Foreigners (19 page)

“One day, Alyosha,” Iosif said, as if he were talking to the tumbling smoke. “Mark my words, one day all of this will be over. The world will be put right and the people will no longer have to suffer the tyranny of fools. And I have a dream for
when that day comes. It is a simple dream of a simple life. A small
dacha
in the mountains; a garden; maybe some goats. No more than I need, just enough to sustain me. I could be happy with that, Alyosha. In truth, I could be happy with less were I to know that Yekaterina would be at my side.”

Alexander looked at his friend. At first, the thought of Iosif's dream of living the peasant life was laughable, if for nothing more than its wildly romantic inaccuracies. Then, too, there were the actualities: the notion of Iosif clad in coarse provincial clothing, squatting on a splintery stool, squeezing the sagging teats of a nanny goat. But there was also something in it that appealed to Alexander, and that was the idea of his sister's happiness. Unexpectedly he too fell victim to idyll: Yekaterina standing in the doorway of a gingerbread house, her face, so drawn of late, so hollow and so often without mirth, brightened by the mountain air and the happiness of being with the man she loved, even if she was too coy yet to give of herself fully, and her dark eyes alight with a joy she would never know in the home of her parents, gay and alive as she waited for Iosif to bring her the milk that she would churn into butter for their table.

“I wonder,” Iosif began again, his tone unchanged, “if I should send one of Kamo's lookouts to pay a visit to David Suliashvili and his dear mama?”

The night caretaker let them in the stage door after Iosif gave a coded knock. It was daybreak, and they had been waiting in the alley that ran behind the Tiflis Theatre for almost an hour before Iosif approached the door. Inside, the caretaker led
them through the wings and into a back corridor with a staircase that climbed to the third-floor foyer. No one spoke. In the foyer the caretaker left them; he disappeared back down the staircase. Iosif went to a sofa beside the window and looked out onto Erevan Square. It was empty in the half-light of dawn, though Alexander knew that as the city awoke it would grow busy with traffic. As he knew, too, that in three hours' time the armoured government carriage would be trundling across the cobbles with its cargo of bullion being transported to the Tsar's treasury. And waiting for it would be Kamo and his phaetons and his men.

Satisfied with their vantage point, Iosif settled back on the sofa. It was upholstered in red velvet and had gilded legs carved into the shape of bearpaws. He ran his hands over the cushions. “What do you think of this, Alyosha?” he said, caressing the material. “Do you think it is beautiful?”

“Some might think so,” Alexander replied. He had never been in the theatre before and was somewhat taken by its opulence. Even in the dimness of morning, the deep burgundy of the papered walls and the shimmering gilt of the fixtures impressed him. This, he thought, must be what the Tsar's palaces look like.

“The cost of this sofa alone,” Iosif said, “could feed a worker and his family for a year. What do you say to that?”

“I say that it is shameful,” said Alexander.

“Yes, it is,” said Iosif. “Come,” he said, patting the cushion beside him. “Sit down. See how the bourgeois treat their arses.”

Alexander went to the sofa and sat down. He sank into the stuffing; it felt to him like a great feather bed, and as he leaned his head back, he was overcome with exhaustion. They had
been awake all night. When, some hours before, Simon had finished concealing Comrade Krasin's small bombs beneath the seats of the phaetons and distributed the guns and ammunition to his men, Iosif had given them their orders. His instructions were precise: where each man was to place himself around the square; at what position the armoured carriage was to be attacked; who was to throw the first bomb; who was to fire the first shot. Alexander was impressed by his attention to detail; every aspect of the raid was choreographed. Afterward, once each man involved had recounted to Iosif the part he was to play, Iosif told him to get some sleep before they had to start out. But Iosif himself was in no mood for sleep, and he'd kept Alexander awake with talk of Yekaterina. Now, with a sleepless night past and the welcoming comfort of the sofa pulling at him, Alexander felt himself beginning to drift toward slumber. Only the daunting insomnia of Iosif kept Alexander from surrendering himself.

“I have been thinking, Alyosha,” Iosif said, shifting himself on the expensive cushions. “I believe I shall change my name.”

Alexander sat up and looked at his friend. Iosif had changed his name many times in the past, assuming aliases to keep the authorities at arm's length. But it did not seem to Alexander that his friend was talking this time about an alias. There was an air of purpose about him now, as if this pronouncement was to be a declaration of presence, rather than a cloak of concealment.

“And what,” Alexander asked, “were you thinking of changing you name to, Koba?”

Iosif smiled, and his face once again was that of a mischievous pixie. He leaned forward and in an exaggerated whisper said, “Man of Steel.”

“Man of Steel?” said Alexander.

“Yes,” his friend replied, puffing out his rather thin chest. “Man of Steel. What do you think?”

“I think it is a good name,” said Alexander, though he wondered if Iosif might not be taking himself a little too seriously. “A strong name.”

“And I am a strong man,” Iosif retorted. “Am I not?”

“You are that, Koba. Everyone knows it to be true.”

