The Madonna of the Sleeping Cars (21 page)

I heard the noise of footsteps. In spite of myself I turned toward the door. A man appeared, followed by another man.

Then Irina remarked, in the most indifferent tone in the world, “Enough of this play-acting. It is not your night to die. You are merely going to see how we dispose of counter-revolutionists. Let us sit down on this bench, Prince Séliman. The ceremony won’t take long.”

The man about to die was a small type of Russian, badly built, with bloodshot eyes and a bushy beard. He walked mechanically in front of the executioner. Resigned, overpowered by fate, he was marching like a soldier to his grave. Was he still in his right mind? Was he still conscious of the existence of the outside world? I watched him, controlling my emotion with extreme difficulty. After having placed me before the mirror of death, Irina was now inflicting on me the atrocious spectacle of a dress rehearsal. I often ask myself today by what miracle of will-power I was able to endure that nightmare.

Suddenly I started. Irina, seated beside me, spoke in a low voice. She was explaining everything and her remarks intrigued me about as much as those of a neighbor at the theater who explains the plot:

“His name is Tchernicheff. Moscow telegraphed his death sentence this afternoon. A former volunteer in Denikine’s army. Pfft. Excrement of the worst kind.”

In the meantime the executioner had conducted his victim to a spot between the white wall and the box of sand. The Tchekist executor of such worthy deeds was an old sailor of the Baltic Fleet, a swarthy ruffian about six feet tall, with the features of a lymphatic gorilla, scarred and pock-marked, with flat ears and hands like veal cutlets. He emitted an order. The
condemned man did not move. For the first time, he appeared to appreciate the frightful reality. His eyes bulging from their sockets, he stared at us, Irina and me. I had the horrible sensation that this man, on the threshold of death, was reproaching us for the incongruity of our presence.

The executioner’s order rang out a second time. Still the man failed to move. He only shrieked out something, intended for our ears. His raucous, trembling voice grated on my nerves, like the rasp of a saw on metal. The Tchekist turned to Irina and exchanged a few words. She seemed amused. The executioner guffawed. His bass voice along with Irina’s, which was like the
pizzicato
of a harp, completed my discomfort.

She took me to witness for the absurdity of the thing: “He doesn’t want to get undressed! Because I’m here. You see, there is a regulation which requires that they die naked! And here is one who doesn’t dare—in front of a woman. It’s really funny.”

Irina had arisen. She made some sarcastic remark to the condemned man. Then I saw this: the poor wretch, docile enough, took off his ragged coat and trousers, and then, modestly, turned to the wall to remove his shirt.

Irina made a sign to me. “My word! Anyone would think he was a newlywed!” And she cried out to the poor devil, “Make a half-turn!”

Galvanized by this order, beside himself, already tottering on his meager legs, Tchernicheff did as he was told. He stood there as God made him. Irina did not even look at him. She motioned to the executioner. Her gesture seemed to say,
Hurry and put that poor wretch out of his misery
. Then she sat down.

Two shots rang out. Tchernicheff fell in a heap. The Tchekist spread a thick coating of yellow sand around the corpse and gathered up the widowed clothes. The roar of the engine ceased. The Red guard who had escorted me reappeared.

Irina said, “Now, we’re going to take you back to your cell, my dear Prince. I imagine that what you have seen tonight will give you food for thought.” She was silent for a few seconds before she added very sweetly, “It is always a good thing to meet one’s destiny ahead of time.”

We went out. The guard opened the door of my cage. Irina instructed him to wait at the foot of the stairs. She entered. She felt of my blanket and my mattress and remarked:

“You see, I’m just like a sister to you. I’ve come to tuck you in.”

She had leaned over to fix the bed. As she straightened up, I took her in my arms. What sudden impulse could have impelled me? I have no idea, but I drew her to me, and almost mouth against mouth, I said:

“Irina, you are a she-devil. But I don’t hate you for it. I admire your iron nerve and your heartless heart which possesses all the splendor of a Hindu statue. Irina—let me go! I will repair the harm I’ve done. Irina—your lips must taste of blood and savage perfumes.”

