To pass into the square the procession only had to go straight ahead, but Vladimirskaya Street, where it crossed Bolshaya Zhitomirskaya, was still blocked by cavalry marching away after the parade, so the procession, like everyone else, was obliged to stop.
It was headed by a horde of little boys, running, leapfrogging and letting out piercing whistles.
Next along the trampled snow of the roadway came a man with despairing terror-stricken eyes, no hat, and a torn, unbuttoned fur coat.
His face was streaked with blood and tears were streaming from his eyes.
From his wide, gaping mouth came a thin, hoarse voice, shouting in an absurd mixture of Russian and Ukrainian:
'You have no right to do this to me!
I'm a famous Ukrainian poet!
My name's Gorbolaz.
I've published an anthology of Ukrainian poetry.
I shall complain to the chairman of the Rada and to the minister.
This is an outrage!'
'Beat him up - the pickpocket!' came shouts from the sidewalk.
Turning desperately to all sides, the bloodstained man shouted: 'But I was trying to arrest a Bolshevik agitator . . .'
'What? What's that?'
'Who's he?'
'Tried to shoot Petlyura.'
'What?'
'Took a shot at Petlyura, the son of a bitch.'
'But he's a Ukrainian.'
'He's no Ukrainian, the swine', rumbled a bass voice. 'He's a pickpocket.'
'Phee-eew!' whistled the little boys contemptuously.
'What are you doing?
What right have you to do this to me?'
'We've caught a Bolshevik agitator.
He ought to be shot on the spot.'
Behind the bloodstained man came an excited crowd, amongst them an army fur hat with a gold-braided tassel and the tips of two bayonets.
A man with a tightly-belted coat was striding alongside the bloodstained man and occasionally, whenever the victim screamed particularly loudly, mechanically punched him on the neck. Then the wretched prisoner, at the end of his tether, stopped shouting and instead began to sob violently but soundlessly.
The two students stepped back to let the procession go by.
When it had passed, the tall one seized the short one by the armand whispered with malicious pleasure:
'Serve him right.
A sight for sore eyes.
Well, I can tell you one thing, Karas - you have to hand it to those Bolsheviks.
They really know their stuff.
What a brilliant piece of work!
Did you notice how cleverly they fixed things so that their speaker got clean away? They're tough and by God, they're clever.
That's why I admire them - for their brazen impudence, God damn them.'
The shorter man said in a low voice:
'If I don't get a drink in a moment I shall pass out.'
'That's a thought.
Brilliant idea', the tall man agreed cheerfully. 'How much do you have on you?'
'Two hundred.'
'I have a hundred and fifty.
Let's go to Tamara's bar and get a couple of bottles . . .'
'It's shut.'
'They'll open up for us.'
The two men turned on to Vladimirskaya Street and walked on until they came to a two-storey house with a sign that read:
'Grocery' Alongside it was another:
'Tamara's Castle - Wine Cellars.'
Sidling down the steps to the basement the two men began to tap cautiously on the glass of the double door.
Seventeen