The White Guard (29 page)

   'Bend over me', he said. His voice had become dry, weak and high-pitched. She turned to him, her eyes took on a frightened guarded look and the shadows around them deepened. Alexei put his right arm around her neck, pulled her to him and kissed her on the lips. It seemed to him that he was touching something sweet-tasting and cold. The woman was not surprised by what Alexei did, but only gazed more searchingly into his face. Then she said:

   'God, how hot you. are. What are we going to do? We ought to call a doctor, but how are we going to do it?'

   'No need', Alexei replied gently. 'I don't need a doctor. Tomorrow I'll get up and go home.'

   'I'm so afraid,' she whispered, 'that you'll get worse. Then how can I help you? It's not bleeding any more, is it?' She touched his bandaged arm so lightly that he did not feel it.

   'Don't worry, nothing's going to happen to me. Lie down and sleep.'

   'I'm not going to leave you', she answered, caressing his hand. 'You have such a fever.'

   He could not stop himself from embracing her again and drawing her to him. She did not resist. He drew her until she was leaning right over him. Then, as she lay down beside him he sensed through his own sickly heat the clear live warmth of her body.

   'Lie down and don't move,' she whispered, 'and I'll soothe your head.'

   She stretched out alongside him and he felt the touch of her knees. She began to smooth back his hair from his temples. He felt such pleasure that he could only think of how to prevent himself from falling asleep.

   But he did fall asleep, and slept long, peacefully and well. When he awoke he felt that he was floating in a boat on a river of warmth, that all his pain had gone, and that outside the night was turning gradually paler and paler. Not only the little house but the City and the whole world were full of silence. A glassy, limpid blue light was pouring through the gaps in the blinds. The woman, warm from his body, but with her face set in a look of unhappiness, was asleep beside him. And he went to sleep again.

   
#

   In the morning, around nine o'clock, one of the rare cab-drivers took on two passengers on the deserted Malo-Provalnaya Street -a man in a black civilian overcoat, looking very pale, and a woman. Carefully supporting the man by the arm, the woman drove him to St Alexei's Hill. There was no traffic on the hill, except for a cab outside No. 13 which had just brought a strange visitor with a trunk, a bundle and a cage.

   That evening all the habitues of No. 13 began to converge on the house of their own accord. None of them had been cut off or driven away.

   'It's him', echoed the cry in Anyuta's breast, and her heart fluttered like Lariosik's bird. There had come a cautious tap at the little snow-covered window of the Turbins' kitchen. Anyuta pressed her face to the window to make out the face. It was him, but without his moustache . . . Him . . . With both hands Anyuta smoothed down her black hair, opened the door into the porch, then from the porch into the snow-covered yard and Myshlaevsky was standing unbelievably close to her. A student's overcoat with a beaver collar and a student's peaked cap . . . his moustache was gone . . . but there was no mistaking his eyes, even in the half-darkness of the porch. The right one flecked with green sparks, like a Urals gemstone, and the left one dark and languorous . . . And he seemed to be shorter.

   With a trembling hand Anyuta unfastened the latch, then the courtyard vanished and the patch of light from the open kitchen door vanished too, because Myshlaevsky's coat had enveloped Anyuta and a very familiar voice whispered:

   'Hallo, Anyutochka . . . You'll catch cold ... Is there anyone in the kitchen, Anyuta?"

   'No one', answered Anyuta, not knowing what she was saying, and also whispering for some reason. 'How sweet his lips have become . . .' she thought blissfully and whispered: 'Viktor Viktororich ... let me go . . . Elena . . .'

   'What's Elena to do with it', whispered the voice reproachfully, a voice smelling of eau-de-cologne and tobacco. 'What's the matter with you, Anyutochka . . .'

   'Let me go, I'll scream, honestly I will', said Anyuta passionately

   as she embraced Myshlaevsky round the neck. 'Something terrible's happened - Alexei Vasilievich's wounded . . .'

   The boa-constrictor instantly released her.

   'What - wounded? And Nikolka?'

   'Nikolka's safe and well, but Alexei Vasilievich has been wounded.'

   The strip of light from the kitchen, then through more doors . . .

   In the dining-room Elena burst into tears when she saw Myshlaevsky and said:

   'Vitka, you're alive . . . Thank God . . . But we're not so lucky . . .' She sobbed and pointed to the door of Alexei's room. 'His temperature's forty . . . badly wounded . . .'

