The Chief of Staff took out his pocket handkerchief, mopped his thick red neck, knocked, and entered without waiting for a response.
In the middle of the room, at a table spread with newspapers and littered with used dishes and wineglasses, sat Sorokin, the wide sleeves of his Circassian tunic turned back.
His handsome countenance was still overcast.
A lock of dark hair hung over his moist forehead.
He glared at Belyakov from his dilated eyes.
Beside him, on a stool, her legs crossed, showing her garters and a froth of lace, sat Zena, plucking at the strings of a guitar.
She was a blue-eyed young woman with moist, vividly coloured lips, a fine, determined-looking nose, and fair hair piled loosely on the top of her head. But the scarcely perceptible unhealthy lines at the corners of her mouth gave her delicate face the expression of a wee beast whose teeth might be dangerous.
Her passport showed that she was from Omsk, the daughter of a railwayman, but of course nobody believed this, or that she was eighteen years old, and that her name was Zenaida Kanavina.
But she was a splendid typist, could drink vodka, play the guitar, and sing delightful songs.
Sorokin had threatened to shoot her with his own hands if she attempted to infect headquarters with White-Guard putridity.
And so nobody worried.
"A fine fellow, upon my word!" growled Belyakov, shaking his head, and keeping close to the door for safety's sake.
"Look what a position you put me in!
Two obvious Central Committee chaps turn up, threaten you with meetings, and you immediately go over to their side! Why not go straight to the Morse apparatus, and send a wire to Ekaterinodar—they'll immediately dispatch a nice little Jew to you, to organize a staff, and sleep beside you in your bed, and go to the privy with you, and keep check on every one of your thoughts.
Oh my, ain't it terrible!
Commander in Chief Sorokin has dictatorial leanings ... go on then—do it! Shoot me, if you like, but I'm not going to have you threatening me with a revolver in front of subordinates. What sort of discipline can there be after that?
What the hell, after all!"
Not taking his eyes off the Chief of Staff, Sorokin stretched out a large, powerful hand for the neck of the bottle, but only clutched at the empty air.
His mouth was distorted by a brief spasm, which set the moustache bristling.
At last he managed to seize the bottle and pour out two wineglasses.
"Sit down and have a drink."
Shooting an oblique glance towards Zena's lacy drawers, Belyakov went up to the table.
"If you weren't such a clever chap I'd have got rid of you long ago. Discipline.... My discipline is battle.
Just let any of you try to raise the masses! I can lead them, only give me time! No one else can do it. I'll crush the White-Guard scum all by myself.... The world will tremble...."
He inhaled the air through his nostrils, and purple veins began pulsating in his temples.
"I'll clear the Kuban without the C.C.—and the Don and Terek, too.... They crow loud enough in Ekaterinodar, they and their committees.... Swine, cowards! Wait till I get on my horse, into battle.... I'm the dictator.... I lead the army!"
He reached out for the glass of spirits, but Belyakov overturned it with a rapid movement.
"You've had enough!"
"Aha!
You giving me orders?"
"I ask you, as a friend."
Sorokin threw himself back in his chair, gave vent to a series of short sighs, and let his gaze wander till it rested on Zena.
She was drawing a fingernail over the strings.
"The night was breathing..." she sang, raising her eyebrows lazily.
As Sorokin listened, the veins in his temples began pulsating still more violently.
Getting up, he jerked Zena's head back and rained avid kisses on her mouth.
She went on plucking at the strings till the guitar slipped off her knees.
"That's better," said Belyakov in kindly tones.
"Ah, Sorokin, Sorokin, I don't know why, but I love you!"
Zena managed to free herself at last, and bent down, very red in the face, to pick up the guitar.
Her eyes gleamed through the tangles of her fair hair.
She passed the tip of her tongue over her swollen lips.
"Faugh! You hurt me!"
"Listen, Comrades!
I've got a bottle hidden away...."
Belyakov choked back his words.
His hand, the fingers spread wide, was arrested in midair.
A shot rang out outside the window, and a buzz of voices could be heard.
Zena and her guitar seemed to be borne out of the room on a gust of wind.
Sorokin went to the window, a frown on his face.