This raised a horrified ‘Oh, Maxim!’ from Esmé, a small groan from Mother and a chuckle from Captain Brown as he entered from the other room where he had been washing up. ‘You’ve become a Russian warrior, Maxim.’
‘We must all be warriors of some kind.’ I had read this in one of the newspapers. ‘Every Russian is a soldier, helping to bring Victory.’
‘Every Russian?’ Captain Brown winked at me. He had accepted my manhood whereas my mother still considered me the boy who had left Kiev in September. ‘What about Rasputin, eh? Do you think he’s doing his bit? If so, I’d like to help him.’
He was drunk. My mother exclaimed ‘Captain Brown!’ and suggested he go for a walk until he felt better. Esmé was blushing. I was surprised at the old Scot. Normally, drunk or sober, he was a gentleman. Perhaps his consumption of vodka had increased lately. With a murmur of apology he made a little bow to my mother and Esmé and left. He did not return for several hours. In the meantime I sat at the table and did my best, as I had done since my arrival home, to refresh myself on basic engineering principles. I had a place at the Polytechnic, but I would need to go through a preliminary oral examination when I arrived. I wanted to be sure of passing it. I continued to study at night while Esmé and Mother slept. My little store of cocaine got smaller, but my store of knowledge increased rapidly.
As I studied, ideas began to come back to me. These were projects I had set aside when I had left for Odessa. I developed a method of building underwater tunnels to link various parts of Petersburg divided by the canals and rivers; I toyed with the notion of bridging the Bering Straits to produce a direct land link between Russia and America; naturally new kinds of steel would be required and I considered different alloys. I was beginning, in short, to settle comfortably into my studious and creative mood again. Sometimes I would go for walks alone: to the gorge, now deep in snow, where Zoyea’s camp had been; to the Babi gorge, where I had flown. Once I visited the run-down house of Sarkis Mihailovitch Kouyoumdjian, only to discover he had given up his business. It was the matter of the bakery engine, apparently, which had made him decide to leave Kiev. Business had become harder to find, possibly because people were reverting to pre-industrial methods as the War progressed, and he had gone to Odessa not long after me. From there, I was informed, he had left for England. He had relatives, said an old female neighbour, in Manchester. I felt some remorse and asked her if she thought it was my fault. She shrugged. ‘He was afraid of the Turks. The moment they entered the picture he became nervous, you know. He saw a Moslem Khan on the throne of Kiev. So he went to the one country where he could be sure the Moslem presence would never be felt.’ (This is an irony. Manchester is now full of the Sons of Allah. They run local councils, lend money at inflated rates of interest, own most of the private housing.)
As my mother’s health improved she began to worry more about my impending trip. ‘Odessa was one thing,’ she said, ‘but Petersburg is another. In Odessa you had relatives. In Petersburg you’ll have no one.’
‘It’s not true, mother. Uncle Semya has given me the names of his agents. They are a respectable English firm. From Messrs Green and Grunman I’ll draw my allowance and I can go to them any time I am in difficulties.’
‘Petersburg is the centre of revolutionary schemes. Everybody knows that. Your father was never political until he went there. They started all the trouble. The arrests. The pogroms. It’s easy for them. They’re the sons and daughters of the rich. If they’re caught, they get exiled and have to go to live in Switzerland. But we get shot.’
‘I shan’t get shot, mother.’
‘You must promise to do nothing to put yourself under suspicion,’ Esmé begged me.
‘I’ve no time for Reds.’ I laughed at their fears. ‘Cadets or Social Revolutionaries or Anarchists. I hate them all.’ In those days the Social Revolutionaries, as opposed to Lenin’s Social Democrats, were regarded as by far the most fanatical radicals. Lenin, needless to say, hiding away in some luxury chalet, had never been heard of by anyone. It was only later, confident that his dirty work had been done for him, that he was paid to come back to Russia by the Germans and claim the Revolution as his own. People like that exist in all walks of life. They let the real workers exhaust themselves, then stroll in to take the credit.
