Byzantium Endures (23 page)

‘We’ve been all over the world,’ he told me. ‘Do you know Paris? You must do. And London?’ He made a face. He did not think much of London. ‘Philistines,’ he said. ‘New York is so much more cultivated. You wouldn’t believe it, would you? All those cowboys! But then you’ve been to New York?’

I could not deceive him by so many thousands of miles. I shook my head.

‘You must go there as soon as possible. Away from all this War. They appreciate art in New York. They are so starved of it, you see, poor things.’

I had become almost as captivated by S.A. Tsipliakov as I had been by Shura. I was flattered by the attention, by the friendly and direct warmth of my companion. I went with him into the dining-room. He bought me breakfast and insisted I have a glass of champagne.

We returned to our coupé and sat side by side on my bunk while he told me of his adventures abroad, the disasters and triumphs of their company (a small one but highly regarded in the capital). He complained that the ‘awful War’ had cut down badly on their travelling. That was why they had been in Kiev. They had been scheduled to go to Berlin at Christmas. ‘We’d been so looking forward to it, Dimka,
mon ami.
Christmas in Berlin. The lovely decorated trees, the Christmas songs, the gingerbread. The Germans invented Christmas as far as I’m concerned. It’s all so wonderful. Tinsel and velvet and everybody so happy.’ He blamed the whole war on a few Prussians and ‘those greedy Austrians’. It was not, he thought, the fault of the Hungarians. ‘They love music and dancing and all the arts. The Austrians think the waltz is the highest thing anyone can aspire to!’

He complained he could not even go to France, except in uniform. He rang for the steward and ordered a bottle of Krug. It was with almost fainting astonishment that I found the order accepted. Within a quarter-of-an-hour we had an ice-bucket from which emerged not Krug, but the dark green neck of the finest, sweetest Moët et Chandon. ‘It’s almost impossible to get Krug in Russia any longer,’ he said. ‘Luckily the railway companies have some champagne. If you want to drink it, you must travel everywhere by Wagon-Lit!’ He laughed, rolling the bottle in the ice. ‘Every capital is closed to us, for one reason or another. Of course people in the provinces are only too pleased to see us. We play to full houses wherever we go. We’re probably making more money here than we ever made in the rest of Europe. But it’s so dull. I like amusement, Dimka. I work hard on stage so I must find proper ways of relaxing. What do you think?’ He lifted the bottle from the bucket. I held out my glass.

With a flourish, my new friend filled it. ‘We’re going to have a wonderful time. Happy New Year.’ He drank his glass off in a single movement. He sighed and was about to speak when the guard knocked on the door and opened it. He had coarse, red features, greying moustaches, a thick, dark uniform covered in gold braid. He saluted. ‘I’m very sorry, your excellencies. I was asked to keep an eye on the young gentleman by his parents. Any problems, just call for me.’ He closed the door.

Seryozha scowled. The guard was ‘an interfering old fool!’ I was flattered by so much attention. My ‘parents’ must have been Captain Brown. Doubtless he had tipped the guard to look after me all the way to Petersburg.

Outside, the snow continued to fall and Seryozha and I continued to drink. He told me about Marseilles and Florence and Rome and all those ‘wonderful warm places we shan’t be able to visit for months’. As he got drunk, his speech became looser. Luckily I was used to it. Indeed, I found the strain of being a gentleman somewhat relieved by Seryozha’s company. I giggled at his jokes and told him some of my own, at which he laughed as heartily as he laughed at his. ‘We should have some music,’ he said. ‘What a pity the other members of the troupe took the earlier train. We have so many wonderful people who can play the guitar and the mandolin and the balalaika and accordion, you know. We could have a little party. With girls. Do you like girls, Dimka?’ He smiled and put his large arm around my shoulders. ‘I suppose you are a little too young to know what you do like, eh? But you have the feelings?’ He winked.

I assured him I had the feelings. He squeezed my shoulder and then my leg. He suggested we order a further bottle of champagne ‘to keep us warm’. He rang the bell. The guard answered it. Seryozha said impatiently, ‘I wanted the steward.’

‘He’ll be along soon, your excellency.’

But an hour passed and the champagne was finished before the steward arrived.

‘Another bottle of this,’ said my friend. ‘Better make it two.’

The steward shook his head. ‘All the champagne is gone.’

‘We’ve hardly been travelling an hour!’

‘We’ve been moving for three, your excellency.’

‘And you’ve run out of champagne?’

‘I’m very sorry. It’s the War.’

‘Oh, it’s a wonderful War, isn’t it, when artists are no longer allowed to take the few pleasures left to them? You give the public everything and what does it give you? Champagne-rationing.’

‘It’s not our fault, your excellency.’

‘Then bring me a bottle of brandy.’

‘There’s no brandy available in bottles. We have to keep our stocks for the dining-cars.’

‘You mean if we wish to have a drink, we must dine?’

The steward took out his pad. ‘Shall I book you a table?’

‘You had better.’ Seryozha stood up, looming over both of us. He flexed his legs, his arms. ‘I shall be in agony by morning.’ He reached into the pocket of his frockcoat which he had flung on his bed. ‘Can’t you get us just one bottle, steward?’ He produced a silver rouble. The man looked at it as if he saw his child dying and was unable to save it. ‘There is no way, your excellency.’

