The Vanishing Futurist (15 page)

I hurried, alone, towards Novaya square, and the exclamation marks flew past me like arrows in the darkness.

Half an hour early, there was already a crush. I waited, looking out for Slavkin and the others, while the auditorium filled with jostling, eager spectators. Seven o’clock came and went and the audience grew impatient. Catcalls and bellowing filled the hall and three sailors sat on the edge of the stage and began to sing Red Navy ditties.

Shambling, dazzled by the light and the noise, Slavkin appeared from the wings. Raising his long, pale hands as though in blessing, he arrived at the centre of the stage and waited. His skin was bluish-white, his cheeks tinged with the delicate flush of porcelain. At last the hall fell quiet and he began to speak, his voice shaking his whole body – an engine too powerful for its fragile chassis.

‘What this Revolution really means is that we have made a promise to ourselves – that we will do everything we can to build Communism. We will not shirk, however hard the task may be. But there is one great obstacle that we have been ignoring. Who is it who grabs the best food for his own family? Who is it who shows pettiness and jealousy towards his fellow workers, who demands individual reward, who denounces others on the slightest evidence? Who, even under the dictatorship of the proletariat, deceives others, exploits others, demands his own needs be met before anyone else’s?’

‘The bourgeoisie!’ yelled a woman near the front.

‘No, it is not. We can no longer blame the bourgeoisie – they have left the country. Nor the aristocracy – they are sweeping our streets.’ He spread his arms wide as he answered his own question. ‘It is you. It is me. It is our own selves. We are now the obstruction. Before we achieve Communism, we must be wiped out – rewritten – changed.

‘I can see that you feel apprehensive about this task. You are right, it’s ambitious – by comparison everything that we have achieved so far for the Revolution is minimal. But let me reassure you. Its strength lies in the great evolutionary strength of mankind – our imagination. In your imagination – in the imagination of everyone in this room – lies the blueprint for our future. Think about it! You have the key, here, in your own mind. Here.’ He turned to the blackboard behind him where there was a drawing of the long, pod-shaped Capsules. ‘I will explain the process. This problem is in one sense merely the problem of time . . .’

The audience listened strangely quietly, as if stunned, to Slavkin’s lecture. They applauded, politely, his historical analysis (‘The battle is already won. It is only a matter of the slow march of time before the age of Communism dawns’); they were a little fidgety during his discourse on particle physics. As he developed the idea of multiple Universes, however, the heckling began.

‘Among this infinity of Universes, there will be one in which Communism already exists. Even if . . . well, even if it is not possible in this universe, I suppose.’

An incredulous murmur arose.

‘In my researches,’ he continued, raising his voice, ‘I have been forced to consider the possibility that a brain fully attuned to Communism cannot physically exist in this dimension. Planck’s Law has shown us that there are some energy states that are impossible for particles in our reality. It may well be that Communism is one of those impossible states . . .’

The murmur swelled to a rumble. ‘What the hell does that mean?’ yelled someone.

‘Therefore a brain attuned to Communism would instantly cease to exist in this dimension and begin to exist in the compatible dimension. The Socialised subject may just . . . vanish,’ said Slavkin.

 ‘Did he just say Communism is impossible?’ said a girl near me.

‘He’s gone off his head, that’s what,’ said someone else. He turned and pushed through the crowd. ‘Move, could you? I’m not sticking around to hear this.’

‘Give him a chance,’ a voice remonstrated. ‘He’s a scientist, they talk like this.’

But all around me, others were turning to leave, shoving each other out of the way. ‘This is all wrong. Saying we’re obstructing Communism – he’s mad.’

‘What about housing?’ came a shout from the back. ‘We need living space, not this nonsense!’

Slavkin ignored all of them. He came right to the front of the stage and raised his voice.

‘You’ll say, what are we to do, if our world is incompatible with Communism? But that is to misunderstand the nature of our quantum world – the nature of matter. You are still clinging to the Newtonian Universe, but this is an illusion – it has gone, just as the whole world of Tsarism has gone, the court and the Duma and the landowners and all those facts of the old life have turned out not to be facts of our new life. Now – listen to me! – now even matter is Revolutionary. We do not understand it all yet, there is a vast amount of work to be done, but let me tell you: even matter can be bent to our will, the world shall be rebuilt even as we are rebuilt.’

I clung onto my place by a desk, straining to hear him. By this time people were filing out of the door, chatting to each other as though they were at the market. Slavkin raised his voice to a shout.

‘This has been known by the great prophets of all ages: even in the Bible, it talks of this moment. “Behold, I shew you a mystery; We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed, In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trump: for the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed.”’

He stopped. ‘Don’t give up,’ he said after the departing audience. ‘Don’t give up. Wait – don’t give up!’

