The Vanishing Futurist (11 page)

In the first frosty days of November 1918, Slavkin came to one of our evening meetings with a request.

‘My dear ones,’ he said diffidently, ‘you understand that what I am asking you now is quite outside the daily demands made on you as members of this commune. If any of you don’t want to take part in this enterprise, I understand. It is for you to choose.’

He produced a piece of paper and began to read from it: ‘Tin sheeting, iron bars, copper wire, acid – these are some of the materials that I will need for my new project. If you could help me to assemble them, I assure you you’ll be performing a great service for the Revolution.’

We gazed at him without a word. I expect our mouths dropped open. Was it possible that he had not noticed the state of the city outside the house on Gagarinsky Lane? Moscow was returning to the Neolithic age, people were eating rat, and he was talking about bringing home iron bars? Railings all over the city had already been sawn off and carted away, first for one war and then the next. It was a capital offence to steal firewood, let alone the things Slavkin was after.

‘I already have a basic engine, which will need modifying, of course, and I have a good part of the metal necessary. What I list here is perhaps 25 per cent of the total,’ he went on, looking hopefully at us.

‘Is this for the Socialisation Capsule?’ asked Sonya.

‘Yes. It’s about the size of a bathtub. Rather a long one, with a lid - you lie down in it,’ replied Slavkin. ‘There is one more thing, too, that I need. Something that I know we can get hold of quite simply.’

‘What’s that – Lenin’s balls?’ Volodya said, laughing. ‘Camel, you’re quite something, you are. Even if by some miracle you get hold of this stuff, we’ll all be shot on the spot for harbouring it at home!’

‘Oh, no, that’s something I’ve taken care of,’ he said. ‘I have a licence here for my workshop from Lunacharsky. You remember he complimented me on my work at the Centre? I went to him and asked for support. Any work I do here will be listed on the jobs list of the Narkompros. He’s including it, in fact, in the anniversary celebrations for the October Revolution – as a way to allow us to requisition scarce materials. He was very accommodating.’

‘But what is the other thing you want us to pilfer for you?’ asked Fyodor.

‘Well, it’s nothing we haven’t managed to obtain before – just a little iridium.’

Iridium had an almost mystical significance for him, a fascination that had begun in childhood. The success of the Socialisation Capsule seemed to depend entirely on its properties – its extreme density, its resistance to any kind of manipulation, heat or corrosion. He would often talk of it as ‘noble’, in the alchemical sense: ‘Most true and noble metal, essence of metal, ideal element,’ he wrote. ‘With a shield of iridium, my Capsule will withstand any pressure. It will be invincible.’

Increasingly fantastic accounts of Slavkin’s childhood have appeared in the years since he became the Vanishing Futurist. It’s been claimed that he was a child prodigy who made his first inventions as a toddler; that he was the son of Bolshevik exiles in Siberia – even the son of Stalin. He never talked a great deal about it to us – just the occasional remark – but he did write his ‘Revolutionary Development’, that I suppose must now be a rather valuable document. Here, in his own words, he briefly describes his early years. Far from being acclaimed as a prodigy, he was formed by hardship, loneliness – and iridium.

The first anniversary of the October Revolution was to be celebrated with all the scale and pomp that the actual event had lacked. The Commissariat of Enlightenment planned a blaze of red flags, great crowds of singing schoolchildren, increased rations and free meals for the people, the hammer and sickle everywhere, and the face of Lenin against snowy roofs and buildings.

Pasha reported on the preparations to us in the evenings – the frenzy at Narkompros as entertainments were commissioned, rejected and re-commissioned by competing organising committees; and artists appeared flourishing designs for the huge sets and floats in the Constructivist style; and performers demanded props, fur coats and bottles of cognac without which their acts would ‘simply breathe their last gasp’. An astonishing amount of money had been made available – several million roubles for Moscow alone – and, what’s more, the organisers had been given the right to requisition scarce materials, as Slavkin had already discovered.

On the day itself, the IRT and the Propaganda Machine took part in the Smolensk district procession. Slavkin repositioned the gramophone to blare Stravinsky out into the street, and each of us, dressed as a capitalist, a general, an aristocrat, etc., minced up to the back of the machine. One by one, we were pushed inside by Dr Marina, dressed as Revolution with a flaming cardboard torch and a sword. Once inside the idea was that we would wriggle out of our costumes and emerge jubilant in simple workers’ clothes with cloth caps.

I have never been much of a performer, and my mood was not improved by the fact that the crowds lining the route watched stolidly, only showing excitement when an aeroplane flew overhead scattering propaganda leaflets. ‘Cigarette papers, lads!’ I heard them shouting. I had spent over four hours that morning standing in line to receive the commune’s extra two pounds of bread and fish and half-pound of butter and sugar per person, and I could feel the beginnings of a chest cold.

