The Unreal Life of Sergey Nabokov (13 page)

I wondered how long he intended to sustain the absurd fiction of my sex.

He wished to hear all about my school, my classmates, my hobbies. He was most intrigued by my tales of La Karsavina, which made me regret having divulged them. Given his initial reaction, he was exceedingly patient with my stutter.

He also told me about himself, how he had grown up in Paris, and from an early age had adored the works of Tolstoy and Turgenev. All the happier, then, when he found himself posted, after a lively stint in Teheran, as cultural attaché under the employ of Maurice Paléologue, France's ambassador to the Imperial Court.

Seeing he was a diplomat, or at least posing as one, I asked if he had ever known my Uncle Ruka.

“Why, yes,” he told me. “I knew him quite well, in Bokhara. We were guests of the Emir, and once hunted antelope together in the Tien Shan mountains. And when we returned, the Emir provided for our entertainment a band of itinerant singing boys of a type quite common in the region.
Bachi
, I believe they were called. They wore lovely bright costumes,
and groomed themselves as finely as women.”

I was virtually certain my uncle had never been anywhere near Bokhara, as he professed a horror of our Central Asian territories; furthermore, I could scarcely imagine him hunting. But M. Tartuffe, whoever he was, spoke with such assurance that I hadn't the heart to call his account into question.

When we had consumed most of our bottle, and all but a few of the oysters, he instructed the waiter, “Leave us for half an hour.”

“Now,” he said, moving closer to me on the banquette. “Our little moment of truth. What say you to that?” Gently, with finger and thumb, he held my chin and drew close to me, and with the other hand began to disarrange Majesté's carefully arranged folds and pleats.

The reader will imagine that I closed my eyes and awaited the long-awaited inevitable. I did not. Suffice it to say that at the very moment M. Tartuffe brought his lips to mine I revolted. Why? Perhaps my head swirled with a surfeit of images gleaned from the evening. Perhaps the champagne began to nauseate me. Perhaps Dr. Bekhetev and his hypnotic wand made a spectral appearance, urging me to abjure such base temptation. Whatever the case, the Russian Army's retreat from Galicia was accomplished with scarcely less haste or disarray than my own flight from that private suite at Dominic's—to the ribald amusement, I am sure, of the patrons in the main dining room.

I HAD FONDLY IMAGINED THE A BYSSINIANS MIGHT be brought closer by our escapade, but this was not to be the case. Genia was swept so decisively into Yuri Yurev's orbit that Davide and I seldom saw him anymore. It was as if our friend had moved to a foreign land.

Things between the two remaining Abyssinians began to alter as well.

At the Crystal Petal one afternoon, after many coffees and cigarettes, Davide confided, “I don't do it for the money, you know, but for the pleasure of slaking a vicious thirst. Do you follow what I'm saying, Seryosha?”

Strangely enough, in my still-innocent way, I did.

“Haven't you ever wished to peer beyond this city's Potemkin façade? I can take you there. I can be your guide. Just the two of us, and whatever adventures we find. Say you will. Or if not, leave me. Get up this moment, walk away, and do not look back.”

He said this quite theatrically, as was his wont.

I grasped his hand even as my heart fluttered dangerously, and said, “But how could I possibly say no? You've always mattered…”

“Careful,” he warned. “We mustn't get sentimental about what promises to be, after all, a nasty business.”

The next day, with very little in the way of second thoughts, I kept my appointment with perdition.

Huddled together by the washbasins of a dim, aromatic public loo near the Anichkoff Bridge, the stalwart remnant of the Abyssinians smoked cigarettes and observed the variety of men who came, did their business at the urinal trough, shook themselves dry, and left. Most paid us no attention, though now and again one would linger for a few minutes when finished, finally buttoning himself up in disappointment. One elderly gentleman, who had dawdled quite a long time, treated us to an exasperated sigh as he took his leave.

My initial nervous excitement having faded, I began to wonder whether I might not have spent my time more profitably reading a book. I had only the vaguest idea, really, what Davide intended, and was no longer certain I wished any part of it. But then a decent-looking sort would happen through and my interest would return, only to be deflated by his brisk departure.

