‘I love you too, Maxim.’ She still seemed distracted. Perhaps she was resisting the meaning of my news.
‘I’ll stay, my darling, if you need me.’
She was brave, my little girl. ‘No. That would be wrong. I want you to go. I’ll join you soon. You must fulfil your destiny. It lies in America now.’
‘You’re behaving splendidly.’ I had expected tears.
‘It’s for the best,’ she said flatly.
I reached out and touched my fingers to her lips. She kissed them, glancing up at me with a strange, almost tragic, expression. Then she gasped and dropped her head. I held her shoulder. ‘You won’t notice I’m gone. You’ll know I’m with you in spirit the whole time. I love you, Esmé.’
‘I always feel you’re with me.’ Her voice was small, sounding oddly ashamed. Her response was mystifying and yet touching. ‘You must try not to miss me,’ I said.
‘You’re not leaving me for good, are you Maxim?’
‘Never! We shall be married one day. When you’re legally old enough.’ I smiled. ‘Perhaps in America where the age of consent is lower. That might be best. Would you like to be married in the Wild West? With Indian braves for guests? In a little wooden church on the plains?’
‘That would be wonderfully romantic.’ She stood up. Suddenly shy, she took my hand. ‘Let’s go to bed now.’
Our evening was beautiful in the peace and delicacy of our love-making. It had been the same with Kolya. There is a kind of release when lovers are about to separate for a while.
Oh, Esmé, my sister. My wistful spirit. My ideal. I never wanted you to be a woman. They took you and forced your face into the dirt and horror of the world. You said you were awake at last. But what is wrong with a dream? It harmed no one. It leaves no stain. Why talk of death when it is inevitable? What drives these people to spread despondent news like rats spread plague? Why should we know fear? They tore me from beauty and hope. With whips and pistols they drove me from my childhood, into this unbearable, cold, futureless wasteland. Children are trudging through the mud of the twentieth century; trudge across the wreckage of the world, homeless and without love. Questo dev’essere un errore. Non mi dimentichi. Men ken platsn!
It poured all the way to Cherbourg: waves of light rain drifting like smoke across meadows and woods as the bluebells of France bloomed and the trees came to furious leaf. The train was warm. It smelled of coal and garlic and old women’s perfume. My brave little girl had stood with Kolya on the platform, waving a handkerchief, turning and smiling suddenly at my friend as if he had made a joke. He was frozen in black worsted, hat on head, hands in pockets, his white face expressionless as he watched the train pull out. Esmé, in red and white, leapt like a flag at a fete; she seemed still to be bouncing as the train curved and I lost sight of her. I was not at that moment much distressed. The prospect of travel as usual drove all other thoughts away. I refused to brood on that disaster which overtook my first real chance of public success. It would have produced unnecessary melancholia at best, insanity at worst. So I sat back in my seat, raised my hat to the three maiden ladies going to visit their sisters, to the dignified schoolboy sitting with Zola in his hand, and then took an interest in the countryside.
I looked on the bright side. I was, after all, Maxim Arturovitch Pyatnitski, a citizen of France, a man of affairs, on my way to catch a ship. The scandal would be forgotten. My achievements would be remembered. Presently, I was well dressed, carried my patents in my luggage, together with my Georgian pistols. There was no need to waste time on regrets. I was a free man. I was twenty-one years old. I had experienced more than most people do in a long life. And in America my diplomas, my honourable War record, would be even more impressive than in Europe. The sisters, when they spoke to me, were plainly admiring of my bearing and my appearance. When the train arrived I helped them onto the platform before attending to my own affairs. With a whole entourage of porters I marched from station to docks. It was impossible to miss my ship. She dwarfed every building, every piece of machinery in the port. I had never seen a ship so huge. I stared upwards, trying to make out the details of her decks. Little white faces peered back from far away. The Mauretania was a massive wall of dark metal topped by terraces of white and gold: the monstrous nine deck’d city as Kipling described her. Having served creditably throughout the War she was back in private service again; still the ship for whom most travellers had the greatest affection, particularly now, since cowardly U-boats had sunk her sister, the Lusitania. Leading my porters, I ascended the ramp specially prepared for First Class passengers. Entering an arch as tall as any palace’s I was greeted by a uniformed steward who inspected my ticket then led me towards the First Class boat deck. In the harbour intrusive tugboat horns were contentious and ill-mannered beyond the fading mist. My ship’s brass, woodwork, impeccable paint and silvered metal, glowed with an inner radiance, as if she were a living beast. I never knew any security greater than I experienced on entering my stateroom.
Having tipped steward and porters and stopped to look through the porthole at Cherbourg’s roofs and steeples, I lay down on a wide bed. I lit a cigarette. I did not care if my voyage took a year or more. Momentarily there came a tremendous, unexpected pang, as I realised neither Esmé nor Kolya were here to share my impressions; but a little cocaine soon helped me pull myself together. I was determined to be positive, to enjoy every moment of my stay on board the floating city. After all, I had no clear idea of what I might have to deal with when I arrived. I washed and changed my clothes.
Two hours later the bustle of the ship suddenly grew still. Anxious not to miss the experience I stepped outside my cabin just as the shorelines were let go. I went to join other passengers at the forward rails. Tugs were towing us slowly out to open water. The sun was dull, diffused, a splash of orange near the horizon. The sea was grey and white, alive with birds. The ship’s horns sounded a triumph, a farewell. When the hawsers were released, humming and hissing, they curled away and sliced into the waves, to be hauled in by invisible winches. The Mauretania dipped her prow, then rose gracefully. A breeze-borne spray striking our faces, we cheered with delight. Already there was a sense of comradeship between us, as there must always be on such a vessel. We moved into magical twilight. Slowly battery upon battery of electric bulbs blossomed everywhere on the ship. She was magnificent. She was a fabulous, unworldly apparition. She turned, this dignified aristocrat, towards the sunset and the West. I went below. I wished to put the final touches to my costume before dinner.
I inspected myself carefully as I tied my tie. I was not dissatisfied, for I was undeniably handsome. I had an excellent figure, my high forehead spoke of brains and breeding, my strong nose of aggressive but fair-minded confidence, my dark eyes of romantic sensitivity. I could mix easily with nobleman and intellectual alike. Straightening my back, I gave a final salute to France. I was more than glad to leave that land of haughty thieves with soft hands and old names. Now I was breathing the clean air of the ocean. This was the first time since leaving Odessa that I could resume my full title without fear of jealousy, cynicism or assassination. Tonight it would not be considered in good taste to wear uniform, but I would wear one tomorrow.
At length, in crisp and well cut evening dress, I strolled wide white and brass companionways. The drums and bass fiddle of an orchestra issued from the far off dining-salon. They were playing a waltz. I almost wept with relief. Raucous jazz, dazzling cubist colours, smart nonsense, Constructivist distortions, all were abolished here. This was the world of breeding and affluence I had always prepared myself, for, since a child in Kiev. Until now it had always been snatched from me by the hands of the ignorant mob or the over sophisticated bourgeois banker. I was, I will admit, in an elevated state of mind. I experienced feelings which I can only describe as holy. I felt I had attained something very close to a state of grace.