ed another passage from that letter.
Here it is."
And I recited the passage which began with the words: "Mongotimo Hawk's
Claw." I recited it loudly and distinctly, like poetry, and Katya listened
to it wide-eyed, grave as a statue. Suddenly her eyes went cold and I
thought that she didn't believe me.
"Don't you believe me?"
She paled and said quietly:
"I do."
We then dropped the subject. I only asked whether she remembered where
"Mongotimo Hawk's Claw" came from, and she said she did not remember-Gustave
Aimard, perhaps. Then she asked, did I realise how terrible this would be
for her mother.
"All this is much worse than you think," she remarked sadly, just like
a grown-up. "Life's very hard for Mother, not to mention what she's lived
through. And Nikolai Antonich-"
Katya broke off. Then she explained to me what it was all about. This,
too, was a discovery, no less surprising, perhaps, than Captain Tatarinov's
discovery of Severnaya Zemlya. It appeared that Nikolai Antonich had been in
love with Maria Vasilievna for many years. The year before, when she was
ill, he slept, if he slept at all, in his clothes, and engaged a nurse,
though this was quite unnecessary. When she got better he took her down to
Sochi and fixed her up in the Hotel Riviera, though a sanatorium would have
been much cheaper. In the spring he had gone to Leningrad and brought back a
very expensive fur jacket for Maria Vasilievna. He never went to bed if she
was not at home. He persuaded her to give up the university, because it was
hard for her to work and study at the same time. But the most surprising
thing of all had happened that winter. All of a sudden Maria Vasilievna said
she did not want to see him any more. And he disappeared. Went away in the
clothes he stood in and did not come home for ten days. Where he had been
living was a mystery-probably in a hotel room. At this point Nina
Kapitonovna stood up for him. She said this was nothing short of an
"inquisition", and fetched him home herself. But Maria Vasilievna did not
speak to him for a whole month.
Nikolai Antonich madly in love-I couldn't imagine it! Nikolai Antonich
with his stubby fingers and his gold tooth-and so old. Nevertheless, as
Katya went on with her story, I could picture that complex and painful
relationship. I could imagine what Maria Vasi-lievna's life had been, during
those long years. Such a beautiful woman left stranded at twenty. "Neither
widowed nor married." For the sake of her husband's memory she forced
herself to live in her memories. I could imagine Nikolai Antonich courting
her for years, suave, persistent, patient. He had succeeded in convincing
her-and others too-that he alone understood and loved her husband. Katya was
right. For Maria Vasilievna this letter would be a terrible blow. It would
be better, perhaps, to leave it on the shelf in Sanya's room, between Tsar
Kolokol and The Adventures of a Don Cossack in the Caucasus.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
WE GO FOR WALKS. I VISIT MOTHER'S GRA VE. DAY OF DEPARTURE
The week I spent in Ensk was anything but a gay one. But then what
wonderful memories it left me with for the rest of my life.
Katya and I went for walks every day. I showed her my favourite old
spots and spoke about my childhood. I remember reading somewhere that
archeologists were able to reconstruct the history and customs of a whole
people from a single preserved inscription. That's how it was with me, when,
from the few surviving old nooks in my hometown, I reconstructed for Katya
the story of my previous life.
I spent only one day away from Katya, the day I went to the cemetery. I
expected to find no trace of Mother's grave after all those years. But I
found it. It was enclosed in a broken-down wooden fence and you could still
make out the inscription on the awry cross:
"Sacred to the memory of..." Of course, it was winter and all the
graves were snowed up, yet you could tell at once that this was a neglected
grave.
Saddened, I walked among the paths, calling up memories of my
mother. How old would she have been now? Forty. Still quite a young
woman. With a pang I thought how happily she could have been living now, the
way Aunt Dasha, say, was living. I recollected her tired, heavy glance, her
hands corroded by washing, and how she could not eat anything of an evening
because she was dead tired.
I found the keeper, who was chopping wood outside the tumbledown
chapel.
"Grandad," I said to him, "you have here the grave of Aksinya
Grigorieva. It's along this path here, the second from the corner." I
think he was pretending when he said he knew the grave I was talking about.
"Couldn't it be tidied up? I'll pay for it." The keeper went down the
path, looked at the grave and came back.
"That grave is being cared for," he said. "You can't see it becauseit's
winter now. Some of the others aren't being cared for, but thisone is."