The already dismal light was fast dwindling when a soldier entered, a handsome dark-haired fellow wearing the distinctive uniform of the Volhynian regiment. I was surprised when he stayed on, looking from time to time over his shoulder toward where we stood. “Finally lightning strikes,” Davide murmured. He flung his cigarette to the floor, crushed it, and sauntered over to the urinal trough. The soldier stood motionless, staring straight ahead. Davide unbuttoned his trousers. The soldier turned his head, looked down, then pivoted his body slightly toward Davide, who mirrored his movement. “You're a lucky one today,” Davide said in a perfectly
reasonable voice. “There's two of us for you.”

“Your friend's quiet over there,” the soldier observed. “You sure he's game?”

“He's not done this before, but he'll quickly loosen up. Take my word for it. Let's go along to the Baths, shall we? You'll soon have ten rubles to spend however you like.”

Out in the open air, the soldier seemed wary. “Perhaps you two should walk ahead,” he suggested.

“There's nothing to worry about,” Davide assured him. “We're not your common types, by any means. You'll be most satisfied.”

“Walk ahead,” he insisted, and Davide and I complied. The baths lay just past Znamenskaya Square.

The door was open; inside, seated on a stool, a bulky man with a large mustache, his meaty arms crossed over his chest, glared at us, then made a gesture as if shooing away flies.

“Don't fear. We'll pay handsomely for the convenience,” Davide announced. “Old Wealth and New Wealth go hunting together. And we don't need your catalog of beauties; as you can see, we've brought our own.” To me he confided sotto voce, “Though be well advised, there are two rather exquisite twin brothers from Kaluga to be had here at a modest price. If ever you're interested.”

Still impassive, the gatekeeper rented us soap and a towel and showed us to a room with a bench, a low wide bed, a washbasin. Davide ordered champagne, but before it even arrived he had begun caressing our soldier, who, when coaxed, gave his name as Kolya.

He was not half so handsome as Oleg, but handsome enough, a rough-hewn specimen blessed with a strong jaw and desperate eyes. He said he came from a village west of Arkhangelsk, which explained the provincial accent.

We stripped and, wrapped in towels, made our way across a slick floor to the pool. Steam rose from the surface of the
oily water. Several big-bellied older men congregated at one end, smoking, tapping their ashes out onto the tiled edge of the pool. Otherwise, the pool was deserted. I love nothing more than a warm solitary bath in a tub. Now I squeamishly immersed myself in unhygienic communal waters. Davide and our soldier seemed unfazed, splashing water on each other, giggling like schoolboys, and at once I was back on the red clay banks of the Oredezh, watching two boys dismount their steeds to cavort in its pure waters. Oblivious to my presence, Davide and Kolya ceased their commotion and moved toward each other to embrace with almost ceremonial gravity. They did not kiss, but leaned their foreheads together, the soldier's large hands kneading Davide's thin buttocks. Slipping from his grasp, Davide took Kolya by the hand and led him from the pool. With a backward look he beckoned me to follow, but I hesitated as the two disappeared into our cubicle. I had as yet done nothing. I could put on my clothes, I could walk out of this dark place into the pale sunlight, I could yet look Father and Dr. Bekhetev in the eye.

But of course my clothes were folded neatly on the bench beside the bed Davide and Kolya had already mounted. I shut the door behind me and sat meekly as they hugged and fondled.

When I reached out to touch Davide's flank he said sharply, “Seryosha, no! Your turn's next.”

As if bitten, I retreated to the bench. I had not realized the extent to which my Abyssinian brother was truly depraved. I watched, first with considerable ardor, later with increasing melancholy as he yielded himself to our soldier's brawn. Nothing had quite prepared me for the shock of that act—the raw exertion, the messiness.

When our soldier had finished with Davide, who sprawled spent across the bed, he beckoned me over. I shook my head. If I had not had the courage to leave, even less had I the courage to venture forward.

“Don't be a fool,” Davide said. “You've already fallen into the lion's den. You might as well enjoy your martyrdom while it lasts.”

Given the circumstances his logic was, I suppose, impeccable. Soon enough Kolya had me on all fours and was using his lion's tongue to thrilling effect.

