Part 7

The restaurant was a dirty place. The old plank floors were spotted with mud where the ice-balls from the heels of patrons had melted, and the blackened log rafters were cobwebby and sooty. There was an ancient icon in the corner. The walls had been partly stripped of a moldy old paper so that the yellow plaster showed through the gashes. And here, as in the hotel, there were bullet craters.

Peter finished his glass of vodka and went out again. He hurried back toward the hotel, but he had not gone far when he espied in between two modern buildings and well back from the street, an old hut—an _isba_ of the old days. He stopped in his tracks and stared at it. The building was not more than eight feet square, of single story, with a small window under the eaves. There was a rude chimney of stones at one end. A sign over the door told that cigarettes, matches, and holy cards were sold within.

Peter went in between the two buildings and pushed open the low and sagging door of the hut. There was an old man sitting on a bench under the window with a newspaper—a thin old hulk of a graybeard with a face shrouded in white whiskers that were stained yellow about his hidden mouth. He wore a tiny black skullcap on his head which brought out the bleached whiteness of his whiskers and the pallor of his crinkled forehead. His hands were tucked in the sleeves of his ragged old coat, and he huddled up toward the smoldering fire in the ancient fire-pit.

Startled by Peter’s entrance, the old man thrust the newspaper behind him quickly. As he got to his feet he kicked the paper out of sight behind a box. He stood looking at Peter with questioning eyes, knowing that there was something strange about the visitor but not being able to tell what in the vague light coming through the frosted window.

“Do you sell cigarettes here?” asked Peter.

“Yes, I sell cigarettes here,” croaked the graybeard. “Is it that you have come for cigarettes to this poor place—you, who are dressed in odd clothes?”

“What else should I come for?” asked Peter pleasantly. “Do you think I have come to rob you?”

The old one appeared relieved, but he was still on his guard.

“We never know what a man comes for these days. And you are not a man of Chita, I can tell that.”

“What does it matter where I came from, if I pay for what I take? Come! Let me see some cigarettes!”

The graybeard grunted and shuffled across the room to a shelf and took down some packets of tin covered with a faded paper.

Peter looked the room over. It was hard to believe that this tiny hut was the place in which he had worked with his father. In his memory it had taken on vaster proportions, yet in reality it was but a boxlike hovel. There was the same old adz-hewn plank bench well polished by years of use; the floor near the fire-pit had the very depressions worn into the wood by the legs of his father’s stitching-frame. And the same stone in the chimney on which his father had whetted the leather-knives! By that fire-pit Peter had spent many nights studying out Russian letters and words in battered almanacs. The place still smelled of leather—or Peter fancied it did.

“Here are cigarettes of the best quality from Harbin, _gospodeen_,” said the old man, proffering a long tin box. “I keep them for such as are of the upper class. I must pay grease to Chinese for bringing these cigarettes in, and if you buy, you will be back for more—and twenty rubles for the box.”

Peter sat down on the bench and pretended to examine the packet of cigarettes. But he was really looking at the little battered samovar on the little wooden table. Beside the samovar was a blackened piece of tin which was used to transfer hot coals from the fire-pit to the samovar. And the rude shelves with their packages of “Moscow biscuits,” matches, cigarettes, and holy cards for the holidays and the name days of children drew Peter’s eyes. The stock in trade was smoke-blackened and fly-specked by countless summers and winters. And the room reeked with smoke, which made the old man’s eyes red and watery.

Peter saw that the cigarettes were of the cheapest grade.

“Why do you double the price because I am a stranger?” asked Peter. “You know that half a ruble would buy these in the old days, and now with the money bad, ten is enough for them?”

“God protect us! You speak the Czar’s Russian, though you wear a foreign coat! Have you come here to buy from me, or to find who is smuggling? There is no duty now, true, but I have to pay grease, as I said. I would say the same to the Ataman himself.”

“But I know something about the price of cigarettes,” said Peter. He was willing enough to pay the price but he knew that reluctance would draw the old man out, and that an argument would probably develop an acquaintance which might be useful.

