Eventually it was my cousin Shura, not Wanda, who came for me. He looked rather more respectable this morning, in a shirt, a bow-tie, a grey three-piece suit. He carried a straw boater in his hand. He was a kind-hearted youth and had realised I would feel strange in the new city. He entered without knocking, leaning against the door-frame and winking as usual. Then he closed the door and asked if the clothes I wore (a perfectly good dark jacket and pair of knickerbockers) were what I actually preferred. I pointed out that I had little else. He said ‘something would be done’, then advised me to part my hair with an English parting, in the middle, and offered me his comb, which smelled of brilliantine. I accepted and made a poor attempt at the parting. He sat me down in front of my little dressing table and, tongue between his teeth, produced a precise line. Then he ran the comb thoughtfully through his own cropped locks and nodded his satisfaction. I put on pullover and jacket. ‘I suppose it’s fair enough,’ said Shura. ‘They expect you to look like a schoolboy.’
‘I am a schoolboy,’ I pointed out. ‘It’s why Uncle Semya sent for me. To see who he’s sending to school.’
Shura grinned cynically. ‘Of course he is, the old philanthropist.’
I became angry. ‘He is very kind. He has done a great deal for my mother and myself. He has faith in me. More real faith than my own father had!’
Shura softened. ‘You’re right. Come on, then.’
We passed a blushing Wanda on the stairs. She seemed as fascinated by Shura as I was. He pinched her cheek and whispered something in her ear. She groaned cheerfully and continued on her way.
We descended. We descended further. There were smells of food. We reached the tiled main floor of the house. Sunlight came through stained glass. It shone on hangings, on paintings, on hat-stands and mirrors. We moved towards the back of the house, past the parlour where I had met Aunt Genia, past the dining-room where I had eaten my first meal, and came to a mahogany door on which Shura, all of a sudden grave, knocked.
‘Come in.’ The voice was open, welcoming. We entered. ‘Maxim Arturovitch, your great-uncle, Semyon Josefovitch.’
I had expected a burly patriarch, a bogatyr with a long grey beard wearing a business suit. I encountered a small man with pointed features, a pointed beard, a linen jacket and trousers, a glossy collar under which a neatly-knotted old-fashioned black string-tie lay against the starched shirt-front. His hands had silver rings on them and a dab or two of ink. He seemed shy. He removed his glasses, which he flourished in his left hand as, with his right, he reached towards me through the room. He grasped my arm at the elbow, then gradually, in a series of stages, found my hand, which he pressed and shook. He was only a few inches taller than me. ‘My boy. My nephew. My niece’s only child. What a pleasure. Is your mother as proud of you as she should be? As proud as I am of her? I am your Great-Uncle Semya. Shura has told you. He has looked after you. He is a good boy. But you must teach him your learning. You are to become the wise man of the family, eh?’ He stroked his pointed beard with his spectacles, as if in delight at the idea. ‘You will go to Peter and be Jesus in the Synagogue, eh?’ Peter was what many people called St Petersburg. Great-Uncle Semya had a way of speaking which was more precise than most Odessan speech, but from time to time he would drop into an Odessan accent, as if for emphasis. ‘You will come back to us and be our voice. You have no vocation for law?’
‘I fear not, Semyon Josefovitch ... Science is - ‘
‘Quite so. A lawyer in the family is not to be. Not yet. But a scientist mixes well, of course. A professor comes into social contact with lawyers - and there you have what is almost as good as a lawyer in the family. Advocates in Odessa, little Max, are all scoundrels. It can be said, I suppose, of most professions. But once you are part of the intelligentsia, then you have access to the best scoundrels, eh? They admit you to their secrets they treat you as one of their own. You are the only intellectual we have. You are precious to us. You are to be our family’s pride. Do you like Shakespeare? Puccini? So do I. We’ll go to the opera and the theatre together.’ (He was as good as his word. I was bored, but it gave me an education in drama and music I would otherwise have lacked.)
I began to understand why Uncle Semya wished so much for me to do well at St Petersburg. All his other relatives were succeeding in various mercantile lines. I was the member of the family destined to pursue more abstract affairs.
