Watson, Ian - Novel 11 (4 page)

 
          
“Ah,
so the subject forgets?’’ said Felix gaily. “Surely Mike isn’t supposed to stay
in a trance for weeks on end? How cruel to snap him out of it only when the
film’s in the can—and the poor fellow remembering nothing about his
achievement! That wouldn’t be art. It would be a conjuring trick.’’

 
          
Kirilenko
scrutinised Levin’s blithe countenance. How could the main point of the report
in
Knowledge is Power
have so eluded
the man? Kirilenko surmised that Levin was fantasizing him—as a blend of
variety theatre strongman and stage mesmerist. Yes: here was The Stupendous
Victor—stretched out between two chairs with a couple of blocks of concrete on
his chest; and Sonya Suslova, clad in glittering attire, her thighs bare to the
waist, would smash these with a sledge-hammer . . .

 
          
Levin’s
jocular tone said quite clearly: ‘You, Doctor, might be able to direct anybody
to become somebody else—scientifically. But I’m still the real Director. And if
this film isn’t fabulous, then you’re a charlatan.’

 
          
‘Ach,
people’s
tangled,
hidden motives! Sometimes,’ thought Kirilenko,
Tm just too perceptive for my own good . . .’ Yet danger was lurking here:
danger to the Doctor’s own reputation, which naturally he was hoping to
propagandize by means of the proposed film for the sake of his research and
future funding.

 
          
If
Levin was
maladroit
in his handling of the film, or
even mangled it subconsciously out of jealousy, the Doctor’s hard-won
reputation would be injured publicly on film screens through all the Republics
. . .

 
          
It
was clear that he, Kirilenko, was indeed being asked to perform as a stage
hypnotist (all be it from the wings)—this was what Levin the impresario wanted.
But Levin also demanded scientific credibility so that the film would be an
advancement of human knowledge, something socially responsible. These were
mixed motives.

 
          
“No,
no!’’ Sonya protested. Sonya was an enthusiastic young lady but she wasn’t
entirely perceptive yet. . . “Dr Kirilenko has achieved a breakthrough in
technique. From now on the trance subject can call up his alter ego at will.
Just as an actor does,’’ she added grandly, though the acting profession was a
mystery to her. “The human mind isn’t a single psychic system.
It’s
many different systems, all co-operating. Like your own
Film Unit!’’

 
          
Mikhail
smirked at Sergey, who looked upset.

 
          
“So Dr Kirilenko selectively hypnotises the left brain.
But
he leaves the other hemisphere semi-autonomous. This method he calls
‘split-hypnosis’. Split-hypnosis should have important applications to the
treatment of schizophrenia. But obviously it can help in the present case too,
where . . . er . . . Mr Petrov is sane.
And in all cases like
it.’’

 
          
Kirilenko
took over, charmingly. “That’s why I’m so delighted to work with you. To be
quite honest, I was thinking along these same lines myself. But you beat me to
it, you smart fellows! And now, since I’m inexcusably late, perhaps we should
proceed to a demonstration? The first course: the soup. . .
When
shall we begin with, Felix Moseivich?’’

 
          
“When?
Well, now . . .’’

 
          
“No,
I mean: which year?”

 
          
“Oh,
hmm, yes. I see. What do you think, Sergey?”

 
          
“How
about here in
Krasnoyarsk
?
Just before Chekhov sets off for Kansk.”
Sergey thumbed through his notebook. “Let’s
see.
. .
that’ll be . . . yes,
May 29th 1890
.”

 
          
“I
think,” said Felix, “possibly we should slot in slightly earlier . . . just
before
Tomsk
, hmm?”

 
          
Kirilenko
drew an eye patch and an earplug out of his pocket. Sergey shrugged. “It’s all
the same to me.
Tomsk
first, then we’ll jump him forward to
Krasnoyarsk
.”

 
          
“Fine,”
said Kirilenko. “Do we have a tape recorder? Yes . . . Paper? Good. Now, if
you’ll just kindly fix this patch comfortably over your right eye,
Mikhail .
.

 
          
Floods! Watery
desolation
.
..

           
And a bittern, booming out its mad
call like a pregnant cow mooing into an empty barrel.

