Memories: From Moscow to the Black Sea

14

THE FIRST issue of Our Word came out. The general mood of the paper was combative and buoyant.

My feuilleton “The Last Breakfast” struck completely the wrong note. In it I wrote about the nightlife of the wealthy, the ominous silence all around, the rustles and whispers in the underground world that “they” were already infiltrating—and a prisoner’s last breakfast before his execution.[86]

This was not what people wanted.

“Why all this doom and gloom? Why the ominous prophesies? Now of all times—with the Entente… with fresh troops being shipped in… with the French…” And so on and so forth.

“Are you blind? Just look at all the activity in the harbor!”

“…the pennants!”

“…the Triple Entente!”

“…the soldiers from France!”

I must have been very mistaken indeed.

A plucky group of writers and actors decided to open a “cellar” on some rooftop or other. À la Stray Dog of course. All they needed was some money and the right name. The way everyone was talking about the French, I suggested they call it “L’Entente de ma Tante.”

The International, I heard people saying, was also going to be requisitioned and turned into a military headquarters. If so, I would once again be homeless. I recalled with horror my first days in Odessa—an icy room in a private apartment where snow blew straight into the bathroom through a broken window. I used to stand at the washbasin while the snow fell onto my head. The owner used to walk to the bathroom in an overcoat with the collar turned up and wearing a sheepskin hat. His wife somehow managed to wash with her hands tucked in a muff. Perhaps their hats and muffs really did keep the two of them nice and warm, it’s hard to say. I just shivered and sneezed and tried to warm up by doing exercises from every gymnastic regime then in existence. This was not an experience I wanted to have to go through again. Even though it was spring, and even though spring can’t but lead to summer—which meant that there was no real need to be worrying about the cold—the thought of another difficult search for somewhere to live was upsetting. It was exhausting merely to think about it. Better not to think about anything at all. Not least because I was unable to imagine myself living a settled life in Odessa. While I was still in my room in the London, visitors often used to say to me, “What a wonderful view you’re going to have in spring!”

And I had always replied, “I’m not sure. I can’t see myself here in the spring. The omens bode ill…”

One bright sunny day I was walking along the street when I saw something unprecedented—black soldiers marching along from the quay, leading heavily laden donkeys. As they approached, I could see the gleaming whites of the soldiers’ eyes. This, evidently, was the French Army. The enthusiasm of the city’s inhabitants was muted:

“A fine lot they’ve sent us. Is this the best they could do?”

The negroes grinned, baring their fierce teeth, and shouted out something that sounded like “Habdallah Amdallah”[87]—there was no knowing whether they were swearing at us or greeting us.

But then, what did it matter? We would learn soon enough.

The donkeys were gaily swishing their tails. This was a more cheerful omen.

“So? What do you think to Odessa? Ri-ight?”

A strangely familiar voice.

“Gooskin!”

“Ri-ight? It’s hardly a city—more like one great tangerine. But how come you aren’t sitting in a café? That’s where literally all the whipped cream of society rises.”

Gooskin. But I hardly recognized him. All elegantly turned out in subtle shades of dove gray: jacket, tie, hat, socks, gloves. A perfect dandy.

“Oh Gooskin! It seems I’m about to be homeless. I’m in despair.”

“Despair!” said Gooskin. “Well, despair no more. Gooskin will find you someplace. You’ve probably been telling yourself, ‘That Gooskin, he’s just—pff!’”

“I assure you I’ve never thought you were ‘just—pff!’”

“But the fact is, Gooskin, Gooskin is… Do you want some carpets?”

“What?” For a moment I felt quite scared.

“Carpets. These here Moroccaneers have brought all sorts of junk with them. Absolutely wonderful things, and they’re dirty cheap. So cheap they’re literally going for a singsong. To give you an idea, I can quote you an exact price: a wonderful carpet, the very latest antique quality, eight and a half foot in length by five and a half foot… no, by five foot six in width… Well, for a carpet like that you’ll be paying… what’s comparatively a very modest price.”

“Thank you Gooskin. Now no one can possibly swindle me. I know exactly what I should pay.”

“Ach, Madame Teffi, what a shame you changed your mind back then about going on tour with Gooskin. Not long ago I was touring with this singer. Sobinov—rather a louse, you know. As a matter of fact, I once took a shot at him.”

“You tried to shoot Sobinov? Why?”

“Well, I took aim at him, which comes to more or less the same thing. Yes, I took aim at Sobinov, but somehow nothing much came of it. You see, I’d brought this louse of a singer to Nikolaev. I’d rented a hall, sold tickets, got him an audience, everything! And you know what? The scoundrel didn’t hit a single high note. Wherever there should have been a high note, what he did—and God knows where he got the idea from!—what he did was take out his handkerchief and blow his nose as if blowing one’s nose on stage were the most natural thing in the world. The audience had paid good money—and there they were, waiting for their high notes, but that scoundrel just kept blowing away. Anyone would have thought he was on his way to Siberia. And then he went to the cashier and demanded his fee. I got angry then, I couldn’t have been more like a lion. When I’m angry, my rages are terrible. I said, ‘Excuse me, but what about your high notes?’ Yes, those were my exact words. He was silent for a moment. Then he said, “If I hit high notes in Nikolaev, what notes am I supposed to hit in Odessa? Or London, or Paris, or even America for that matter? Or are you going to tell me Nikolaev is as much of a city as America?’ Well, what could I say to that? There was no mention of high notes in the contract. So I said nothing at all, although I did say, ‘Well, you probably don’t even possess any high notes.’ And he said, ‘Actually I have a great many high notes, but I prefer not to let you call the tune. Today you want a high “la” in an aria—tomorrow, in the very same aria, you’ll be wanting a high “si.” And all for the same price. Well, you go and find yourself some boy to sing for you. This is a small town and it really doesn’t need any high notes,’ he said, ‘especially with all this revolution and brotherly butchery round about.’ Well, what could I say to that?”

“Not much.”

“But how about you giving a public reading now? I’d advertise it, in great big letters, on every post and pillar and on every wall. Ri-ight? Yes, in great big letters: An Upstanding Program…”

“Outstanding, I think you mean.”

“Out where?”

“Outstanding. The program.”

“All right then—outstanding. I’m not one to argue. Why would I rock the boat over a few split hairs? And we could add: An Outstounding Triumph.”

“Astounding, I think you mean.”

“You ladies and your delicate nerves! So now you don’t want your ‘Out’ after all. Well, neither do I. After all, everyone writes ‘upstanding’—why would I want to stand out!”

Suddenly he stopped, looked around and asked in a whisper, “Perhaps you need some foreign currency?”

“No. What for?”

“For Constantinople.”

“But I’m not leaving Odessa.”

“Aren’t you?”

He looked at me doubtfully.

“Are you sure? Well, if that’s what you say…”

It seemed he did not believe me.

“What makes you think I’m going to Constantinople? Who put that idea into your head?”

Gooskin’s reply was enigmatic: “Perhaps I have ideas in my head anyway.”

I was at a loss. I just stared at the dove-gray Gooskin, at the impatient tails of the donkeys, at the fiercely grinning negroes. Was it those dark faces that had turned Gooskin’s thoughts to Constantinople?

Strange…