Byzantium Endures by Michael Moorcock

Author:Michael Moorcock [Moorcock, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781604867237
Publisher: PM Press
Published: 2012-05-31T21:00:00+00:00

EIGHT

FOUR DAYS LATER THE train arrived in Kiev. By the time I struggled from the freezing compartment into the afternoon gloom I had been robbed of some books, a couple of inexpensive figurines bought for my mother, and a pair of gloves. Luckily I had some fur mittens of Kolya’s. I put these on before gripping my bags and setting off on foot in the direction of Kirillovskaya and my mother’s flat.

My city was occupied by every kind of scum: deserters who had killed their officers, peasants who had murdered their masters, workers who had stolen from their employers; all had come to Kiev to spend their gold on drink and women. In the train I had met a great many Petrograd businessmen, nobles and intellectuals, and similar individuals in flight from Moscow. They were hoping to get to Yalta or Odessa or anywhere on the coast. I do not know where they expected to go from there. Turks and Germans blockaded us on every sea. Perhaps those places were less infected with Revolutionary madness. Here red banners hung between buildings; there were proclamations on walls (some in Ukrainian, which baffled me); meetings were carried on at every corner; and bands were playing Shevchenko’s The Ukraine Will Never Die as well as La Marseillaise. The floors of the train had been filthy with expectorated sunflower seeds and with every other sort of inanimate and animate rubbish. There was no difference here, either on pavements or in parks. Incompetents had taken charge. Kiev had collapsed as a civilised city. Trams had ceased to run on time; cabs had disappeared; bands of drunken brigands in sailors’ uniforms and army great-coats roamed about at will, demanding money, drink, food, cigarettes, from passers-by. Because the democratic Rada had not defined it, police and Cossack militia were uncertain of their authority. Should they try to arrest the brigands? Should they merely ask them to leave other comrades alone? Should they shoot on sight? Should they simply ignore the activities of the new aristos? The deserters and convicts were armed to the teeth, cheerfully willing to kill anyone who frustrated them: a typical situation in all Russia’s cities during Kerenski’s days. It would get worse. The Bolsheviks would merely legalise the terror and give it moral justification. Every murder victim became a liquidated bourgeois just as nowadays they are all listed as traffic accidents. It looked as if half the city was drunk and the other half sunk into dejection. I passed by Podol. The whole ghetto had turned Red: the Jews were celebrating their conquests. I bought a Voice of Kiev. It had already taken on a nationalist note.

By the time I reached our quiet, unlit street, I had realised I must support any authority, even if it were socialist. My arms and back ached horribly. I tugged the bags up the dark, smelly staircase to our landing. I knocked at the apartment door. There was silence. I went up a flight and pulled Captain Brown’s bell.

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