   'Holy Mother', said Myshlaevsky, pushing his cap to the back of his head. 'How did he get caught?'

   He turned to the figure at the table bending over a bottle and some shining metal boxes.

   'Are you a doctor, may I ask?'

   'No, unfortunately', answered a sad, muffled voice. 'Allow me to introduce myself: Larion Surzhansky.'

   #

   The drawing-room. The door into the lobby was shut and the portiere drawn to prevent the noise and the sound of voices from reaching Alexei. Three men had just left his bedroom and driven away - one with a pointed beard and gold pince-nez, another clean shaven, young, and finally one who was gray and old and wise, wearing a heavy fur coat and a tall fur hat, a professor, Alexei's old teacher. Elena had seen them out, her face stony. She had pretended that Alexei had typhus, and now he had it.

   'Apart from the wound - typhus . . .'

   The column of mercury showed forty and . . . 'Julia' ... A feverish flush, silence, and in the silence mutterings about a staircase and a telephone bell ringing . . .

   #

   'Good day, sir', Myshlaevsky whispered maliciously in Ukrainian, straddling his legs wide. Red-faced, Shervinsky avoided his look.

   His black suit fitted immaculately; an impeccable shirt and a bow tie; patent-leather boots on his feet. 'Artiste of Kramsky's Opera Studio.' There was a new identity-card in his pocket to prove it. 'Why aren't you wearing epaulettes,
sir?
Myshlaevsky went on. ' "The imperial Russian flag is waving on Vladimirskaya Street . . . Two divisions of Senegalese in the port of Odessa and Serbian billeting officers . . . Go to the Ukraine, gentlemen, and raise your regiments" . . . Remember all that, Shervinsky? Why, you mother- .. .'

   'What's the matter with you?' asked Shervinsky. 'It's not my fault is it? What did I have to do with it? I was nearly shot myself. I was the last to leave headquarters, exactly at noon, when the enemy's troops appeared in Pechorsk.'

   'You're a hero', said Myshlaevsky, 'but I hope that his excellency, the commander-in-chief managed to get away sooner. Just like his highness, the Hetman of the Ukraine . . . the son of a bitch ... I trust that he is in safety. The country needs men like him. Yes - perhaps
you
can tell me exactly where they are?'

   'Why do you want to know?'

   'I'll tell you why.' Myshlaevsky clenched his right fist and smashed it into the palm of his left hand. 'If those
excellencies
and those
highnesses
fell into my hands I'd take one of them by the left leg and the other by the right, turn them upside down and bang their heads on the ground until I got sick of it. And the rest of your bunch of punks at headquarters ought to be drowned in the lavatory . . .'

   Shervinsky turned purple.

   'See here - you be more careful what you're saying, if you please', he began. 'Don't forget that the Hetman abandoned his headquarters staff too. He took no more than two personal aides with him, all the rest of us were just left to our fate.'

   'Do you realise that at this moment a thousand of our men are cooped up as prisoners in the museum, hungry, guarded by machine-guns . . . And whenever they feel inclined, Petlyura's men will simply squash them like so many bed-bugs. Did you know that Colonel Nai-Turs was killed? He was the only one who . . .'

   'Keep your distance!' shouted Shervinsky, now genuinely angry. 'What do you mean by that tone of voice? I'm as much a Russian officer as you are!'

   'Now, gentlemen, stop!' Karas wedged himself between Myshlaevsky and Shervinsky. 'This is a completely pointless conversation. He's right, Viktor - you're being too personal. Stop it, this is getting us nowhere . . .'

   'Quiet, quiet,' Nikolka whispered miserably, 'he'll hear you . . .'

   Embarrassed, Myshlaevsky changed his tune.

   'Don't get upset, Mr Opera-singer. I get carried away . . . you know me.'

   'Funny way you have . . .'

   'Gentlemen, please be quiet . . .' Nikolka gave a warning look and tapped his foot on the floor. They all stopped and listened. Voices were coming from Vasilisa's apartment below. They could just make out the sound of Vasilisa laughing cheerfully, though a shade hysterically. As if in reply, Wanda said something in a confident, ringing voice. Then they quietened down a little, the voices burbling on for a while.