I gave him three rubles and went away.
And then the last day came round, the day of parting. It found Aunt
Dasha astir at six, busy baking pies. Smeared with flour, wearing her
spectacles, she came into the dining-room where I was sleeping, the edge of
an envelope between her fingers.
"Must wake Sanya up," she said. "Here's a letter from Pyotr. And so it
was, brief, but "pertinent", as the judge put it. First, he explained why he
had not come home for the holidays. It was because he had been visiting
Leningrad with an excursion party. Secondly, he was astonished to hear that
I had turned up and expressed himself feelingly on that point. Third, he
went for me baldheaded for not having written, not having looked for him and
generally for having "behaved like an unfeeling horse". Fourth, the envelope
contained another letter, addressed to my sister, who laughed and said: "The
silly fool, he could have just added a postscript." I don't suppose he
could, though, because Sanya took the letter and sat reading it in her room
for three full hours, until I came charging in demanding that she put a stop
to Aunt Dasha, who was piling up a stack of pies for my journey.
The judge came home specially to have dinner with me for the last time.
He brought a bottle of wine. We drank, and he made a speech. A jolly good
speech it was too. He compared Pyotr and me to eagles and expressed the hope
that we would return more than once to the nest.
We sat so long over dinner that we nearly missed the train. We drove to
the station in cabs. I had never travelled so luxuriously before-sitting
back in a cab with a hamper at my feet.
We arrived to find Katya standing on the carriage steps with the two
old Bubenchikov aunts exhorting her not to catch cold during the journey, to
keep an eye on her luggage, not to go out on the carriage platform, to wire
them on arrival, remember them to everybody and not to forget to write.
My seat was in another carriage, so we merely bowed a greeting to Katya
and the Bubenchikovs. Katya waved to us and the old ladies nodded primly.
The second bell. I embraced Sanya and Aunt Dasha. The judge reminded me
to look up Pyotr and I gave my word of honour that I would call on him the
day I arrived. I invited Sanya to come and see me in Moscow and she promised
to come for her spring holidays-it appeared that she had already made
arrangements about this with Pyotr.
The third bell. I was in the carriage. Sanya was writing something in
the air and I wrote back at a guess: "Okay." Aunt Dasha began to cry quietly
and the last thing I saw was Sanya taking the handkerchief from her and,
with a laugh, wiping away her tears. The train pulled out, and that dear old
railway station slipped past me. We gathered speed. In another moment the
platform came to an end. Goodbye, Ensk.
At the next station I changed places with an oldish gentleman, who
found my lower berth more convenient for him, and moved into Katya's
carriage. For one thing, it was more airy, for another it was Katya's.
She had quite settled in. On the little table lay a clean napkin and
the window was curtained. You'd think she'd been living in that carriage a
hundred years.
We had both only just had dinner, but we simply had to see what the old
folks had put in our hampers. We had an apple each and treated our
travelling companion to one. He was a little, unshaven, blue-black man in
spectacles, who kept making guesses as to who we were: brother and
sister-no, we didn't look like it. Husband and wife - too young.
It was some time past two in the morning and our unshaven companion was
snoring his head off, while Katya and I were still standing in the corridor,
chatting. We wrote with our fingers on the frozen panes-first initials, then
the opening letters of words.
"Just like in Anna Karenina," said Katya.
I didn't think it was like Anna Karenina or anything else for that
matter.
Katya stood beside me and looked sort of new, different. She wore her
hair in grown-up style, parted in the middle, and a surprisingly new ear
peeped out from under her dark attractive hair. Her teeth, too, looked new
when she smiled. Never before had she turned her head, when I began to
speak, with that easy yet proud gesture of a beautiful woman. She was a new
and entirely different girl, and I felt that I was terribly in love with
her.
Suddenly, through the window, we could see the wires dipping and
rising, and a dark field came into view covered with dark snow. I don't know
at what speed the train was going-it could not have been more than forty
kilometres an hour-but it seemed to me that we were rushing along at magical
speed. The world lay before me. I did not know what it had in store for me.
But I did know that this was forever, that Katya was mine and I hers for as
long as we live.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
WHAÂ °WAITED ME IN MOSCOW
Imagine yourself returning to your home, in which you had spent half
your life, to suddenly find yourself being stared at in surprise, as if you
had come to the wrong place. That was what I experienced when I returned to
school after visiting Ensk.
