Byzantium Endures (24 page)

‘I love you,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘You know that you love me.’

‘All men are brothers, Sergei Andreyovitch. But we are almost complete strangers.’ I began to crawl over his body. My hands touched the carpet. I felt his hand on my back. It began to caress my bottom.

‘You are beautiful,’ he said.

‘I’ll call the steward,’ I suggested. I stood up and reached for the gas. I lit it. ‘Some black coffee will make a new man of you.’

‘What do you know of men?’ The light illuminated his heavy, sulking features. He glared at me from beneath hooded eyes. ‘Why do you play such games? Go on, call the steward. Have me put in prison.’

‘Prison?’ I was mystified. ‘What for?’ He could not go to prison for trying to keep me warm in bed. I had an inkling he wished to make love to me, of course, but I was not experienced enough to be sure.

He looked at me with lugubrious gratitude. ‘Thank you, at least, for that.’

I had learned tact in Odessa, so I did not push the point. However, I wished to escape the oppressive atmosphere, so I donned my dressing-gown and slippers and opened the door.

He gasped. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘Stretch my legs,’ I said. ‘Get fresh air. I suggest you resume your own bed, Seryozha.’

‘Thank you.’

As I left he was beginning to climb unsteadily back to his bunk.

Walking along the corridor and looking out at the grey banks of snow through the frost on the windows, I felt at once confused and elated. I appeared to have put Sergei Andreyovitch in my debt. I did not know quite how, but I was prepared to exploit the situation if the opportunity arose. I had no security. I would have to fend for myself in St Petersburg and the more well-connected friends I could make, the better it would be for me.

As I stood at the window I saw a shadow appear at the far end of the corridor and a young woman, wearing a red and green robe, with her dark hair bound on top of her head, came walking slowly towards me. She was a little older than me, round-faced and pleasant, with oval brown eyes and large even teeth. She smiled at me. ‘You can’t sleep?’

‘I seemed to be stifling.’ I nodded back at my coupé.

‘I’m travelling with my awful old nanyana,’ she whispered. ‘She’s a peasant, really, though she’s from Scotland. But she has all those habits. Ugh!’

‘Habits?’

‘She speaks in English all the time. In her sleep.’

‘Scarcely a peasant habit.’ I was amused.

‘In England, surely, it is?’

This encounter began to seem as illogical as the one I had just escaped. ‘They have peasants in England,’ I told her. ‘Although they are more refined than ours.’

‘You have been to England?’

‘I am familiar with that country.’ This was true. I owed my familiarity primarily to
Pearson’s
and Captain Brown.

I had impressed her. ‘This is the first time I have travelled. We are from Moldavia, you know. We have some land there. A house. The country is very pretty. Do you know it?’

I regretted that I did not.

‘You’d love it. But it’s dull. Father retired there. Before that, he had travelled, too. In England. That’s where he found my nanyana. She’s not a proper Scottish governess. She looked after me because Mother was frequently in poor health.’

‘Your mother is dead?’

‘Certainly not. She’s as fit as a fiddle. She had anaemia. Now she’s cured. She rides a great deal. She has started an English hunt. With dogs and horses and red coats and all that. But I think you need a different sort of fox.’

‘The English fox is a wary little beast,’ I said. ‘And much admired.’

She drew a pendant-watch from her bosom, it’s gone midnight.’

I was anxious to keep her company. ‘You are travelling on from Peter?’ I asked.

‘No. I’m to go to university there.’

‘At the Koyorsy?’ I had familiarised myself with most of the other seats of learning in the capital. The Koyorsy was for women.

‘Yes!’ She was delighted.

‘I am also a student,’ I said. ‘I shall be at the Polytechnic. Although rather younger than most, I have a special medal.’

She was not impressed. Many people in those days saw a Polytechnic as a rather low-grade sort of academy. Science and engineering are still not regarded, in many walks of life, as suitable subjects of study for gentle-people.

‘The War,’ I said, ‘requires new kinds of weapons. And new kinds of men to develop them. That is why I have been called to Peter.’

She giggled. ‘You’re a boy.’

‘I have already flown my own aeroplane,’ I told her. ‘Perhaps you read about it last year? In Kiev. I flew for some minutes in an entirely new type of machine which I designed myself. It was in all the papers.’

‘I remember something about a new kind of flying machine. It was in Kiev, yes.’

‘You are speaking to its inventor.’

I had won her over. She said with some coyness, ‘I can’t recall your name ...’

This, of course, was difficult. I hesitated.

She raised a hand over her mouth, ‘I am so sorry. You are not allowed, perhaps ... The War?’

I bowed, ‘I am not at this point my own master. I can only give you the name by which I am known in the world.’

‘Spies?’

‘There is some slight chance of it, mademoiselle.’

‘My name is Marya Varvorovna Vorotinsky.’

I bowed. ‘You may call me Dimitri Mitrofanovitch Kryscheff. It is the name under which I will go in St Petersburg.’

She was delighted by the romance. Quite without deliberate deception I had learned how to appeal to a lady’s sense of mystery. I had turned my whole dilemma to my advantage, with this young girl, at least.

‘Will you be able to visit me in Peter?’ she asked.

‘If you will write down your address, I shall try.’

‘Wait here.’

I waited, my imagination making designs in the frosted windows, my breath adding a further layer to the cotton-wool whiteness surrounding us. Soon she returned with a piece of paper torn from the fly-leaf of a book. I accepted the paper, bowed, and put it into the pocket of my dressing-gown.

