Sashenka

“To talk. That’s all,” he said. “I’m interested in your views, Comrade Snowfox. In what someone like you thinks of this regime. What you read. How you see the future. The world’s changing. You and I—whatever our beliefs—are the future.”

“But you and I couldn’t be more different,” she exclaimed. “You believe in the Tsars and landowners and exploiters. You’re the secret fist of this disgusting empire, while I believe it’s doomed and soon it’ll come crashing down. Then the people will rule!”

“Actually we’d probably agree on many things, Sashenka. I too know things must change.”

“History will change the world as surely as the sun rises,” she said. “The classes will vanish. Justice will rule. The Tsars, the princes, my parents and their depraved world, and nobility like you…” She stopped abruptly as if she had said too much.

“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

Whorehouse after whorehouse
With six-story-high fauns daring dances…

—and she took up the poem, enthusiastically:

Stage Manager! The hearse is ready
Put more widows in the crowds!
There aren’t enough there!
No one ever asked
That victory be

—and Sagan picked up the verse again:

Inscribed for our homeland
To an armless stump left from the bloody banquet.
What the hell good is it?

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.