"No," said Timoshenko, "I'm just fine here where I am. With a fine view of the table there. I like that table. Nice legs it has. Hasn't it? Sort of artistic, you know."
"Quite right, comrade, very artistic. Now on the other hand, comrade, there, on our left, isn't that a pretty blonde there, by the orchestra? Quite a figure, eh?"
"Yes, indeed, comrade. . . . It's nice shoes you have, Comrade Morozov. Patent leather, too. Bet you didn't get those in a co-operative."
"No . . . that is . . . to tell you the truth . . . well, you see . . ."
"What I like about them is that bulb. Right there, on the toes. Like a bump on someone's forehead. And shiny, too. Yep, those foreigners sure know how to make shoes."
"Speaking of the efficiency of production, comrade, take for instance, in the capitalistic countries . . . in the . . . in the . . ."
"Yes, Comrade Morozov, in the capitalistic countries?"
It was Morozov who leaped for the letter. It was Timoshenko who caught his wrist with fingers like talons, and for one brief moment they were on their hands and knees on the floor, and their eyes met silently like those of two beasts in deadly battle. Then Timoshenko's other hand seized the letter, and he rose slowly, releasing Morozov, and sat down at the table. He was reading the letter, while Morozov was still on his hands and knees, staring up at him with the eyes of a man awaiting the verdict of a court-martial.
Morozov, you Goddamn bastard!
If you don't come across with what's due me before tomorrow morning, you'll eat breakfast at the G.P.U., and you know what that means,
Affectionately, Pavel Syerov.
Morozov was sitting at the table when Timoshenko raised his head from the letter. Timoshenko laughed as Morozov had never heard a man laugh.
Timoshenko rose slowly, laughing. His stomach shook, and his rabbit fur collar, and the sinews of his bare throat. He swayed a little and he held the letter in both hands. Then his laughter died down slowly, smoothly, like a gramophone record unwinding, to a low, coughing chuckle on a single dry note. He slipped the letter into his pocket and turned slowly, his shoulders stooped, his movements suddenly awkward, humble. He shuffled heavily, uncertainly to the door. At the door, the maitre d'hotel glanced at him sidewise. Timoshenko returned the glance; Timoshenko's glance was gentle.
Morozov sat at the table, one hand frozen in mid-air in an absurd, twisted position, like the hand of a paralytic. He heard Timoshenko's chuckles dropping down the stairway; monotonous, disjoined chuckles that sounded like hiccoughs, like barks, like sobs.
He jumped up suddenly. "Oh my God!" he moaned. "Oh, my God!"
He ran, forgetting his hat and coat, down the long stairs, out into the snow. In the broad, white, silent street, Timoshenko was nowhere in sight.
Morozov did not send the money to Pavel Syerov. He did not go to his own office at the Food Trust. He sat all the following morning and all of the afternoon at home, in his room, and drank vodka. Whenever he heard the telephone or the door bell ringing, he crouched, his head in his shoulders, and bit his knuckles. Nothing happened.
At dinner time, Antonina Pavlovna brought the evening paper and threw it to him, snapping: "What the hell's the matter with you today?"
He glanced through the paper. There were news items on the front page:
In the village Vasilkino, in the Kama region, the peasants, goaded by the counter-revolutionary hoarder element, burned the local Club of Karl Marx. The bodies of the Club president and secretary, Party comrades from Moscow, were found in the charred ruins. A G.P.U. squad is on its way to Vasilkino.
In the village Sverskoe, twenty-five peasants were executed last night for the murder of the Village Correspondent, a young comrade from the staff of a Communist Union of Youth newspaper in Samara. The peasants refused to divulge the name of the murderer.
On the last page was a short item: The body of Stepan Timoshenko, former sailor of the Baltic Fleet, was found early this morning under a bridge, on the ice of Obukhovsky Canal. He had shot himself through the mouth. No papers, save his Party card, were found on the body to explain the reason for his suicide.
Morozov wiped his forehead, as if a noose had been slipped off his throat, and drank two glasses of vodka.
When the telephone rang, he swaggered boldly to take the receiver, and Antonina Pavlovna wondered why he was chuckling.
"Morozov?" a muffled voice whispered over the wire.
"That you, Pavlusha?" Morozov asked. "Listen, pal, I'm awfully sorry, but I have the money and . . ."