“Yes,” said Iosif. He turned then and looked out again over Erevan Square. The sun had inched its way above the rooftops and shone brightly now through the window. “You should sleep now, Alyosha,” he said, still peering down into the street. “You must be very tired.”

“I am,” said Alexander.

“Then sleep,” Iosif said. “It will be hours yet before the carriage arrives. You want to be fresh when the action begins.” He turned and smiled warmly. “Don't worry. I will wake you in plenty of time.”

Alexander felt a tap on his shoulder. He opened his eyes to the brilliant sunlight that flooded through the tall windows and bathed the foyer in a warm glow. Everything looked unreal to him and for a moment he thought he might still be dreaming. In his sleep he had been walking through an enormous ballroom crowded with people in evening dress who danced and spoke only to one another.

“It's time,” Iosif said. “Kamo has sent the signal. The phaetons are on the side streets and the carriage is coming toward the square.”

Alexander stood up and looked down at the busy pavement below. For some reason, he had not expected the square to be so crowded.

“Get away from the window, Alyosha,” Iosif snapped. “We must not draw any attention to ourselves until it is time.”

Iosif turned then and started toward the main staircase that led to the front lobby of the theatre. Alexander followed close on his heels. The steps were wide and shallow and covered in a deep red carpet the likes of which he had never before seen. It gave beneath his feet like the loam that covers a forest floor.

The lobby was empty. Iosif crossed to the front doors and disengaged the lock, then stepped behind a pillar so that any passersby could not see him through the floor-length windows that fronted the theatre. He motioned for Alexander to hide himself behind the pillar on the opposite side of the entrance.

Alexander could feel his heart racing. The rush of adrenalin lightened his head, and he found the sensation not at all unpleasant. It was similar to that which he had experienced as a child when his father took him into the hills to shoot rabbits. He looked across to Iosif, who was studying his pocket watch, his lips moving as if he was reading something written on the face of the timepiece; then Iosif returned the watch to his pocket and withdrew a revolver from the waistband of his trousers. Alexander did not recall him collecting a gun from the warehouse.

“Koba,” he said. “Where did you get that from? I do not have a gun for myself.”

“Do not worry,” said Iosif. “Stay close to me and everything will be fine. And keep yourself behind the pillar and away from the glass.”

Just as the last word passed Iosif's lips, Alexander heard a loud voice in the street outside. It was followed by a brief silence, but in that quiet moment it felt to Alexander as if the world were frozen in place: everything became still. Then came a clap, like thunder, and the great windows blew in and rained shards of glass through the lobby. Another clap followed and another close behind, much louder now, and then everything was quiet again. Except it was not. Alexander looked toward the other pillar and saw that Iosif was calling to him, though he could not hear a word his friend said. Iosif came and grabbed him by the arm.

“It is begun,” he shouted.

Now the world came alive again and Alexander heard cries coming from the street as he allowed himself to be pulled through the front doors of the theatre.

In the square, the first thing he noticed was the smell: the stench of cordite and sulphur hung in the air and it brought to mind the thick perfume of incense burned during Easter Mass. After this came the bodies. They lay all around him: on the pavement, on the cobblestones; some were still, others twisted in pain, clutching at arms and legs, hands pressed to stomachs, chests. One old woman sat in the middle of the street, her skirts pulled up over her knees, the kerchief on her head stained red. She held her hands out to him as if begging for coins; her lips quivered but she made no noise. Alexander turned away from her and followed Iosif deeper into the square.

The phaetons had drawn up close to the armoured carriage, one at the back and the other in front, so as to block any route of escape. It was an unneeded precaution. The carriage was
going nowhere. Of the two horses harnessed to it, one lay on its side, its belly torn open and its innards spilled onto the cobbles; the other remained standing in the reins, a rear hoof raised off the ground, tail flicking at its bloodied haunches as if to chase away flies. Kamo's men had swarmed the carriage and prised open its doors, and were in the process of removing the sacks of bullion.

Alexander stopped a moment and regarded the scene around him. It was as if there, in the centre of the square beside the carriage, he was in the eye of a terrible storm. All around chaos reigned. The horses of the Cossack Guard that had acted as escort circled the periphery of the square with empty saddles, like coursers at a steeplechase that had unseated their riders. And the remainder of Kamo's men had set upon the Cossacks themselves. Above the cries and confusion there came the sound of gunshots.

Alexander turned then to find Iosif. He saw him kneeling beside the carriage. Propped against the front wheel was the young soldier who, moments before, had driven the armoured carriage into Erevan Square, unaware of what awaited him. Iosif leaned in toward the soldier so that their heads were close together, as if they were sharing a confidence. Then he got back to his feet, placed the barrel of his revolver against the bridge of the soldier's nose and fired a bullet into the young man's skull.

Iosif slipped the revolver back into the waistband of his trousers and walked over to where Alexander stood, still staring at the dead soldier. He took him by the shoulder.

“Come, Alyosha,” he said. “We must go before the
gendarmerie
arrive.”