 
          
Anton’s
felt boots were rotting apart, but he didn’t dare subject his feet to the only
alternative. The leather jackboots he had blithely equipped himself with were
obviously an instrument of torture designed by the Spanish Inquisition to pinch
and amputate one’s pins.

 
          
Plodging
knee-deep, he and the latest driver Yevgeny hauled another pair of neurotic,
shying horses towards some huts on a little hill above the flood water. Anton’s
throat was hoarse from cursing, but this was the only form of encouragement
these beasts understood.

 
          
In
some places the swirling water was deep enough to drown a fellow. With so much
mud churned up, though, there was no telling which places these were. Drizzle
drifted down like a million grey spiders’ silks. Presumably somewhere there was
a proper river crossing.
Somewhere.

 
          
A
tall peasant woman emerged from one of the houses. This was a heavy mud and
clay edifice with a thatched timber roof. Two other such huts stood off from
it, and together with a row of byres these formed a courtyard with litter and
tackle lying about. An upturned sledge rested against a wagon. The place seemed
relatively prosperous.

 
          
From
the porch, the woman hailed them. “Are you the medical assistant?”

 
          
“We’re
lost!” Yevgeny howled back at her. Opening his mouth wide, the more to magnify
their misfortunes, he afforded Anton an eyeful of gums awash with pus due to
pyorrhoea.

 
          
“But
I
am
a doctor!” shouted Anton.

 
          
They
tramped on to a slope of gluey black muck, which admittedly would grow splendid
crops. A few more loud
oaths,
and the horses were out
of the water too, dragging the skidding cart which was Yevgeny’s pride and joy.

 
          
“I’m
going to
Tomsk
,” Anton told the woman.

 
          
“It’s
God’s will! He guided you here.”

 
          
“Ay,
and who’ll guide us away again?” demanded Yevgeny.

 
          
“Oh,
our Boris’ll do that. Just as soon as . . .”

 
          
Oh
yes. Just as soon as his Honour, the Doctor, cures septic appendicitis or
cancer of the spleen or something else equally daunting. Anton felt heavy
chains settle upon him. With as good a grace as he could muster he submitted
and followed the woman indoors.

 
          
Grandpa
lay abed on top of the stove. Four or five kids peered out from a deep and
fuggy shelf slung beneath the ceiling. Three crones, who bore a remarkable
resemblance to the Witches in
Macbeth
,
were huddled round a wooden chest—the parental bed. A sick woman lay moaning on
it. A hairy bull of a man stood about, twiddling his thumbs and sighing. A
spindly youth, who looked as if he had gone for height in the style of an
overcrowded seedling, sat slumped on a bench staring morosely at his reflection
in the blade of a knife. And there was Grandma, clucking away like an old hen,
with Baby swaddled in her lap. The place was disgracefully overcrowded.

 
          
On
closer inspection, Grandma wasn’t actually clucking. Her toothless gums were
smacking away at an impromptu dummy: a twist of cloth with a bread crust in it,
or if Baby was
specially
lucky some bacon rind. Baby
in its mummy cloth was all open mouth and wide liquid eyes. As Anton
approached, Grandma quickly popped the saliva-sodden nib into Baby’s mouth.
Arms bound by its sides, mouth stoppered, Baby now only had his eyes to talk to
the world with.

 
          
Anton
had given up trying to count the number of people in this room. What was the
use? He could hardly turf them out into the drizzle. Anyway, they probably
wouldn’t go. Why should they? Here was a grand tale unfolding: of sickness and
a stranger.

 
          
He
jerked his thumb in the direction of the chest-bed.

 
          
“What’s
wrong with her?’’ he asked the tall woman.

 
          
“Well,
you see, Sir, she had her baby. But it died, and a bit of the afterbirth’s
stuck in her. So Pelagaya Osipovna tried to pull it out.’’

 
          
“She
tried to pull it out?
What withV
’

 
          
The
tall woman searched around and produced a lamp hook, rusty and sooty, with
blood stains on it.