"Forget the money," Syerov hissed. "It's all right. Listen . . . did I leave you a note yesterday?"
"Why, yes, but I guess I deserved it and . . ."
"Have you destroyed it?"
"Why?"
"Nothing. Only you understand what it could . . . Have you destroyed it?"
Morozov looked at the evening paper, grinned and said: "Sure. I have. Forget about it, pal."
He held the paper in his hand all evening long.
"The fool!" he muttered under his breath, so that Antonina Pavlovna looked at him inquisitively, chin forward. "The damn fool! He lost it. Wandered about all night, God knows where, the drunken fool. He lost it!"
Morozov did not know that Stepan Timoshenko had come home from the European roof garden and sat at a rickety table in his unheated garret and written painstakingly a letter on a piece of brown wrapping paper, in the light of a dying candle in a green bottle; that he had folded the letter carefully and slipped it into an old envelope and slipped another scrap of paper, wrinkled and creased, into the envelope, and written Andrei Taganov's address on it; that he had sealed the letter and had gone, steadily, unhurriedly, down the creaking stairs into the street.
The letter on the brown wrapping paper said: Dear friend Andrei,
I promised to say good-bye and here it is. It's not quite what I promised, but I guess you'll forgive me. I'm sick of seeing what I see and I can't stand to see it any longer. To you--as my only legacy--I'm leaving the letter you will find enclosed. It's a hard legacy, I know. I only hope that you won't follow me--too soon.
Your friend, Stepan Timoshenko.
XI
PAVEL SYEROV SAT AT THE DESK IN his office, correcting the typewritten copy of his next speech on "Railroads and the Class Struggle." His secretary stood by the desk, watching anxiously the pencil in his hand. The window of his office opened upon one of the terminal platforms. He raised his head just in time to notice a tall figure in a leather jacket disappearing down the platform. Syerov jerked forward, but the man was gone.
"Hey, did you see that man?" he snapped at the secretary.
"No, Comrade Syerov. Where?"
"Never mind. It doesn't matter. I just thought it was someone I knew. Wonder what he's doing around here?"
An hour later, Pavel Syerov left his office, and--walking down the stairs, on his way to the street, chewing sunflower seeds and spitting out their shells--saw the man in the leather jacket again. He had not been mistaken: it was Andrei Taganov.
Pavel Syerov stopped, and his brows moved closer together, and he spit one more shell out of the corner of his mouth. Then he approached Andrei casually and said: "Good evening, Comrade Taganov."
Andrei answered: "Good evening, Comrade Syerov."
"Thinking of taking a trip, Andrei?"
"No."
"Hunting train speculators?"
"No."
"Been shifted to the G.P.U. transport section?"
"No."
"Well, I'm glad to see you. A rare person to see, aren't you? So busy you have no time for old friends any more. Have some sunflower seeds?"
"No, thank you."
"Don't have the dirty habit? Don't dissipate at all, do you? No vices, but one, eh? Well, I'm glad to see you taking an interest in this old station which is my home, so to speak. Been around for an hour or so, haven't you?"
"Any more questions to ask?"
"Who, me? I wasn't asking any questions. What would I
be questioning you for? I was just being sociable, so to speak. One must be sociable once in a while, if one doesn't want to be branded as an individualist, you know. Why don't you drop in to see me while you're in these parts?"
"I may," said Andrei slowly. "Good-bye, Comrade Syerov."
Syerov stood, frowning, an unbroken sunflower seed between his teeth, and watched Andrei descending the stairs.
The clerk wiped his nose with his thumb and forefinger, wiped the linseed oil off the bottle's neck with his apron, and asked: "That all today, citizen?"
"That's all," said Andrei Taganov.
The clerk tore a piece of newspaper and wrapped the bottle, greasy stains spreading on the paper.
"Doing good business?" Andrei asked.
"Rotten," the clerk answered, shrugging his shoulders in an old blue sweater. "You're the first customer in three hours, I guess. Glad to hear a human voice. Nothing to do here but sit and scare mice off."
"That's too bad. Taking a loss, then?"
"Who, me? I don't own the joint."
"Then I guess you'll lose your job soon. The boss will be coming to do his own clerking."
"Who? My boss?" The clerk made a hoarse, cackling sound that was laughter, opening a wide hole with two broken, blackened teeth. "Not my boss, he won't. I'd like to see the elegant Citizen Kovalensky slinging herrings and linseed oil."