I had lost all sense of proportion. I only saw that pale little face in its ebony frame of straight bobbed hair. I only saw that hard, sensual mouth which made no answer. I placed my lips on hers. She made no resistance. I could feel the wild abandon of that cruel chalice which did not try to close. The silent kiss endured until Irina’s body suddenly broke loose from my embrace. With uncanny strength she threw me over on the bed, actually spat in my face, rushed to the door and hurled at me:

“So you thought you could have me so soon! Imbecile! I am ashamed of the few seconds of weakness of which you, of course, took advantage. This time your die is cast—you have sealed your own death warrant on my mouth.”

THE NEXT MORNING, AFTER A NIGHT DISTRAUGHT with atrocious dreams, I awoke, tired and despondent. In an effort to start my blood circulating I vigorously rubbed my dirty, bearded cheeks. I felt that I was already being conquered by that same mournful despair which hung about my fellow prisoners. An imaginary vulture was beating against my temples in its flight and the weight of a tombstone oppressed my respiration.

Toward two o’clock in the afternoon the jailer opened the door. I was surprised to see Ivanof enter my cell. I hardly recognized him, so joyous was the light which shone from his eyes and so new was the energy which animated his every move. He walked with a springy step. He hastened to say:

“This is my last night in jail! They have received orders to let me go tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“I haven’t any idea. I don’t suppose they have either. Chapinski told me the good news just now. He hated to do it; the words stuck in his mouth; he acted as though my liberation was a reproach for him. Infamous reptile that he is! How I would like to strangle him on my way out.”

I felicitated Ivanof. He excused himself:

“My poor friends. I know it’s selfish to be so gay in your presence but my blood is bubbling over with joy. I wish you were coming with me.”

I only sighed resignedly. Ivanof evidently knew nothing about my situation. Had he been aware that Madam Mouravieff destined me for the executioner’s faultless aim, he would have been even more ashamed of his alacrity.

“I heard the engine again last night,” he continued. “Another murder in the slaughter-house next door.”

“Yes. It was Tchernicheff.”

Ivanof gazed at me, astounded. “How do you know?”

“I was present at the execution.”

He drew himself up and said, “You? You were—”

“Yes. By special invitation of Madam Irina Alexandrovna Mouravieff.”

“The Tchekist from Moscow? Is she here?”

“Yes, on my account. She wanted to give me an idea of the fate which awaits me. She is a very sentimental lady.”

“My poor friend.”

Ivanof’s sympathy was so very real that I spontaneously seized his outstretched hands. He no longer laughed; himself escaped from death’s clutches, he nevertheless showed his sincere sorrow at my sad lot. He questioned me in a subdued voice. I explained my case in fullest detail.

He asked, “What can I do for you, my friend?”

“Nothing, unfortunately.”

It was late in the afternoon. I lay down and slept for a time. Ivanof crouched in a corner. He in no way displayed the happiness which must have been his. Quantities of ideas were running through his head. Toward the middle of the night I awoke with a start. A thought had penetrated, like a feeble but persistent light, into my befuddled brain.

I whispered excitedly, “Ivanof!”

“Yes.”

“Listen.”

He sat down beside me.

I confided, “I have saved a thousand American dollars out of the mess.”

“A thousand dollars!”

“They are hidden over there between two tiles. Wouldn’t a thousand dollars buy some complicity or other?”

“Yes and no. It’s a gamble.”

“I don’t mean from the Red guards. I have another plan. Ivanof, listen carefully to what I say. Some American friends of mine are cruising near Trébizonde on board a yacht called the
Northern Star
. The yacht is equipped with a wireless. As you would lose too much time should you try to locate it by crossing Armenia, even supposing that you were allowed to leave Georgia, couldn’t you manage to send a wireless from Nikolaïa to the
Northern Star
?”

“I doubt whether there is a private post in Nikolaïa. But the signal station at the entrance to the port, if I am not mistaken, has an apparatus. Everything depends on the operator.”

“For a thousand dollars, that man, no matter who he is, would probably consent to send a message to a foreign boat. What do you think? And for fifty thousand dollars, a sum which my friends would gladly lend me, Chapinski might perhaps be induced to set me free! Do you want to try it for me?”

Ivanof hesitated, then replied, “I run the risk of being incarcerated again for abetting an attempt to escape. I will, however, gladly expose myself to that danger if you will promise me that, in the event of your success, your friends from the
Northern Star
will take me to Constantinople.”

