Читать книгу The Last Train to Kazan - Stephen Miller - Страница 15

He was Wilton, he said. From The Times.

Not only the attention of The Times, but indeed the attention of the whole world was on Yekaterinburg. Yes, it was regrettable, like looking at an atrocity, eh? Looking at something that made you vomit. You got too close to horror and you recoiled. Sometimes the temptation to look away was strong, didn’t they agree? The scene of the murders, the House of Special Purpose, he called it. The bedrooms were awash in blood, Wilton said. The horror was unimaginable. Of course the women, the young grand duchesses in particular, had suffered the most.

‘Raped?’ one of the men asked.

‘Repeatedly. By the entire drunken hoard, then shot.’

‘My God!’

‘Perhaps they are better off…’

‘Do you want another?’ the waiter who’d been tending their portion of the bar asked Ryzhkov. By his accent he was Russian, but he’d picked up an odd ring to his voice. It wasn’t French. Something else.

‘Yes, thank you, comrade.’

‘Comrade!’ The man exploded in laughter. ‘Hah! Yes, here’s to you – comrade! Comrades!’ They all lifted their glasses.

The war was going well, Wilton said. He read every dispatch that came over the wire. White armies were attacking the Bolsheviks from all sides; Denikin and the Cossacks from the south, and now Kolchak and the Czechs from the East. Moreover the British had landed in Archangel and were pushing down the Dvina river from the north. Everyone would converge on the Volga. The Volga was the central highway of Russia. If only the Czechs could keep rushing forward, take Kazan and link up with the British, the Allies and the Whites would be able to advance and capture the ancient city of Nizhni Novgorod.

And from there they would have an open plain to Moscow.

‘Say fini to your red fucking revolution, gentlemen. It’s already as good as lost.’ Wilton smiled and bounced on the balls of his feet. He was dressed in thick woollens even though the weather was still hot, a felt fedora on his head, face shiny with passion and sweat, and a smile like a gash in his skull. He insisted they all have a new drink he’d discovered in Paris.

‘Ivanis!’ he called across the room. He had to shout twice more before the bartender caught their eye and waved to him. ‘He’s the expert in these, boys. Ivanis! Make us one of those ones you did the other night.’

Ivanis came over to him smiling, a dark shock of hair falling into his eyes. Thin like a knife. ‘How can I help you, sir?’ he said.

‘The bloody drink, that Sambo thing you did.’

‘Yes, sir, right away.’

‘Five of them, right? Give us the group rate, eh?’ Wilton said, winking at them. Ivanis went to make the order. ‘You can learn a lot from these fellows, eh? They see everything, hear everything. Somebody wants some information. Who do you ask, eh?’ he said to Ryzhkov.

‘How can I get in touch with the Ural Soviet,’ Ryzhkov said. He’d gone by the house on Kushok Lane at the meal hour, but no one was there. He’d had enough to drink that he figured he might as well ask an expert like Wilton.

‘That’s exactly what I mean,’ Wilton said. ‘The American here is the only place you can get these things,’ Wilton said, looking past them at one of the tables.

From there the evening went downhill.

The saloon in the Hotel American was subject to strange and hectic energies. Contingents of soldiers, adventurers, journalists, consular officers and employees would whirl through, collapse a while, then whirl out again. Among the saloons and salons of the city an ever-widening cruise had begun to develop. The streets in the still-warm nights were clotted with merry-makers and desperadoes. They clung to one another, floating from one watering-hole to the next in search of greater thrills, someone else to swindle, or just simple unconsciousness.

Ryzhkov had opted for the unconsciousness.

The Sambos finally came. They’d grabbed a table by this point and Ryzhkov was seated in his chair, leaning comfortably against the wall, sipping the concoction – a mixture of vodka, coffee and pepper, it took him back to Paris, where he had his first one, the drink having become the rage of the crowd at Café Cine where he pretended to work when Qirenque required. The drink itself was nothing special, only you couldn’t sleep after, and Ryzhkov needed more than anything, he suddenly realized, to sleep.

‘A member of the Ural Soviet,’ Wilton was saying. ‘Well, of course you’d love to put your mitts on one of them. If you get a lead, you call me first, eh?’ he said, lifting his glass. ‘God bless the Alsatians,’ he sipped and murmured.