I still worked as a mechanic. I kept my tools and overalls at Mother’s. Esmé was relieved to see the evidence of my honest work. She continued with her nursing. She now served at the Alexander Hospital, not very far from where I lived. Occasionally I was able to give her lifts in a cab. When cabs became scarce, we sometimes shared a tram-ride. As fuel and lubricating oils disappeared, my Podol customers began to go out of business or adapted to more primitive manufacturing methods. I would shortly be in the position of a doctor whose patients were all dead, so I cast around for larger game. It was not hard to find. Some of the main engineering firms, a few stores with private generators, hospitals and public offices, all needed me. This was far more to my taste. Gradually I became a diagnostician until I did little of the ordinary physical work myself. There were other freelance engineers in Kiev in those days: people who had been invalided out of the army or had taken a ‘ticket of leave’. My knowledge of more sophisticated machinery was at first almost wholly theoretical. It did not take me long to get experience, though at cost, sometimes, to the customer. Soon I exchanged my overalls and tools for a sober dark grey suit, a grey homburg and grey overcoat with a fox-fur collar. I must have looked ridiculously young in that fine suiting, but I knew what I was doing and could easily instil my own confidence into those seeking my help. Sometimes a machine had nothing wrong with it. Its operators had simply lost heart. I was able to cure it with a few mystic passes and taps. I told my mother how my career was improving. She wondered if I were not moving ‘too far, too fast’. But I was getting what I could while I could. There was no telling how long our Ukrainian Republic would stand. Both Bolsheviks and Germans were greedy for Ukrainian corn and raw materials.

I gave my mother the best holiday of her life. We had a Christmas Eve dinner in a room at a fine restaurant where I managed to get her to take a glass or two of champagne. She enjoyed herself immensely. The waiters treated her like a queen. Esmé and Captain Brown sang Christmas songs and we exchanged gifts. It was marvellous. I never feel guilty about my mother. When it was possible I compensated her for much of her suffering. That night she knew a taste of heaven. As we drank liqueurs I told them my great plan. I was going to start a proper business. No longer just a consultant, I would be head of a firm of engineers.

‘Whatever happens to Kiev in the future,’ I said, ‘there will certainly be a demand for us. We shall design new factories, install machinery, give advice. If Ukraine booms, we shall boom. If she is in trouble, we shall help her in her trouble.’

My mother seemed taken aback. Her face clouded. ‘And what will you call yourself?’

‘All-Ukraine Engineering Consultants,’ I said, it has a suitable ring to it.’

She became reconciled. Esmé grinned at me as if I had somehow pulled off a coup requiring both nerve and intelligence. ‘And your own name?’ she asked.

‘Pyatnitski for the moment.’

‘Your father...’ began my mother. But then she nodded, it would be better. You’ll be careful?’

‘The times have changed,’ I said. ‘I have changed with them. I was born to be part of these times.’

‘You’ve an eye for the future,’ murmured Captain Brown from behind his champagne. He toasted me. ‘A Happy New Year to you!’

My mother began to cry. Almost at the same moment Esmé began to chuckle. It was a strange experience. I did not know to whom I should respond. At length I went to comfort my mother. ‘Why are you crying?’

She said she was crying from happiness.

TEN