I said he was kind to flatter me. ‘Wait until you see the first machine take to the air!’
His handsome features were eager. ‘That will not be long now.’ His principal was currently unable to visit Constantinople but would be in Scutari in a matter of weeks. If I supplied the estimates they would be passed on at once. If all went well, as he was sure it would, I could expect to meet my potential backers and arrange a contract. I assumed he represented a group of international businessmen and for this reason needed to keep his association with them secret. We spent the rest of the evening together. The Count showed considerable familiarity with South Russian problems. He knew both Kiev and Odessa. He had also, it emerged, met Petlyura who was still, he thought, active in some corner of Ukraine. ‘A brave man,’ he said, ‘and a strong nationalist.’
I was tactful. I agreed Petlyura was fighting for what he believed in. I saw no point in airing my own opinions. Count Siniutkin had been a radical in St Petersburg. He had witnessed the consequences of Revolution. Yet he still believed in such causes if they were far enough divorced from his own direct experience. We spoke instead of Kolya, of the people we had known at The Harlequin’s Retreat and The Scarlet Tango. He was sorry the likes of Mandelstam, Mayakovski and Lunarcharsky continued to support Lenin. ‘But some will always cling to a political ideology as firmly as a woman clings to her faith in a worthless man. It is what they wish were true, not what is.’
I agreed. One might almost say he described the tragedy of the whole Russian people. ‘We seem to require religion as a necessity of life,’ said the Count. ‘As others need bread or sex. Apparently it doesn’t matter what form it takes.’
We grew a little drunk. The Baroness began to speak of life at their dacha in Byelorussia and the little country church where she had been married. She described the priest who had run her school, and might have been speaking of God Himself. ‘I am sad Kitty will never know a proper Russian childhood. We were all so fortunate. We thought it would be the same forever.’
‘The Tsar’s sentiments exactly.’ Count Siniutkin darted a sardonic look at me. ‘It’s what led to our present circumstances, isn’t it?’
The Baroness as usual refused to discuss politics. All she knew was they had destroyed her life and taken everything she treasured. ‘I have only Kitty now. And, of course, Simka.’ Sober, she would not have made this sentimental display. Politely the Count ignored her. I was grateful to him. Leda’s emotional state next led her to telling him how she now had ‘two daughters’ to look after and how she enjoyed the responsibility. At this, Siniutkin stood up, making his excuse. He would be in touch soon, he said. He kissed the Baroness’s hand, ‘In the meantime -’ He placed a small chamois bag on the table. ’- from my client.’ He bowed and saluted. ‘Good evening, M. Pyatnitski.’ He walked out into the evening crowd.
The Baroness lifted the leather purse. ‘It’s gold!’ In my little room near the Tower we counted ten sovereigns. I gave her five. ‘Your commission.’
‘Marvellous,’ she said as she loosened the ribbon on her drawers. ‘We can arrange for the children to buy new dresses on Monday.’
This wonderful family charade took root so successfully I considered making it permanent. If the Baroness came to know of and tolerate my carnal affection for Esmé, or at least turned a blind eye, there would be no reason for our ménage not to survive intact forever. Once or twice I came close to hinting at the truth, but held off, for fear of losing the status quo which had been achieved. My nights, as always, were spent side by side with Esmé at Tokatlian’s, but evenings were devoted to the woman Esmé now called ‘aunt’. I decided, moreover, that it was unwise to inform Esmé of my continuing intimacy with Leda. Female jealousy has ruined many of the world’s greatest schemes. While Esmé enjoyed deceiving Leda, I doubted that at her age she would appreciate the irony of her own deception.
A few days later a message from the Count informed me his clients were impressed. We would soon be discussing details. Was I willing to travel a short distance? I replied I would travel across the world if necessary. I met him alone at a bar near the Tephane Fountain. He said his backer’s group could not be certain when they would next be in Scutari, so I must be prepared to leave at short notice for the Asian Shore.
‘If they genuinely want my plane, I’ll drop everything and come at any hour of the night or day.’
‘They think they can be here in about two weeks.’
‘You’ll accompany me to the meeting, Count?’
‘Of course. But rest assured my friend is a man of honour.’
Suspecting his client to be a Jew, I made it clear I was not at all radically prejudiced; neither was I disapproving of another’s religion. In this way I connived unconsciously in my own delusion. Mrs Cornelius often remarked I was my worst enemy. My faith in my fellows, my happiness to live and let live, to offer a helping hand, expecting to get one in return when needed, all proved my undoing. For years I was too ready to explain my ideas to anyone who showed interest. And today who hears of old Pyatnitski? Yet everyone has heard of Lear. People show surprise at my profundity. My remarks are drawn from experience, I tell them. This hatred of Bolshevism is not notional. It is hard-won by a man who understands what it means to suffer under the Reds. I know now I should not have quarrelled in Odessa with my cousin Shura. That, too, was the fault of a girl. My worldly education was thus interrupted at the wrong time. If as a boy I had remained in the city I should have learned realistic caution. Odessa’s catacombs still echo to the murmur of an unfulfilled future; ghosts still tread the Robespierre Steps. Somewhere in the sky over the Nicholas Church flies a solo aeroplane, a graceful thing bearing a young man. His outline black against a yellow sun, he sweeps over the city of sleeping goats, the city of Odysseus. He looks down on streets which are falling to pieces, at houses nobody can repair, at grey wretches standing in the rain for bread which never comes. He weeps for them and his tears are silver. They rush forward. They try to catch the glittering drops. They quarrel amongst themselves; they kill one another for a silver illusion. The youth ceases to weep. Now his laughter is insane as he rises higher into the sky to where it grows black; and then he is gone beyond the horizon. Odessa, city of greed, city of reality. City of what might have been. There was a Jew in Arcadia who held my hand. He knew why his people put a piece of metal in my stomach. They made me cry. Hernikof bleeds and his eyes contract with disbelieving pain. Es tut sehr weh. They made us kneel in the snow. They scourged us with their whips. Brodmann told them. They pushed us into barbed-wire nets and lifted us over their fires like squirming fish, while red-tongued dogs sat on haunches, eager for the flesh to be cooked. I trusted them to release me. I trusted them with my life. I told them the truth. But in those days perhaps I did not know what the truth was. How does one prove one is worthy of keeping one’s own life? In that night, in those deserts, I prayed to stars because I thought they might be angels who would save me. I have done no harm, unless to love is harmful. I have betrayed no one. They betrayed themselves. It is not a crime. I said to them: ‘It is not a crime!’ Still they turned their backs on me. Let them find out what suffering can be. Let them wander as I have wandered. Let them long for dignified death. Brodmann was a wretch. Life is useless for its own sake. In the end dignity is the best one hopes for. But even that is usually denied. They must reinforce their rationale for doing what they do to you; and this means stealing your self-respect if they can. The planet turns. We are too small. I love the universe and all its wonders. I asked for no reward. I only desired to enjoy the gifts God bestowed on me. I am no better, no worse, than Hernikof, surely? Than other men? I could have become that respectable husband, with a handsome wife and two fine daughters, taking the air of the Grande Champs on a Sunday afternoon. I could have been that stockbroker in frock-coat and top-hat, watching his children whirl their hoops beside the Round Pond in Kensington Gardens, or strolling with his wife on his arm in Central Park. I could have had a name, reputation, family, every honour. But to earn them I had to forget my trust in my fellow men. The price, I think, would have been too high.