we’ll return your boy.”

“Very well.” Jack pulled up the chair and shook hands.

I felt misty-eyed, so happy everyone was getting along so well, and that Jack did not seem inclined to snub anyone. I also missed my mother with a sudden intensity, and wished we had taken a long route to Moscow, stopping by Trubetskoye. I decided to write her a letter instead, as soon as I could hold a pen. Meanwhile, Jack and the rotmistr started a discussion about Asia.

“The thing is,” the rotmistr was saying, swaying a bit with liquor, a fire of righteous conviction bright in his eyes, “Russia needs to embrace its Asian nature. Scythians, yes? Our ancestors, and yet Asiatic. We need to embrace that.”

“Is that so?” Jack said, smiling. “It seems to me that Emperor Constantine along with Peter the Great and a few others tsars are quite intent on being embracing Europe.”

I rolled my eyes: this was a discussion I had heard many times, and even participated in myself. It did not seem to have a resolution or even any purpose beyond providing a thin excuse for discussing Russia’s destiny as a nation and its delicate position perched as it was between the East and the West, like a Georgian circus rider between two horses. Their voices buzzed in my ears as my mind drifted to the train ride with Chiang Tse, who seemed so curious then of the entire notion of westernization. I was half asleep by the time Jack tapped me on the shoulder and dragged me upstairs, to the accompaniment of the hussars’ laughter.

The next morning I woke up with a headache and a sense of calamity; there was an uncomfortable sensation burning in the pit of my stomach as if I had done something inappropriate the night before but couldn’t quite remember it. I had slept in my clothes, and my shoulder hurt where my reverse corset had rubbed it raw. I sat up and stretched, trying to readjust everything that had shifted during sleep. My mouth tasted especially foul.

The other bed was empty, and I worried until the door opened and Jack appeared with two plates of fried eggs, cheese, and bread and butter. “Eat this,” he said and set one next to me. “Believe me, there’s nothing better for a hangover than a full stomach. I’ll get tea.”

He disappeared again and I ate, my mind clearing as eggs and bread and butter smothered the queasy feeling in my belly. I was glad to have Jack on my side.

“What are we doing today?” I asked when he returned with two glasses of very strong and sweet tea.

“I would suggest staying where we are,” he answered, and started on his breakfast. “I went out this morning, picked up newspapers and a few penny dreadfuls — some French ones, and The String of Pearls.”

“I like those,” I said. A day spent indoors reading appealed to me; I also saw an opportunity to talk to Jack about some of the conversation from last night.

We read most of the morning; both of us felt anxious to keep on our journey and yet eager to hear from Eugenia. We scanned the newspapers, but apart from a brief mention of the robbery of the St. Petersburg house of a visiting British dignitary, it contained nothing pertaining to us. Finally, I had got a grasp on the elusive memory that had been nibbling on my mind on and off all morning. “Jack,” I said. (It was easier for us to be on first name basis when we both were men; I suspected we would revert to the polite form of address once I was back in proper clothing.) “I heard what you said last night to the rotmistr.”

He put down the magazine he was flipping through. “What exactly are you referring to? If memory serves, the rotmistr and I had quite a prolonged talk.”

“You said that you’ve been to China. And you mentioned something about East Turkestan.”

“They all served in West Turkestan,” Jack said. “They said they were going there again.”

“And Commissioner Lin was exiled in East Turkestan. And you went to China. And there was no mention of you in those newspapers before 1841. About ten years ago.”

“What are you asking me?” He had such a direct, steady gaze, it was difficult to suspect him of anything unsavory.

“Have you ever worked for the East India Trading Company? Did you return to London in 1841 after the hostilities started?”

“You are astute,” Jack said. “I was never involved with the smuggling; I was a mere youth, a member of the crew on a merchant ship. We were caught in Canton Harbor in March 1839 when the Chinese demanded the surrender of all opium and detained all foreign ships so that the smugglers could not escape the country. We were only allowed to leave after all opium was destroyed.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

He shrugged. “I have told you more about myself than I ever told anyone, except under duress. I worried that your… idealism would not allow you to judge me kindly. And, to be quite honest, you already had quite a lot to contend with: my criminal past and my neglect of the natural sciences.”

