Lom was relieved when it finished. The curtain closed and the band struck up again. Pink spotlights lit the dance floor. Lom hadn’t noticed the dancer enter, but she was there. Her breasts were bare and she wore a long flickering skirt, divided to give her legs room for movement. The dancer’s body was thin and muscular, her breasts small and narrow, her black hair cut short, and she danced fast and thoughtlessly, shouting and jerking to the music, advancing towards the audience and then retreating with a shrug. Pleasing herself. Not trying. Just doing.
And then, to cheers and applause, she was gone. Most of the band stood up and went to the bar, leaving the glasschord player alone to unwind some kind of drifting, song-like melody.
Vishnik took him by the arm and whispered in his ear, ‘Petrov’s come. At the table by the bar. The green shirt.’
Lom looked across to where a group of men were listening to a large bearded fellow talking loudly, his wet red mouth working, banging the table with his fist to punctuate his periods. Petrov was a silent bundle of energy in a corner seat, staring with obvious resentment at the talker. Lom studied him carefully. He was all wild, dark curly hair, a long sharp nose and dark eyes, wide and round, full of passionate need and intelligence and a crazed, intent sort of anger. His lips, pressed tight together, were full and almost bruised-looking. He looked as if someone had punched him and he was trying not to cry. When he leaned back in his chair, as if he was trying to get further away from the bearded shouter, his loose green shirt gaped open halfway to his waist, revealing the white, almost skeletal bone structure of his upper chest.
‘Take me over, can you?’ said Lom. ‘I want to talk to him.’
Vishnik picked up the half-empty champagne bottle and the glasses and went across. Lom followed. Some of the men at the table nodded. The beard ignored them. So did Petrov.
‘The city as a whole,’ Beard was saying in a deep, resonant voice, ‘is instinct with energising power. It inspires me. The more marches and strikes and riots — the more confrontation — the better it is for art. The agitation in the squares and factories is like the revving of the engines of the vehicles in the street. It provides heart. It is marvellous. Wonderful. I must have it, at all times, in order to work. It’s the fuel my motor burns.’
Beard paused to take a drink.
‘Did you hear?’ said the young man with the powdered face ‘The Novozhd has said that from now on all his rallies will be held after dark. Isn’t that perfect? It is already evening across the Vlast. Midnight! The Novozhd is an artist himself, though he won’t admit it.’
Beard spluttered.
‘The Novozhd! Do you know what he said about my picture of Lake Tsyrkhal?’ He stared around the table, daring them to speak. ‘I made the water yellow and black, and this is what the Novozhd said: As a hunter, I know that Lake Tsyrkhal is not like that. So now he forbids us to use colours which are different from those perceived by the normal eye. What is the point, I ask you, of a painter with a normal eye? Any idiot can see what’s normal. But do I fear this Novozhd? No!’
‘Does he fear you, Briakh?’ said Petrov fiercely, uncoiling from the tense crouch he’d wound himself into. He was nursing a small glass of something thick and dark. ‘Does the Novozhd fear you? Isn’t that the question? I think he does not.’
Briakh glared at him.
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning your paintings are nothing. All our paintings are nothing. This club is nothing. It’s not even so much shit on his boots, so far as the Novozhd cares. We’re only still here because he hasn’t noticed us yet.’
‘He put three of my pictures in his Exhibition of Degenerate Art. Three.’
‘They get people to laugh at us, that’s all. It’s a distraction. Do you think the Novozhd lies awake at night because you made Lake Tsyrkhal black and yellow?’
Powdered Face giggled. ‘The most perfect shape,’ he quoted, ‘the sublimest image that has ever been created didn’t come out of any artist’s studio: it is the infantryman’s steel helmet. The artists ought to be tied up next to their pictures so every citizen can spit in their faces.’
Briakh ignored him. He was staring at Petrov.
‘And you, Petrov?’ he said. ‘Is the Novozhd scared of you? How many of your pictures does he have in his exhibition?’
‘Painting’s finished,’ said Petrov quietly. ‘I told you. There will be a new art. And he will know my name soon enough. He will know Petrov by his works. You all will. Yes, he should fear me.’
‘Why?’ said Lom into the silence. ‘What are you going to do? Rob a bank?’
Petrov stared at him.
‘Who are you?’
‘He’s my friend, Lakoba,’ said Vishnik. ‘He’s from out of town.’
‘Anyone can see that,’ said Petrov. He turned to Lom. ‘And do you like this place? It is our laboratory. We are all scientists here. We are studying the coming apocalypse.’
‘Sounds to me you’re planning to start it.’
‘You shouldn’t laugh at me.’
‘As long as you bring us champagne,’ said Briakh, ‘you can laugh as much as you like.’ He reached a heavy paw across to Vishnik’s bottle, took a pull from the neck, emptied it and waved it at the bar. ‘Another!’ he boomed. ‘Two more! Dry men are desperate here! Friend Vishnik’s paying.’
Petrov stood up.
‘Drink till you vomit,’ he said. ‘The crisis is now, but you wouldn’t know it if it bit your arse.’ He went unsteadily towards the exit.
‘You’re crazy drunk yourself, man!’ Briakh shouted after him. ‘Crazy drunk on that crazy-man syrup you drink.’
Lom got up and followed Petrov. He got entangled with a boy in a spangled crinoline and jewelled breast-caps who wanted to dance with him. By the time he got free and caught up with him, Petrov was halfway down the street.
‘Can I walk with you a while?’ said Lom.
‘Why?’
‘Curiosity. I agree with what you were saying in there. I wanted to hear more.’
‘I don’t believe you understood a word of it.’
‘Maybe I don’t know about painting. But I do know about blowing things up.’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘That was fighting talk in there.’ The rain was heavier now, whipped along on a bitter wind. Petrov, wearing only his half-buttoned green shirt, seemed oblivious to it. Lom wished he had brought his cloak out with him. His head was ringing with the noise and heat of the club. ‘Unless it was just bluster,’ he added. ‘Like Briakh.’
‘You’re right about Briakh. Ha! Blusterer Briakh.’
‘What about you?’
Petrov’s face was close to his. His eyes were wide and black and shiny. Lom smelled the fumes of sweetness and alcohol on his breath.
‘I have an idea,’ said Petrov. ‘I have an intention. I have a purpose.’
‘I’d like to hear about it.’
‘You will. When it’s done.’
‘Why not tell me now? Perhaps I can help you. Let me buy you a drink somewhere out of the rain.’
‘Help doesn’t come into it. Help isn’t necessary. And neither is talk. One can either talk or do, but not both, never both. You should tell that to Briakh. Tell all of them back there. They can’t tell talk from do, any of them. That’s their problem.’