And then, right in front of my face, the fog quivered and floated away—like so many bits of muslin curtain in a theater, being whisked off in different directions. As if in some strange dream—so close I could have touched them—appeared crimson fezes, black faces, the whites of eyes, teeth bared in a fierce grin. I recoiled in shock. Whatever these Africans saw through the gap in the fog must have seemed no less like a dream. They rushed to the rail, waving their arms about and shouting something like “Guzel Kare! Kare guzel!”[114]
More and more crimson fezes. More and more waving arms. More white teeth. More whites of eyes…
And then suddenly this little “window into Africa” turned dim and murky. In an instant, it was lost in the fog.
“Goddamit!” said a nearby voice. “That was a near miss.”
The foghorn was still bellowing, the whole ship quietly shivering.
We were approaching Sebastopol. Timidly.
We waved a piece of rag at a boat coming toward us; we had a little talk, asked a lot of questions, and didn’t believe what we were told. We met a second boat and had another little talk. But in the end we had no choice. We needed to take on coal, and so we entered the harbor anyway.
Everything turned out all right. Sebastopol was still held by the Whites.
Half of our passengers left, to remain in Sebastopol.
The rest of us just went ashore for a walk. We wandered about the streets. Important items of news were passed on excitedly: “We found four pairs of suede shoes in a cobbler’s. Three enormous pairs and one that’s absolutely tiny.”
The ladies rushed to try them on. Me too, of course. There truly were three pairs that were quite gigantic and one that was tiny.
“Where in the world have you seen feet like this?” I asked.
“But what quality! And what style—style to make any foot smile!”
“But one pair’s enormous and I’ll never get into the other pair. What do you expect me to do with them?”
“Why not buy two pairs? That’ll be perfect. One big pair and one small pair—they’ll average out.”
A born salesman.
Sebastopol seemed dusty, dismal, and shabby.
After a while, we all returned to the Shilka. We knew that the coal was being loaded as quickly as possible and that we would set sail again the moment we could.
The ship seemed empty. But just before sailing, we took on new passengers—passengers very different from ourselves.
There was an entire unit of young men who had been guarding Crimean palaces and who were now on their way to join the Caucasus Volunteer Army. They were handsome and smart and they chatted away merrily, casually coming out with the odd word of French and singing French songs with perfect accents. They settled down on deck.
And then there was an infantry detachment that had already seen its share of action. Rattling their mess tins and bayonets, the men rolled into the hold like a gray wave of dusty felt.
The two units did not mix and appeared not to notice each other.
The young men up on deck called out in merry voices:
“Où es-tu, mon vieux?”[115]
“Coco, where’s Vova?”
“Who’s spilled my eau-de-cologne?”
Or they sang, “Rataplan-plan-plan!”[116]
The weary gray men from down in the hold would come up to the galley for freshly boiled water. Clinking their tin mugs, tightening the torn straps on their clothes, clomping their great boots or flapping loose soles, they would make their way past the gilded youths without looking at them.
But these poor gilded youths had few days of merriment left to them. Little joy awaited them in the Caucasus. Many were to meet their death with courage and grace. For many, “Rataplan” was their last song.
One of them had a remarkably beautiful voice. He sang late into the night. Someone said he was the nephew of Smirnov the baritone.
Late in the evening a swell came up.
I stood alone on deck for a long time.
Scraps of song, merry conversation and laughter drifted up from the saloon.
The gray dusty men in the hold had long fallen silent. They were not merry. They had been through too much to be merry. They slept soundly and simply, like peasants at harvest time who know they must sleep if they are to get through the heavy labor of the coming day.
The Shilka creaked and swayed. A black wave crashed dully against her side, then bounced back. It shattered the rhythm of the song; it was alien to the small, cheerful light shining out from the saloon into the dark night. The wave had its own deep and awful life; it had its own power and will, about which we knew nothing. Not seeing or understanding us, not knowing us at all, it could lift us, drag us, hurl us about. It was elemental; it could destroy.
A large star blazed like a bonfire. Like a small moon, it cast a path of broken gold across the sea.
“That’s Sirius,” said a voice close by.
A young boy—a stoker.
White against his sooty face, his eyes were gazing intently into the sky. His shirt was caked brown with dirt. Through its open collar I could see a bronze cross on a grimy string.
“That’s Sirius.”
“You know the stars?” I asked.
He faltered.
“A little. I’m a sailor… A stoker… When you’re at sea, you often have to look up into the sky.”
“From the boiler room?”
He looked around.
“Yes. I’m one of the stokers. Don’t you believe me?”
I looked at him. What reason was there not to believe him? Broken black fingernails, that bronze cross…
“Of course, I believe you.”
Black waves with white fin-like crests were rolling along beside us, lazily vicious, thumping and slapping the hull. Sirius’s golden path faded away. It began to drizzle.
I moved back from the rail.
“Nadezhda Alexandrovna!” the stoker said quietly.
I stopped.
“How do you know who I am?”
He looked around again and said, still more quietly, “I visited you in your apartment on Basseinaya Street. A student friend of mine, Sebastyanov, introduced me to you. Do you remember? We talked about stones, about a yellow sapphire…”
“Yes, yes… It’s coming back to me now…”
“Nobody on board knows who I am. Not even in the boiler room. This is my third time at sea, my third voyage. My people are all dead. My father’s gone into hiding. He told me I must never forget, not even for one minute, that I am a stoker. Only then will I be able to survive and carry out the task I’ve been entrusted with. This is my third voyage and I have to return to Odessa.”
“But the Bolsheviks will soon be well entrenched there.”
“And that’s why I have to go back there. I started speaking to you because I was certain you’d recognize me. I trust you. I even suspect you’re just pretending you didn’t recognize me, so as not to alarm me. Is my disguise really that good?”
“It’s remarkable. Even now I feel certain that you really are a stoker and that what you’ve just said is only a joke.”
He smiled.
“Thank you.”
He bent down, quickly kissed my hand, and darted toward the ladder.
A small spot of soot was left on the back of my hand.
Yes. Petersburg. Evenings. Languid, high-strung ladies, sophisticated young men. A table adorned with white lilac. A conversation about a yellow sapphire…
A slender boy who spoke with a slight lisp… What was it he’d said about a yellow sapphire?
How many more journeys would he make, with his bronze cross on its grimy string? One? Two? And then he would rest his weary shoulders against the stone wall of a black cellar and close his eyes…
114
The most likely meaning of these words is “Beautiful woman!”
116
The soldiers’ song from