I had to smile at that. I could also understand his omission — he did want me to like him, of that I had no doubt. “I understand,” I said. “I was simply curious, and never had intention of judging you.”

He laughed, visibly relieved. “Oh, thank you,” he said. “I should’ve known that your infatuation with Commissioner Lin would lead you to the truth of the matter. I’ve never been to East Turkestan myself, but I do have an acquaintance who has — who went there to see Commissioner Lin.”

“Who was it?” I awaited the answer with a superstitious dread that I had already guessed it.

“Dame Nightingale,” Jack said. “She does not miss a chance to see an old enemy of the British Empire humiliated.”

I put my book away. “But you told me she’s not really interested in China.”

“That’s what she told me.”

I searched through my satchel to get my pen. “Fine, but now I need to write a letter to my mother.”

“Make sure you do not mention where we are in case it gets intercepted.”

“You need not tell me things I already know,” I said. I tried not to be uncivil — he did bring me breakfast, after all; I just disliked being treated as a child. Somehow it was more acceptable from the hussars: at least, they thought I was sixteen and fresh out of a military academy. But even so, they spoke to me in a way men had seldom spoken to me before — as if I were their equal, to be teased a little due to my youth, but otherwise as one of them. I worried I might get used to it.

Jack went back to his reading as I contemplated my letter. I was supposed to uphold the lie of staying with friends, and I could betray neither my whereabouts nor my concerns. Instead I poured my anxiety into the only form available to me, which, by happy coincidence, was something she would most likely understand. I did not think my mother a dull woman, but her interests lay firmly in the sphere of the domestic and the courtly.

“Dear Mother,” I wrote, “I miss you every day, and I cannot wait for the summer when we will be able to spend our days together in the happy embrace of our home. I hope your cats and servants are well, and your days are filled with serenity and contentment. Is the river frozen yet? I hope it is, and that the village children skate and amuse you with their merriment.

“I have to confess I write to you not only because I am feeling deprived of your company or because it is my duty as you daughter, but I also hope to receive advice from you on matters of the heart. Even though Eugenia visited with me before my departure, you know well she is not the one to advise on courtship matters.

“I confess also that despite my great interest in my studies and my hopes to continue them until I accumulate enough courses to be called a Baccalaureate, two young men came recently to my attention. Both are of foreign origin and both possess pleasant qualities; although neither had proposed, I feel reasonably confident that at least one of them might be compelled in that direction with a most subtle demonstration of my benevolent interest.”

“Sasha,” Jack called from his bed, where he sprawled, reading. Apparently, the change of costume on my part allowed him to dispense with any semblance of courtly behavior — which was an asset, I supposed, since traveling together and being elaborately polite seemed unnecessarily taxing.

“What?” I answered, also unceremoniously.

“Did you know that the Masked Temerain could peel his face off?”

“He was burned to the crisp, as I recall, and disfigured. What of it?”

Jack smiled at me fondly. “I just wondered if you knew. He is quite an extraordinary creature, that Temerain.”

“So are you,” I said, still a bit uneasy about Jack’s leaping prowess. “Maybe I should write a penny dreadful about you.”

His grin grew wider and he folded his long arms behind his head, staring dreamily into the ceiling. “Someone ought to. As long as I don’t die in it.”

“You can’t die in a serial,” I told him. “Maybe if someone wrote about you they would explain how you were able to do the things that you do.” It started to snow outside, and I felt grateful to be inside, where it was warm and cozy. I pulled the woolen blanket around my shoulders, making a nest of sorts for myself, my ink bottle, and my unfinished letter. “Well? Are you going to tell me?”

“You’re busy,” Jack said.

“I’m not. I can finish this letter later.”

