"It's not as simple as that, Syerov. For instance, your aristocratic playmate, Citizen Kovalensky, will have to go on trial and . . ."
"Hell, do you think that will make me cry? I'll be only too glad to see that arrogant bum get his white neck twisted."
"Your health, Comrade Morozov, requires a long rest and a trip to a warmer climate," said the official. "That is why, in acknowledgment of your resignation, we are giving you this assignment to a place in a House of Rest. You understand?"
"Yes," said Morozov, mopping his forehead, "I understand."
"It is a pleasant sanatorium in the Crimea. Restful and quiet. Far from the noise of the cities. It will help your health a great deal. I would suggest that you take full advantage of the privilege for, let us say, six months. I would not advise you to hurry back, Comrade Morozov."
"No," said Morozov, "I won't hurry."
"And there's another advice I would like to give you, Comrade Morozov. You are going to hear a great deal, from the newspapers, about the trial of a certain Citizen Kovalensky for counter-revolutionary speculation. It would be wise to let your fellow patients in the sanatorium understand that you know nothing about the case."
"Of course, comrade. I don't know a thing about it. Not a thing."
The official bent toward Morozov and whispered bluntly, confidentially: "And if I were you, I wouldn't try to pull any wires for Kovalensky, even though he's going to the firing squad."
Morozov looked up into the official's face and drawled, his soft vowels blurring, trailing off into a whine, his wide, vertical nostrils quivering: "Who, me, pull any wires? For him? Why should I, comrade? Why should I? I had nothing to do with him. He owned that store. He alone. You can look up the registration. He alone. He can't prove I knew anything about . . . about anything. He alone. Sole owner. Lev Kovalensky--you can look it up."
Lavrov's wife opened the door.
She made a choked sound, like a hiccough, somewhere in her throat, and clamped her hand over her mouth, when she saw Andrei Taganov's leather jacket and the holster on his hip, and behind him--the steel blades of four bayonets.
Four soldiers entered, following Andrei. The last one slammed the door shut imperiously.
"Lord merciful! Oh, my Lord merciful!" wailed the woman, clasping a faded apron in both hands.
"Keep still!" ordered Andrei. "Where's Citizen Kovalensky's room?"
The woman pointed with a shaking finger and kept on pointing, foolishly, persistently, while the soldiers followed Andrei. She stared stupidly at the clothes rack in the lobby, at the old coats that seemed warm and creased to the lines of human bodies, hanging there while three thin, steel blades moved slowly past, and six boots stamped heavily, the floor sounding like a muffled drum. The soldier with the fourth bayonet remained standing at the door.
Lavrov jumped up when he saw them. Andrei crossed the room swiftly, without looking at him. A short, sharp movement of Andrei's hand, brusque and imperious as a lash, made one of the soldiers remain stationed at the door. The others followed Andrei into Leo's room.
Leo was alone. He sat in a deep armchair by the lighted fireplace, in his shirt sleeves, reading a book. The book was the first thing to move when the door was flung open; it descended slowly to the arm of the chair and a steady hand closed it. Then, Leo rose unhurriedly, the glow of the fire flickering on the white shirt on his straight shoulders.
He said, smiling, his smile a scornful arc: "Well, Comrade Taganov, didn't you know that some day we would meet like this?"
Andrei's face had no expression. It was set and motionless like a passport photograph; as if lines and muscles were hardened into something which had no human meaning, something which was a human face in shape only. He handed to Leo a paper bearing official stamps; he said, in a voice which was a human voice only because it made sounds that were of the human alphabet: "Search warrant, Citizen Kovalensky."
"Go ahead," said Leo, bowing sternly, graciously, as if to a guest at a formal reception. "You're quite welcome."
Two swift movements of Andrei's hand sent one soldier to a chest of drawers and the other to the bed. Drawers clattered open; white stacks of underwear fell to the floor, from under huge, dark fists that dug swiftly, expertly and slammed the drawers shut with a bang, one after the other. A white pile grew on the floor, around black boots glistening with melting snow. A quick hand ripped the satin cover off the bed, then the quilt and the sheets; the thrust of a bayonet split the mattress open and two fists disappeared in the cut.