“But the troubles have come and that makes the price high,” whined the old man. “Am I to starve among my cigarettes? There are few enough to buy these days, I tell you.”

“I will pay, but you are an old robber,” said Peter, going into his pockets and fetching out two ten-ruble notes of Imperial money. The old man’s eyes danced, for he knew Imperials to be worth twice again the new paper money on which his prices were based.

“Did you come here for a _ruganie_?” demanded the old man, meaning a mutual slandering of each other in Russian in which both parties to the argument call names of an import so evil as to chill the marrows of respectable listeners. “And you! You look like a gentleman. From what place have you come?”

“From the place I go back to. Have you been in Chita long, little grandfather?”

“I?” asked the old man, stroking his whiskers. “Yes. What does it matter? I shall be here all time. See the hills outside? My bones shall build them higher,” and he broke out into a cackling laugh as if the joke were one that he used often and still liked its flavor.

“You were here in the old days?” pressed Peter.

The old one gave Peter a keen look, and sat down on the end of the bench, hiding the precious ten-ruble notes away somewhere under his arms.

“I? Why not?”

“You were here when the prison was full of unfortunates?”

“I was here when it was emptied, too,” and he laughed again and bent to poke the fire with an old cane. But he was getting cautious again, as if he suspected that there might be more behind the twenty rubles than he had bargained for.

“What happened when the prison was emptied? It must have been a joyful time.”

Graybeard made a noise in his throat which might have been a chuckle, and turning from the fire stood up and straightened his back, to gaze frankly at Peter as if to ask why so many questions were being asked. It was plain that he disapproved of giving gossip extra with what he sold.

“You should have been here if you wanted to know,” he said.

“I suppose they killed the soldiers,” went on Peter.

“No, the unfortunates did not kill the soldiers—except, perhaps, the bad soldiers who had been cruel. Were not the soldiers made free also by revolution? As well as the unfortunates?”

“True,” assented Peter. “But the officers? Many of the officers were killed, eh?”

“The square down there by the station,” and graybeard threw out his arm and his eyes took on a reminiscent look, “the square is full of dead folks—old and young, officers and all, rich and poor, high and low, witches and holy men. But the unfortunates did not harm me. I am Rimsky and the friend of all, though many were drunk and did not know who were friends. But I got into a potato-cellar till the worst was over, though I was stiff in the legs a good month after. But I was out in time to see them all go off to Petersburg to kill the Little Father, the fools!”

“Would you have the Czar back? Is that what you mean?” asked Peter.

“I? Why do you ask me that? Is it not enough to know that in the old days there was peace—and that I would have peace in which to die. Should not a man have peace in which to meet the dead? That is all I ask you.”

“But are not the new times better than the old?” asked Peter. “Would you have the old times back—and the prison on the hill full of people?”

Rimsky lighted the fragment of an old cigarette and smoked a minute before he replied, pulling at his whiskers.

“New times, new troubles,” he said with tired voice. “We knew in the old times what to do to be happy, and likewise what not to do. It was all put down plain in the laws and the rules of the governors. Those who wanted better government did not know that bad government is better than none. Now it is all fighting, and no man trusts another. But I am not afraid, for my life is behind me. Now, when the railroad came here, it was said that everybody would be rich and happy. Before then we had only the mail-sledges, with their bells and horses. The people were happy enough, but for these educated fools always talking about what should be done with government and getting themselves and poor people into trouble. Now what do we have? All night an accursed ringing of railroad bells and screeching whistles till a man wakes in his bed, thinking the devil is calling. And people and cows get killed by the railroad—and mad soldiers come to kill and burn honest people. Is that good? Who is made rich thereby, and who is made happy?”

“Then you think you would be happier if the Czar were back,” suggested Peter.

“Is that what you have come to ask me?” demanded Rimsky, giving Peter a shrewd look. “Is it that you are counting those who want the Czar back?”

“No, no,” said Peter. “I have nothing to do with the government. I will not say to any one what you say.”

“I cannot be too sure of that,” said Rimsky, and blew the smoke from his cigarette upward. “But when the Czar ruled, I had a watch.”

