Chapter Six
. A. Ostavlyavich stumbled out of the Soldiers and Sailors Hotel Bar and into the stiff breeze of the late afternoon sun on Chiloveki Street. He would have fallen from the abrupt transition from the dark, smoky depths of the bar to the brilliantly let sidewalk and heat of that day -- if he had not literally run into, and been physically held by one of this old cronies who was just heading into the bar.
"Ostavlyavich, you old sop, ha, ha, hey, look Kolya -- this one's as drunk as he could be," said the man holding Ostavlyavich. His companion just waved his arms in disgust at the sight of the drunken man and hurried passed into the hotel. Ostavlyavich, who was being jostled about by the man holding him, began to babble.
"Going home, my friend, understand, spending the night at home. September 1st, isn't it? My papers, understand, got them..." He began to go through his pockets searching for something.
"What papers, you old good-for-nothing! How could you have papers, huh?" The man continued to hold onto Ostavlyavich, push him about. He was much bigger and a little younger than the pathetic drunk, and seemed to take increasing pleasure in man-handling him.
"My papers understand, from Podly. Podly, my dear old comrade. Where are they? Podly..."
"Podly? What Podly? -- Why, here's your papers, you monkey's fool, ha ha! Pinned to your coat lapel, are they. Let's have a look. Podly, eh?"
The man, whose name was Arkaky Ivanovich Obyomov pulled off the papers that were attached to Ostavlyavich's coat, and let go of the drunkard. Ostavlyavich lost his balance and fell to the sidewalk.
"Stamped official, they are. Podly's name right here. V. V. Podly. Well, I'll be a son-of-a-bitch, too. Yes, Ostavlyavich, respect for you now I have, my esteemed comrade, yes. Let's see, ha, look at you on the ground. Up dear fellow! This might prove interesting. I'll see you home. Must make sure my respectable friend gets to his new home. Let's see. One Twenty Novokirovskaya. Well, then, we'll catch a cab. That's all right. You can repay me later - a thousand fold, ha, ha. Up with you now."
arlier that day, around noon, Dmitri Dumatskoy paused outside the small bedroom of the apartment on Novokirovskaya. He could hear Zina nursing Sasha. Aleksandr Blok's poem of 1916, The Vulture began its music in Dmitri's ear. The simple iambics without effulgence, the two symbols that contained Russia's fate: The Vulture, The Mother. The mother begs her sick baby to eat bread and take milk from the breast. While above them, the vulture circles and circles. In Russia, centuries passed with the wars, rebellions, villages burning ...
"But still you are the same, my country."
Blok's faith in and love for his native land could never be shaken.
At that point in time, Dmitri did not share Blok's feelings for Russia. That day especially, Dmitri felt Russia to be a particularly evil part of the earth. He went onto the sun porch and sat down to stare out into the yard at the green stain of foliage beyond the window. It was hot, but not humid. Several big, black ants were crawling on the screen through which he was gazing. How calm and quiet, a Sunday, his day off. He was a father! The baby Sasha would be fine, the doctor said. And Zina should heal. The doctor stitched her tears that morning around 10:00 a.m. The doctor gave her medication, and overall, a good prognosis. But Dmitri's heart was as black as those big ants. The Vulture was circling over 120 Novokirovoskaya.
The day before at work, when Dmitri had rushed into Olga Shpion's office with the news he had received from A. S. Holtz, she barked at him:
"Enough! This e-ternal project must end now! I de-mand it!"
Olga had gotten up from the chair behind her desk. Her face was as red as a flame. She leaned her little body forward, and spoke even more deliberately, "Not only I, but Lu-Na-Char-Sky demands it. Do you know how fool-ish I must ap-pear to those in Pet-rograd?"
"But Olga Borisovna, this information..."
"E-nough, I say! I should release you immediately...from all this ridicule I had endured from this, this...In-fernal library!"
"Olga Borisovna, no! Please, you couldn't. Why just today, as we speak, my wife is in labor with our baby."
"God-damn your ba-by!" screamed Olga.
Dmitri shrank back in horror. Olga was nearly hyperventilating. She sank down into her chair. After a few minutes of staring into the ghost-like pallor of Dmitri's face, she somewhat regained her composure. The power she held over him helped her focus.
"Write it up! Al-lude to it, your pre-cious information! Sum-ma-rize it. But fi-nish it at all costs! Do y-you he-ar? Mon-day, to-morrow. Do you hear? Or I will re-lease you. Now, get out!"
Dmitri got up from his chair by the window on the porch. He wanted to go outside. He opened the door and walked down the steps. The yard was fenced-in to a height of 6'. Dmitri kept the fence in good repair because Destiny, the dog, and Pino, the kitten ran around out there. The yard roughly measured over 27 square yards. Squadrons of mosquitoes in close formation advanced in a hysterical drone. One of the old oaks had fallen down months before with a terribly loud thud. It happened at night and woke everyone on the block. Dmitri hadn't heard anything like that since the war. The oak was lying in the yard with its branches flung out, like a dead man on his back.
When Dmitri had started down the steps, Destiny had ran over to greet him. He picked her up and hugged her. She was a mixed breed, including schnauzer, poodle, and terrier. She licked Dmitri's face as he held her to his chest. Dmitri began to cry, a deep heavy cry of despair. Soon, sometime that day, Ostavlyavich would be coming to move in. Zina had been near frenzy at times during the last week, thinking about the imminent arrival of her father. Podly refused to see Dmitri! There seemed to be no way out. What part of the apartment would be allotted to Ostavlyavich? Would his papers dictate? Dmitri put Destiny down, and she ran over to the kitten and pulled him around by his left front leg. Poor Zina! How would she cope with all of this? And if he lost his job? He hadn't had time to tell her about that matter. By the time he got home for the Senate Building yesterday around 6:30 p.m., Sasha had already been born. For a short time anyway, everything had vanished from Dmitri's consciousness except the incredible joy of being with his son. Dmitri spent four hours with Sasha while Zina slept.
