‘OK, here’s the game. These are the surveillance reports of my agents. Let me read what my files say about a certain person I will call Madame X. You have to guess her real name.’ He took a breath, his eyes twinkling, then lowered his voice theatrically. ‘After following the erotic religion of Arzabyshev’s novel Sanin and taking part in sexual debauchery, she embraced the “Eastern” teachings of the so-called healer Madame Aspasia del Balzo, who revealed through a process called spiritual retrogression that in a former life Mrs X had been the handmaiden of Mary Magdalene and then the bodice-designer of Joan of Arc.’
‘That’s too easy! Madame X is my mother,’ said Sashenka. Her nostrils flared and Sagan noticed her lips never quite seemed to close. He turned back to his file.
‘In a table-turning session, Madame Aspasia introduced Baroness Zeitlin to Julius Caesar, who told her not to allow her daughter Sashenka to mock their psychic sessions.’
‘You’re making it up, Captain,’ said Sashenka drily.
‘In the lunatic asylum of Piter, we don’t need to make anything up. You appear quite often in this file, mademoiselle, or should I say Comrade Zeitlin. Here we are again. Baroness Zeitlin continues to pursue any road to happiness offered to her. Our investigations reveal that Madame del Balzo was formerly Beryl Crump, illegitimate daughter of Fineas O’Hara Crump, an Irish undertaker from Baltimore, whereabouts unknown. After embracing the teachings of the French hierophant doctor Monsieur Philippe and then the Tibetan healer Dr Badmaev, Baroness Zeitlin is now a follower of the peasant known to his adepts as “Elder”, whom she asked to exorcize the evil spirits of her daughter Sashenka who she says despises her and has destroyed her spiritual well-being.’
‘You’ve made me laugh under interrogation,’ Sashenka said, looking solemn. ‘But don’t think that you’ve got me that easily.’
Sagan spun the file on to his desk, sat back and held up his hands. ‘Apologies. I wouldn’t for a second underestimate you. I admired your article in the illegal Rabochnii Put – Workers’ Path – newspaper.’ He drew out a grubby tabloid journal headed with a red star. ‘Title: “The Science of Dialectical Materialism, the Cannibalistic Imperialist Civil War, and Menshevik Betrayal of the Proletarian Vanguard”.’
‘I never wrote that,’ she protested.
‘Of course not. But it’s very thorough and I understand from one of our agents in Zurich that your Lenin was quite impressed. I don’t imagine any other girls at the Smolny Institute could write such an essay, quoting from Plekhanov, Engels, Bebel, Jack London and Lenin – and that’s just the first page. I don’t mean to patronize.’
‘I said I didn’t write it.’
‘It’s signed Tovarish Pesets. Comrade Snowfox. Your shadows tell me you always wear an Arctic fox fur, a gift from an indulgent father perhaps?’
‘A frivolous nom de révolution. Not mine.’
‘Come on, Sashenka – if I may call you that. No man would choose that name: we’ve got Comrade Stone – Kamenev, and Comrade Steel – Stalin, both of whom I have personally despatched to Siberia. And Comrade Molotov – the Hammer. Do you know their real names?’
‘No, I—’
‘Our Special Section knows everything about your Party. It’s riddled with our informers. So back to “Comrade Snowfox”. Not many women in the Party could carry it off. Alexandra Kollontai perhaps, but we know her revolutionary codename. Anyway she’s in exile and you’re here. By the way, have you read her Love of the Worker Bees?’
‘Of course I have,’ Sashenka replied, sitting up straight. ‘Who hasn’t?’
‘But I imagine all that free love is more your mother’s style?’
‘What my mother does is her own business, and as to my private life, I don’t have one. I don’t want one. All that disgusts me. I despise such trivia.’
The ash-grey eyes looked through him again. There is no one as sanctimonious as a teenage idealist (especially one who is a rich banker’s precious daughter), reflected Sagan. He was impressed with her game, yet was not quite sure what to do: should he release her or keep working on her? She might just be the minnow to hook some bigger fish.
‘You know your parents and uncle Gideon Zeitlin all tried to get you released last night.’
