Goroshkin disappeared and came back with a bottle of Abrau-Durçot, with which we celebrated my consent.
Indeed I had nothing further to think about. My task was to go to Tumen in disguise, meet some people there, and through Goroshkin communicate with Marchenko.
Goroshkin brought me a passport of Mr. Syvorotka, with my description and my particular marks (broken shoulder), documents and uniform, and gave me a few names in Tumen which I had to remember and to whom on behalf of Mr. Andrei Andreivich Vysotsky I should address myself.
"Your Excellency understands that nobody assumes any responsibility for your safety. You just must be in touch with the people," he said, "and be ready for what you were told to do, as we must have a man in Tumen. If I may suggest, you should not speak or act like a gentleman."
I decided to joke a bit with Goroshkin: "Go to hell, you old fool," I said, "you damned plotter," and then I kicked a chair.
To my great astonishment not a muscle twitched in Goroshkin's face.
"Not bad, not bad," he said calmly, "but even your slang is a gentleman's. Your Excellency should imagine having been born a swine. That's the point. I should recommend more of silence, and if you happen to speak,--a brief articulation, roughly conceived and expressed. Don't bother at all with the person you are addressing."
The old man amused me very much that evening. I let him sit down and he told me episodes of his life for about a couple of hours. For thirty years he had been present at every performance in his theatre and he knew the world better than I did, only by watching the artists.
January the tenth in the early morning at about six o'clock the fat Mlle. Goroshkin entered my room clad only in a nightgown. That was the only time I saw her pale and sordid, but she was just as uninteresting as ever. "Quick! Get up," she said, "they are searching. Brother has already left, and he said you must dress and get your documents and run out. Go to Tumen, I'll send your effects there."
"They" was enough for me. I was all ready in two minutes, put all of my money and jewelry in my hip pockets, assumed the aspect of a wounded soldier and walked out. I barely reached Miasnitskaya Street before an armored car full of working men and soldiers passed by at about fifty miles an hour. Half a dozen bad faces looked at me. I decided to continue calmly on my way, but I heard the car coming back very soon sounding its siren. It stopped near me. "Come in, cavalry man, there is a seat for one. They found somebody in Yousupov's house."