 
          
Oh shit.
Unbelievable! They may as well
have murdered the poor bitch! Yes, using the same damn knife that scarecrow of
a youth was holding! He must be the husband . . . And quite conceivably they
had
been planning to use that insanitary
blade as their next surgical instrument.

 
          
With
an effort Anton controlled his feelings. It was all perfectly comprehensible.
Anything other than this ignorant butchery would be the miracle . . .

 
          
“Yevgeny,’’
he shouted. “Get me my doctor’s bag!’’

 
          
While
he waited, he began searching his pockets in a quiet fury, he knew not quite
for what. The woman would die—no doubt of it.
Whatever he
did.

 
          
His
fingers encountered folded paper and he pulled this out. Oh yes, that sheet of
bum-wiper from the post station. He hadn’t even used it. Unfolding the torn
scrap of
Siberian Herald
, he stared
glazedly at the contents as if he was consulting a pamphlet on gynaecology
which he just happened to have on hand.

 
          
...
in
the
North-West the peasants observed racing through the sky a shining body in the
shape of a cylinder, too bright to behold. Moments later a huge cloud of black
smoke arose and a tongue of flame shot up into the heavens. A crashing noise,
as of artillery, was heard several times. The ground itself shook, throwing
many people down, and horses even fell to their knees. A hot fierce wind blew
up suddenly, tearing the roof from one house. Many people cried out in terror
that this was the end of the world.

           
There
is no doubt whatever that a large heavenly body must have crashed to earth
somewhere; though where exactly is less certain . . .

 
          
This
scrap of newspaper was dated . . . 2nd of July 1888.
A year
and ten months ago.

 
          
Hysteria,
wild exaggeration, ignorance! Anton could have moaned aloud.

 
          
But
the sick woman was already doing that, while she lay corrupting internally.
Stuffing the paper back into his pocket, resolved that he definitely would wipe
his arse on such nonsense as soon as he had time, Anton stepped over to the
victim. He pulled the covers back to inspect the bloody atrocity underneath.
The kids stared down from the rafters, goggle-eyed; and the crones crooned
softly.

 
          
Krasnoyarsk
May 29th, 1890

 
          
How are you, Olga, my precious star-gazer?

           
Here am I in
Siberia
, and you’re far away. But how I wish you
had been at my side last night so that I could squeeze your hand in the
starlight and ask your advice on matters interplanetary, of which a humble
doctor and scribbler knows little. (Other than that the cosmos is vast and
drear, and that time stretches out intolerably till this planet will be as cold
as space itself. . .)

 
          
But
first a scribbler ought to set the scene, don’t you think?

 
          
Krasnoyarsk
is an excellent town—particularly after
such vile Asiatic holes as
Tomsk
. Goodness alone knows why they send exiles here to
Krasnoyarsk
! This must seem more like a reward, what
with the grand forested mountains encompassing the city like high walls, and
the broad swift Yenisey winding its way through—worthier of Levitan’s brush
even than the Volga. And I mustn’t forget the town itself. Why, there are paved
streets and gracious churches and handsome houses built of stone! But they do send
exiles here, and they’ve done so for years. Result?
Krasnoyarsk
is quite cultured, as well as being
picturesque.

 
          
Anyhow,
I have fallen in with an army doctor and a pair of lieutenants all on their way
to the Amur. We intend to travel onward together, so I shall hardly need my
revolver. Boldly would I harrow Hell itself in company with this
trio.

 
          
Can
you read my writing? This ink is disgusting. Blot and splotch.

           
So let me tell you about these brave
fellows. Dr Rode is something of a philosopher and pessimist—and, by turns, an
idealist. Half the time he speaks of the new and happy life awaiting us in some
distant future epoch when we’ll all fly across Siberia by balloon, and when a
sixth sense will be developed so that our minds can reach out to the stars.
Then he grows gloomy (worn out by his enthusiasm) and it’s all a case of: ‘We
can’t be real. The present can’t be real. This is all a nightmare in somebody’s
mind a thousand years ahead!’

