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This year, October turned out to be unusually gloomy. The sun barely peeked out from behind the heavy, dark-grey clouds, which looked as though they were full of lead and were about to crash down to the ground, leaving behind a huge crater in the middle of the square. Somewhere in the distant sky, the lightning flashed, and then the thunder rumbled.
Opening the window slightly, Dzerzhinsky took a deep breath of the damp, cold air. The ground had not yet dried from the previous shower, and it seemed that another one would soon begin. The Chekist closed his tired, slightly reddened eyes for a couple of extra seconds. His body was desperately crying out for rest, but not now. These were very restless times; he had to work. Unfortunately, he needed to give his body and mind at least a couple of minutes’ respite, if only to stretch his legs. A short walk would be just the right thing.
The sound of quick footsteps echoed down the hall. The Chairman of the Cheka had a firm, steady walk, as if at that moment the man were moving along an invisible line drawn on the floor. The Polish man kept his hands behind his back, clasped in a firm grip. A swarm of the most different thoughts swirled in his head, from the most banal to the more profound.
And amidst this swarm of all manner of thoughts and ideas, a lonely thought (or perhaps rather a realisation) would surface from time to time. The realisation that something was wrong with him.
He had people who were dear to his heart. He had a job. After all, he had himself.
Why on earth was the Chekist’s heart beginning to beat faster?
Where had this strange attachment come from? Where had the desire to protect this man at any cost come from?
Why exactly...
«Good afternoon, Felix.» Came the quiet voice of the chairman of the Revolutionary Military Council. The blue eyes were warm, even slightly tender, looking at him with a slight squint.
And Felix’s heart skipped a beat.
«Good day, Comrade Trotsky.» His lips curled into a slight smile of their own accord, and his sharp green eyes met his, drowning in that ocean.
He was drowning; he knew how to swim, but he was deliberately drowning in those eyes. He had no strength to fight back.
What is Lev thinking right now, looking through the lenses of his favourite pince-nez? Why was it Felix who proved worthy of this tender and sly squint? It seems that’s how cats look when they’ve found something interesting.
But, as funny as it may sound, this Lev didn't belong to the feline family. At the very least, Felix Edmundovich didn't know a single cat of Jewish origin with a tuft of soft curls on his head, into which one so wanted to gently bury one's fingers, running them through the locks.
But Iron Felix is iron for a reason. He has an iron will, and he won't allow himself such a weakness as affection for this person, for this man.
But even such an iron mechanism can fail, break down. Perhaps an important part has flown out, a fuse has blown, the engine has overheated.
In reality, only thirty seconds of silence had passed. During which time neither of the men uttered a word. Both were trying to understand what the man opposite was thinking? What was on his mind?
«Why does Józef always have such a sadness in his eyes?» Lev Davydovich had many, many thoughts. And they were all very different. It was just that, at times, amidst this torrent of thoughts, the realisation would slip through that those green eyes opposite him were too sad, too beautiful, too tired. Dzerzhinsky worked an awful lot; that was never any secret, but at times Trotsky couldn’t quite figure out how the man had the energy.
«Truly the Iron Man…» Trotsky often thought, smiling to himself.
Nevertheless, this iron man needed some rest. Everyone understood that, but getting Dzerzhinsky to take even a couple of days off was impossible. It would have been easier to invent a perpetuum mobile.
Looking into those familiar green eyes, Trotsky tried to understand what was on the Pole’s mind.
What was hidden behind that slightly detached gaze?
«You know... Felix, are you very busy right now?» What was Lev up to? Why such questions all of a sudden? Did he suspect something?
Although, there was reason to suspect, given that the two men stood in almost complete silence, broken only by the sound of raindrops.
«I don’t think so...» drawled the founder of the Cheka, looking away for a few seconds. «Why? Do you have some business with me?» Lev Davydovich replied, almost without thinking:
«Yes, I do.»The pre-Revolutionary Council member took a step forward. ‘Come on, I need to discuss something with you.’ And another step forward; they were standing almost shoulder to shoulder, no more than ten inches between them.
«Are you trying to test my resolve, Comrade Trotsky?» Dzerzhinsky smiled to himself. Lev, of course, won’t answer, though he probably understands perfectly well.
He can read it in his eyes.
«Exactly, Comrade Dzerzhinsky, exactly.»
I wonder how a stranger would react if he saw this scene? Would that stranger sense that something was wrong?
Would he understand what these men are feeling, looking into each other’s eyes and barely restraining themselves from doing or saying something foolish? There was so much they wanted to say and do. But not here, and probably not now.