“Do you want a Czar back?” asked Peter.

“_Tchuk!_” cried Rimsky. “The Czar is in a well, they tell me. But how do I know what to believe? First it is one lie, and then another, till our heads whirl and we get drunk to forget so much talk about nothing. How do I know but that the Czar is on his throne and eating fish-pie for his dinner?”

“But suppose a new Czar should come to the throne?”

“Ah, now you are trying to have me talk politics and get into prison. It does not matter. I want only a fire, my tea, a good soup with meat and bones in it, and a pair of boots—and men who can be trusted, even if they be Czar’s governors and cruel. Who is a man to appeal to now if he is robbed, as was I last month? In the old days robbers were hanged, and it taught them something, too.”

“But you are speaking of Chita, of course. You had no complaint here, for you had a good Governor.”

Rimsky went to the samovar and took off the little teapot, shook it with a circular motion, filled it with hot water and poured a glass made from the bottom of a bottle full of tea for Peter.

“You talk too much for a stranger,” said Rimsky. “What do you know about our Governor? Is this the first time you have been in Siberia, young man?”

“Of course,” said Peter, taking the tea. “But I have heard about Chita before.”

“You may know more than you want to know about it before you get out,” warned Rimsky. “Are you going to stay long—and buy more of my cigarettes?”

“I’ll be here a few weeks, I suppose. I came to see if I could buy some furs.”

“Oh, but you are a soldier,” said Rimsky. “And you will find no furs that are good. Everybody is hunting men these days,” and he broke out again in his cackling laugh, as he drew himself some tea in a little yellow bowl.

“Did the unfortunates kill the Governor who was here when they got out of the prison and freedom came to the people?”

“Did they?” asked Rimsky. “You tell me.”

“But you were here, and you know. I was not here,” said Peter.

Rimsky shrugged his shoulders and sucked his tea from the bowl.

“The _provodnik_ on the train told me that the soldiers killed the Governor here. What was the name? Kir—— well, I can’t remember.”

“Those fellows on the trains do a lot of talking,” said Rimsky. “They are know-it-alls, and all they do is take grease from people who want to have food sent up to us.”

“I’m afraid they don’t tell the truth,” said Peter.

“So they told you the soldiers killed Kirsakoff, did they? But Kirsakoff was not the Governor. You see that they lied.”

“Perhaps they did not say he was Governor when he was killed. But they said he had been a Governor in the old days.”

“If Kirsakoff had been killed, I would know it,” said Rimsky.

“True,” agreed Peter. “I thought the _provodnik_ was talking to make wind and a big man of himself. I knew he was lying.”

“How did you know that?”

“I guessed it. Now that you say Kirsakoff was not killed, I know it was a lie. Just big talk.”

“Why should anybody kill Kirsakoff?” demanded Rimsky.

“That is what I should like to know. Everybody said he was a good man, but perhaps some people did not like him—people in the prison, of course, who were against the government.”

“General Kirsakoff had been retired when the troubles came,” said Rimsky. “More than seven years ago he was retired. I remembered well the time—I had a sore foot.”

“Was he gone from Chita when the troubles came?”

“No, he was here,” said Rimsky, looking straight at Peter.

“Ah!” said Peter. “So the _provodnik_ lied when he said Kirsakoff was dead. He is still here.”

“What does it matter where he is?” asked Rimsky.

“It does not matter,” said Peter, and set the glass on the table, buttoning his coat about his neck in preparation for leaving.

“I hear much gossip in this place,” said Rimsky. “Where do you live in the city?”

“Thank you for the tea,” said Peter. “It is cold outside. I may want some more cigarettes—at twenty rubles a box.”

“I hear many matters spoken of here,” hinted Rimsky with confidential air. “About where governors are and such talk.”

“Is Zorogoff a good man?” asked Peter.

“It is a very cold day outside, true,” said Rimsky. “But this is a good place to hear gossip.”

“I care nothing for gossip. But I can see that you live on it, as an old gander lives on snails,” said Peter laughingly. “I am going to the Dauria—I am an American officer. But see that you do not gossip about me, old fellow.”