Andrei opened the drawers of a desk. He went through them swiftly, mechanically, his thumb running the pages of books in a quick, fan-shaped whirl, with a swishing rustle like the shuffling of a pack of cards; he threw the books aside, gathering all notes and letters, shoving them into his brief case.
Leo stood alone in the middle of the room. The men took no notice of his presence, as if their actions did not concern him, as if he were only a piece of furniture, the last one to be torn open. He was half-sitting, half-leaning against a table, his two hands on the edge, his shoulders hunched, his long legs sliding forward. The logs creaked in the silence, and things thudded against the floor, and the papers rustled in Andrei's fingers.
"I'm sorry I can't oblige you," said Leo, "by letting you find secret plans to blow up the Kremlin and overthrow the Soviets, Comrade Taganov."
"Citizen Kovalensky," said Andrei, as if they had never met before, "you are speaking to a representative of the G.P.U."
"You didn't think I had forgotten that, did you?" said Leo.
A soldier stuck a bayonet into a pillow, and little white flakes of down fluttered up like snowdrops. Andrei jerked the door of a cabinet open; the dishes and glasses tinkled, as he piled them swiftly, softly on the carpet.
Leo opened his gold cigarette case and extended it to Andrei.
"No, thank you," said Andrei.
Leo lighted a cigarette. The match quivered in his fingers for an instant, then grew steady. He sat on the edge of the table, swinging one leg, smoke rising slowly in a thin, blue column.
"The survival," said Leo, "of the fittest. However, not all philosophers are right. I've always wanted to ask them one question: the fittest--for what? . . . You should be able to answer it, Comrade Taganov. What are your philosophical convictions? We've never had a chance to discuss that--and this would be an appropriate time."
"I would suggest," said Andrei, "that you keep silent."
"And when a representative of the G.P.U. suggests," said Leo, "it's a command, isn't it? I realize that one should know how to respect the grandeur of authority under all circumstances, no matter how trying to the self-respect of those in power."
One of the soldiers raised his head and made a step toward Leo. A glance from Andrei stopped him. The soldier opened a wardrobe and took Leo's suits out, one by one, running his hand through the pockets and linings.
Andrei opened another wardrobe.
The wardrobe smelled of a fine French perfume. He saw a woman's dresses hanging in a row.
"What's the matter, Comrade Taganov?" asked Leo.
Andrei was holding a red dress.
It was a plain red dress with a patent leather belt, four buttons, a round collar and a huge bow.
Andrei held it spread out in his two hands and looked at it. The red cloth spurted in small puffs between his fingers.
Then his eyes moved, slowly, a glance like a weight grating through space, to the line of clothes in the wardrobe. He saw a black velvet dress he knew, a coat with a fur collar, a white blouse.
He asked: "Whose are these?"
"My mistress's," Leo answered, his eyes fixed on Andrei's face, pronouncing the word with a mocking contempt that suggested the infamy of obscenity.
Andrei's face had no expression, no human meaning. He looked down at the dress, his lashes like two black crescents on his sunken cheeks. Then he straightened the dress slowly and, cautiously, a little awkwardly, as if it were of breakable glass, hung it back in the w
ardrobe.
Leo chuckled, his eyes dark, his mouth twisted: "A disappointment, isn't it, Comrade Taganov?"
Andrei did not answer. He took the dresses out slowly, one by one, and ran his fingers through the pockets, through the soft folds that smelled of a French perfume.
"I say you can't, citizen!" The guard's voice roared suddenly behind the door. "You can't go in now!"
There was the sound of a struggle behind the door, as if an arm had pushed a body aside.
A voice screamed, and it was not a woman's voice, it was not a female's voice, it was the ferocious howl of an animal in mortal agony: "Let me in there! Let me in!"
Andrei looked at the door and walked to it slowly and threw it open.
Andrei Taganov and Kira Argounova stood face to face.
He asked slowly, evenly, the syllables falling like measured drops of water: "Citizen Argounova, do you live here?"
She answered, her head high, her eyes holding his, the sound of her voice like his: "Yes."
She stepped into the room; the soldier closed the door.
Andrei Taganov turned very slowly, his right shoulder drooping, every tendon of his body pulled to the effort of the motion, very cautiously, as if a knife had been thrust between his shoulder blades and he had to move carefully, not to disturb it. His left arm hung unnaturally, bent at the elbow, his fingers half-closed as if holding something they could not spill.
