The city was, in Shura’s words, ‘a bit too full’, but it meant good business for the natives. The black market was booming; the whores were ‘having to take on three customers at a time. They’d take on four if they had bigger belly-buttons.’ So innocent was I that I had absolutely no idea, then, what he meant.
We dashed through crowds of Frenchmen who were far more bewildered than I. Because of Shura I had begun to feel as if I had always lived in Odessa. We jumped for our lives in front of screaming two-car trams, caused Steiger horses to rear, made old ladies shout after us, and we laughed at all of them. We ogled the crowded windows of the Magasin Wagner (Odessa’s Harrods) and flirted with the flower-girls there, then we left the more fashionable streets and entered a labyrinth of smaller alleys. This was a ghetto. Tiny shops sold second-hand boots and tools; Jewish butchers and bakers advertised in Yiddish; tailors and funeral parlours and circumcision salons (as we called Jewish grog-shops) were side by side. There were washing lines and yelling children and garrulous old women and bargaining, black-clad Hasidic men, and rabbis and beggars and a richer mixture of junk, canned goods, peasant-carvings, German toys, ready-made clothing, hardware goods, poultry, live birds, fishing-gear, musical instruments, cooked food than I have seen before or since. Like the Jews themselves, the district repulsed and attracted, was frightening and romantic, comforting and disturbing, and if I had been alone I would never have dared enter it.
Into one of those dingy little Slobodka basements Shura ducked with me and through a battered door we entered the noisy, smoky gloom of a tavern. There were old travel posters decorating the walls, all of which had been scribbled on with sardonic comments. On the floor were the remains of fancy tiles. At the far end was a tiled counter with a monstrous samovar and two jugs for dispensing vodka or grenadine. Behind this sat an ancient, bearded Jew with his hand on an iron cash-box and a permanent expression of mixed ferocity and benevolence. He was dressed almost entirely in black, save for a collarless grey shirt, his waistcoat buttoned in spite of the smoke and heat. Shura greeted the Jew in tones of bantering familiarity and got no response save a slight inclination of the head. There were women and girls here, as well as youths and men, all dressed in the flashy Odessa styles, eating exactly the same dishes - a thick bortsch, lamb-knuckle (kleftikon), a shashlik in tasty, greasy sauce, with macaroni and black bread. There was also a plate of peppers, pickled cucumbers and tomatoes, known as a salad. There might have been other kinds of food sold in ‘Esau the Hairy’s’ as the place was known, but I never saw it eaten and never had the nerve to order it. A thin-faced, haughty black-eyed Jewess brought Shura and me bowls of bortsch and some bread almost as soon as we had found a place to sit. I was a little nervous; my mother had never liked me to associate with Jews, but they seemed to accept me quite readily and I was prepared to live and let live. Indeed I must say I felt almost at home amongst Odessa’s Jews who are really a different race.
Near the counter, one booted foot on a bench, an accordionist played topical songs about well-known actors and actresses, about Rasputin, about our defeats and victories in the War, about local celebrities (these were the most popular but obscure to me). I was more disturbed by the songs than the company. Some of the songs seemed dangerously radical. I whispered to Shura that the tavern was likely to be raided by the police. This made Shura laugh, ‘It’s protected by Misha,’ he told me. ‘And Misha rules Slobodka district. Nobody - the army, the police, the Tsar himself - would dare raid Esau’s. Only Misha would dare, and why should he? It’s one of his investments.’ I asked who Misha was and several of the other customers overheard me and clapped me on the shoulder. ‘Ask who or what God is!’ said one. They were referring, I discovered, to a notorious local gangster, the Al Capone of Odessa, known as Misha the Jap. He was supposed to have five thousand men at his command and the authorities were inclined to parley with him rather than threaten him. Almost everyone in Odessa had a nick name. I was to find myself introduced by Shura as ‘Max the Hetman’ because of my reference on the train to my Cossack blood. ‘He’s Hetman of Kiev,’ said Shura.
Although his friends took this as a joke, they also looked at me with respect. I began to realise I had been accepted. A day before, I should have been horrified at finding myself in the company of these bohemians, but now I had learned Odessan tolerance. I determined not to judge them by their appearance, just as they did not judge me. Shura had a knack for making the most of himself and those he knew. He was at once admired and admiring of all. He was a great favourite in Esau’s with the older men and women. He had dozens of friends of his own age. He would boast of each of them: ‘This is Victor the Fiddler, he’ll be a great musician one day. This is Isaac Jacobovitch, the smoothest spieler in the market. This is Little Grania, you should see her dance. Meet Boris - he may not look much but figures are magic to him, everyone wants him to do their accounts - Lyova here is a better painter than Manet, ask him to invite you to his room - buy a picture while you can - the canvases. A new Chagall!’
Everyone was a hero or heroine in Shura’s words and, although he spoke lightly and was never taken very seriously, he could somehow dignify the meanest person and bring them to life. Before lunch was over, I myself had become the great inventor of my age, with patents pending on a dozen different machines, with ten gold medals from the Academy, with a career in Petersburg already guaranteed. I began to believe it. At least, I believed in Shura’s optimism. He was to remain an optimist all his days.
I was intoxicated on vodka and grenadine and on the company of young girls in petticoats and bright blouses, with their thick, dark hair, kindly oriental eyes, brilliant laughter and rapid, trilling, almost incomprehensible, patois. The world had ceased to consist entirely of duty and education. It could be amusing, pleasurable. I began to laugh. I tried to join in a song, my arm around a fat matron smelling of cologne and Georgian wine who cheerfully helped me with the words.
While I sang I saw someone point in our direction. A man in a pin-striped suit, with a yellow waistcoat, yellow bow-tie, yellow-and-white two-toned shoes, stood in the doorway fingering his moustache. He seemed uncertain of himself and yet supremely arrogant. He was like a king mingling with commoners whose activities were not entirely clear to him. He pushed between the tables and came over to Shura. He spoke politely in perfect Russian. I turned my head and said he must be French. He smiled faintly and said he was. We conversed for a few sentences. Then he gave his whole attention to Shura, whom he knew. ‘I’m still interested in the dental supplies. They’re hard to get in Paris now.’
‘The War’s creating all sorts of shortages, M’sieu Stavitsky.’ Shura was amused. ‘Last year you were in the export business. Now you’re in the import business. You’ll find the Dutchman easy to deal with. He has something of a habit himself and his connections are astonishing.’
‘Where shall we find him?’ Stavitsky wished to know.
‘You’d better let me arrange the meeting. He doesn’t like callers at his surgery. Got some paper?’
Stavitsky produced a silver-covered note-pad. Shura took a pencil and wrote a few words. ‘See you there at about six. I won’t let you down.’
Stavitsky squeezed Shura’s shoulder. ‘I know. I hear he’s almost one of the firm.’
I had been feeling twinges of toothache since my accident, perhaps a loose molar. When Stavitsky had left, I asked about the dentist.
Shura smiled. ‘All the family goes to him. If you’ve got toothache, he’s the one to see. He’s posh but we have mutual investments, so it’s cheaper using him. And you’re guaranteed the best job in Odessa. You can come some time when I go. Perfect excuse.’