   'How extraordinary', said Nikolka thoughtfully. 'Vasilisa has visitors. People to see him. And at a time like this. A real party too, by the sound of it.'

   'He's weird all right, is your Vasilisa', grunted Myshlaevsky.

   
#

   It was around midnight that Alexei fell asleep after his injection, and Elena settled down in the armchair by his bedside. Meanwhile, a council of war was taking place in the drawing-room.

   It was decided that they should all stay for the night. Firstly, it was pointless to try and go anywhere at night, even with papers that were in order. Secondly, it would be better for Elena if they stayed - they could help in case it was needed. And above all, at a time like this it was better
not
to be at home, but to be out visiting. An even more pressing reason was that there was no alternative; here at least they could play whist.

   'Do you play?' Myshlaevsky asked Lariosik.

   Lariosik blushed, looked embarrassed, and said hastily that he did play, but very, very badly . . . that he hoped they wouldn't swear at him in the way his partner, the tax inspector, used to swear at him in Zhitomir . . . that he had been through a terrible crisis, but that here in Elena Vasilievna's house he was regaining his spirits, that Elena Vasilievna was a quite exceptional person and that it was so warm and cosy here, especially the cream-colored blinds on all the windows, which made you feel insulated from the outside world . .. And as for that outside world - you had to agree it was filthy, bloody and senseless.

   'Do you write poetry, may I ask?' Myshlaevsky asked, staring intently at Lariosik.

   'Yes, I do', Lariosik said modestly, blushing.

   'I see, . . . Sorry I interrupted you . . . Senseless, you were saying. Please go on.'

   'Yes, senseless, and our wounded souls look for peace somewhere like here, behind cream-colored blinds . . .'

   'Well, as for peace, I don't know what things are like in Zhitomir, but I don't think you'll find it here, in the City ... Better give your throat a good wetting with vodka before we start, or you'll feel very dry. May we have some candles? Excellent. In that case someone will have to stand down. Playing five-handed, with one dummy, is no good . . .'

   'Nikolka plays like a dummy, anyway', put in Karas.

   'What? What a libel! Who lost hands down last time? You revoked.'

   'The right place to live is behind cream-colored blinds. I don't know why, but everyone seems to laugh at poets . . .'

   'God forbid . . . Why did you take my question amiss? I've nothing against poets. I admit I don't read poetry but . . .'

   'And you've never read any other books either except for the artillery manual and the first fifteen pages of Roman law . . . the war broke out on page sixteen and he gave it up . . .'

   'Nonsense, don't listen to him . . . What is your name and patronymic - Larion Ivanovich?'

   Lariosik explained that he was called Larion Larionovich, but

   he found the company so congenial, which wasn't so much company as a friendly family and he would like it very much if they simply called him 'Larion' without his patronymic . . . Provided, of course, no one had any objections.

   'Seems a decent fellow . ..' the usually reserved Karas whispered to Shervinsky.

   'Good . . . let's get down to the game, then . . . He's lying, of course. If you really want to know, I've read
War and Peace.
Now there's a book for you. Read it right through - and enjoyed it. Why? Because it wasn't written by any old scribbler but by an artillery officer. Have you drawn a ten? Right, you're my partner . . . Karas partners Shervinsky . . . Out you go, Nikolka.'

   'Only don't swear at me please', begged Lariosik in a nervous voice.

   'What's the matter with you? We're not cannibals, you know -we won't eat you! I can see the tax inspectors in Zhitomir must be a terrible breed. They seem to have frightened the life out of you . . . We play a very strict game here.'

   'So you've no need to worry', said Shervinsky as he sat down.

   'Two spades . . . Ye . es . . . now there was a writer for you, Lieutenant Count Lev Nikolaevich Tolstoy of the artillery . . . Pity he left the army . . . pass . . . he'd have made general . . . Instead of retiring to his estate, where anyone might turn to novel-writing out of boredom . . . nothing to do in those long winter evenings. Easy enough in the country. No ace . . .'

   'Three diamonds', said Lariosik shyly.

   'Pass', answered Karas.

   'What's all this about being a bad player? You play very well. You deserve to be congratulated, not sworn at. Well then, if you call three diamonds, I'll say four spades. I wouldn't mind going to my estate myself at the moment . . .'

   'Four diamonds', Nikolka prompted Lariosik, glancing at his cards.

   'Four? Pass.'