They were beginning to light the bonfires – there was a huge one on the Lobnoe Mesto, the execution place on Red Square, with a figure of a kulak on top – and fireworks were promised. As the light faded the crowds became more lively; drunken Red Guards shoved and jostled the people as they passed. At last we arrived at the old Governor General’s mansion for the free meal provided for participants – a bowl of thin borscht and some kind of meat rissole, we didn’t enquire too closely what kind of meat. I looked up and down the long tables, at the people ruminating over their miserable food – just like the soup kitchens in Tsarist times. It all felt a long way from any genuine progress.

‘Come,’ said Slavkin, jumping up suddenly. ‘There’s something I want to show you.’

‘Oh, Nikita, we’re too tired,’ cried Sonya.

With relief I joined in. ‘Yes, let’s go home . . .’

But he glowered at us, almost shoving us in front of him. ‘It won’t take long. Really, you must trust me.’

We followed him down a side street to a tiny church. The gold had been stripped off its domes, no light shone in the windows, but Slavkin led us to a side door and knocked three times – paused – and knocked three times more. The door opened and Slavkin motioned us inside. The door swung shut behind us, leaving us in darkness. I breathed in incense and wax, smoke, old cloth; at last, I made out some shapes around me.

I put my hand out and felt Nikita’s sleeve; he took my arm and tucked it tightly under his, and we shuffled forwards until we were obviously in front of the altar. I looked around quickly; Sonya was somewhere behind, standing alone. A figure – a priest one assumed – was moving about; the swish of his skirts and the occasional clink of one vessel against another suggested that he was performing the offices of the Mass. A shiver passed through me. By a faint glimmer of light from the window behind him we watched him move about behind the altar, mouthing the words. He raised the Host and after a moment signalled for us to kneel. Without a word we did as we were told, one by one. Nikita and I sipped the watery wine, the first time I had taken communion for years; like me, he seemed to shudder with emotion as he swallowed. It burnt my throat and spread out through my body as though it were neat alcohol. My miserable mood evaporated and I was wildly happy. I squeezed Nikita’s hand as we stood and retreated from the altar.

‘
Batiushka
.’ Beside me, his voice echoed out suddenly. ‘Light a match, would you, Pasha? Father, we mean you no harm, but we must ask you to give us something.’

‘I know you, don’t I?’ The priest approached, peering into Slavkin’s face. ‘You’re the boy from Alekseevo . . .’ His voice quavered. ‘Yes, the son of . . . I don’t remember. I knew your father, didn’t I?’

As quickly as it had come, the happiness left me, and I felt queasy.

‘Yes, I’ve come to see you again, with my friends this time,’ said Slavkin. ‘We need something that you have. Give it to us, and we’ll not disturb you again.’

‘What can I give you? I have nothing left—’

‘I want the cup. Not that one, the other.’

The priest let out a feeble cry. ‘But this is the Host! I cannot give it to you – a mortal sin!’

‘Then we shall take it, and spare you the sin,’ said Slavkin calmly. He stepped forward and removed the cup from the altar. ‘Come, everyone, let’s go.’

The cup, as Slavkin knew, was another of those made of iridium. It had probably come from the same region of Siberia. On the way back he was jubilant, hopping from foot to foot. ‘Now we can build the Future, don’t you see?’

When we arrived home he disappeared immediately into his workshop. I lay awake in my bed through all the jagged night, listening as the wind stripped the last leaves off the trees. Even now the old priest’s sobs in the darkness sometimes come back to me.

‘Don’t give up,’ Slavkin used to say. If you were feeling discouraged, before you’d even uttered a word – just at a look or a sigh, he’d come close to you, take your face in his hands and say it very gently but with tremendous force. It felt loving but absolute. I find myself repeating it now, as I try to marshal my thoughts: don’t give up in the face of the mass of detail, the thunder of voices all competing to tell the story of Slavkin’s life. Don’t give up, despite the horrors. I promised that I’d tell Sophy everything.

In November 1918, just as Slavkin was starting work on the last great scientific achievement of his life, our world was almost drowned by a flood of distractions. Nikita, Pasha and I came home one evening to find our little gatekeeper, Kolenka, sobbing in the street.

‘
Sovdepy
– Soviet deputies – they broke down the gate!’

Prig stood at the front door, hands on his hips.

‘Good evening, comrades,’ he said smoothly. ‘As you know, due to the compression of living space throughout the capital, this house is due for resettlement.’

‘Prig!’ exclaimed Pasha. ‘This household is not just any old house—’

‘Comrade,’ snapped Prig, ‘I would remind you that such forms of address are not suitable nowadays. I assure you, there’s nothing special about this house.’

There was a pause.

‘Please let me explain, Comrade Prigorian,’ Slavkin started. ‘We are running an experiment in communal living here that, if successful, will be a model to replicate all over the country. If on the other hand we are now swamped by people who do not understand our aims, the whole project will be destroyed. What’s more, we have a scientific workshop on the premises that comes under the control of the Narkompros – I will show you the order from Commissar Lunacharsky—’