Anton Emilievich had informed Klim that Khitruk was an experienced revolutionary publisher. His newspapers had been closed down by the Tsar’s government, and he had been fined and sent to the notorious Kresty jail for political prisoners. But on his release, he soon went back to his old ways. He had an air of martyrdom about him and a crowd of enthusiastic young followers who were ready to go to any lengths on his behalf.
His opposition to the Tsar’s Gendarmes was as dogged as his current criticism of the Bolsheviks’ thugs.
“I have the funds to start a newspaper,” Khitruk announced. “A merchant who has recently been released from prison will provide us with the money. We have paper, we have an agreement with a print shop, and a front man has gotten us a license.”
This news was welcomed joyfully.
“When will the newspaper come out?” someone asked.
“The day after tomorrow,” Khitruk said, “and it will be a daily paper. It’s safe to say that we won’t have any competition since the quality of the Bolshevik press is very poor. No decent reporter will work for them, so they end up hiring hacks who are so badly educated that they think imperialism is a country somewhere in Western Europe.”
They argued excitedly about the policy their newspaper should adopt and agreed that it should be politically daring. Khitruk set about busily dividing and ruling his minions, allocating them tasks, and giving them advances.
“Would you like to write something for our newspaper?” he asked Klim when the guests had left. “Your uncle told me you have followed in his footsteps and become a journalist.”
Klim told him briefly about his situation.
“That’s not good,” Khitruk muttered. “But we’ll figure something out.”
He led Klim and Anton Emilievich to a freezing-cold guest room and gave them two logs for the stove.
“I’m sorry, but we can’t heat this room properly,” Khitruk said. “I just can’t afford enough firewood at current prices.”
Khitruk turned to Anton Emilievich. “Are you sure you won’t change your mind about leaving? We are badly in need of educated people, and your encyclopedic knowledge would be invaluable.”
Anton Emilievich sighed. “You have so much energy that you don’t notice how cold it is in Petrograd. But I couldn’t live without hot water. My back aches in the cold.”
Khitruk sat down next to Klim on the sofa. “What are you going to do now?”
“I don’t know.” Klim shook his head. “I was at the railroad station and heard someone saying that people are managing to get out of the city on foot or by sleigh.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,.” Khitruk said angrily. “It’s freezing out there, and you have neither felt boots nor a sheepskin coat. You’d freeze to death in three hours. But with your bourgeois appearance, you wouldn’t even last that long before the Red Guards got you.”
Klim said nothing.
“Listen, you need to find a place to stay while you try to get a return ticket,” Khitruk said. “Why don’t you live here for a while? Otherwise, I’m afraid that the Bolsheviks will force me to give over all my rooms to the proletariat. Workers with nowhere to go are being given so-called ‘class mandates’ so that they can confiscate spare rooms in a rich person’s apartment. They’ve already been to see me three times and told me that I can’t live here all by myself. It makes me sick to think of some bumpkin cooking on my stove or using my bathroom. Plus, as you can see, I often have company. We won’t be able to talk about serious things with ignorant strangers around.”
“Why don’t you ask your friends to live with you?” Klim asked.
“All my friends are looking for tenants too. And most decent people have already left the city. Please stay with me! It’s true that ration cards are a problem. The ‘bourgeoisie’ are in the lowest category and only get an eighth of a pound of bread a day. I have no idea if you have any right to a ration as a foreigner, but we can find out. So, what do you say?”
“All right,” Klim nodded.
“Excellent! Tomorrow, you can go to the house manager’s office and register yourself as a tenant. The lady who works there is a little strange though. You’ll see what I mean when you meet her.”
The house manager’s office was in the former porter’s lodge. Klim noticed a sign attached to the door. It said that Petrograd was now in a state of martial law, and all visitors to the city must be registered without delay.
Klim knocked on the door and entered a dimly lit office adorned by two portraits—one of Lenin and the other of the many-armed Hindu god Shiva. A woman in a crimson knitted cap was sitting beneath them.
“Peace be with you,” she said in a disinterested voice and lit a copper incense burner that hung above her desk. A trickle of bluish smoke drifted up toward the grimy ceiling.
“I’d like to register myself,” Klim said.
She stared at him with her round, crystal clear gray eyes. “Thank the gods you’re not proposing to marry me,” she muttered. “I recently had a visitor from Apartment Thirteen who was determined to win my hand in marriage. I’m in charge of the ration cards and accommodations, and that alone is dowry enough to tempt a great many men. Durga!” she said suddenly and thrust out a hand to Klim.
He shook her thin fingers. As far as he could remember, Durga was the Hindu warrior goddess who ensured order in the world.
“Have you heard the news?” the woman said. “The Bolsheviks have paid off the Germans. They’ve signed a peace treaty agreeing to the Kaiser’s terms. The war is over, but the Germans have taken all our western provinces. But he,” Durga pointed at the Lenin’s portrait, “couldn’t care less. If he’s still in power, that means the gods must be on his side.”
The woman made Klim sit on a small oriental drum and focused all her attention on Klim’s Argentinean passport and Khitruk’s petition for a temporary registration.
“So, Mr. Rogov, Kliment Alexandrovich, born 1889,” she said slowly, “you’ve stated that your occupation is ‘writer.’ What exactly do you write?”
“Recently, the only writing I’ve been doing is filling in forms.”
“You too!” Durga cried and gazed sadly at Shiva. “Khitruk writes proclamations that nobody cares about, the man from Number Five writes poetry, and a tenant from Number Ten writes pieces for the violin and divine revelations when he has the money for his cocaine habit. Why doesn’t anyone write anything useful, like how to survive all this madness?”
She stared at Klim disapprovingly.
“My friend sold me a pound of American corn flour and a jar of French margarine,” Durga said. “My pantry is empty. I have nothing but salt and baking soda. So, I have a question for you, sir: What can I do with this latest acquisition of mine? I looked in the cookbook, and all the recipes sound as though they have been made up to taunt me. ‘Take three pounds of veal,’ they begin, but they don’t say where this veal is to be found. I need to know about corn flour, not about veal that can’t be obtained for love nor money.”
“You could make a tortilla,” Klim suggested. “It’s a type of soft flatbread. At one time, it was all I ate.”
“Then why don’t you write about something useful like that?” exclaimed Durga. “Perhaps you have a recipe for potato peelings or fish heads as well? You could write a pamphlet entitled ‘Dinner on a Shoestring.’ That is what people need now! Tell Mr. Khitruk to stop churning out inflammatory nonsense and write something worthwhile.”
Klim shrugged. “He’s just unable to stand by and watch dispassionately—”
“Dispassionately means not being misled by passion,” Durga barked. “If you keep a cool head and act the same way toward everything and everyone, you have no expectations and, therefore, won’t suffer disappointment or disillusionment. Tell Mr. Khitruk to put that in his pipe and smoke it.”