“I give you my word that they will.”

“Then I’ll see about it the first thing tomorrow. What message should I send?”

“Have you a pencil?”

“No, but I have a good memory. Besides, it’s safer not to write.”

“Well, then, here you are: ‘Steam-yacht
Northern Star
Black Sea all speed to Nikolaïa. Husband desperately ill.’ ”

“No signature?”

“No, because some Soviet station might pick up the message.”

“Are you the sick husband?”

“Yes. A very sick husband.”

“And will the owner of the yacht understand?”

“She should. She is my wife.”

Ivanof murmured incredulously, “And the Princess Séliman amuses herself cruising about in the Black Sea while you rot in a dungeon in Nikolaïa?”

I explained the situation. He seemed greatly interested in my romance. He remarked at last:

“Let us elaborate on our plan of action. As soon as I am free I shall go to the wireless station. Supposing that your dollars convince him and that he consents to send the radio. Then supposing that the Princess responds to your cry for help and that the yacht arrives. What shall I do?”

“The moment the launch comes ashore, give the sailor a letter to the Princess Séliman explaining my situation. Suggest that she invite Chapinski aboard, and offer him fifty thousand dollars provided he consents to manage my escape. After that we shall see. I don’t need to tell you, Ivanof, that if you get me out of jail, not only will you escape from the Soviet hell forever, but your fortune as a musician will be made in America.”

“Friend, you tempt me. But we are both risking our lives, you know.”

“It’s nothing but a case of doubles or quits. And besides, it’s worth it! By collaborating with me, you will assure your future career and your fiancée’s happiness, for she can join you later in New York. At my expense, of course. Look here, Ivanof, you know the Communist state of mind better than I do. Do you think for one minute that Chapinski’s conviction can stand up against fifty thousand American dollars, fresh from the mint in Washington?”

Ivanof closed his eyes. His meditation was of short duration. He took my hand, shook it convincingly and concluded:

“You have my solemn word of honor. Doubles or quits. Give me your banknotes. I’ll hide them in my shirt and tomorrow morning I will put them to work.”

The tedious passage of time after Ivanof’s departure was for me the bitterest sort of mental torture. Scarcely had he obtained his liberation than I began to speculate on his activities. I pictured his approach to the chief of the wireless station; the prudence and diplomacy which he would need to employ in a country where suspicion with its shrewd eyes scales the walls of houses and insinuates itself under the cracks of bolted doors.

All that day I had no visitor except the jailer, who came with the customary rations of soup and black bread. Impatience frayed my shattered nerves still more. Hour after hour, I paced my narrow cell. I could see nothing but the vision of Ivanof. No woman whom I had adored ever haunted me as did he. Like an opium smoker with exaggerated senses, it seemed to me sometimes that the intactile waves of a radio were roaring by my ears on their way through space.
The imaginary noises of a broadcasting station cradled my anxiety.

And then the cold stream of doubt suddenly bathed me. Ivanof had departed with a thousand dollars. Could I surely depend on his trustworthiness? Why should he not keep the money for himself rather than risk the dangers of a double escape? He was free, after all, relatively free in a country which had lost that sense of honor and responsibility so dear to civilized people of the west.

Night came. The yellow lantern flickered again. Lady Diana’s memory borrowed my thoughts. What was she doing at this hour? Doubtless she was in London with Varichkine. They must be worried at having received no news of me, no response to their telegrams addressed to the Hotel Vokzal and which the Tchekists had undoubtedly intercepted.
I imagined the “Madonna of the Sleeping Cars” in her Berkeley Square boudoir, keeping Varichkine at arm’s length, awaiting my reports before opening her heart to him. Yes, Lady Diana at that very moment was probably exercising her seductive wiles from a divan of embroidered velvet. I could see her in her pink and white robe—a flaming vision framed in ermine—displaying the roundness of her arms and the perfection of her perfumed and powdered skin. I could see Varichkine, conquered, dazzled, beside himself—Varichkine with eyes shining with hope, stalking his prey, chained by the stubbornness of a panther’s heart hidden deep in the alluring body of a defenseless woman.