Byzantium Endures полностью

In Kiev, at least, there was now a semblance of Law. German businessmen began to come to the city to trade. I was able to discuss my new company and what it could do. It was important to increase production for export and home consumption. I mentioned new British and American machinery likely to outstrip anything we had. I discussed plans for new plants, new kinds of generators, new manufacturing machinery. This impressed the far-sighted Germans. They were by this time hard-pressed themselves. Many of them confided to me they thought Germany might not win the War. There would be a need to build their country up again very rapidly if it were not itself to fall into the hands of socialists. They suggested I consider locating a branch of my firm in Berlin. The sooner our countries were back to normal the sooner the Reds would be thwarted. Through my business friends I made the acquaintance of top-ranking officers and through these I came to meet the elite of Kiev society. I would now give my name automatically as Pyatnitski: I had been born in Tsaritsyn, my family had been killed by peasants in 1905, I had been brought up by relatives in Kiev, Odessa and Petersburg. This was, of course, fundamentally the truth. To have mentioned our rather ramshackle suburb to the crème de la crème would have raised too many eyebrows and closed too many doors. My mother’s family, of course, had been well-born, so I had an innate ability to mix with the very best people. Many of Kiev’s nobility were envious of my ‘Petersburg manner’. They attempted to imitate it. Quite often people made gestures I had made only a moment or two before, or repeated little remarks of mine. I considered adding the title ‘prince’ to my adopted name, but this would have been inappropriate, given the volatile political situation.

I still saw women-friends at The Cube, but I had moved back to The Yevropyaskaya, where many of my German acquaintances also stayed. I preferred the classical elegance of silver and gold, of big, clear mirrors, of plush and crystal, of properly-dressed waiters and clean, white linen. All this had returned as the Bolshevik butchers departed. The Germans appreciated it, as did the latest wave of Russian émigrés.

If Kiev were becoming packed again, at least it was packed with a better class of people: people with money, common-sense and concrete notions of how to counter Bolshevism. Factory-owners from Petrograd and Moscow had always argued for faster and better industrialisation. They had foreseen the Revolution and blamed the Tsar for his short-sightedness. They said the ‘socialist experiment’ would last about as long as Cromwell’s Commonwealth. It would be a bad time: a time of destruction and intolerance. Cromwell had killed the King, torn down churches, destroyed cathedrals, but there were still kings, churches and cathedrals in England to this day. It was a powerful argument and an encouraging one, but it was a delusion. Now I know all that can save the world, to paraphrase Lenin, is God plus electricity.

My mother found the changes alarming. While the Bolsheviks had occupied the city and red flags had flown and I had been in prison she had seemed cheerful and content. Every vicissitude had been met with a joke. Esmé and I had marvelled at her courage. She had bluffed the Reds away from a search of her home. She had wheedled them into providing her with extra rations. She had become personal laundress to a Chekist commissar. She knew the names of many minor Bolsheviks. She praised Comrade Lenin to the skies. She casually dropped the names of Zinovieff and Radek as if they were old friends. She had almost certainly delayed my execution and thus saved my life. But the strain had taken its toll. As the Bolsheviks retreated, she had had an attack of her old bronchial trouble and had gone to bed. By the time the Hetmanate was established, she was still coughing but insisting on going to work. She began to smell of sal-volatile and carbolic soap. The flat was returned to its previous impeccably clean state. She kept apologising for her ‘selfishness’. She said she had been a ‘bad mother’ to me, that it was her fault I had no father.

‘I should never have gone with him,’ she would say. ‘He was bad for me and I was bad for him. We were never suited. But it was ten years. And they were not all miserable.’

I found her reasoning difficult to follow. She had overtired herself in every way. She became worried by the new wave of pogroms in Podol. I assured her the fires would not spread. Then she said she was afraid the Hetman’s army would conscript me. I set her mind at rest. My friends would look after me.

‘You were never any trouble,’ she told me one evening at supper. ‘Everyone said so. They envied me. “He’s so good. How do you do it?” You were always good. From a baby. You’re too kind-hearted, Maxim. Don’t let some woman hurt you.’

‘I won’t mother. I’m only eighteen...’