He turned to the soldiers and said: "Search that cabinet--and the boxes in the corner."
Then he walked back to the open wardrobe; his steps and the logs of the fireplace creaked in the silence.
Kira leaned against the wall, her hat in her hand. The hat slipped out of her fingers and fell to the floor, unnoticed.
"I'm sorry, dearest," said Leo. "I hoped it would be over before you came back."
She was not looking at Leo. She was looking at the tall figure in a leather jacket with a holster on his hip.
Andrei walked to her dresser, and opened the drawers, and she saw her underwear in his hands, white batiste nightgowns, lace ruffles crumpled in his steady, unhurried fingers.
"Look through the davenport pillows," Andrei ordered the soldiers, "and lift that rug."
Kira stood pressed against the wall, her knees sagging, her hips, arms and shoulder blades holding her upright.
"That will be all," Andrei ordered the soldiers. He closed the last drawer, evenly, without sound.
He took his brief case from the table and turned to Leo. He said, his mouth opening strangely, his upper lip motionless and only the lower one moving to form the sounds: "Citizen Kovalensky, you're under arrest."
Leo shrugged and reached silently for his coat. His mouth was drooping contemptuously, but he noticed that his fingers were trembling. He threw his head up, and flung his words at Andrei: "I'm sure this is the most pleasant duty you've ever performed, Comrade Taganov."
The soldiers picked up their bayonets, kicking aside the things on the cluttered floor.
Leo walked to the mirror and adjusted his tie, his coat, his hair, with the meticulous precision of a man dressing for an important social engagement. His fingers were not trembling any longer. He folded his handkerchief neatly and slipped it into his breast pocket.
Andrei stood waiting.
Leo stopped before Kira on his way out. "Aren't you going to say good-bye, Kira?" he asked.
He took her in his arms and kissed her. It was a long kiss. Andrei stood waiting.
"I have only one last favor to ask, Kira," Leo whispered. "I hope you'll forget me."
She did not answer.
A soldier threw the door open. Andrei walked out and Leo followed. The soldier closed the door behind them.
XIII
LEO HAD BEEN LOCKED IN a cell at the G.P.U. Andrei had come home. At the gate of the palace garden, a Party comrade, hurrying into the Club, had stopped him.
"You're giving us a report on the agrarian situation tonight, Comrade Taganov, aren't you?" he had asked.
"Yes," Andrei had answered.
"At nine o'clock, isn't it? We're all looking forward to it, Comrade Taganov. See you at nine."
"Yes," Andrei had answered.
He had walked slowly through the deep snow of the garden, up the long stairs, to his dark room.
A Club window was lighted in the palace and a yellow square fell across the floor. Andrei took off his cap, his leather jacket, his gun. He stood by the fireplace, kicking gray coals with his toe. He threw a log on the coals and struck a match.
He sat on a box by the fire, his hands hanging limply between his knees, his hands and his forehead pink in the darkness.
He heard steps on the landing outside, then a hand knocking sharply. He had not locked the door. He said: "Come in."
Kira came in. She slammed the door behind her and stood in the archway of his room. He could not see her eyes in the darkness; black shadows swallowed her eyes and forehead; but the red glow fell on her mouth, and her mouth was wide, loose, brutal.
He rose and stood silently, looking at her.
"Well?" she threw at him savagely. "What are you going to do about it?"
He said slowly: "If I were you, I'd get out of here."
She leaned against the archway, asking: "And if I don't?"
"Get out of here," he repeated.
She tore her hat off and flung it aside, she threw her coat off and dropped it to the floor.
"Get out, you--"
"--whore?" she finished for him. "Certainly. I just want to be sure you know that that's what I am."
He asked: "What do you want? I have nothing to say to you."
"But I have. And you'll listen. So you've caught me, haven't you, Comrade Taganov? And you're going to have your revenge? You came with your soldiers, with a gun on your hip, Comrade Taganov of the G.P.U., and you arrested him? And now you're going to use all your influence, all your great Party influence, to see that he's put before the firing squad, aren't you? Perhaps you'll even ask for the privilege of giving the order to fire? Go ahead! Have your revenge. And this is mine. I'm not pleading for him. I have nothing to fear any more. But, at least, I can speak. And I'll speak. I have so much to say to you, to all of you, and I've kept silent for so long that it's going to tear me to pieces! I have nothing to lose. But you have."