 
          
Then
there’s Baron Nikolai Vershinin. The Baron really puts it on as a military man,
growling the letter ‘R’ deep in this throat like the doyen of some posh cavalry
regiment. He’s forever barking at people. You’d think he was ordering a Cossack
to be flogged for cowardice when he calls for a cup of tea and some jam.
Generally he’s abusive in company that he doesn’t know, but just you get him on
his own and he’s quite a kindly, sensible man—with a concern for society. ‘The
avalanche is coming,’ he’ll warn you. He thinks Science might save us, though.
And he has read Herbert Spencer, or at least he says so. But he does throw his
weight around; and there’s quite a lot of weight to throw.

 
          
Lastly
there’s Vasily Fedotik, who never glances at any reading matter except a
newspaper. I’m sure he hasn’t lifted an intellectual finger for the last twenty
years. All that interests our Fedotik is hunting and boozing, and once he has
made up his mind on a subject it would be far too much trouble to alter his
opinion. One thing he has fixed in his mind is that Rode and Vershinin are both
excellent wise fellows, so he has a habit of dropping the
most
droll
aperqus
into the
conversation, which are all warped echoes of something the other two men have
said. Invariably these ‘mottos’ are way off beam, like the wisdom of a senile
babushka.

 
          
Yesterday
evening, out I sallied in company with these three musketeers to see the town .
. .

 
          
Everything
on the journey so far has turned out contrary to expectation. In
Tomsk
where the local ladies are as charming as a
butt of frozen herrings—fit mates for a walrus—
who
would have imagined that the Assistant Chief of Police would be a connoisseur
of my works? Who would have expected him to do me the honour of driving me on a
tour of the local houses of prostitution, as his way of paying respect to my
literary achievements?

 
          
Anvhow,
there was I forming a wholly favourable impression of the town on our promenade
around its remarkably clean streets—when Fedotik must suffer a sudden attack of
drought. So we all had to perform an about-turn into the less salubrious
quarter of town to find him an inn on the double for medicinal comfort. Oh ho,
thought I:
Tomsk
revisited!

 
          
“This
fatal attraction for low life!” proclaimed the good Dr Rode, as we hastened
towards the dives. “It proves how democratic we Russians are.”

 
          
“Quite
right,” said Fedotik. “The Prince shall sit down with the pauper.”

 
          
“Probably
the Prince
is
a pauper,” observed the
Baron, with a raucous laugh.

 
          
“That’s
because there are too many Princes and Counts, and Barons if you’ll pardon me,”
said Rode. “Yet who’s to say that’s such a bad thing? In the future everybody
may be ennobled.”

 
          
Vershinin
nodded.
“Ennobled by the progress of Science.
One
chap’ll be a Count of Chemistry, and another a Duke of Dentistry.”

 
          
“Trouble
with all these intellectual chappies,” said
Fedotik,
“is they have their heads stuck in the clouds.” And he remembered to add,
“Present
company
excepted.”

 
          
“That’s
when we Russians feel most at home,” Rode said. “With our heads stuck in the
clouds. And why should that be? Is it because ordinary life’s so stuck in the
mud? Is it because we’re all just stuck in a bad dream, anyway?”

 
          
Fedotik
appears to possess a sixth sense for inns; quite soon we found a fairly decent
one. Decent, if you overlooked the blue fug of wood smoke proceeding from the
stove . . .

 
          
We
ordered ourselves a bottle of Smirnov Twenty-One (would you believe?) and drank
a toast to the next stage of the journey.

 
          
Sitting
nearby there was a man whose face was as flabby as a boiled turnip. From time
to time he buttoned up his coat resolutely then unbuttoned it again in a
perfect mime of frustration—as though he ought to set out on some trip but was
unable to make up his mind. Every time this occurred he edged a little closer
to us, trying to eavesdrop on our conversation in the usual manner of
inebriates, the better to butt in.

 
          
His
opportunity arose when Rode said something or other to me, ‘speaking as one man
of science to
another .
.

 
          
“Excuse
me, Gentlemen,” interrupted our turnip, “But Science is the most noble and
beautiful pursuit!” His voice had a sanctimonious lilt, with undertones of
wheedling recrimination. “Excuse me, but in my opinion your scientist struggles
with Nature—out of love of Mankind!”

 
          
Our
Russian genius for soulful generalizations . . .