"Well, he won't be elegant long with such poor business."
"Maybe he won't," said the clerk, "and maybe he will."
"Maybe," said Andrei Taganov.
"Fifty kopeks, citizen."
"Here you are. Good night, citizen."
Antonina Pavlovna had tickets for the new ballet at the Marinsky Theater. It was a "profunion" show and Morozov had received the tickets at the Food Trust. But Morozov did not care for ballet and he had a school meeting to attend, where he was to make a speech on the "Proletarian Distribution of Food Products," so he gave the tickets to Antonina Pavlovna. She invited Leo and Kira to accompany her. "Well, of course, it's supposed to be a revolutionary ballet," she explained. "The first Red ballet. And, of course, you know my attitude on politics, but then, one should be broad-minded artistically, don't you think so? At least, it's an interesting experiment."
Kira refused the invitation. Leo left with Antonina Pavlovna. Antonina Pavlovna wore a jade green gown embroidered in gold, too tight across her stomach, and carried mother-of-pearl opera glasses on a long gold handle.
Kira had made a date with Andrei. But when she left the tramway and walked through the dark streets to the palace garden, she noticed her feet slowing down of their own will, her body tense, unyielding, fighting her, as if she were walking forward against a strong wind. It was as if her body remembered that which she was trying to forget: the night before, a night such as her first one in the gray and silver room she had shared with Leo for over three years. Her body felt pure and hallowed; her feet were slowing down to retard her progress toward that which seemed a sacrilege because she did desire it and did not wish to desire it tonight.
When she reached the top of the long, dark stairs and Andrei opened the door, she asked: "Andrei, will you do something for me?"
"Before I kiss you?"
"No. But right after. Will you take me to a motion picture tonight?"
He kissed her, his face showing nothing but the ever-incredulous joy of seeing her again, then said: "All right."
They walked out together, arm in arm, fresh snow squeaking under their feet. The three largest film theaters on Nevsky displayed huge cotton signs with red letters: THE HIT OF THE SEASON!
NEW MASTERPIECE OF THE SOVIET CINEMA!
"RED WARRIORS"
A gigantic epic of the struggle of red heroes in the civil war!
A SAGA OF THE PROLETARIAT!
A titanic drama of the heroic unknown masses
of Workers and Soldiers!
One theater also bore the sign: COMRADE LENIN SAID: "OF ALL THE ARTS, THE MOST IMPORTANT ONE FOR RUSSIA IS THE CINEMA!"
The theater entrances blazed in streams of white light. The cashiers watched the passersby wistfully and yawned. No one stopped to look at the display of stills.
"You don't want to see that," said Andrei.
"No," said Kira.
The fourth and smaller theater played a foreign picture. It was an old, unknown picture with no stars, no actors' names announced; three faded stills were pasted in the show window, presenting a lady with too much make-up and a dress fashionable ten years ago.
"We might as well see that," said Kira.
The box office was closed.
"Sorry, citizens," said the usher, "no seats left. All sold out for this show and the next one. The foyer's jammed with people waiting."
"Well," said Kira, as they turned away with resignation, "it may as well be 'The Red Warriors.' "
The foyer of the huge, white-columned "Parisiana" was empty. The picture was on, and no one was allowed to enter in the middle of a show. But the usher bowed eagerly and let them enter.
The theater was dark, cold, and seemed silent under the roar of the orchestra, with the echoing silence of a huge, empty room. A few heads dotted the waste of grayish, empty rows.
On the screen, a mob of ragged gray uniforms ran through mud, waving bayonets. A mob of ragged gray uniforms sat around fires, cooking soup. A long train crawled slowly through endless minutes, open box cars loaded with a mob of ragged gray uniforms. "A MONTH LATER" said a title. A mob of ragged gray uniforms ran through mud, waving bayonets. A sea of arms waved banners. A mob of ragged gray uniforms crawled down trench tops, against a black sky. "THE BATTLE OF ZAVRASHINO" said a title. A mob in patent leather boots shot a mob in bast shoes lined against a wall. "THE BATTLE OF SAMSONOVO" said a title. A mob of ragged gray uniforms ran through mud, waving bayonets. "THREE WEEKS LATER" said a title. A long train crawled into a sunset. "THE PROLETARIAT STAMPED ITS MIGHTY BOOT DOWN THE TREACHEROUS THROAT OF DEPRAVED ARISTOCRATS" said a title. A mob in patent leather boots danced in a gaudy brothel, amid broken bottles and half-naked women who looked at the camera. "BUT THE SPIRIT OF OUR RED WARRIORS FLAMED WITH LOYALTY TO THE PROLETARIAN CAUSE" said a title. A mob of ragged gray uniforms ran through mud, waving bayonets. There was no plot, no hero. "THE AIM OF PROLETARIAN ART," a poster in the foyer had explained, "IS THE DRAMA AND COLOR OF MASS LIFE."
