Евгений Водолазкин - Solovyov and Larionov

‘The chief quartermaster’s cabin,’ said Admiral Kutepov.

‘Open it.’

The chief quartermaster held the key but it was already impossible to find him in the crowd. The general nodded to the Cossacks and they peppered the door, hitting it with their rifles’ butt ends. A minute later, the lock and the lower hinge had been broken off. The door swung on its upper hinge with a pitiful screech and dropped. The quartermaster’s compartment was completely stuffed with expensive furniture. Mahogany cabinets stood pressed against one another. The sides of the cabinets faced those entering, but they were astoundingly beautiful even from the side, gleaming in the porthole’s scant light. This light was reflected in several Venetian mirrors arranged along the walls. There were large crates neatly stacked in the corner of the cabin; baled tablecloths lay on them, right under the ceiling.

‘Overboard,’ said the general.

He came back on deck after finishing his inspection of the cabin. The first of the cabinets had already been delivered there. The sailors rocked the item and tossed it on the count of ‘three.’ It fell into the water with a fountain of spray and stayed afloat for a time. Then it began heavily sinking, to applause on deck. As it departed for the deep, the cabinet released bubbles as if it were a live being. As the general was making his way down to the launch, two sailors dragged the quartermaster out of the hold.

‘Does this one go overboard, too?’

‘Let him live,’ said the general.

He went ashore after visiting several more ships. He asked about those who had remained on Perekop, but nobody had seen them here yet. Dusk was falling. The general dismissed the Cossacks by the entrance to the Oreanda Hotel. He went up to his room and looked out the window at the sea. He sat at the table, poured himself some cognac from a decanter, and drank it. There was a knock at the door. He had no strength to answer.

‘May I?’

Admiral Kutepov entered the room. He laid a hand on the general’s shoulder.

‘You need to get some rest. We’re sailing in the morning.’

‘The ones coming from Perekop… They still haven’t arrived,’ said the general.

‘The Red artillery will smash us to smithereens if we don’t cast off tomorrow… May I?’ The admiral took the decanter and poured himself some cognac. ‘Besides, the ones you’re speaking of…’

‘Yes?’

‘I think nothing threatens them any longer.’

The admiral emptied his glass in one gulp and was now thoroughly savoring the drink. Pursing his lips. Closing his eyes. The general drank, too. And also closed his eyes.

When he opened them, Captain Kologrivov was standing before him. The general knew he was dreaming of Kologrivov; he saw in that nothing good for Kologrivov’s fate.

‘Well, how are you doing out there?’ the general asked, looking away.

‘Nothing threatens us any longer,’ said Kologrivov. He poured himself some cognac without asking permission.

‘It’s a pity you weren’t there. This was the only chance for you to get a genuine feel for Thermopylae after all.’

‘But there were only 150 of you.’

‘And you aren’t Leonidas, either, isn’t that right? And so here, you know, it’s one thing after another.’

The general woke up shortly before dawn. What he had thought was a firm pillow turned out to be the cuff of his sleeve. He could feel the table’s velvet covering under his hand. Lights were flashing to one another in the black motionless sea outside the window; the ships at anchor were ready to sail. The general looked at his watch. A farewell prayer service was to begin on the embankment in an hour.

The commanders of the forces sailing from Yalta came for the prayer. The embankment was packed with people. At the first sounds of the service, the general sank to his knees and all the officers followed suit. The entire huge crowd also knelt. A damp sea wind whipped at the priests’ stoles and snapped the tricolored banner against the flagpole. The general attempted to understand each word of the service but was distracted, without realizing it himself. He was thinking that the evacuation could certainly have taken place even without him.

The prayer service was ending. Bestowing his blessing, the bishop sprinkled the general with holy water and several drops fell behind his collar. There was no doubt this had already happened in his life. He had happened to experience so very many unforgettable things. Raindrops running under his tunic. Standing drowsily on the bank of the Zhdanovka River. Semi-darkness. A wind just as wet. Could that water, then, be considered holy? It had fallen straight from the sky. The general fingered a pencil in his overcoat pocket. It would have been better for him to have stayed on Perekop after all. Maybe he had stayed there, though.

The general slowly rose from his knees. From the faces of those standing, he understood they had been waiting only for him.

‘Do deign to say a parting word,’ Kutepov appealed to the general.

The general watched as the bishop’s gray hair whipped in the wind. His hair lashed at his eyes and got into lips opened from shortness of breath, but he made no attempt to remove it. This had happened in the general’s life, too. The same elderly bishop and the same gray hair whipping. But he could not remember where. Life had begun repeating itself. The bishop did not look at anyone individually and the pause did not weigh upon him. His face expressed no impatience. The general remembered: it was the violinist from his childhood. He had played right here, by the fence at the Tsar’s Garden.

‘I have nothing to say.’

Admiral Kutepov smoothed his hair and took several steps toward the crowd. He cleared his throat. A horse began neighing behind those standing.

‘We did all that we could…’

Kutepov glanced at the general, as if searching for new words. But the general was silent. Kutepov thought a bit, then asked everyone’s forgiveness. The general nodded; he found that appropriate. Kutepov cast a look around the crowd, breathed some air into his lungs, and shouted, ‘Farewell!’

‘Farewell,’ the general said to Kutepov. ‘My mission has ended.’

‘The launch is waiting for us,’ said Kutepov, nodding in the direction of the sea.

‘I commanded ground operations and now the naval operation is beginning. You’re the admiral, not I.’

The admiral looked at his watch.

‘We can’t linger any longer.’ Still acting as if he did not understand, Kutepov took a folder with a two-headed eagle from the general’s hands.

‘You’ll need that in Constantinople,’ said the general.

‘There’s no sense in waiting for them.’

‘Including a final statement of the treasury and correspondence about providing asylum.’

‘They perished on Perekop and you know it.’

‘This is not, really, about them.’

‘General, the Reds will not simply kill you, they’ll slice you to pieces.’

‘It’s not worth spending time bickering. There are 145,000 people waiting for you. And that’s just according to the lists. I think there are many more of them in reality.’

Admiral Kutepov shifted the folder from his right hand to his left, then put his hand to his peaked cap. He did that so slowly that he had time to inadvertently twist his finger at his temple. Or perhaps it only seemed that way to the general.

The embankment emptied out fairly quickly. There were only horses that had been abandoned during evacuation. Not all their saddles had even been removed. Horses nobody needed dispersed along the neighboring streets. They neighed from hunger. They were returning to the embankment again in expectation of their masters; they rubbed against icy streetlamps. The horses interpreted their abandonment as a misunderstanding.