He sighed then. “No, I wasn’t always capable of leaping over buildings. I was born poor, and quite undistinguished in any way. My parents managed to make ends meet, and I helped as I could — sometimes I worked in a textile factory, sweeping the floors and cleaning up; sometimes I stole. When I was fifteen, I left home and got hired as a sailor on a ship named The Oxford, and we left for China. I had a propensity for languages, and I learned a smattering of Cantonese from a Chinaman traveling with us by the time we landed in Canton. This was in 1839, when things were deteriorating so badly. My ship stayed anchored at Canton, unable to take cargo or unload, because no one was not even thinking about anything that wasn’t opium.”

“I get the picture,” I said. “Chiang Tse told me about it.”

“There were Chinese merchants who helped with the smuggling. The streets adjacent to the English factories were choked with opium dens and supply shops. I was a boy, with nothing to do. It was in these shops that I found something unusual.”

“A wise Chinese mystic,” I suggested, being familiar with the conventions of the penny dreadfuls.

“No,” he said. “A Portuguese man, from Macao — he had come to Canton to patronize the opium dens there, and he… I don’t really know much of his story, but he said he would teach me to do things that no one else could do.”

“And the fact that he spent his days in the opium den did not seem suspicious?”

He laughed. “As I said, I was bored. But he did keep his word.”

Jack smoothed his hair, remembering. “This Portuguese man, Paolo was his name, he spoke of strange things — of how opium unlocked something within him, enabled him to fly. He said he would teach me to fly.”

I made a face. “Please tell me that you didn’t become one of… those.”

“You mean opium smokers?” Jack smiled. “No, although hashish eating was something I picked up later in India. But no, Paolo spoke of unlocking my mind’s hidden abilities… I suspect that he was intoxicated, insane, and extremely dull, but there wasn’t much else to do. His teachings seemed to be based on imperfectly understood Confucian philosophy and local superstitions, as well as whatever foolishness he had learned in his homeland.”

“And? He told you some magic words, made you a potion?”

Jack grinned and picked up his booklet. “I shall not tell you anything more if you keep interrupting me.”

“Sorry.”

“Oh no, it is too late. You’ll have to wait for the next time I feel like talking.”

I sulked. “You are just trying to be like one of those serials you love so much.”

“Maybe. Go read about your Sweeney Todd.”

“The stories are all the same,” I complained. “I read The String of Pearls a million times, and all the other Sweeney Todd stories are the same. Tell me how you became Spring Heeled Jack.”

“I will,” he said. “Just not now: I have to maintain my mystery, after all, or you won’t ever want to talk to me.”

I sighed and went back to my letter. There was at least two weeks on the train ahead of us and I decided he would tell me during the journey. At least it would keep the boredom at bay.

“I feel conflicted,” I wrote to my mother, “for even though I have no immediate plans of marriage, I feel I should be moved by the attentions of at least one of these young men. One of them especially has proven himself a loyal friend who has risked much to help me, and who was always considerate and kind. I feel I should be returning his interest, and I wonder whether I should compel myself to develop affection for this fine gentleman.

“Now, the other gentleman is a more complicated case — he is also a good friend and a kind companion, but I fear I have not have many opportunities to talk to him of late. Moreover, I fear that if I were to start a courtship with him, society would not approve. He is a foreigner, and recent political tensions may prevent any possibility of marital happiness. And yet… ”

A knock on the door interrupted my epistolary exercises. I rushed to the door before Jack, and found myself face to face with Rotmistr Ivankov.

“Looking good, lad,” he said and slapped my shoulder with enough force to make my teeth chatter. “Wild night last night, yeah?”

“I’ve seen wilder,” I lied. “What can I do for you, rotmistr?”

“There are some Englishmen downstairs, interviewing the staff,” he said. “They are looking for a very tall Englishman and someone who’s traveling with him. I don’t suppose you’d know anything about it, but I figured better safe than sorry and that I should drop you a word. In case it’s someone you know, even though I’ve never seen those folks they’re looking for, and neither have my cornets.” He gave me an exaggerated wink and was gone before I could muster a thank you.