Fomin frowned. “I can’t say.”
“But I have to know who I’m dealing with. You have to tell me about all the risks, who knows about this business, and how are we going to share the profits.”
He glowered at her. “Well—as for risks are concerned, you’ll be risking your life. And you won’t see a good deal of the profits.”
“What do you mean?”
“Believe me, you don’t need to know more. This is no business for a woman. Your job is to help us with the cooperative. We’ll do the rest.”
Finally, Nina realized what he was talking about. “Are you preparing a rebellion?”
“I never said as much, and it would be better for you if you didn’t know. Whatever we plan to do, the first thing we need is money. Everyone is contributing what they can or helping to raise funds, but naturally, nobody will blame you if you choose to refuse. You are perfectly within your rights to forbid me to sell the sacks from your mill—after all, it is your private property. But remember, if we don’t take action ourselves, we can’t expect anyone else to do it for us.”
Fomin gave her detailed instructions about what she needed to do to open a cooperative. Nina tried to listen to him carefully, but her thoughts kept wandering off.
What if the Bolsheviks arrested her? Would she betray Fomin right away? Would she tell them everything she knew in the hope that the Bolsheviks would have mercy on her and not rape her or beat her to death?
True, she could refuse to do her bit and sit around waiting for a miracle to happen. For some gallant knight like Klim to save her? Or some “force for good” such as the White Army that was rumored to be mobilizing somewhere in the south? But if that was what she chose to do, then she would have no right to complain. After all, if she did nothing, what else did she deserve?
Nina excused herself from the table and brought in the “drunken bottle.”
“I will help you with your cooperative,” she told Fomin. “And here’s our family’s contribution—the most expensive whiskey from my cellar. You might be able to use it as a bribe for some important Bolshevik official.”
Zhora and Elena had spent the whole day standing in line in front of the jail, hoping to pass their parcel to Elena’s parents. Visits were prohibited. The only food for both inmates and guards was provided by the prisoners’ relatives.
Standing in queues in front of the jail was a torment for Zhora and drained him of all his energy, but he couldn’t leave Elena on her own.
When they got home, Nina scolded Zhora for going out with a temperature and then told him that Mr. Fomin was here to see them. Zhora was thrilled with the news. Finally, a serious man had arrived who would be able to give him some sound advice on what he should do next with his life.
He had lost his voice completely, and Nina told him to go to bed. As soon as she and Elena went to the kitchen to make him some lime tea, Fomin quietly went up to see Zhora in his bedroom. With his huge peasant beard, shirt, vest, and pants tucked into his worn-out boots, he was barely recognizable.
“How’s life?” he asked, sitting himself down on Zhora’s bed.
Zhora shook his hand and showed him the books on his bedside table.
“I’m studying for my university entrance exams,” he croaked in a barely audible whisper.
“The Bolsheviks are about to bring in forced conscription for the Red Army,” Fomin said, “and most likely, you’ll end up a soldier.”
Zhora said nothing.
“Diplomats might be in demand in countries where there is the rule of law,” Fomin continued. “But to be frank, you’d be better off signing up for medical classes at the Martynov Hospital. I hope you don’t mind me speaking to you like this, but you’re a grown man now. As soon as the roads become passable, there will be a war. Our people are not going to sit around and do nothing while Russia is being destroyed. The Bolsheviks have realized they can’t survive without a standing army, so they’ve mobilized thousands of former Tsarist officers. They’re keeping them on a very tight leash, giving them extra food on the one hand while threatening to put them in prison on the other.”
“But how could they possibly agree?” Zhora whispered in indignation.
“Everybody has a family to provide for. The military is used to following orders, no matter who is giving them. I’ve talked to a lot of them. They would be happy to see the back of the Bolsheviks, but they don’t see anyone capable of getting rid of them at the moment. Once the Bolsheviks have real armed forces, not just these Red Guard riffraff, it’ll be much more difficult to fight them. We need to take action now.”
Zhora’s heart was pounding. “I wish I could go south—”
“The pivotal battles will take place here and in the other big cities.” Fomin rose to his feet. “So, you see what I mean about medical classes?” he asked. “We’ll be needing medics, and we’ll be needing them soon.”
8. THE OPPOSITION
I have sent eight letters to Nina but still had no reply. Mere mortals are not allowed to send telegrams; the telegraph lines are far too busy carrying the wise decrees of our esteemed government around the country. I feel as though I’m standing on the brink of some postal abyss, staring into its mouth like Dante looking into the maw of hell. Could it be possible that Nina and I have lost each other for good?
My friend Durga, the goddess of official forms and stationery, takes a keen interest in examining my soul. She is curious to know what am I doing here and what lurks behind this quasi-foreigner’s gloomy mask, and she tries in various ways to find the key that will open me up like a burglar trying to break into a safe.
“Imagine your life was a painting,” she said. “What genre would it be, and what would it depict?”
I told her about a type of seventieth-century Dutch still life painting known as a Vanitas. These pictures often included skulls as a token of the inevitability of death, playing cards to represent excitement and chance, money bags for wealth (of which I’m badly in need of right now), a rose as a symbol of love, and an hourglass to remind us of the transience and brevity of our lives. All of these objects are set against a backdrop of ruins with the encouraging motto, “All is vanity and chasing after the wind.” And that just about sums up my life right now.
Khitruk, who is a smart man, has advised me to get Nina and her family passes to get to Ukraine so that we can travel into German-occupied territory. Anyone who is able to bribe officials and prove their “Ukrainian origins” is going there.
If you want to get into the occupied zone, you have to be quarantined with all the poor souls who are sick with typhoid and dysentery. Once they have died, the survivors are then permitted to travel on. But before you can even get into this hellish place, you have to get ahold of a passport with a visa—something that costs twelve hundred rubles. The permissions from the Cheka cost another thousand.
Uncle Anton was lucky—he got out when the Bolshevik officials were in a blind panic and ready to grab anything that dropped into their lap, including a paltry five-hundred-ruble bribe.
Like a dogged scarab, I try to gather an unfeasibly large dung ball of money and possibilities.
The ball started rolling when Khitruk let me into his little bookkeeping secret. His newspaper wasn’t bringing any money in, and his benefactors were still waiting to see any tangible returns on their investment. Now, when Khitruk goes to them for finance, they are beginning to shrug their shoulders and tell him that times are hard.