Those Bolsheviks had made themselves at home, settled in for good. They’d raised a ruckus over their tenth anniversary and were gearing up for their hundredth. Nobody even imagined gunning them down. One could still entertain thoughts of going back after two, three, or four years, but ten years on? This seemed out of the question.
Some had returned anyway, begging a Soviet passport from the consulate. Even the officers returned. Every time he heard about a new renegade, Solomin gnashed his teeth and spit with contempt. He wouldn’t dream of going back to Russia under such terms. He hated the Communists with every inch of his thick skin. They’d ruined his life. Murdered his papa. Confiscated his property. Ruined his youth, his love – everything. Turned his fiancée into a prostitute (he could also safely tack the humiliation in the taxi onto their account). They had forced him to endure months half-dying from starvation, to drive painted floozies about Bois de Boulogne, to scrounge for tips. To be a simple cabby, him, Captain Solomin, son of Colonel Solomin! And who had forced him? A rabble of mangy Jews and the swarthy populace. No, he wouldn’t forget! Go back? Work as a farmhand for Leon? No, a hundred times better to spend his whole life carting around these rouged-up whores, dropping off those corpulent French johns at the bordellos, rather than disgrace himself. And his officer’s honor swelled within him.
Life made less and less sense. Fine, he could drive a cab for the time being, a year or two, ten years. If he knew it was limited to a certain time. But to think: I’ve become a cabby for good, for my whole life, this is my life and nothing will change – Captain Solomin somehow could not get this through his head. He clearly felt that something had to come – an explosion, a cataclysm, a catastrophe – to shuffle the deck of cards. Things couldn’t go on this way.
And every morning, woken by the bell of his alarm clock, pulling on his grease-stained driver’s clothing, Captain Solomin bitterly resolved: not yet.
He greeted the outbreak of this plague like a long-awaited cataclysm that had promptly shuffled the cards. His cab was appropriated after the third day for transporting the ill. His life became more roomy. Like a solution into which a powerful reagent had been poured, Paris began disintegrating into its constituent parts before his very eyes.
Expelled from the various emerging mini-states, the rudderless Russian émigré community followed the lead of the other nationalities and dug their heels into Passy, declaring the district White Russian territory. The slapdash government of the new territory resurrected the White Guard to defend its borders.
Three days later, Captain Solomin was dressed in gleaming riding boots, epaulettes, and a cap with a ribbon. He moved into an expropriated palace, in the company of a newly assigned orderly, and gave a laconic telephone command to purge the Russian territory of its non-Russian elements.
But this bliss was too perfect to last. This was unambiguously foreshadowed by the plague, which waved playfully in the guise of Red Cross flags on vehicles passing his window. Captain Solomin understood: One had to survive for as long as possible and settle old scores, putting nothing off for later.
Unfortunately, the biggest scores he had to settle were with people hundreds of miles beyond the cordon, inaccessible and elusive. He would have to content himself with substitutes. And Captain Solomin suddenly recalled there was a Soviet mission on Rue de Grenelle, and a whole office of “representatives.” Not many, it was true, but at least they were authentic, totally authentic, those “responsible.” Those bandits didn’t send just any old people to Paris.
By an unfortunate turn of events, Rue de Grenelle and all its buildings had become part of the improvised Bourbon monarchy. When word got out, the personnel of the Soviet mission took up residence in peace and comfort in one of the buildings of Saint-Germain that had swiftly been turned into a jail, and under the protection of the French Guard they openly ignored the proximity of the rightful rulers installed in neighboring Passy.
It was Captain Solomin who first submitted a petition that unequivocally demanded that the French authorities hand over the Soviet prisoners to the White Guard, on grounds that they were subject to the Russian court, the only institution competent to determine their fates.
Captain Solomin’s resolution met with a warm ovation from headquarters and the unanimous support of the army. A special commission was immediately selected, whose members included the creator of the scheme. This commission was assigned to start immediate negotiations with the representatives of the Saint-Germain monarchy.
The French put up some obstacles. In principle, they had nothing against handing over the Bolsheviks, but they did require the Russian government to pay hefty damages to some Semitic-looking French citizens residing in Passy who had recently fallen victim to pogroms. The matter dragged on.
Yet in spite of everything, an end finally seemed to be in sight. At the previous day’s session, the Russian government had eventually been made to concede to the conditions set by the adamant French. The definitive signing of the protocol was to take place on the present day at nine o’clock in the morning, on French territory, in the onetime Chamber of Deputies building – now once more the Bourbon Palace.
At ten a.m. sharp a cushy six-seater Fiat showed the relevant transit papers and drove across Jena Bridge toward Bourbon Palace.
The official on duty led the Russian delegation through chilly, well-worn corridors to a small conference room where four gray-haired men in black were waiting at a table piled high with files. They immediately began to negotiate on the specifics. The French had invented some additional clauses; they didn’t agree to being paid in installments, demanding an immediate cash settlement. The session stretched out interminably.
Captain Solomin took no active part in the discussion and maintained a dignified silence, yawning discreetly into his hand and letting his bored gaze roam about the ceiling.
At just the moment when the bargaining seemed to be winding down, a gray-haired, needle-nosed gentleman pulled a watch from his pocket and declared it was time for lunch.
The head of the Russian delegation, rattled by this new delay, tried to offer an objection, explaining that there was at most half an hour till the deal was finalized, that things should not be left to hang, and that after matters were concluded everyone could relax and enjoy their lunch all the better. The gentlemen with Bourbon noses did not see fit to acknowledge his remarks and rose from the table as if on command, after which the gray-haired gentleman announced in a steady voice that the meeting would resume at two o’clock. The Russian delegation could only bite their lips and go for a stroll while waiting for the meeting to resume.
Captain Solomin blundered through the endless corridors in search of a lavatory, and then spent a long time wandering in search of the way back. When he finally made it to the stairs and found himself on the street, his colleagues were no longer in front of the palace. They had tired of waiting and left for town without him.
Captain Solomin set off down the quiet streets with their glassy asphalt, walking at a leisurely pace. He knew this neighborhood well. This was where he had only recently driven elderly rich men with Legion of Honor ribbons in their buttonholes after a night at the theater. The worst passengers! Always pulling tricks – they’d pour you a handful of change you could count till the day’s end and still not reckon the full amount – and then all you got was a five sous tip.