Once the sweet ordeal was over, Kolya drank champagne from the bottle as Davide and I dressed. We pooled our money, tipped him stupendously, and left him sitting naked, still supernaturally excited and unashamed, poor scoundrel, and looking rather cheerful. Outside on the wooden pavement Davide grinned and announced, “Well, I feel like quite the shriven sinner. And you?”

But I did not know how I felt. Abjectly sorry, deliciously manhandled, rapturously fallen, defiantly unguilty, well-nigh shattered, I walked through the streets of an unchanged city a changed person, a traveler returned from a foreign and fantastical land. But unbeknownst to me, the city had changed in my brief absence as well. A great crowd thronged the square in front of Our Lady of Kazan. Many held tapers. Hymns were being sung. I was in such a daze of my own wonder that for a moment I imagined the assemblage somehow had something to do with Karsavina. Then I realized that strangers were embracing each other, soldiers were kissing civilians, well-heeled gentlemen were dancing with the meanest of droshky drivers. A very solid babushka threw her arms around me and, shaking with sobs, buried her head in my chest. I asked her what was wrong.

“Wrong?” she said. “There's nothing wrong. They've found Rasputin's body drowned in the Neva, God be praised!”

SUCH WERE MY CONFUSIONS AND EXHILARATIONS as the annus horribilis 1917 began to emerge from its hibernal lair. Snow and cold were exceptionally abundant that winter; food and firewood were not. Nearly every day saw a procession through the streets of red banners bearing the slogan BREAD AND PEACE! By late February, an unnerving mix of panic and gloom pervaded the city.

Davide and I had shared more expeditions into the dark continent he called “infernal Petrograd,” but I sensed that he had come to see my presence as a hindrance to his more daring investigations. I gleaned from various hints and asides that he had fallen in with a rowdy crowd of officers; I noted that of late his hands had begun to tremble, and that his gaze had turned strangely vacant.

I had not realized how much I depended on my friends' company till they began to abandon me. We were to be together as Abyssinians one last time. Forget the gathering storm of rumors and pamphlets: for months
my
St. Petersburg had been
abuzz with the news that the great director Meyerhold was staging Lermontov's legendarily unstageable
Masquerade,
and that the male lead was to be undertaken by none other than Yuri Yurev. The arrival of an invitation, on Yurev's stationery but in Genia's hand, to the Alexandrinsky première brought my already considerable excitement to a fever pitch.

My mother adamantly opposed my venturing out that February evening. Her attitude toward the developing crisis had recently swerved from indifference to near hysteria. Father did his best to assure her that the witches' kettle had yet weeks before reaching a boil—if it ever did. “I wouldn't worry, Lyova,” he said. “People will talk this revolution to death long before it ever comes to pass.”

“Perhaps if you were to accompany him,” she said, but immediately regretted her words. “No, no, you must both remain here, where you'll be safe.”

Father replied that he had no intention of attending the performance, as the lead actor's private life was the stuff of sordid rumor. Then he turned to me and said gently, “But I don't suppose there's any danger in your watching him from afar. He's undeniably talented.”

Eventually a compromise was reached: Volkov would convey me to and from the performance in the Benz.

Save for the occasional Cossack patrol, the streets proved reassuringly deserted, the only hint of civic desperation being the long queues already forming in front of bakeries that would not open till dawn.

To my surprise, Volkov addressed me, a liberty my parents strongly discouraged in our servants. “Only hours ago,” he told me hoarsely, “Nevsky was full to the brim with humanity. You wouldn't have believed it. Such a clamor. Such a sea of red flags.” Then he fell silent, as if wishing me to ponder the import of his observation. But as he pulled into the square, the sight of dozens of black automobiles drawn up in rows provoked a
further exclamation. “Like coffins!” he said in a tone of awe. “Like the rows of coffins after the Tsar's coronation, when all those poor revelers died in the stampede in Khodinsky meadow, and His Majesty didn't even cancel the Imperial Ball!”

As recently as a month before, Volkov would never have dared utter such a potentially traitorous aside.

Gaily dressed, my beloved Abyssinians stood on the steps waiting for me.