‘You must not feel obliged,’ she said, ‘to visit. But I have hardly any friends, you know, in Peter. I hope to make some, of course, at the Koyorsy.’

‘I will do my utmost,’ I told her, ‘to make sure that you are not lonely.’

‘You will be very busy.’

‘Naturally. However, a beautiful, intelligent lady is forever irresistible.’ I flattered her partly from natural courtesy (I have always had a sense of courtesy towards the fair sex) and partly because I remembered Shura’s advice to make contacts with young ladies whose fathers could finance my inventions. This motive might seem ignoble, but in one sense it was absolutely noble. I was prepared to sacrifice myself to further my work in the field of science.

She smiled as I kissed her hand. ‘Nanyana Buchanan is awake,’ she said. ‘She heard me tearing the paper. I must go.’

‘We shall meet again.’

‘I hope so’ - she dropped her voice - ‘M’sieu “Kryscheff”.’

She fled away down the corridor. I was feeling pleased with myself as I returned to my coupé. I had made two excellent and useful contacts already.

My mood was spoiled by the sight of a fat, great-coated major with handle-bar moustaches and a single glaring eye (the other was covered by a cap), stumping up from behind me and growling: ‘You should be in bed, young man. What’s the matter? Think the Boche have captured the train?’

‘I was wondering why we had stopped.’

‘Because of the snow. I’ve been to investigate. We’ll be hours late. Cold’s cracked a rail, apparently. Too many trains. They’re doing what they can. They say. A lot of people working out there now. I’m supposed to be joining my regiment. They’ll be at the front by the time I arrive in Peter.’

As on the Odessa-Kiev express, I would normally have been glad to have spent as much time on the train as possible, but Sergei Andreyovitch’s peculiar behaviour had stressed my nerves.

With some reluctance I returned to my compartment. The dancer lay with his arms thrown out of the bunk, dangling down, a dead swan. I had to dodge past the arm to resume my own bed. I kept the light on for a while as I read an old copy of
Flight
magazine which Captain Brown had found for me. The main article was about Curtiss’s experiments with sea-planes in America. The thought of a ship capable of travelling on air, land and sea had occurred to me before. Under the shadow of Sergei Andreyovitch’s gently swaying limb, I fell asleep planning a gigantic vehicle, part airship, part plane, part locomotive, part ocean-liner. The size of the
Titanic,
it would be capable of flying over obstacles (such as icebergs) and therefore be the safest vessel known to Man. I imagined my name painted on its sides. All I needed were a few industrialists with faith and vision, and I would change the whole nature of travel. No longer would trains be stuck in snow-drifts, reliant on lines and the weather and workmen digging with shovels. At the touch of a switch they would be able to lift into the sky. Was it possible to produce a form of hot-air cannon able to melt the snow in front of a train? The old-fashioned snow-plough blade was not very efficient.

Our Russian trains in those days frequently ran on time no matter what the weather. The War had begun to affect everything very quickly. Or rather, I suspect, the War became an excuse for the inefficient, just as the Revolution was later to supply similar excuses. Now the excuses have somehow become incorporated into the system itself. Delays in trains are deliberate. Part of some five-year-plan to make the rails rust from lack of use. And if the reader should wonder why all the inventions I dreamed of half-a-century ago are still not a reality, do not blame the inventors. Blame the fools who were too lazy to build them; blame the unimaginative bureaucrats who introduced politics into science and instead of developing, for instance, the Zeppelin range of airships, or comfortable flying boats, or high-speed monorail trains, chose to devote their energies to making useless economies. I sometimes think Icarus must have crashed simply because someone supplied him with sub-standard wax.

The train had moved forward a little by morning. At breakfast Sergei Andreyovitch stayed only to take a cup of coffee and then sauntered back to the coupé when his request for a glass of vodka was refused. I guessed he was going to avail himself of his cocaine. Marya Varvorovna gave me a lingering, conspiratorial look, which I found very pleasurable. She sat some tables distant, with her stiff-backed Scottish nanny: a woman who wore plaid as if she were going into battle at Culloden. It was loud enough to be a weapon in its own right. I imagined people were grateful when she wore her street clothes, which were of an ordinary battleship colour. She had a long, red nose, fading red hair and even her eyes had a distinctive red glint. I was glad Marya Varvorovna thought it inappropriate to admit our meeting of the previous night. If the nanny had approached me I believe I should have dived into a snowdrift rather than cope with that hideous creature. Even Marya had been clad in a tartan dress, though of a less vulgar collection of hues. She wore what I later learned was ‘Royal Stuart’. By special decree any non-Scottish commoner is allowed to wear this particular pattern. Nanny, I now know, wore the plaid of her own Buchanan clan. It emphasised the tight sallowness of her skin.

I have never shared the romantic attraction of many Slavs for the Scots. It is an affliction common to most Europeans. I remember in later years meeting an Italian who ran a fish-and-chip shop in the Holborn area of London. This Italian had been so obsessed with the Scots he had kept a complete Highland kit under his bed throughout the Second World War. When the British took his garrison, he simply donned the costume and, complete with a full set of bagpipes, fell in with a column of English troops who accepted him, bizarre accent to boot, as someone separated from a Highland regiment. He was eventually repatriated to England where he started his business which was called
The Cutty Sark,
which means ‘little shirt’ in Gaelic.