Dmitri went back into the house. In the pantry, he made tea. He heard a woman's voice calling to him from the sitting room:
"Dumatskoy, hello! It's Anya Drugo!"
"Yes, come in!" said Dmitri. Anya Drugo and her husband, Ivan, walked into the pantry. Anya appeared to fill up all the available space. She was 35 years old, nearly 6' tall, broad shouldered, robust and rosy-cheeked. Her face was quite pretty, with blue eyes, and thick blonde hair that stuck out from under a red cap. She wore a white peasant's blouse, with a leather handbag on a long strap around her shoulder, blue linen pants, and black boots. Forty year-old Drugo, with his pale face, his thin face to match his slight build, his below average height and dull eyes - all got lost in the vicinity of his wife. Even the unconcealed Browning revolver he wore in a holster blended into the background.
"Congratulations, Pa Pa," said Anya good naturedly, beaming. She shook Dmitri's hand vigorously. Her hands were big and rough. Ivan Drugo stuck out his hand stiffly, bowed slightly, and said softly,
"Comrade."
"May we please see Zina and the baby? The announcement was in the paper this morning. How are they?" asked Anya.
Dmitri answered Anya's questions. They spoke for several minutes. When Zina was finished nursing Sasha, Dmitri took the visitors into the bedroom.
Anya was one of the first people that Zina met when she arrived in Moscow after running away from her home in Novgorod five years before. Anya helped Zina find a place to live and found her work in various factories. She quickly understood that Zina had talent for art, and was able to encourage her. Anya helped to run a cabaret, called the Red Rooster. It was located at the western end of the Arbat in the neighborhood known as the "catacombs" with many unfinished and abandoned buildings. The crime rate was very high, and murder and arson were rampant. Pornography peddlers sold their wares outside of the small churches that dotted the area, demonstrating the particularly Russian penchant for combining the sacred and the profane in the same breath, as it were. Floating gambling parlors, there one day, gone the next, could be found in nearly every structure of the four-block area. The Red Rooster was a gathering place for poets, writers, artists; bohemians, criminals, and political and business people. After the initial closing time of 2:00 a.m., the Red Rooster was turned into a bordello four times a week, and a gambling casino three times a week. The cafe personnel, cooks, bartenders, waiters and waitresses, the cabaret performers - would put on their "after hours" uniforms and make a great deal more money. Cocaine and heroin were available at these times in great quantity. Zina had a few of her works of art on the walls there beginning in 1918. It was about that time that Dmitri Dumatskoy first saw Zina's pictures there. He was captivated by the freshness of the vision, the quality of the execution, and the enigmatic signature of "Zina" on the works. They met there soon afterwards, fell in love, and were married there in 1919. The Rooster survived the war, the revolution, and the Civil War; and was still going strong. Anya knew the whole story of Zina and her father. And she knew that Ostavlyavich was coming that day to move into the apartment.
Ivan Drugo stepped into the bedroom, glanced uneasily at Zina and the baby, bowed, unsuccessfully attempted a smile, and went out of the room. Anya turned to Dmitri and said,
"Keep him company, Dumatskoy. He's not good with babies. Besides, we women want to talk. Go on! Go have a smoke!"
Dmitri took Drugo out into the yard. Drugo was a Bolshevik, through and through, loyal and ruthless. In spite of his slight physical stature, he was known as a "heavy". He had a large collection of weapons, and was not shy in using them. There were many in Moscow who feared that little man. He was a soldier during the war. When the Bolsheviks took power, he was a member of the infamous Red Guards. A cross between the police and the military, the Red Guards were actually criminals with government sanction. Aleksandr Blok wrote about them in his poem The Twelve of 1918. Capable of looting and even murder, they were required to keep the peace when actually, for the most part, they abused their power for their own gains.
Officially, and that was what his wife Anya believed, Drugo was employed by the Ministry of the Interior as a security agent. However, he was a Cheka agent (The Extraordinary Committee to Combat Counterrevolution and Sabotage). Cheka was the Bolshevik government's Secret Police Force.
In terms of poetry, Drugo's hero was Vladimir Mayakovsky and the Futurists. He detested Blok, and viewed him as a reactionary. "Blok stinks of stained glass and roses," he was fond of saying.
Dmitri played with Destiny and Pino, and smoked. Drugo sat down on an old wooden bench and smoked. The whole time that the two men were in the yard while Anya visited with Zina and Sasha, they did not speak to each other.
Anya held Sasha in her big rough hands and covered his little face with kisses. She fell in love with Sasha immediately, and probably at that moment with motherhood itself. She felt something move within her like a fetus first moves. Anya had never really thought about being a mother before, not seriously. She really didn't think it could happen to her. Her husband, Drugo, and their lifestyle at that time did not have a place in it for a baby. Still, Anya's natural motherly instincts were aroused on that day seeing Sasha Dmitreevich Dumatskoy for the first time. She reluctantly gave him back to his mother and sat down on the edge of her bed.
"Are you certain, Zina, that this is what you want?" Anya held her handbag in front of Zina.
"Give it to me, please, Anya. I just must have it with me! For Sasha's sake!" From the bag, Anya took out a short-barreled pocket pistol.
"Drugo will never miss this one. He likes the big ones better."
Anya helped Zina and the baby to sit up on the bed. Anya gave Zina the pistol. Zina put it in the dresser where her underwear were kept.
"There now!" Zina smiled strangely. "Perhaps I can sleep. Perhaps I shall shoot my father!"