His shoulders drooped.

‘Bravo!’ I called, pushing forwards. ‘Well said, Nikita!’

He didn’t hear. Sonya came on from the wings. She spoke to him and I saw him look up at her, so tenderly. A voice beside me made me start.

‘Well, I don’t think the audience thought much of that.’ It was Fyodor, pursing his lips. ‘Quoting from the Bible!’

‘Of course you’re delighted about that, aren’t you, Fedya?
Schadenfreude
– such a joy to the mean and narrow-minded.’

Fyodor flushed angrily. ‘No, no, quite the opposite,’ he said in his most measured voice. ‘I wish Nikita all the best. In fact I’m taking some colleagues of mine to meet him – they have expressed an interest in working with him on his research.’

‘Really?’ I was taken aback. ‘Who are they?’

‘From the Ministry of Internal Affairs. They are serious people, cultured.’

Fyodor gestured to a pair of dark-suited men at the back of the hall; they did indeed look serious.

‘Oh – forgive me, Fedya. I should have known you better . . .’

The men followed Fyodor up onto the stage. I watched as they introduced themselves. Slavkin’s face lit up. Talking ceaselessly, gesturing and embracing the men, he led them away.

Without any warning, a week or so after Slavkin’s last lecture, came the moment that sliced my life in two: before, after.

‘Let us go up to the dormitory. I have something important to discuss with you,’ Marina summoned me one night.

Feeling sluggish and low, I had found myself longing to leave Moscow. Unexpected details of Cornish life kept coming to mind – muddy aconites in January, bare trees against the skyline, low cloud lit up beneath by wintery afternoon sun.

I let out a sigh of exasperation. ‘Oh, Marina, I’m worn out. Couldn’t we talk here?’

Marina raised her eyebrows. ‘I think you’d appreciate privacy for what I’ve got to say.’

‘I’ve got no secrets. Talk away.’

‘Very well, I will.’ She looked at me. ‘As your doctor, I’d like to give you a physical examination.’

‘Really?’ I was taken by surprise, although in my heart a little worm of doubt, long suppressed, suddenly wriggled to the surface. ‘Why’s that?’

‘You have been nauseous for, I should say, several months. We’ve all heard you say how you have lost your appetite for various foods. You have lost a considerable amount of weight from your face, your arms, your legs, your ribcage. Yet I have noticed even in your clothes that you are filling out around the lower abdomen. Last night, in the
banya
, it was unmistakable; a distinct swelling. This could be evidence of a tumour, in which case one might expect some bleeding in addition to your normal menstrual discharge. Has there been any bleeding?’

My face flamed. I cleared my throat. ‘No – no. No bleeding at all.’

‘I see. For how many months?’

I was acutely aware of Pasha and Sonya, like statues, gazing at the floor. ‘For . . . for perhaps four months. I assumed it was our poor diet. I didn’t think . . . Vera told me she had the same situation, she said it was malnutrition—’

‘Yes, it’s quite true, Vera did have the same condition. Although Vera, as it turned out, was not malnourished.’

‘No—’

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Sonya suddenly, her face blazing, ‘but since you have chosen to hold this conversation in our presence I assume you want us to know. Gerty, can this be true, are you—’

I gulped, unable to speak.

‘—pregnant?’ interrupted Marina. ‘Are you pregnant, Gerty? Is this possible? If one does not allow for the possibility of virgin birth, that is?’

‘No, no, it’s impossible,’ I stammered. I was trembling so hard, my hands were shaking. ‘I mean, I suppose it is
possible
, but . . . it can’t be true—’

One, two, three, four, five months since August.

‘Don’t give us modesty now, Gerty,’ snapped Marina. ‘You didn’t spare my sister when she found herself in the same position. When did it happen? Who have you been creeping around with behind our backs?’

‘Our poor Gerty, who could have done this to you?’ Sonya’s face was full of concern. ‘Has some beast mistreated you?’

Furious tears were suddenly running down my cheeks. ‘Oh, Lord, Sonya, surely even you can’t be as utterly self-centred as that? It was Nikita, of course – in the summer, before you came back from the south, before you and he began your silly little fling. Who else could it be?’

‘Enough,’ Pasha stood up. I’d never seen him so angry. ‘Quiet, all of you. Marina, hadn’t you better take Gerty away and look her over, or something? For God’s sake, behave like a doctor and not a bitch. Gerty . . .’ He looked at me for a moment, then turned away. ‘I don’t know.’