In the intermission before the second show, Andrei asked: "Do you want to see the beginning of that?"
"Yes," said Kira. "It's still early."
"I know you don't like it."
"I know you don't, either. It's funny, Andrei, I had a chance to go to the new ballet at the Marinsky tonight, and I didn't go because it was revolutionary, and here I am looking at this epic."
"You had a chance to go with whom?"
"Oh--a friend of mine."
"Not Leo Kovalensky?"
"Andrei! Don't you think you're being presumptuous?"
"Kira, of all your friends he's the one . . ."
". . . that you don't like. I know. Still, don't you think that you're mentioning it too often?"
"Kira, you're not interested in politics, are you?"
"No. Why?"
"You've never wanted to sacrifice your life senselessly, to have years torn out of it for no good reason, years of jail or exile? Have you?"
"What are you driving at?"
"Keep away from Leo Kovalensky."
Her mouth was open and her hand was lifted in the air and she did not move for a long second. Then she asked, and no words had ever been so hard to utter:
"What--do--you--mean--Andrei?"
"You don't want to be known as the friend of a man who is friendly with the wrong kind of people."
"What people?"
"Several. Our own Comrade Syerov, for one."
"But what has Leo . . ."
"He owns a certain private food store, doesn't he?"
"Andrei, are you being the G.P.U. agent with me and . . ."
"No, I'm not question
ing you. I have nothing to learn from you. I'm just wondering how much you know about his affairs--for your own protection."
"What . . . what affairs?"
"That's all I can tell you. I shouldn't have told you even that much. But I want to be sure that you don't let your name be implicated, by chance, in any way."
"Implicated--in what?"
"Kira, I'm not a G.P.U. agent--with you or to you."
The lights went out and the orchestra struck up the "Internationale."
On the screen, a mob of dusty boots marched down a dry, clotted earth. A huge, gray, twinkling, shivering rectangle of boots hung before them, boots without bodies, thick, cobbled soles, old leather gnarled, warped into creases by the muscles and the sweat inside; the boots were not slow and they were not in a hurry; they were not hoofs and they did not seem to be human feet; they rolled forward, from heels to toes, from heels to toes, like gray tanks waddling, crushing, sweeping all before them, clots of earth crumbling into dust, gray boots, dead, measured, endless, lifeless, inexorable.
Kira whispered through the roar of the "Internationale": "Andrei, are you working on a new case for the G.P.U.?"
He answered: "No. On a case of my own."
On the screen, shadows in gray uniforms sat around fires under a black sky. Calloused hands stirred iron kettles; a mouth grinned wide over crooked teeth; a man played a harmonica, rocking from side to side with a lewd grin; a man twirled in a Cossack dance, his feet flashing, his hands clapping in time; a man scratched his beard; a man scratched his neck; a man scratched his head; a man chewed a crust of bread, crumbs rolling into the open collar of his tunic, into a black, hairy chest. They were celebrating a victory.
Kira whispered: "Andrei, do you have something to report to the G.P.U.?"
He answered: "Yes."
On the screen, a demonstration marched down a city street, celebrating a victory. Banners and faces swam slowly past the camera. They moved as wax figures pulled by invisible wires, young faces in dark kerchiefs, old faces in knitted shawls, faces in soldiers' caps, faces in leather hats, faces that looked alike, set and humorless, eyes flat as if painted on, lips soft and shapeless, marching without stirring, marching without muscles, with no will but that of the cobblestones pulled forward under their motionless feet, with no energy but that of the red banners as sails in the wind, no fuel but the stuffy warmth of millions of skins, millions of flaccid, doughy muscles, no breath but the smell of patched armpits, of warm, weary, bowed necks, marching, marching, marching in an even, ceaseless movement, a movement that did not seem alive.