‘Mama? I’m surprised she’d bother …’
‘Sergeant Ivanov! Have you got last night’s report from Rasputin’s place?’ Ivanov clomped into the room with the file. Sagan leafed quickly through handwritten papers. ‘Here we are. Report of Agent Petrovsky: Dark One – that’s our codename for Rasputin in case you hadn’t guessed – talked to Ariadna Zeitlin, Jewess, wife of the industrialist, and acknowledged she had a special subject to discuss. But after a private session with the Dark One on the subject of sin and an unruly scene on the arrival of Madame Lupkina, Zeitlin, accompanied by the American Countess Loris, left the Dark One’s apartment at 3.33 a.m. and was driven to the Aquarium nightclub and then the Astoria Hotel, Mariinsky Square, in the same Russo-Balt landaulet motor car. Both appeared intoxicated. They visited the suite of Guards Captain Dvinsky, cardsharp and speculator, where … champagne ordered … blah, blah … they left at 5.30 a.m. The Jewess Zeitlin’s stockings were torn and her clothes were in a disordered state. She was driven back to the Zeitlin residence in Greater Maritime Street and the car then conveyed the American to her husband’s apartment on Millionaya, Millionaires’ Row …’
‘But … she never mentioned me?’
Sagan shook his head. ‘No – although her American friend did. Your father was more effective. But,’ he raised a finger as her face lit up in expectation, ‘you’re staying right here. Only as a favour to you, of course. It would ruin your credibility with your comrade revolutionaries if I released you too soon.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘If I do release you now, they may think you’ve become one of my double agents – and then they’d have to rub you out. Don’t think they’d be kinder because you’re a schoolgirl. They’re ice cold. Or they’d assume your rich parents scurried to Rasputin or Andronnikov and bought you out. They’d think – quite rightly in my view – that you’re just a frivolous dilettante. So I’ll be doing you a favour when I make sure you get those five years in the Arctic.’
He watched the flush creep up her neck, flood her cheeks and burn her temples. She’s frightened, he thought, pleased with himself.
‘That would be an honour. I’m brave and fear neither knife nor fire,’ she said, quoting Zemfira in Pushkin’s ‘Gypsies’. ‘Besides, I’ll escape. Everyone does.’
‘Not from there you won’t … Zemfira. It’s more likely you’ll die up there. You’ll be buried by strangers in a shallow unmarked grave on the taiga. You’ll never lead any revolutions, never marry, never have children – your very presence on this earth a waste of the time, money and care your family have expended on it.’
He saw a shudder pass right through her from shoulder to shoulder. He allowed the silence to develop.
‘What do you want from me?’ she asked, her voice shrill with nerves.
‘To talk. That’s all,’ he said. ‘I’m interested in your views, Comrade Snowfox. In what someone like you thinks of this regime. What you read. How you see the future. The world’s changing. You and I – whatever our beliefs – are the future.’
‘But you and I couldn’t be more different,’ she exclaimed. ‘You believe in the Tsars and landowners and exploiters. You’re the secret fist of this disgusting empire, while I believe it’s doomed and soon it’ll come crashing down. Then the people will rule!’
‘Actually we’d probably agree on many things, Sashenka. I too know things must change.’
‘History will change the world as surely as the sun rises,’ she said. ‘The classes will vanish. Justice will rule. The Tsars, the princes, my parents and their depraved world, and nobility like you …’ She stopped abruptly as if she had said too much.
‘Isn’t life strange? I shouldn’t be saying this at all but we probably want
the same things, Sashenka. We probably even read the same books. I adore Gorky and Leonid Andreyev. And Mayakovsky.’
‘But I love Mayakovsky!’
‘I was in the Stray Dog cellar bar the night he declaimed his poems – and do you know, I wept. I wasn’t in uniform of course! But yes, I wept at the sheer courage and beauty of it. You’ve been to the Stray Dog of course?’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Oh!’ Sagan feigned surprise with a fleck of disappointment. ‘I don’t suppose Mendel is too interested in poetry.’
‘He and I don’t have time to visit smoky cabarets,’ she said, sulkily.
‘I wish I could take you,’ he told her. ‘But you said you loved Mayakovsky? My real favourite is
Whorehouse after whorehouse
With six-storey-high fauns daring dances …
– and she took up the poem, enthusiastically:
Stage Manager! The hearse is ready
Put more widows in the crowds!
There aren’t enough there!