He said: "Don't you think it's useless? Why say anything? If you have any excuses to offer . . ."
She laughed, a human laughter that did not sound human, that did not sound like laughter: "You fool! I'm proud of what I've done! Hear me! I don't regret it! I'm proud of it! So you think I loved you, don't you? I loved you, but I was unfaithful to you, on the side, as most women are? Well, then, listen: all you were to me, you and your great love, and your kisses, and your body, all they meant was only a pack of crisp, white, square, ten-ruble bills with a sickle and hammer printed in the corner! Do you know where those bills went? To a tubercular sanatorium in the Crimea. Do you know what they paid for? For the life of a man I loved long before I ever saw you, for the life of a body that had possessed mine before you ever touched it--and now you're holding him in one of your cells and you're going to shoot him. Why not? It's fair enough. Shoot him. Take his life. You've paid for it."
She saw his eyes, and they were not hurt, they were not angry. They were frightened. He said: "Kira . . . I . . . I . . . I didn't know."
She leaned back, and crossed her arms, and rocked softly, laughing: "So you loved me? So I was the highest of women, a woman like a temple, like a military march, like a god's statue? Remember who told me that? Well, look at me! I'm only a whore and you're the one who made the first payment! I sold myself--for money--and you paid it. Down in the gutter, that's where I belong, and your great love put me there. I thought you'd be glad to know that. Aren't you? So you think I loved you? I thought of Leo when you held me in your arms! When I spoke of love--I was speaking to him. Every kiss you got, every word, every hour was given to him, for him. I've never loved him as I loved him in
your bed! . . . No, I won't leave you your memories. They're his. I love him. Do you hear me? I love him! Go ahead! Kill him. Nothing you can do to him will compare with what I've done to you. You know that, don't you?"
She stood, swaying, and her shadow rose to the ceiling, and the shadow rocked as if it were going to crash down.
He repeated helplessly, as if she were not present, as if he were hanging on to the syllables for support: "I didn't know. . . ."
"No, you didn't know. But it was very simple. And not very unusual. Go through the garrets and basements where men live in your Red cities and see how many cases like this you can find. He wanted to live. You think everything that breathes can live? You've learned differently, I know. But he was one who could have lived. There aren't many of them, so they don't count with you. The doctor said he was going to die. And I loved him. You've learned what that means, too, haven't you? He didn't need much. Only rest, and fresh air, and food. He had no right to that, had he? Your State said so. We tried to beg. We begged humbly. Do you know what they said? There was a doctor in a hospital and he said he had hundreds on his waiting list."
She leaned forward, her voice soft, confidential, she spread her hands out, trying to explain, suddenly gentle and businesslike and childishly insistent, her lips soft and a little bewildered, and only her eyes fixed and in her eyes, alone, a horror that did not belong in a room where human beings lived but only in a morgue:
"You see, you must understand this thoroughly. No one does. No one sees it, but I do, I can't help it, I see it, you must see it, too. You understand? Hundreds. Thousands. Millions. Millions of what? Stomachs, and heads, and legs, and tongues, and souls. And it doesn't even matter whether they fit together. Just millions. Just flesh. Human flesh. And they--it--had been registered and numbered, you know, like tin cans on a store shelf. I wonder if they're registered by the person or by the pound? And they had a chance to go on living. But not Leo. He was only a man. All stones are cobblestones to you. And diamonds--they're useless, because they sparkle too brightly in the sun, and it's too hard on the eyes, and it's too hard under the hoofs marching into the proletarian future. You don't pave roads with diamonds. They may have other uses in the world, but of those you've never learned. That is why you had sentenced him to death, and others like him, an execution without a firing squad. There was a big commissar and I went to see him. He told me that a hundred thousand workers had died in the civil war and why couldn't one aristocrat die--in the face of the Union of Socialist Soviet Republics? And what is the Union of Socialist Soviet Republics in the face of one man? But that is a question not for you to answer. I'm grateful to that commissar. He gave me permission to do what I've done. I don't hate him. You should hate him. What I'm doing to you--he did it first!"