Even when she pretended to change the subject it was actually to amplify her theme. She stroked my head almost as if I were her child, or a favourite dog. ‘There are people I expect to meet in Constantinople, Simka. You and they could work to your mutual benefit.’ By which she revealed she now planned a future for us! She seemed to ignore my mission, my association with Mrs Cornelius, my own ambitions, and when I murmured something about them, she was dismissive. ‘There’s no harm in considering different options, surely?’
‘You think of me too much.’ I took her hand. I was gentle. Yet we duelled. ‘You must first look to your own interests. I have protected myself pretty well for several years!’
‘I see my interests as yours,’ she said. It was the nearest she had come to a plain statement. In an effort to turn her mind from this course, I pressed my hand hard against her breasts and bit her ear-lobe.
Since I could not control her imagination I would have to resort to minor deception, using the ‘secret orders’ excuse which had served me excellently in the past. If I liked I could use it within a day of reaching Constantinople. I could even enjoy her company for a week after we disembarked and still leave with honour and little fear of her turning treacherous. At a pinch I would also recruit help from Mrs Cornelius. (Though currently I could not easily confide in her, since she spent most of her evenings with the English sailors. She was rarely in bed much before dawn.)
Satisfied I had evolved a good enough plan, I relaxed again, though the spectre of Brodmann remained a flaw to my overall peace of mind. At night I would spend an hour or more looking for him (or whoever it was who so resembled him) but without success. Twice I waited outside the closed cabin door, to be rewarded with nothing more than what might have been a faint groan, or a small, dry coughing noise which lasted a few seconds. I maintained my habit of rising early, often before Mrs Cornelius returned from her revels, and enjoying my own company on deck. A day or two out of Novorossisk the weather began to improve. Sometimes blue sky could be seen between clouds whose outlines resembled sleeping polar bears.
At length the ship appeared to be hemmed in by these massive white mountains. Perhaps she was adrift in one of those submarine caverns scientists say lie beneath our icecaps; caverns leading to undiscovered tropical continents where an explorer might find primitive nations inhabited by half-human races. The engines echoed loudly in my ears, filling the whole vast expanse. Had Russia drowned in the tears of the dying? Had we alone escaped? Were we sailing even now above the silent roofs of cities whose populations were corpses: corpses whose hair streamed like seaweed, whose damned eyes begged for release? It was impossible to stop. We could not help. We were searching for our Ararat. I began to fancy this was truly the end of civilisation; ourselves the only survivors. Might it be my fate to lead these people towards a New Dawn. The best of them (especially the English) already believed in me as a prophet. Again I became fully inspired with the sense of my great destiny. Of course I did not really believe the world had ended, but the metaphor was accurate. I stood on the forward deck of the Rio Cruz in dignified fur. The black and silver Cossack pistols in my pockets continued to remind me of my heritage while I now believed as strongly as I ever had in the brilliant future which awaited me. Behind me was a beloved but thoroughly exhausted Russia; before me was Europe. She had learned the lesson of War and now must surely restore herself in a Golden Age of justice and human achievement where my engineering abilities would be immediately recognised and I would be called to play a major role in a great renaissance. The future was in the hands of the mighty Christian nations: Britain, France, Italy and America, even Germany. A future of skyscraper and undersea tunnel, of television, the matter transmitter and, greatest of all, the flying city. Let Russia with all her sins fall back into a Dark Age in which petty would-be tsars squabbled for dominance of an ever-diminishing territory. The West must become purified chrome and glass rising to the clouds, sophisticated machines and wonderful electronics, the true heritage of Byzantium: a Graeco-Christian Utopia!
Two thousand years ago we had lost the path. Now we had again been granted the chance to find it and follow it. The Turk was on his knees; the Jew scuttled for cover. Carthage was once more reduced and this time must never be allowed sufficient pause to regain her strength. I knew I could not be alone in this dream. All over the Christian world men and women were taking fresh breath, preparing themselves for the task. Bu ne demektir? People snigger at me now when I tell them what might have been. They do not realise how many of us there were; how easily (had it not been for the machinations of petty, greedy minds) we might have made the dream reality. Anyone who knows me will tell you I have scarcely an ounce of suspicion in my nature; paranoia is foreign to me; yet only an idiot would deny the power of Zion. Theirs was a dark vision, opposed to mine and those like me. Mr Thompson was one such fellow soul. I sought him out. It was important to keep a reasonable distance between myself and the Baroness. I confided to Mr Thompson that I found it hard to imagine how I should survive in the non-Russian world. Again he assured me men like myself were needed everywhere, particularly in Britain. I was, he said, ‘a wonder’, an ‘infant prodigy’. My talents would not be wasted. Sucking his pipe for hours on end he quietly contemplated my ideas, admitting that many were above his head. He was convinced, however, it was to be an engineer’s future. ‘I envy you, Mister Pyatnitski. Trotski’s a fool to drive people like you away. I’m surprised you haven’t thought of the USA. That’s where I’d go, if I was young. They appreciate our sort in America.’
But the United States at that time had never captured my imagination, although the pictures of redskins, frontiersmen and buffalo (gleaned from my reading Karl May and Fenimore Cooper) were romantic enough. I believed there were no true cities in America and precious little civilisation. It took time, in my view, to develop a true city. I shook my head. ‘It’s not my ambition to build farm-machinery or locomotives, or work out means of mass-producing cheap clocks. Let the miners keep their gold; I’ll not part them from it in exchange for a few penny toys!’
Mr Thompson shrugged. ‘You might find you’re glad to be free of European squabbles. Yankees like to keep themselves to themselves. I know how they feel. The British are too fond of taking care of other people.’
‘I’m a Russian and a Slav. Mr Thompson. I couldn’t leave Europe in the lurch. Also I am a Christian. My loyalties are clear. But for the Bolsheviks and the Jews I should not be an exile at all. Everyone knows that Jews already control New York. I have nothing in common with the self-serving bourgeoisie aboard this ship. Let them go to America if they wish. They are all deserters.’
We were leaning against the funnel for warmth while this particular conversation took place, contemplating the black, featureless ocean. Our various lights, red, green and white, were reflected in the water and we might have been riding on dark clouds, through infinite space. Mr Thompson relit his pipe. ‘You Russians seem a hopeless bunch of creatures, I must admit. I’ve seen the refugees in Constantinople, already. A man with your qualifications is welcome anywhere. But what do you think will become of the rest? The women and children? Will they be allowed back when the war is over?’