Later that evening, wearing my suit, I returned to the house overlooking the Kryukoff Canal. I was greeted this time by a simpering concierge who said Mademoiselle Vorotinsky was looking forward to entertaining me. If I went through the courtyard and took the staircase up to the first floor I would be welcomed by the young lady herself. She regretted, in a voice like poisoned honey, her duties made her stay at the front of the building or she would have been honoured to show me the way. I crossed a courtyard heaped on all sides with filthy snow. A skinny, tethered dalmatian barked at me. This was an older type of building and rather pleasant. I immediately felt safe here. I wished my own lodgings had the same air of security.
I found the appropriate landing and the door on which Marya Vorotinsky and her friend Elena Andreyovna Vlasenkova had placed their neatly hand-lettered name-plates. I turned the key which rang a bell on the other side of the door. I waited. Then a small girl, very pretty, with huge blue eyes and brown wavy hair, wearing a simple brown velvet dress we used to call ‘convent best’, offered me one of the widest, most open smiles I had ever received and bowed me into the apartment. ‘You must be M’sieu Kryscheff? I am Lena Vlasenkova and very pleased to meet you.’
I kissed her hand, ‘I am enchanted, mademoiselle.’ I spoke French.
She said in delight, ‘You are not Russian!’
‘I am Russian through and through.’
‘Your French is perfect.’
‘I have a talent for languages.’ I removed my hat and coat and gave them to her. We entered a light, airy room heated by a beautiful Dutch stove, each tile individually painted and fired, showing scenes of Netherlands country life. There were peasant fabrics everywhere. The pictures on the wall were fine, conventional prints of Russian rural subjects. The place was a wonderful haven. I immediately conceived a desire to stay there forever. Then from the next room emerged, in a dark green dress trimmed with French lace, my oval-eyed acquaintance from the Kiev-Petrograd Express. ‘My dear friend! Why take so long to call on us?’
She stepped forward and shook me warmly by the hand. She did this, I suspected, to impress Lena Andreyovna, whose face still wore the same broad, merry grin.
‘I have had reasons for not making myself too conspicuous. It has been impossible ...’
‘Of course. We understand absolutely.’
Both she and Lena Andreyovna seemed to know more about my ‘secret life’ than I did. I wondered if I had said anything on the train which I had now forgotten. I became fairly cautious.
‘The day is not far off now,’ Lena Andreyovna murmured as she seated herself on the couch, smoothing her skirt under her.
‘No, indeed,’ I said.
‘You will have some tea, M’sieu Kryscheff?’ asked Marya Vorotinsky. ‘I am sorry we have nothing else to drink.’
‘Tea would be most welcome.’
‘It’s ready,’ said Lena Andreyovna. ‘I’ll fetch the glasses.’ She sprang up and returned rapidly with a tray on which were three glasses in wicker holders. The big copper samovar steamed on the stove.
‘You look tired, tovaritch,’ said Marya. ‘You’ve been working hard?’ She used a term which was in general use at the time, but was particularly popular with revolutionaries of the Social-Democrat and Social Revolutionary parties. However, it had no particular significance. As I sat upon the couch and sipped the excellent tea, I nodded. ‘I have had a great deal to do.’
‘You know you can count on us for any help,’ said Marya intensely. ‘We’re entirely at your service.’
I was impressed by the generosity of her statement, the passion with which she made it. ‘I’m much obliged to you.’ I wondered if they shared a bedroom. It was likely. I found them both attractive not so much for their physical looks as for the quality of youthful enthusiasm and innocence I had been missing. They were already offering to help me when they had absolutely no idea what my work could be.
‘You must not be afraid to tell us to be quiet,’ Lena was earnest, ‘if we say the wrong thing. We respect what you are doing.’
‘I am obliged to you for your discretion.’
‘Have you been travelling abroad?’ asked Marya. She sat on the rug at my feet, her tea-glass beside her. ‘Or have you been in Russia all this time?’
‘Russia,’ I said, ‘chiefly.’
‘You can stay here if you need to,’ Lena said. ‘We have discussed it. We think we should let you know that. It could be of use.’
‘Again, I am much obliged.’ It did not really matter to me what they thought my work was. They were offering me everything I had hoped to find. I could not believe my good fortune. I guessed that they thought me some sort of special courier for the military, some engineer working on a mysterious secret weapon, or that I was an envoy for the Tsar himself. It did not matter. If I wished I could come here, spend whole days here. Possibly, in time, I should be able to spend nights here. I wondered to which girl I should show most attention. One should always be seen to be courting the girl one does not actually want. Both had their merits. I decided it would only be polite to pay most attention to my original acquaintance. It would be far safer for me then if Lena succumbed. She knew even less about me than her friend. I luxuriated in their attention for two or three hours. Then, remembering I had agreed to meet Kolya at The Harlequinade’s Retreat, I made reluctant excuses. I left their innocence, their security, their admiration, behind me. I walked on air as I headed for the cabaret. That night, I decided, I would take the best girl in the house and enjoy myself so thoroughly she would not be able to move a muscle by the morning. I felt like the Tsar as I descended the steps to be greeted by the usual friends.
I had some bad absinthe but a very satisfactory whore. With a new supply of cocaine in my velvet pocket, I returned to my lodgings, entering with the key Madame Zinovieff, after much persuasion, had given me. I found four letters of different dates waiting for me in the little black tin box, decorated with painted roses, which my landlady had hung on the wall for guests’ correspondence. I was replete and had not felt so physically well for days. In my room I tested my lamp to see if any oil remained. I decided to wait until morning to read the letters. I slept better than usual and I awakened early. I opened the letters, laid them before me on the quilt. The first two were from Esmé, the third was from my mother. The fourth, surprisingly, was from Uncle Semya. Esmé was at a hospital treating our wounded, as well as German prisoners on Darnitsa across the Dnieper from Kiev. She said they all seemed alike, pathetic and shocked. It was hard to feel the Germans were anything but wretched slaves, forced to fight by rapacious masters. Our own Russian soldiers, she said, were ‘splendidly courageous and always cheerful, true Russians through and through’. The letter from my mother said her health had improved. I was not to worry; she had a slight chill, but doubtless that was the winter. The river was frozen, she said. She hoped that food supplies were easier to obtain in Petrograd. Since Brusilov’s advances against the Germans she had expected improvements. I was to eat, she begged, anything I could. I was to eat ‘for her’. The letter from Uncle Semya was cryptic. Everyone in Odessa was fine. The War made things difficult but the ‘Rumanian decision’ (to change sides) had improved morale all round. There had been minor pogroms by private groups, but nothing like those of ten years before. Happily the wrath of the people was turned against anyone of German origin. It was surprising, he added with his characteristically dry humour, how many more Russians now occupied Odessa than before the War. Dr Cornelius had managed to leave the country. Things seemed to be improving, he said, but there must still be contingency plans. He might need me to journey abroad on his behalf. He would arrange all necessary papers. He knew he could call on me when the need arose.