Things would go well—for him and for Sashenka, he reassured himself.
“Have you heard anything?” persisted Khvostov, gripping Zeitlin’s arm. “Who’s he going to summon? We can’t go on like this, can we, Samuil? I know you agree.”
Zeitlin tugged his arm free. “Where is Andronnikov?”
“Right at the back…you’ll never get there! It’s too crowded. And another thing…” Zeitlin fled into the crowd. The heat and the perfumes were unbearable. Wet with sweat, the men’s hands slipped and skidded on the soft, pale backs of the ladies. The cigar smoke was so dense that an acrid mist had formed, half feral, half exquisite. The GovernorGeneral, old Prince Obolensky, real high nobility, and a couple of Golitsyns were there: kneedeep in the shit, thought Zeitlin. A pretty girl, who was kept in profitable threeway concubinage by the Deputy Interior Minister, the new War Minister and Grand Duke Sergei, was kissing Simnavich, Rasputin’s secretary, with an open mouth, in front of everyone.
Zeitlin took no satisfaction in this: he just thought of the rabbi and Miriam, back at home.
They would not have believed that the court of the Russian Empire had somehow come to this.
In a clear tunnel through the tangled limbs and necks of the crowd, Zeitlin saw a tiny bulging eye with such dense eyelashes that they were almost glued together. He was sure that the other eye and the rest of the body belonged to ManuilovManesevich, the dangerous huckster, police snitch, and now, disgracefully, the chief of staff of Premier Sturmer himself.
Zeitlin elbowed his way through but little ManuilovManesevich was always ahead of him and he never caught up. Instead he found himself at the doorway of Prince Andronnikov’s holy of holies, newly redecorated like a Turkish harem—all swirling silks, with a fountain bursting out of a gold tap that formed the penis of a gilded boy Pan and, even more out of place, a large gold Buddha. A crystal chandelier with hundreds of candles dripping their wax only intensified the heat.
I probably paid for some of this tat, Zeitlin thought as he entered the tiny room packed with petitioners jostling for position. There, puffing on a hubblebubble pipe and kissing the rosy neck of a boy in a page’s uniform, was Andronnikov himself, with the Interior Minister perched next to him. Zeitlin had never abased himself before anyone: it was one of the many advantages of being rich. But there was no time for pride now.
“Hey, you spilled my drink! Where’s your manners?” cried one petitioner.
“In a hurry to get somewhere, Baron Zeitlin?” sneered another. But Zeitlin, thinking only of his daughter, pushed through.
He found himself squatting next to Andronnikov and the minister.
“Ah, Zeitlin, sweetheart!” said Prince Andronnikov, who was wearing full face makeup and resembled a plump Chinese eunuch. “Kisskiss, my peach!”
Zeitlin closed his eyes and kissed Andronnikov on the rouged lips. Anything for Sashenka, he thought. “Lovely party, my Prince.”
“Too hot, too hot,” said the Prince gravely—adding “too hot for clothes, eh?” to the youth next to him, who chortled. The red silk walls were crammed with signed photographs of ministers and generals and grand dukes: was there anyone who did not owe Andronnikov something? Entrepreneur of influence, gutter journalist, friend of the powerful and poisonous gossip, Andronnikov helped set the prices in the bourse of influence, and had just brought down the War Minister.
“My Prince, it’s about my daughter…,” Zeitlin began—but a more aggressive petitioner, a skinny gingerhaired woman with freckles and an ostrich feather rising out of a peacock brooch on a silk turban, interrupted him. Her son needed a job at the Justice Ministry but was already on a train out to the Galician front. Protopopov, the Interior Minister, could see the price for this favor dangling before him and rose, taking the lady’s hand. Zeitlin saw his chance
“Have you heard anything?” persisted Khvostov, gripping Zeitlin’s arm. “Who’s he going to summon? We can’t go on like this, can we, Samuil? I know you agree.”
Zeitlin tugged his arm free. “Where is Andronnikov?”
“Right at the back…you’ll never get there! It’s too crowded. And another thing…” Zeitlin fled into the crowd. The heat and the perfumes were unbearable. Wet with sweat, the men’s hands slipped and skidded on the soft, pale backs of the ladies. The cigar smoke was so dense that an acrid mist had formed, half feral, half exquisite. The GovernorGeneral, old Prince Obolensky, real high nobility, and a couple of Golitsyns were there: kneedeep in the shit, thought Zeitlin. A pretty girl, who was kept in profitable threeway concubinage by the Deputy Interior Minister, the new War Minister and Grand Duke Sergei, was kissing Simnavich, Rasputin’s secretary, with an open mouth, in front of everyone.
Zeitlin took no satisfaction in this: he just thought of the rabbi and Miriam, back at home.
They would not have believed that the court of the Russian Empire had somehow come to this.
In a clear tunnel through the tangled limbs and necks of the crowd, Zeitlin saw a tiny bulging eye with such dense eyelashes that they were almost glued together. He was sure that the other eye and the rest of the body belonged to ManuilovManesevich, the dangerous huckster, police snitch, and now, disgracefully, the chief of staff of Premier Sturmer himself.
Zeitlin elbowed his way through but little ManuilovManesevich was always ahead of him and he never caught up. Instead he found himself at the doorway of Prince Andronnikov’s holy of holies, newly redecorated like a Turkish harem—all swirling silks, with a fountain bursting out of a gold tap that formed the penis of a gilded boy Pan and, even more out of place, a large gold Buddha. A crystal chandelier with hundreds of candles dripping their wax only intensified the heat.
I probably paid for some of this tat, Zeitlin thought as he entered the tiny room packed with petitioners jostling for position. There, puffing on a hubblebubble pipe and kissing the rosy neck of a boy in a page’s uniform, was Andronnikov himself, with the Interior Minister perched next to him. Zeitlin had never abased himself before anyone: it was one of the many advantages of being rich. But there was no time for pride now.
“Hey, you spilled my drink! Where’s your manners?” cried one petitioner.
“In a hurry to get somewhere, Baron Zeitlin?” sneered another. But Zeitlin, thinking only of his daughter, pushed through.
He found himself squatting next to Andronnikov and the minister.
“Ah, Zeitlin, sweetheart!” said Prince Andronnikov, who was wearing full face makeup and resembled a plump Chinese eunuch. “Kisskiss, my peach!”
Zeitlin closed his eyes and kissed Andronnikov on the rouged lips. Anything for Sashenka, he thought. “Lovely party, my Prince.”
“Too hot, too hot,” said the Prince gravely—adding “too hot for clothes, eh?” to the youth next to him, who chortled. The red silk walls were crammed with signed photographs of ministers and generals and grand dukes: was there anyone who did not owe Andronnikov something? Entrepreneur of influence, gutter journalist, friend of the powerful and poisonous gossip, Andronnikov helped set the prices in the bourse of influence, and had just brought down the War Minister.
“My Prince, it’s about my daughter…,” Zeitlin began—but a more aggressive petitioner, a skinny gingerhaired woman with freckles and an ostrich feather rising out of a peacock brooch on a silk turban, interrupted him. Her son needed a job at the Justice Ministry but was already on a train out to the Galician front. Protopopov, the Interior Minister, could see the price for this favor dangling before him and rose, taking the lady’s hand. Zeitlin saw his chance
Similar Books