No one ever asked
That victory be …
– and Sagan picked up the verse again:
Inscribed for our homeland
To an armless stump left from the bloody banquet.
What the hell good is it?
Sashenka marked the rhythm with both hands, flushed with the passion of the words. A vision, thought Sagan, of rebellious, defiant youth.
‘Well, well, and I thought you were just a silly schoolgirl,’ he said, slowly.
There was a knock on the door. Ivanov strode in and gave Sagan a note. He rose briskly and tossed his files on to his desk, sending the particles of dust, suspended in the sunlight, into little whirlwinds.
‘Well,’ said Sagan, ‘that’s that. Goodbye.’
Sashenka seemed indignant. ‘You’re sending me back? But you haven’t even asked me anything.’
‘When did your uncle Mendel Barmakid recruit you to the Russian Socialist Democratic Workers’ Party? May 1916. How did he escape from exile? By reindeer sleigh, steamship, train (second-class ticket, no less). Don’t worry your pretty eyes, Comrade Snowfox, we know it all. I’m not going to waste any more time trying to interrogate you.’ Sagan pretended to be slightly exasperated while actually he was well satisfied. He had got exactly what he wanted from their meeting. ‘But I’ve enjoyed our conversation greatly. I think we should talk about poetry again very soon.’
15
Sashenka swathed herself in her snowfox stole and Orenburg shawl as the chief warder held open her sable coat. Stepping into its sleek silk-lined warmth was like sinking into a bath of warm milk. She shivered at the pleasure of it, scarcely aware of the warblings of Sergeant Volkov about ‘politicals’ and ‘criminals’, Swiss chocolates and Brocard’s cologne (which he had applied liberally for just this moment).
Sashenka’s arrival at the Kresty seemed decades ago, not just the previous night. And when the sergeant said, ‘You see, I’m not your typical prison warder,’ she suddenly wanted to hug him. He handed her the canvas book bag.
As she left the prison, she felt she was floating on air. Warders bowed. Door after door opened, bringing the light closer. Gendarmes wielded giant keys on swinging keyrings, locks ground open. The gendarme at the counter actually touched the brim of his cap. Everyone seemed to wish her well, as if she was a scholar leaving a school for the last time.
Who would meet her? she wondered. Papa? Flek, the family lawyer? Lala? But before she could even formulate a prediction, Uncle Gideon was opening his strapping arms at full span and dancing towards her, almost falling sideways as if the world was tilting. He wrapped her in his fur, his beard scratching her neck, almost lifting her off the ground.
‘Oh my heart!’ he bellowed, regardless of the gendarmes. ‘There she is! Come on! Everyone’s waiting!’ At that moment, she loved his cognac-and-cigars scent and inhaled it hungrily.
And then she was outside in the freezing light of northern winter. Her father’s Russo-Balt landaulet, with chains on its wheels against the ice, lurched forward. Pantameilion, a flash of scarlet and gold braid, ran round to open the door and Sashenka almost collapsed into that leather-lined, sweet-smelling compartment with its fresh carnations in the silver vase. Lala’s arms enveloped her and Uncle Gideon climbed into the front seat, swigged some brandy from his flask and took up the speaking tube.
‘Home, Pantameilion, you young ladykiller! Fuck Mendel! Fuck the Revolution and all the ideeeots!’ Lala rolled her eyes and the two women laughed.
As they crossed the bridge, Lala handed Sashenka the tin of Huntley & Palmers and her babushka Miriam’s Yiddish honeycakes. She ate every delicacy, thinking that she had never so loved the spire of the Admiralty, the rococo glory of the Winter Palace – and the golden dome of St Isaac’s. She was going home. She was free!
Uncle Gideon threw open the door at Greater Maritime Street as Sashenka, running up the steps, rushed past Leonid, the old butler who, with tears in his eyes, bowed low from the waist like a village muzhik before his young mistress. Gideon tossed his shaggy furs at the butler, who almost crumpled under the weight, and demanded one of the footmen help him pull off his boots.
Sashenka, feeling like the little girl who was occasionally presented to her busy father, ran to his study. The door was open. She prayed he was there. She did not know what she would do if he wasn’t. But he was. Zeitlin, in winged collar and spats, was listening to Flek.
‘Well, Samuil, the prison governor demanded four hundred,’ said the toad-like family lawyer.