Rimsky wagged his old head and cackled wisely.

“A tight lip fools the devil,” warned Peter. “If you talk I’ll tell Zorogoff you charged me double for cigarettes. But I’ll come in and see you some day, and bring a bottle of vodka.”

“Then God guard you till you return!” cried Rimsky, and Peter went out through the door of the hut.

Rimsky sat chuckling into his beard after Peter had departed. And more than once the old cigarette-seller told himself, “The sturgeon does not become a sterlet because he leaves the river for the lake, and the Russian does not become a foreigner by changing his coat.” That was a saying of wise men.

VII

OLD RIMSKY THINKS

OLD Rimsky had a wise head. Many people were afraid of him and said that he talked with witches and had charms against evil—and he did sell charms against sickness, bad luck and poor crops. Besides, he had the reputation of knowing many things before they happened. But he was merely a wise old owl with the keen perception of human motives which is sometimes given to the unlettered man, though he could read well enough to get the meanings out of newspapers if there were not too many words in the articles invented by aristocrats to fool the poor people.

He spent the remainder of the day thinking about the Russian in the American coat who paid double for cigarettes and took a profit in getting answers to questions. He had watched Peter closely, and turned the whole matter over mentally, sitting by his fire and drinking tea.

Rimsky decided that he had not been clever enough with the stranger. It was plain enough now that the stranger had come to learn something about Michael Alexandrovitch Kirsakoff who had been Governor. And the stranger did not know where Michael was to be found. In some way the business could be turned to profit and over many glasses of smoky tea Rimsky evolved a plan by which he could put money in his purse.

There was an old pig-killing _moujik_ named Ilya Andreitch who slept in the basement of a bakery on a street up near the bazaar. Ilya had worked for Kirsakoff years before, and should know where the general lived if anybody did. As for that, Rimsky now remembered that Ilya had once boasted that he knew where Kirsakoff lived since the troubles came and all the rich people were in hiding.

But there might be little in the boast, for Ilya was an old fool who was always pretending to know things. But for all his outward stupidity, Ilya was a sly rascal. His father had been sent into exile for taking money from revolutionists in Moscow by pretending to have knowledge of what the secret police were going to do—who was going to be arrested, and so on.

It happened that Rimsky had Ilya pretty much under the thumb, as the saying is. For Ilya had once fed the pigs of a watch-fixer in the city, and had stolen from his employer a whole handful of silver holy medals. Rimsky had bought them from Ilya for a tenth of their value. Out of appreciation for buying them, Ilya had spent all the money he got on vodka with Rimsky. The vodka had been stolen by a waiter in a restaurant owned by a Greek, and at half price sold it to Ilya, which was quite all right, for everybody stole from foreigners if they could. The thing for the foreigners to do is to stay at home and not go about selling food and drink at prices too high.

Rimsky knew that he might be able to induce Ilya to tell where Kirsakoff was living. That might mean double money for Rimsky. Kirsakoff would no doubt pay well to know that an American was seeking him, and the American would probably pay well to know where Kirsakoff might be found. It was only a matter of handling them properly.

And by delaying the information sought by both Kirsakoff and the man who called himself an American, a pretty penny might be realized. It was by such smart methods, Rimsky felt sure, that rich folks got rich. And by getting rich, they made poor folks poorer. Being rich was all simple enough, for there was only so much money in the world, and the trick was to get a lot of it by being smarter than other folks. There being many fools, the problem was easy enough. Rimsky knew that the Jews got rich by being able to figure interest on money, and by selling only when people wanted to buy and buying only when people wanted to sell.

So he contrived a plan by which Ilya was to supply the information for little or nothing, and Rimsky was to sell it for a bundle of rubles. It would not do to tell Ilya what was wanted. It would be best to loosen his tongue with vodka, and then accuse him of having lied when he had said he knew where Kirsakoff was living. That method would get Ilya to boasting and he would pop it all out. It could all be passed off as drinking talk, and if Ilya insisted on keeping his secret, it would be easy enough to turn the talk to holy medals. That would make Ilya see the honey pot, as the saying is; then he would get Ilya so drunk that he would forget all that had been said.