Trotsky takes a step to the side and their shoulders brush against each other. Dzerzhinsky instinctively turns his head in the direction of the movement. Lev looks back, squinting his eyes once more.
«Levushka...» Felix murmurs to himself, then immediately snaps out of it, cutting off the thought and clenching his jaw tightly. He had never allowed himself, even in his thoughts, to address him that way.
Levushka...
A pleasant warmth began to spread somewhere in his chest. It felt too good; it couldn’t be true. No.
‘All right,’ the man managed to say, and, taking a deep breath as if bracing himself for a blow to the back, he followed Trotsky.
No one ever saw them.
A brief conversation ensued, but for Dzerzhinsky, it was perhaps the longest conversation of his entire life. The words came with great difficulty. He didn’t want to say or explain anything. He just wanted to sit there, admiring his beloved.
Yes, Dzerzhinsky had to admit at least the fact of his own weakness.
Apparently, the weather and his emotions had taken such a toll on him. For Felix could not fully realise the reality of what was happening. Was this a dream? Was he really sitting there, hugging Lev? Or is this all just a dream?
But the curls feel too real and too soft.
It seems that during those few minutes spent locked in the office with the chairman of the Revolutionary Military Council, the Iron Felix had grown ten or fifteen years younger. There was no longer any weariness in his eyes, only happiness. Simple and human.
For once, his heart had calmed down. It wasn’t pounding wildly; it was merely pumping blood at a steady rhythm. It was calm, as if that was how things were meant to be.
And how, and more importantly, when, had Trotsky managed to kneel before Dzerzhinsky?
It seemed that his emotions had robbed him of the ability to recall events from a few moments ago. Strong, sinewy hands gripped his thighs a little tighter, leaving a scattering of creases on the greyish, damp fabric of the tunic. Closing his eyes, Józef rested his head on Lev’s shoulder, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips. I wonder, if Lev Davydovich has allowed him to treat him like this, will he allow something more?.. To press a rough kiss onto those inviting lips, to press him back against the sofa...
And Trotsky merely smiles tenderly and indulgently, gently running his fingers through the strands of fair hair. In this situation, it seems, absolutely everything suits him. Just a little more and he’ll actually purr like a contented cat that has had its fill of cream.
«Or perhaps Lev is a cat after all?» Yes, he’s curly-haired, but who knows how many breeds of these fluffy creatures exist in the world?
But all cats have claws, and Lev Davydovich was no exception. It’s a miracle, really, what’s happening right now. And this magical moment seemed as though it were about to shatter into a thousand tiny shards, leaving behind only a nagging pain and emptiness. What would he do if it all turned out to be nothing but a mirage?
Felix doesn’t know the answer to that question, and Trotsky, it seems, doesn’t know either. And the rain was only getting heavier, flooding the pavements with cold water. He desperately wanted to get some peaceful sleep, even if only for half an hour...
«Comrade Dzerzhinsky,» Trotsky called softly to the man, «Felix... You really do need some rest. And I’d like you to stay here with me.» And Józef merely nodded calmly, closing his eyes. After all, nothing would happen if the Chairman of the Cheka allowed himself a short break? Naturally, in Trotsky’s company, so that if anything were to happen, he could wake him up in an instant. Lev slid off the Pole’s knees and the man finally lay down.
«Wake me in half an hour?»
«Of course.»
Lenin had always seen and known that Trotsky had always felt slightly more sympathy for Dzerzhinsky than for Stalin, but he had never looked at the Chairman of the Cheka, as he delivered his report, like that... Like what? Differently. The Chairman of the RSFSR Revolutionary Military Council had never looked at anyone else in that room in that way.
At what point did the man who aroused slightly fewer unpleasant emotions than Koba receive such a strange look? Bronstein didn't do anything strange or out of character. He sat just as he always did, spoke exactly as he always did; the only thing was, he looked different.
Most likely, the fact that Lenin had known this man for too long played a part, allowing him to pick up on even the slightest deviations from the normal. But it was too early to sound the alarm; nevertheless, this demon of the revolution was clearly up to something.
After the meeting had ended, everyone present began to disperse quietly. There was a low rumble, so ordinary that people didn’t even pay attention to the conversations around them. But Lenin caught the following out of the ear:
«Comrade Dzerzhinsky, are you free tomorrow evening?»
«For you, Comrade Trotsky, I’m always free.»
The rain continued to pour down on the streets of gloomy Moscow, and the cold wind cut through thick scarves and raincoats. But on this day, the hearts of these two men were warm.