‘Small change compared with Andronnikov …’ But then Zeitlin saw her. ‘Thank God, you’re here, my darling Lisichka-sestrichka – Little Fox Sister!’ he said, reverting to one of her childhood nicknames. He opened his arms and she leaned into him, feeling his tidy moustache on her cheek, bathing in his familiar cologne, pressing her lips against his slightly rough skin. ‘Let’s get your coat off before we talk,’ he said, releasing himself from her arms and leading her into the hall. Leonid, following dutifully in her wake, removed her coat, stole and shawl, and then she noticed her father was looking her up and down distastefully, his nostrils twitching. Sashenka had quite forgotten that she was still wearing her soiled Smolny pinafore. Suddenly she could smell the filth of prison that clung about her.
‘Oh Sashenka, is that blood?’ her father exclaimed.
‘Oh dearest, we must get you bathed and changed,’ cried Lala in her high breathy voice. ‘Luda, draw a bath at once.’
‘Sashenka,’ murmured Zeitlin. ‘Thank God we got you out.’
She yearned to wash yet she stood still, revelling in the shock of her father and the servants. ‘Yes!’ she proclaimed, her voice breaking. ‘I’ve been to prison, I’ve seen the tombs that are the Tsar’s jails. I’m no longer the Smolny girl you thought I was!’
In the silence that followed, Lala took Sashenka’s hands and led her upstairs to the third floor, which was their own country. Up here, every worn piece of carpet, every crack on the landing walls, the damp stain on the pink wallpaper of her bedroom with its playful pictures of ponies and rabbits, the yellowed enamel of the basin in her English washstand, reminded Sashenka of her childhood with Lala, who had decorated her room to create a loving sanctuary for an only child.
The landing already smelt of Pears bath essence and Epsom Salts. Lala brought her straight into the bathroom, which was lined with the most indulgent British toiletry products, beautiful blue and amber and green bottles of lotions and oils and essences. The chunky bar of Pears soap, brown, cracked, beloved, waited on the wooden bathrack.
‘What are we having today?’ asked Sashenka.
‘Same as always,’ replied Lala. Sashenka, even though she now regarded herself as an adult, did not resist as Lala undressed her and handed her stinking clothes to Luda.
‘Burn them, will you, girl,’ Lala said.
Sashenka loved the feel of the soft carpet under her feet and the misty essences curling around her. She
glanced at her nakedness in the foggy mirror and winced at a body she preferred not to see as Lala helped her into the bath. The waters were so hot, the bath (English again, imported from Bond Street) so deep that immediately she closed her eyes and lay back.
‘Darling Sashenka, I know you’re tired,’ said Lala, ‘but just tell me, what happened? Are you all right? I was so worried …’ And she burst into tears, large teardrops trickling down her wide cheeks.
Sashenka sat up and kissed the tears away. ‘Don’t worry, Lala. I was fine …’ But as she settled into her bath, her mind travelled back to her final conversation with Mendel last summer holidays …
It had been soomerki, that beautiful word for summer dusk. The oriole sang in the pine forests. Otherwise, it was quiet in the lilac light.
Sashenka had been lying in the hammock behind their house at Zemblishino, rocking gently and reading Mayakovsky’s poetry to herself, when the sleepy swinging stopped. Mendel had his hand on the hammock.
‘You’re ready,’ he said, sucking on a cigarette. ‘When we get back to the city, you’ll take on some workers’ circles so you can teach them what you know. Then you’ll join the Party.’
‘Not just because I’m your niece?’
‘Family and sentiment mean nothing to me,’ he replied. ‘What are such things compared to the course of history itself?’
‘But what about Mama and Papa?’
‘What about them? Your father is the arch exploiter and bloodsucker of the working class and your mother – yes, my own sister – is a degenerate haute bourgeoise. They’re enemies of the science of history. They’re irrelevant. Understand that and you’re free of them for ever.’
He handed her a pamphlet with the same title as the first book he had given her weeks earlier: ‘What Is to Be Done? Burning Questions of Our Party’ by Lenin. ‘Read it. You’ll see that to be a Bolshevik is like being a knight in a secret military-religious order, a knight of the grail.’
And sure enough, in the weeks that followed, she had felt the joy of being an austere and merciless professional in Lenin’s secret vanguard.