“Isn’t life strange? I shouldn’t be saying this at all but we probably want the same things, Sashenka. We probably even read the same books. I adore Gorky and Leonid Andreyev. And Mayakovsky.”
“But I love Mayakovsky!”
“I was in the Stray Dog cellar bar the night he declaimed his poems—and do you know, I wept. I wasn’t in uniform of course! But yes, I wept at the sheer courage and beauty of it. You’ve been to the Stray Dog of course?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Oh!” Sagan feigned surprise with a fleck of disappointment. “I don’t suppose Mendel is too interested in poetry.”
“He and I don’t have time to visit smoky cabarets,” she said, sulkily.
“I wish I could take you,” he told her. “But you said you loved Mayakovsky? My real favorite is
—and she took up the poem, enthusiastically:
—and Sagan picked up the verse again:
Sashenka marked the rhythm with both hands, flushed with the passion of the words. A vision, thought Sagan, of rebellious, defiant youth.
“Well, well, and I thought you were just a silly schoolgirl,” he said, slowly.
There was a knock on the door. Ivanov strode in and gave Sagan a note. He rose briskly and tossed his files onto his desk, sending the particles of dust, suspended in the sunlight, into little whirlwinds.
“Well,” said Sagan, “that’s that. Good-bye.”
Sashenka seemed indignant. “You’re sending me back? But you haven’t even asked me anything.”
“When did your uncle Mendel Barmakid recruit you to the Russian Socialist Democratic Workers’ Party? May 1916. How did he escape from exile? By reindeer sleigh, steamship, train (second-class ticket, no less). Don’t worry your pretty eyes, Comrade Snowfox, we know it all. I’m not going to waste any more time trying to interrogate you.” Sagan pretended to be slightly exasperated while actually he was well satisfied. He had got exactly what he wanted from their meeting. “But I’ve enjoyed our conversation greatly. I think we should talk about poetry again very soon.”
15
Sashenka swathed herself in her snow fox stole and Orenburg shawl as the chief guard held open her sable coat. Stepping into its sleek silklined warmth was like sinking into a bath of warm milk. She shivered at the pleasure of it, scarcely aware of the warblings of Sergeant Volkov about “politicals” and “criminals,” Swiss chocolates and Brocard’s cologne (which he had applied liberally for just this moment).
Sashenka’s arrival at the Kresty seemed decades ago, not just the previous night. And when the sergeant said, “You see, I’m not your typical prison guard,” she suddenly wanted to hug him. He handed her the canvas book bag.
As she left the prison, she felt she was floating on air. Guards bowed. Door after door opened, bringing the light closer. Gendarmes wielded giant keys on swinging key rings, locks ground open. The gendarme at the counter actually touched the brim of his cap. Everyone seemed to wish her well, as if she were a scholar leaving a school for the last time.
Who would meet her? she wondered. Papa? Flek, the family lawyer? Lala? But before she could even formulate a prediction, Uncle Gideon was opening his strapping arms at full span and dancing toward her, almost falling sideways as if the world were tilting. He wrapped her in his fur, his beard scratching her neck, almost lifting her off the ground.
“Oh my heart!” he bellowed, regardless of the gendarmes. “There she is! Come on! Everyone’s waiting!” At that moment, she loved his cognac-and-cigars scent and inhaled it hungrily.
And then she was outside in the freezing light of northern winter. Her father’s Russo-Balt landaulet, with chains on its wheels against the ice, lurched forward. Pantameilion, a flash of scarlet and gold braid, ran round to open the door and Sashenka almost collapsed into that leather-lined, sweet-smelling compartment with its fresh carnations in the silver vase. Lala’s arms enveloped her and Uncle Gideon climbed into the front seat, swigged some brandy from his flask and took up the speaking tube.
“Home, Pantameilion, you young ladykiller! Fuck Mendel! Fuck the Revolution and all the ideeeots!” Lala rolled her eyes and the two women laughed.
As they crossed the bridge, Lala handed Sashenka the tin of Huntley & Palmers and her babushka Miriam’s Yiddish honeycakes. She ate every delicacy, thinking that she had never so loved the spire of the Admiralty, the rococo glory of the Winter Palace—and the golden dome of St. Isaac’s. She was going home. She was free!
Uncle Gideon threw open the door at Greater Maritime Street as Sashenka, running up the steps, rushed past Leonid, the old butler who, with tears in his eyes, bowed low from the waist like a village
Sashenka, feeling like the little girl who was occasionally presented to her busy father, ran to his study. The door was open. She prayed he was there. She did not know what she would do if he wasn’t. But he was. Zeitlin, in winged collar and spats, was listening to Flek.
“Well, Samuil, the prison governor demanded four hundred,” said the toad-like family lawyer.
“Small change compared with Andronnikov…” But then Zeitlin saw her. “Thank God, you’re here, my darling Lisichka-sestrichka—Little Fox Sister!” he said, reverting to one of her childhood nicknames. He opened his arms and she leaned into him, feeling his tidy mustache on her cheek, bathing in his familiar cologne, pressing her lips against his slightly rough skin. “Let’s get your coat off before we talk,” he said, releasing himself from her arms and leading her into the hall. Leonid, following dutifully in her wake, removed her coat, stole and shawl, and then she noticed her father was looking her up and down distastefully, his nostrils twitching. Sashenka had quite forgotten that she was still wearing her soiled Smolny pinafore. Suddenly she could smell the filth of prison that clung about her.
“Oh Sashenka, is that blood?” her father exclaimed.
“Oh dearest, we must get you bathed and changed,” cried Lala in her high breathy voice. “Luda, draw a bath
