“Kravintzki—one of the bright spirits of the Cheka. His signature is necessary for all executions. That’s why he plays the piano with one finger.”
“I don’t follow that.”
“Not to tire his wrist.”
“Well, now I know!”
He took hold of Christy’s arms and squeezed him tight.
“It’s good to see you again, you ugly old chameleon. Let’s sit and talk. I’ve a thousand things to tell and to ask. Since you left me I’ve been through the Slough of Despond, and the Valley of Doubt. I’m carrying a dead heart in my body. I’m in darkness, and can’t see a ray of light ahead.”
“Well, you’re a cheerful kind of blighter to come to Moscow!” said Christy, with a grin. “You won’t find any rosy hope in the Volga Valley! Nor any blaze of light ’twixt Moscow and Petrograd. But let’s talk in front of the fire. God, how good it is to talk! How good and useless, except to one’s own soul!”
All through the night in a Guest House of Bolshevik Russia, they talked as only men can whose friendship is proved. Bertram spoke a little of Joyce, and learnt that Christy’s wife was dead. They were both lonely men, and glad of this comradeship.
L
Moscow by day was more squalid, but more cheerful, than Moscow by night.