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might know nothing in those darkened streets until at the last moment one heard the strained breathing of the messenger or the creak of a wheel.
    Tentatively we approached the Bolshevik HQ.
    What they’d done: got some student from the Electrical College to tap into the grid, then strung factory arc lights all along the bright blue pediment of that aristocratic façade so that Smolny was ablaze as far as the railings separating it from the square and its grove of trees.
    It was as if a battleship paying the country a state visit was moored in front of us. I halted, Joseph’s tray hitting me in the back.
    The coughing motorbikes, the scarlet of the swaying banners, the runnings and bustlings, the engine fumes, the smell of fueloil and of smoke from a bonfire, the shouts, the heftily saluting girls—the sheer virility and energy of the scene: one would have said that enough electrical force was coming out of Smolny to power the entire city.
    â€œThat’s more like it. Glebov can’t be far away.
Poshli—
let’s go,” I said to Joseph, and I strode in front of him into the light, jiggling my tray of mushrooms. “Here, boys! For the sake of the Revolution! For the betterment of man!”
    As I expected, they hadn’t eaten for God knows how long. Their Bolshevik stomachs were hanging from them like empty gourds. I was besieged, and Joseph also. He got his nerve back and was quickly parleying with the Bolshies in a fine proletarian whine.
    But the outskirts of revolution weren’t where I was aiming. I had my eye first on the barrier of machine guns placed outside the two white porters’ lodges and then on the group of men chatting at the top of the steps. That was where I had to get to, up there with the nobs, if I was to get close to Glebov.
    I pressed forward: “Hey, what about the comrades on duty, are they to go hungry at this great moment? Are we to forget their aching bellies?”
    â€œNever!” This from a terrific hulk of a fellow, bursting out of the seams of a uniform made for a much smaller man. “They’re as much humans as you or I. Go to them, Estonian man. Point me out as the fellow who sent you so that afterwards we can celebrate together.”
    I got to the first line of guards. They were crouched over their machine guns. The ammunition belts hung down tidily and had been folded on the ground like piles of ironed towels.
    My new friend shouted over to them. Not hearing for sure where the voice was coming from, the guards spanned the crowd with their guns. He caught their eye and jabbed a finger at me.
    Feeling more confident with every step, I said to Joseph, “Give me what you’ve got left and go home.”
    With a laugh I chucked a handful of mushrooms between the gunners and walked through their line as they fell on them like pigs, spitting out the rough bits all over the place.
    These fellows, they were pretty well all in. I suppose they’d been on the go for at least a couple of days. Enthusiasm isimportant, but food and sleep are vital. Five hundred well-armed men of Kobi’s stamp would have swept them into the river in half an hour flat and declared it a picnic. The Bolshevik Revolution would have been over before it began. Then who’d have got his backside on the throne?
    I was young, fit, bold—and I was there. It’s not easy to get lucky, but when you do, the sky’s the limit. If Lenin, why not me?
    But that’s one of those pleasant sofa thoughts that occur later. At the time I had nothing else in my mind except how to get past the guard post at the top of the steps and insinuate myself into the presence of Glebov.
    Handing out more mushrooms, I said casually, “Boys, what’s the latest password?”
    â€œ
Radost’—
joy. That’s what it was an hour ago. However, they change it whenever something goes wrong. Joy! I’d rather have sleep. Pass, comrade.”
    Up the steps I