So when the lights began to appear in the shops across the Sofistkaya, Rimsky put up his own shutters over the window and wandered toward the bazaar to look in at the bakery where Ilya might be found.

It was quite dark when Rimsky reached the courtyard in rear of the building of the bakery. There was a shaft of flickering light dancing out from a partly open door, and the yard was filled with the comforting odor of burning dough. Rimsky planned to ask the bakers first for a man who once hauled wood for them—a peasant dead several months before. That would be excuse enough for coming, and talk could be made till it was time to ask casually for Ilya. That would throw sand in Ilya’s eyes as to why Rimsky appeared at the bakery.

The old cigarette-seller prowled in through the door and stumbled over loose wood in the hall till he came to the great room where the bakers were working. A big man, bare to the waist, was drawing huge loaves from the stone stove with a wooden shovel. His damp skin shone in the dancing light. A group of men and women was sitting on benches in the dark side of the room about a samovar. A ball of dough was smoking on an iron sheet laid on the shoulder of the stove.

There had been the murmur of voices till Rimsky stood framed in the doorway of the room, looking in. When he appeared there was a sudden hush and silence, except for the grating of the wooden shovel as it drew out the steaming loaves and the cracking of the fire in the fire-pit.

“God’s blessing on those who labor for us,” said Rimsky, crossing himself.

Some one gave a muttered reply. The man drawing the loaves turned and peered at Rimsky and then went on deftly pulling out the bread, puckering his face against the heat.

A man came clumping down the hall and fell over the wood. Rimsky stood aside from the door, and the light from the fire revealed the man with a face shrouded by long and unkempt whiskers, and on his head a sheepskin cap black with dirt. He wore a ragged old coat with a rope turned round his middle several times as a belt.

“So this is my old friend, Ilya Andreitch!” exclaimed Rimsky. “It is long since I have seen you. Perhaps you can tell me of the friend I am looking for.”

Ilya ogled him suspiciously.

“What has gone wrong that you should be here?” he growled. He had a healthy fear of Rimsky and wanted to forget the business of the holy medals.

“Can you tell me where I can find Vanusha?”

“You are chasing ghosts,” grumbled Ilya, crossing himself at mention of a dead man. “That man is dead. Or is it that you are looking for souls for the devil?”

“Dead!” exclaimed Rimsky. “Now that is a pity. I came to get a drinking friend, but now I shall have to go and have a glass of vodka by myself in his memory. He owed me two rubles but he was a good man, I can say that for him.”

“Better than I can say for you,” Ilya called out into the dark yard after Rimsky, who had retreated abruptly from the hall. “He never drank his vodka alone, for one thing, like others I know, and they not far off. He was civil to his friends, I can say that—and when you are dead you had better take care that folks say the same of you.”

“Then you didn’t learn your manners from him,” retorted Rimsky, stopping in the court. “You swing your tongue too much for an honest man—or to have it wet with vodka. When I drink I wish to be merry.”

“You are an old wolf with the fleas!” called Ilya.

Rimsky laughed at him.

“May you die blind!” bawled Ilya.

“Oh, come and warm your belly with a sup of vodka,” said Rimsky, “unless you think that if you turned good-natured you would come down with a distemper.”

Ilya ran after him and the pair walked down to the little restaurant kept by a one-eared gypsy from Bessarabia where in the old days the thieves gathered to dispose of their loot to Chinese.

There were but a few people inside the place. A Buriat, who had probably sold some cattle, was lying across a table in a drunken stupor, his purple conical cap on the floor under his feet. A crippled beggar was drinking soup from a bowl with a wooden ladle, and a Chinese peddler of charms was gambling in a corner with a Mongol holy man.

Rimsky led the way to a table distant from the others and called for the serving girl. He was in good humor and ordered a whole bottle of vodka, swearing that he would take only the best and would break the tax seal with his own fingers.

“Something has turned your way, you old shark!” said Ilya. “Or perhaps this is your name day.”