Cheered by these tales, I go back to look for the Shilka, which has been moved to a distant pier. There are no other ships there. Silent and naked, she stands high in the water, her long gangways now almost vertical.
A quick look is enough to convince me that I won’t be able to get back on board. There aren’t even any footholds on the gangway, which is little more than two narrow planks. I try to take a few steps but my feet slide back down—and beneath me lies a sheer drop into deep water.
Losing heart, I sit down on an iron bollard and try to summon up pleasant thoughts.
Say what you will, I think, I’ve really not done at all badly for myself. It’s a lovely day, there’s a splendid view, no one’s threatening me or driving me away. I’m sitting like a lady on a comfortable bollard, and if I tire of sitting I can stand up for a little while or go for a walk. I can do as I please and no one will dare to stop me.
High up above me, someone is leaning over the ship’s rail. A man with a shaved head is looking down at me.
“Why don’t you come on board?” he shouts.
“How?” I shout back.
“Up the planks!”
“I’m too frightened!”
“Oh!”
The man steps back from the rail. A moment later he is gaily stepping sideways down the planks.
It’s an officer from the engine room.
“So you’re frightened? Take my hand.”
This time it’s even worse. The planks spring up and down. If you take a step with your left foot, the right-hand plank jumps up almost to your knee. A step with your right foot—and up jumps the left plank.
“Tomorrow they’re going to put up a rope,” the officer says reassuringly. “Then there’ll be something to hold on to.”
“But I can hardly wait till tomorrow,” I reply. “Go and get me a stick. Maybe that’ll help.”
Obediently, the officer runs off down the pier. He returns with a long stick.
“Good,” I say. “Now sit here on this bollard and sing me a circus song.”
“I don’t know any circus songs. How about the ‘Tango Argentina’?”
“All right—let’s try.”
“In far-awa-a-a-y sultry Argenti-i-ina!” the officer begins. “But how does it go after that?”
“For heaven’s sake, don’t stop! Keep singing and keep to the beat!”
I grip the stick with both hands and, making sure it stays horizontal, step onto the planks.
“Where the ski-i-i-es are so-o-o cra-a-a-zy and blu-u-u-e!” sings the officer.
Good grief! What a ridiculous voice. The last thing I need is to start laughing.
Now: Don’t look down. Look straight ahead. Look at the planks. Walk straight. Keep to one plank. Keep humming.
“And the w-i-i-i-men are pretty as pictures!”
Hurrah! I’ve done it. Now I need only lift up one leg, step over the side and…
And then my feet slip backwards. I let go of the stick and close my eyes. But there is someone above me. Firm hands grip my shoulders. I lean forward, seize hold of the ship’s rail, and step on board.
When I told him I hadn’t yet found a room, the diminutive captain suggested that I stay on board as a guest. I could have a small cabin at a very cheap price and eat, along with the crew, “from the common pot.” And in time, no doubt, it would become clear where the Shilka was going next. If it truly was Vladivostok, then I was welcome to stay on board.
This was just what I needed. I thanked the kind captain with all my heart.
So began our strange, dreary life on a steamer moored to a long, white, empty pier.
No one knew when we would set sail, or what our destination would be.
The captain stayed in his cabin with his wife and child.
The first mate made boots for his wife and his sister-in law Nadya, an enchanting curly-haired young woman, who darted up and down the ladders in a muslin dress and ballet shoes, disturbing the peace of mind of the ship’s young men.
Midshipman S strummed on his guitar.
Engineer O was eternally tinkering with one thing or another in the engine room.
V, who had enabled me to get out of Odessa, was also staying for the time being on the Shilka. All day long he would wander around the city, hoping to happen upon friends and acquaintances. He would come back with some smoked sausage, have a bite to eat, let out a sigh, and say yet again how frightened he was of starving to death.
The Chinese cook prepared our dinner. The Chinese laundry-man washed our linen. Akyn cleaned my cabin.
The sun would go down in the evenings, quietly marking off the lackluster days with glowing red sunsets. Waves would slap gently against the hull; cables would sigh and chains rattle. White in the distance stood the high mountains, cutting us off from the world.
It was all very dismal.
26
THEN CAME the northeasterly.
Back in Odessa I had heard many stories about it.
A colleague from the Russian Word had returned from Novorossiisk all bandaged up and covered in plasters. He’d been caught by a northeasterly. He’d been quietly walking along—and then the wind had knocked him off his feet and rolled him along the street until he managed to catch hold of a lamppost.
I’d also heard of steamers being ripped from their moorings and blown out to sea. Only one had been left in the bay—a cunning American who had got up full steam and headed into the wind. By making straight toward the shore, he had managed to stay in one place.
While I didn’t exactly believe all these stories, I was, nevertheless, eager to see what this northeasterly was really like.
People said it could only count in threes. It blew for three days, or six days, or nine days, and so on.
And then my wish was granted.
Our Shilka began shrieking, screeching and groaning. Not one of her bolts, chains, or cables was silent. The rigging whistled; every bit of metal clanged.
I set off into town with the secret hope that I too would be knocked off my feet and rolled along the street, like my colleague from the Russian Word.
I got as far as the market without incident and was buying a few little bits and pieces when, suddenly, splinters were flying, a dark cloud of dust was soaring into the air, and the awning above the stalls gave a great clap. Something crashed to the ground—and then something pink and frothy closed me off from the rest of the world.
I desperately tried to shake myself free. The world opened up again and the pink thing—my own skirt, which had billowed up over my head—wrapped itself around my legs.
Embarrassed, I looked around. Everyone was screwing up their eyes, rubbing them, shielding their faces with their bent arms. My first introduction to the northeasterly appeared to have passed unnoticed. There was just one woman some way away, a bagel seller, who was still watching me, and shaking with laughter.
The northeasterly continued to rage for twelve days. Every kind of howl in the world—anguished, spiteful, sorrowing, savage—could be heard from the ship’s rigging. Sailors were swept off decks and traders blown away from the market; the streets were emptied of people. Not a boat was left in the roadstead, not a cart on the shore.
Yellow columns of dust roamed about the town as they pleased,[122] rolling stones down the road, whirling debris of every kind through the air.
One day the waves brought us the bloated corpse of a cow.
Evidently it was not uncommon for the wind to hurl cattle into the sea.
122
To this day, there is a large cement factory in Novorossiisk, one of the oldest such factories in Russia, founded in 1882.