From where I sat, I noticed the shadow of the bulky guard behind him. He was keeping an eye on the steward to make sure he was not bribed.

‘It’s all right, Seryozha,’ I said. ‘We’ve had plenty of champagne. More than most people will be getting for a while.’

The dancer slumped down again, waving the steward away. ‘When shall we have dinner?’

‘From five o’clock on, your excellency.’

‘Then make it at five.’

‘Very well.’

‘And ensure we get an aperitif.’

‘I hope so, your excellency.’

Seryozha rose in anger, but the steward scuttled off down the corridor. ‘Dimka, my dear, we must all suffer a little in the cause of the War.’ He gave me a strange look from beneath hooded, shadowed eyes. ‘You do not blame me?’

‘Of course not.’

‘I did my best.’

‘I saw.’

‘I think I’ll rest for a while, until dinner. Why don’t you do the same?’

I was feeling sleepy. I agreed it might be a good idea. Seryozha clambered to his bunk. I could see his bulging outline immediately above my head. I lay, in my shirt and trousers, with my jacket and waistcoat neatly hung up, trying to sleep. But the general atmosphere of excitement which I had experienced a few moments earlier now gave way to something akin to depression. I had been looking forward to that second bottle.

A moment or two later I heard a rustling from Seryozha’s bunk. He was now sitting cross-legged, judging by the shape in the mattress overhead. A little time passed. I heard him give one quick sniff and then another. It was a familiar sound. I got up, in time to catch him unawares, and sure enough he held a short silver tube to his nose. It extended to a little box, like a snuff-box. Deprived of his wine, Seryozha had resorted to cocaine. He looked at me and put the apparatus away. ‘You’ve caught me taking my medicine.’

‘You have a headache?’ I spoke with deliberate innocence.

‘Just a small one. The fizz, you know. And then that awful experience with the steward.’

‘You should sleep.’

‘I don’t feel sleepy. Do you?’

‘I’m quite drowsy.’ This was not entirely true. I thought it politic. I hoped to be offered some cocaine. I still had a little more than a gram in my luggage. I had decided to save it for an emergency, when my studies demanded. Now I had found a new source. I determined not to lose touch with my ballet-dancer. I must be sure to get his address. From him I could contact a source of supply. One of my secret worries would then be quieted.

Seryozha put out a soft hand and rumpled my hair. ‘Don’t worry about me, my dark-eyed beauty. I’m feeling better already.’

I pulled away. At the time I had very little experience of the ballet fraternity, but some instinct warned me. I believe the guard and steward must have guessed Seryozha’s intentions and had done what they could to thwart him. People today think that Seryozha’s is a modern aberration. It has always been with us. Virtually everything characteristic of the present day - every vice, political theory, tyranny, argument, art-form had its origin in the Russia of my own time. The degenerates of St Petersburg set the tone, one could say, for the entire century.

I dined with Seryozha because I had agreed I should, but I drank sparingly, almost calculatingly. When we came to retire he let me undress in the little wash-room. I put on my nightshirt and climbed into bed. He disappeared into the wash-room. I heard normal sounds of ablutions. Then he came out.

He was quite naked. This was not unusual amongst men in those days, who always bathed together nude. What alarmed me was the size of his penis swinging a few inches from my face as he seemed to have trouble climbing into his bunk. The train had begun to move a little faster, but this was not why he found himself floundering over me, his warm, stiff private parts striking my neck and shoulder. He made a great show of apologising. I, of course, in my confusion, told him I did not mind. He sat on the edge of my bunk as if to recover, steadying himself with a hand on my arm. ‘Oh, Dimka. What a shock! Are you feeling all right?’

I said I was fine.

His hand stroked my arm. ‘I’m so sorry. The last thing in the world I wanted to do was startle you.’

‘I am not startled,’ I said.

‘But you are upset, I can tell.’

‘Not in the least.”

‘You have become so formal.’ There were tears in his eyes.

‘You have no cause to apologise.’

‘Ah, but I have. I am a monster. You know the kind I am?’

‘It is a perfectly honourable profession. Russians have always been great dancers.’

This seemed to upset him. With a grunt he lifted his great body upright and climbed slowly into his bed. Shortly afterwards I heard more noises and judged he had begun to masturbate. Feeling some stirring in my own loins at his I began privately to indulge myself, also.

I fell asleep.

I awoke with a sensation of extreme discomfort. The lights were out. There was a peculiar silence everywhere in the train. It had grown colder. I was wedged tightly against the wall of the carriage and realised that my companion was lying on my bunk. As I tried to move my arm, which had pins and needles, his thick, almost sluggish voice spoke from the darkness. I could feel stale breath on my face. ‘You seemed cold. I thought I’d warm you.’

‘There’s not enough room for two in here.’

‘You’ll freeze.’ He placed a hand upon my arm. He was sweating. I wondered if the drink and cocaine had caused a form of delirium.

‘I’m extremely uncomfortable,’ I pointed out.

‘I can cuddle you.’

‘Thank you, Sergei Andreyovitch. I would rather not be cuddled.’

‘It’s my duty.’

‘It is not. Why is the compartment so cold?’

‘The train is stuck. The heating has gone wrong. We have stopped in a drift.’

I struggled up. He tried to hold me down.

‘I appreciate your concern, Sergei Andreyovitch, but really I am in some pain.’