What’s going on? I get down from the cab and walk closer.
“Hello there! Shilka!”
A figure appears on deck. A Chinaman!
“Hey! Is there anyone on board? Is the Shilka sailing tonight? Hey! Yes or no?”
The man disappears below deck.
“Wait! Chinaman!”
From somewhere behind us comes a shot. It’s very close.
“Oy!” shouts the cabbie. “Look, lady, you can do as you please, but I’m getting out of here. I’ll unload your luggage for you, but I’m not hanging around.”
“Oh, just wait a few minutes, my dear!” I beg. “I’ll pay you. Any moment now my companions will be here. We’ve arranged to meet here.”
“I don’t care what you pay me—I’m not waiting any longer. Can’t you hear? There’s shooting. Or someone will cut through the traces and steal my horse. I’ll unload your luggage for you—and then you can do as you like. If you want to, you can sit here all night.”
I stand there a little longer. Not a soul. I call out again: “Chinaman!” It gets darker.
Another shot. Pebbles grating, close by.
The cab driver resolutely descends from his box and takes down a suitcase.
What will I do all by myself on the waterfront? With no lights and no sign of any crew, the Shilka clearly isn’t going anywhere tonight. But what about the Ks? Have they gone to collect me at the International—or sent me a message there?
The cab driver agrees to take me back for twice the original price. If I have to pay to come down to the harbor again, I may not have enough money.
The hotel is now dark. Only on the ground floor, in the lobby and restaurant, are there still a few lights.
“Has anyone come and asked for me? Or sent me a message?”
No one has come for me, and there are no messages. Just silence, peace and silence.
I feel hungry now, but I’m frightened of spending my money.
I stay below in the lobby. I don’t want to walk alone down the empty corridors. I find some little book—Ibsen, I think—and sit as close as I can to a lamp. This feels comforting.
My future was a matter of complete indifference to me. I felt neither anxiety nor fear. In any case there was nothing I could do. In my mind I retraced my strange journey from Moscow, always south, always further south, and always without any deliberate choice. In the form of Gooskin, the hand of fate had appeared. It had pushed me on my way.
“You’ll only be away for a month. You’ll do a few evenings. The money will be yours. And before you know it, you’ll be peacefully back home again. Ri-ight?”
And then there I was, rolling down the map. Fate had pushed me on, forcing me wherever it chose, right to the very edge of the sea. Now, if it so wished, it could force me right into the sea—or it could push me along the coast. In the end, wasn’t it all the same?
A waiter came over. All that remained of his uniform was his starched shirt and black tie. His tails had been replaced by a frayed little jacket.
“The chef wants you to eat something,” he said.
“Well, if that’s what the chef wants, we must do as he says.”
“In spite of everything, dinner has been prepared. There’s soup, lamb, and stewed fruit.”
“That’ll be perfect.”
He put some cutlery on my small table, then brought me some soup. As he was serving me he kept looking around, listening, and glancing out of the window. Then he disappeared.
I waited and waited. In the end I decided to do a little reconnaissance. I glanced into the dining room.
“Where’s the waiter who was serving me?”
“Your waiter?” said a voice from a dark corner. “He’s run away. There’s shooting in the streets. The Moldavanka will be here soon. Your waiter’s a capitalist toady and he’s run away.”
I went back.
A tall young lady was now dashing about the lobby—from window to door, from door to stairs. Seeing me standing there, she came straight over.
“Are you in room number six? My brother and I are on the same floor, but at the other end of the corridor. Listen—this is the plan we’ve come up with. We’re going to lock all the doors into the corridor but leave the communicating doors open. If they start by breaking into your room, you can escape through the other rooms and lock each door behind you as you go. And if they start with our room, we’ll do the same. We’ll join you in your room.”
“Do you really think they’ll break in?”
“Of course they will.”
And then, yet again, the all too familiar words: “The Moldavanka’s already armed. They’re just waiting for the last soldiers to leave before they attack the hotels—the International and the London. They think this is a refuge for bourgeoisie and capitalists.”
“Maybe we’d be better off somewhere else?”
“Where? It’s nighttime. There’s shooting on the streets. Can’t you hear? And what about your things? And who’s going to take you in at this time of night? No, we’ve thought it all through. We’re staying here. Is this your luggage?”
“Yes, it is.”
“I wouldn’t leave it here if I were you.”
She looked round behind her, then whispered, “The hotel staff, the ones who’re still here, are in cahoots with the gangsters. The decent ones have all left. Well then, my brother and I are going upstairs now. We’ll start locking the doors.”
She ran off.
How sick of all this I now felt. It was all so boring! It was enough to make you think fondly of those early days, of that “springtime” of the revolution when your teeth would be chattering from fear, when you froze every time you heard a passing truck—would it stop at the gate or would it drive on by?—when your heart would lurch nauseatingly at the sound of rifle butts thudding against the door.
Now we were only too used to it all. Everything had become boring, boring to the point of revulsion. It was all just coarse, dirty, and stupid.
But what had happened to K and his wife? Why hadn’t he come round, or at least sent me a message? Perhaps the Shilka was going to sail in the morning and I’d be hearing from them any moment….
“Nadezhda Alexandrovna!”
It was V, the engineer. He was breathing heavily and the corners of his mouth were turned down. He looked as though he were about to start crying.
“What’s happened?” I asked in surprise. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve been betrayed. I was promised a pass for the Korkovado. I waited all day—and nothing. I’ve been abandoned by everyone… abandoned like a d-d-dog.”
He blew his nose and wiped his eyes.
“I can’t be on my own any longer. I wanted to find you. Why haven’t you left?”
“I’m waiting for the Ks. We were supposed to meet in the harbor at eight and board the Shilka together. Maybe they’ll soon be here? What do you think?”
“The Ks? You’re waiting for the Ks? They’ve already gone!”
“Gone? Where to? How do you know?”
“I ran into them earlier this evening. They were on their way to the Caucasus, with all their luggage. They’re going to Constantinople.”
“That’s impossible! And they didn’t give you a message for me?”
“No, not a word. They were very agitated and they seemed in a hurry. She was wearing your fur stole. Remember? She was feeling cold and you said she could borrow it. Yes, they’re on their way to Constantinople.”
I was stunned into silence. And then for some reason, I don’t know why, the whole story suddenly struck me as terribly funny.
“Why are you laughing?” asked V, clearly alarmed. “They lied to you. They changed their plans and didn’t even bother to let you know.”