 
          
“Quite
right,” agreed Fedotik. “Nature, red in tooth and claw, has to be tamed by the
brave hunter!” He poured himself another glassful.

 
          
Vershinin
went bright red in the face.
“Who the Devil do you think you
are?”

 
          
“Sidorov, by your leave.
Ilya Alexandrovich.”

 
          
“Be
off with you, you banal Sidorov! How could a Sidorov know one iota of the
heights of human thought?”

 
          
Naturally
Sidorov shuffled himself even closer to us.

 
          
“Excuse
me, Gentlemen, but banality is the whole trouble— you’ve hit the nail on the
head. The ordinary human being is downright stupid. You can see that easily in
these God-forsaken Siberian holes.”

 
          
“Present
premises
excepted
,” chipped in Fedotik.

 
          
“But
Nature is even stupider. The Earth whirls round the Sun like a child’s spinning
top: how trivial it all is! At any moment a dark star or a wandering moon might
crash into us. Splat! And that’s that. Goodbye to the Parthenon and to
Venice
Serenissima”
Tears rose to Sidorov’s eyes. “Look at your average Siberian—a beast, isn’t
he? Mind you, he’s your ordinary run of Russian peasant who’s been brutalised.”

           
“A brute needs the whip,” quoted
Fedotik.

 
          
“Mark
my words, Sirs, compared with
him
the
tribes a few hundred versts north of here are noble
. .
and
Sidorov hunted for the word, “savages. Well,
almost. Compared to him they’re quite magnificent. They’re heroes. But how can
they be heroes if they’ve always stayed here?—that’s what puzzles me. They
never rose above their condition.
Whereas we local Russians
have sunk down to it.
Ah, the disgusting flatness of it all! And under
the surface everything is rotten and decayed . . . What was I talking about?”

 
          
At
this moment the wick in the nearest lamp began to hum loudly. Sidorov pricked
up his ears as though he heard something rush through the sky above the roofs
of
Krasnoyarsk
. He buttoned his coat swiftly and ran out
of the inn, leaving the door wide open. Thus we were able to see him standing
in the street, staring up at the night sky as if to confirm that all the stars
were in their proper places. Or perhaps he was only wondering whether it was
going to rain, since his boots had holes in them. Presently he returned,
unbuttoned and subsided right up against us.

 
          
“Excuse
me, but I’m sacrificing myself to Science,” he confided to me in a loud
whisper. (I swear to you, Olga—by Mars and Jupiter—that I am
not
inventing this Sidorov as a mirror
for my own soul!) “Why, if I went to
Moscow
to present a proper report to the
authorities, they’d make me a Professor or even a Privy Councillor on the spot.
You have the flavour of
Moscow
about you, Sir, isn’t it so?”

 
          
Reluctantly
I conceded the fact.

 
          
Vershinin
dug Fedotik in the ribs. “We’ve caught ourselves a provincial bore. Set the
dogs on him, Vasily Romanych!”

 
          
“Ah
Moscow
!” cried Sidorov, in tipsy torment.
“Freedom, fulfilment!
Afterwards I could drain the bog-land.
With all the trees down, I could sell the timber and plant grain. Alas, it’s
too cold for that . . . Anyway, the mosquitoes! And the people: too corrupted.
Maybe you two men of Science might help me present a proper report?”

           
As soon as these words were out, to
my no very great surprise Sidorov became jealously hostile.

 
          
“Scientists!
Your ordinary scientists!” he sneered. “If the
Earth blew up tomorrow they’d go on staring down their microscopes like
England
’s Lord Nelson.”

 
          
“Turning
a blind eye,” Fedotik dutifully supplied.

 
          
“Would
they listen to me? As for the authorities . . . well, that’s our whole
sickness, isn’t it? Authority: how we worship authority! Ah, I can see how you
despise me for not acting like a hero and setting off forthwith for
Moscow
and fame . . . But it isn’t so easy. There
aren’t any authorities on an event like this—except for the Bible narrative of
the Cities of the Plain, devastated by God. I can’t persuade anybody in
Krasnoyarsk
to do anything about it. In
Moscow
, who cares about
Krasnoyarsk
?”