I went out with Marina and after she’d confirmed that I was indeed pregnant, and well past the time when miscarriage usually occurs, I simply lay in the cold dormitory gazing at the ceiling. How, how could this have happened, how could I not have realised . . . My face burned with shame in the icy room. I
had
had an inkling – all that nausea and cramp, the tiredness, the strange heaviness in my limbs – but I had suppressed it, I had refused to countenance it. I was so ignorant, I hardly knew how or when it was possible to become pregnant, and somehow what Nikita and I had done together seemed unthinkable now. August was another world from January. I must have thought any trace of our affair would vanish spontaneously, just as Nikita’s affection for me had vanished. Although, of course, my own love for him had, if anything, solidified and taken shape during these months of secrecy. To the happy, uncomplicated affection I had felt during August I had now added layers of self-sacrifice, devotion to him and his cause, pride in his achievements – all shot through with bitter veins of jealousy, humiliation and pain.

Almost my first thought was that this might change what Nikita felt for me. I strained my ears for the sound of his voice downstairs. Did he know yet? Had they told him? Surely he would come up to see me if he knew. Surely he would feel something for me again . . . But night wore on and no footsteps came up the stairs. Of course it would not alter his Revolutionary ideals, what a fool I was to think otherwise. He had, after all, been honest with me from the beginning – he had never claimed to feel for me other than as a friend. He was an idealist, I told myself, and I would never try to persuade him to abandon his ideals. I could not admire and love him any other way. He did not have to pretend some kind of romantic love. He only had to decide to be a father, to be with me, to love our child . . . Still no footsteps came up the stairs. I was alone, and I was no longer alone. The unassuming governess, the unselfish wonder, was now – what? A ‘ruined woman’, a mother-to-be. A child was only the basis for bourgeois life with two parents. How would we survive?

Towards morning I cried – a storm of sobs that no one heard. I admitted at last what I had known for months – that Nikita Slavkin had long ago betrayed his ideal of chastity in mind and body, but not on my account.

When I came down to the communal sitting room, shaky and weak after my sleepless night, the others had left me a small portion of millet porridge,
blondinka
, horribly congealed. I began to reheat it, but just the smell made me retch. How ridiculous you are, I thought; for five months you’ve been eating this for breakfast each morning, and now you suddenly have all the affectations of a pregnant woman . . . When Slavkin comes in, I thought furiously, I shall say everything to him. I shan’t stop myself. We all tiptoe round him as if he were a child that needed protecting. Well, there’ll be no more of that. You can’t pick someone up like a toy, and then put them back in the cupboard when you are bored with them!

Pounding on the front door; a man’s voice.

If it had been Nikita at the door, would this story have ended differently? In some parallel universe, I suppose that is what happens. Slavkin enters. What do I say to him? As I write this I sit alone in my empty house, nibbling little pieces of bread that I have rolled up into balls to make one slice last all evening. I have not talked to anyone for a day or two; Sophy rang, but I couldn’t bear to speak to her. I rehearse this version of events over and over again, as if to force it into being. Sometimes, in my mind, I am cold and collected, sometimes screaming, throwing things at Slavkin. He attempts to calm me, I push him away. He puts his arm around my sobbing shoulders, I shrug it off. I speak, and he listens, sadly. Afterwards there are no smiles or kisses between us. He nods to signal that he has understood. Then he walks thoughtfully back to his workshop without saying goodbye.

In this universe, however, on that day in January 1919, a largish, hefty man in a leather jacket pushed open the front door. He stepped in and looked around, and it was only then that I saw Pelyagin behind him, mild but businesslike. ‘Ah, Comrade Freely, just the person,’ he said, hurrying up to me. ‘Are you . . . are you not well? Sit down, sit down. Here.’ He produced a hip flask. ‘Have a nip of cognac, you look faint.’

He was always so unbearably solicitous. Burying my face in the divan, I broke down in tears.

‘Oh,’ said Pelyagin ineffectually. ‘Oh . . .’ The hefty type was sniffing around the room, inspecting things. Pelyagin signalled to him to leave. Then he sat down beside me and patted me stiffly on the back.

That was all it took. I abandoned myself to my misery and began to speak. I had only ever had kindness and assistance from Pelyagin, after all. I was sobbing, incoherent. ‘These people, they don’t care for equality, they don’t really believe in Communism. I am just a governess to them, to be exploited as they see fit . . .’

And when Pelyagin asked, ‘Which people?’ I blurted out immediately, ‘Well, Nikita Slavkin, of course, and . . . and Sonya Kobelev – it’s just an old-fashioned hierarchy, or more than that, feudal! He’s no better than a thief, he does just what he pleases. He has used us all. And now his aim is not even to build Communism in Russia, he says it isn’t possible . . .’

Was this what I said? I have spent a lifetime trying to remember my exact words. I was full of vicious cathartic joy. I didn’t want to stop – I remember that. At last Pelyagin stood up. The movement brought me back to myself.

‘I’m . . . I’m sorry. Why did you come? Were you looking for me?’

‘Yes,’ said Pelyagin after a pause. ‘I was looking for you.’

‘Did you want more English lessons?’ I sat up and tried to tidy myself, mortified.

‘No. Comrade, you have done enough for me.’ He bowed slightly. ‘I was passing and I realised I hadn’t thanked you for teaching me. My driver here will drop off a token of my gratitude later today. Now, please forgive me . . .’

Later that day, when half a sack of wheat flour arrived at our door, I explained that it was payment for some lessons; I was a little vague about which ones. Slavkin returned in the evening and went straight into his workshop; as far as I know, he still knew nothing about my condition. I meant to go in and talk to him, but my anger had now been replaced by a deep unease, almost terror, and although I approached his door several times, I did not have the courage to knock. No one else brought up the subject, for which I was grateful. How could I have known this was my last, my only chance? Despite the cold, I slept in the dormitory again, not downstairs with the others. I lay on my mattress and closed my eyes, dreading insomnia; but for once I was asleep instantly and did not dream.

That was the night Sonya fell ill.

When I came down the next morning, only Sonya was there, lying on the divan. She did not look at me or speak in response to my greeting. Of course I assumed she was still angry with me.

‘Oh, Sonya, it’s no use being offended. I’ll explain – if this is to be the reality, we must find a way to understand each other,’ I tried to speak gently.

Sonya murmured something, I couldn’t hear what. I was suddenly so angry all over again that the blood was buzzing in my ears. ‘You, of all people, you’ve got no right to judge me! I stuck to my principles. I’m not ashamed,’ I began – then stopped. Her eyes were strangely blank, her cheeks were scarlet. ‘Sonya?’

She was shivering, though her hair was wet with sweat. She was running a high fever.

The room was cold. I banged on the door of the workshop and shouted. No answer. Where was Slavkin? Pasha and Marina had no doubt left for work early, as always. Sonya must have been taken ill after they’d gone. I brought her water, and helped her to drink, sip by sip; I wiped her face with a damp towel, and built up the fire, and all the while a single thought ran round and around my head. Today I must tell him.

‘Has Nikita been here?’ I asked her. ‘Did you talk to him?’

‘I don’t remember,’ was all she could say.

With difficulty, I removed her clothes and put them to be fumigated, dressed her as best I could in what was available. She cried; I think she was in pain. I noticed that the light was agony to her and half closed the shutters. It was this that made me fairly sure she was suffering from typhus fever. God help me, as I stood and looked down at her, moaning and shivering, I felt nothing but coldness towards her. Good old Gerty will look after the poor delicate girl, the little bird . . . Gerty with her English phlegm; Gerty, the soul of loyalty . . .

In the fading light I went out into the yard, took the axe and chopped up what remained of the joists from the barn. A son of the metalworker volunteered to fetch Pasha and Marina back from their work. I boiled water, cooked up what vegetables we had and fed Sonya broth. I was ravenous, suddenly, and aching with tiredness. I ate my portion slowly, savouring each mouthful, while at the other side of the room Sonya seemed to be slipping in and out of consciousness.

‘Nikita,’ she kept saying. ‘Where are you?’

I have since read up on typhus fever. Every detail of Moscow at that time could have been designed to breed the disease: the lice that transmit it thrived on the hordes of soldiers pouring back from the trenches, on the dirty hungry queues everywhere, in the crowded trains. Sonya could have picked up her louse in a dozen different places – at the market, or at the printer’s, when she went to collect the posters, or from any of the dirty little boys she employed to paste them up around town. Her fever was progressing fast, no doubt because she was weak and underfed. After a few days a rash would appear and the crisis would come; four out of five did not survive. Twenty years later, antibiotics would have brought the disease under control quite quickly. I did all that I could for Sonya – gave her boiled water to drink, mopped her skin to reduce the fever. Yet I’m crying now as I write this, remembering how I sat across the room from her.

‘I don’t know where Nikita is,’ I said. ‘He has more important things to see to. He has the Revolution to arrange.’

‘Why doesn’t he come to me?’ she kept whimpering.

‘Don’t ask me.’

‘Hold my hand, Gerty,’ she said once, weakly. ‘Please, don’t leave me alone.’

She couldn’t help looking beautiful even then, flushed and bright-eyed.

‘I’d better not,’ I said from the other side of the room. ‘Typhus is contagious, you know.’

At last the door opened and Pasha returned and then Marina, and the decision was made to take Sonya to the Golitsyn Hospital. There she would give Sonya an antipyretic to bring down the fever; also Marina insisted that Sonya should be nursed in the isolation ward at the hospital, rather than at Gagarinsky Lane, in a household of more than thirty adults and children who would be at risk of catching the disease.