The first person I met, down in the cloakroom, was Romashka. He scowled
when he saw me, then grinned.
"Hullo!" he said in a tone of malicious glee. "Tishoo! Bless you!"
The cad seemed very pleased.
None of the other boys were about-it was the last day before term
began. Korablev passed down the corridor and I ran after him.
"Good morning, Ivan Pavlovich!"
"Ah, it's you!" he said gravely. "Come and see me, I want to speak to
you."
The portrait of a young woman stood on Korablev's desk, and for the
moment I did not recognise Maria Vasilievna-she was much too beautiful. She
was wearing a coral necklace, the same one Katya had worn at our school
ball. The sight of that necklace somehow bucked me up. It was like a
greeting from Katya.
"Ivan Pavlovich, what's the matter?" I began.
"This is the matter," Korablev said slowly. "They're going to expel you
from the school."
"What for?"
"Don't you know?" "I don't."
Korablev eyed me sternly. "I don't like that at all." "Honestly, I
don't, Ivan Pavlovich."
"For nine days AWOL," he said, turning down one finger. "For insulting
Likho. For fighting."
"I see! Very good," I said very calmly. "But before expelling me be so
good as to hear me out." "Go ahead."
"Ivan Pavlovich," I began in a solemn tone, "you want to know why I
socked Romashka one in his ugly mug?" "Leave the 'ugly mugs' out of it,"
Korablev said. "All right. I gave him one in his ugly mug because he's a
cad. For one thing, he told the Tatarinovs about me and Katya. Secondly, he
listens to what the boys say about Nikolai Antonich and narks on them.
Third, I found him rummaging in my box. It was a regular search. The boys
saw me catch him at it, and I hit him, it's true. I admit, it wasn't right
to use my boot, but I'm only human after all. It was more than flesh and
blood could stand. It might have happened to anybody."
"All right. Go on."
"As for Likho, you know about that already. Let him first prove that I
am an idealist. Did you read my essay?" "Yes, it's bad."
"That may be, but there isn't a hint of idealism in it. You can take
that from me." "All right. Go on." "That's all. What else is there?"
"What else? Do you know they have had the police searching for you?"
"Ivan Pavlovich... Well, that was wrong of me, perhaps. I did tell
Valya, but I suppose that doesn't count. All right. But do you mean to say
they're going to expel me because I went off on holiday-where do you
think?-to my hometown where I haven't been for eight years?"
I knew there was going to be ructions when Korablev mentioned the
police, and I wasn't mistaken. He went for me baldheaded, shouting at the
top of his voice, and I could only slip in an occasional timid: "Ivan
Pavlovich!" "Hold your tongue!"
And he would pause himself for a moment, but only to draw breath for a
renewed attack.
It slowly dawned on me that I really had a lot to answer for. But would
they really expel me? If they did, then all was lost. It was goodbye to
flying school. Goodbye to life! Korablev stopped at last.
"Your behaviour has been outrageous!" he said.
"Ivan Pavlovich," I began in a voice that was croaky, rather than
tremulous. "I'm not going to argue with you, though on many points you are
not right. But never mind. You don't want them to expel me, do you?"
Korablev was silent, then he said: "And if I don't?"
"Then tell me what I have to do?"
"You must apologise to Likho."
"All right. But first let him-"
"I've spoken to him!" Korablev interrupted with annoyance. "He's
crossed out the 'idealism'. But the mark remains the same. Secondly, you
must apologise to Romashka too."
"Never!"
"But you admitted yourself that it wasn't right."
"All the same. You can expel me, but I won't apologise to him."
"Look here, Sanya," Korablev said gravely, "I had great difficulty in
persuading them to call you before a meeting of the Teachers' Council. But
now I'm beginning to regret taking all that trouble. If you come there and
start saying your 'Never! You can expel me!' they'll expel you for certain.
You may be sure of that."
He laid special emphasis on these words and I understood from his
expression whom he had in mind. Nikolai Antonich immediately appeared before
me, suave, smooth-spoken and verbose. That one would do everything to get me
expelled.
"I don't think you have the right to risk your whole future through
petty vanity."
"It isn't petty vanity, it's a point of honour!" I said warmly. "Would
you have me hush up this Romashka affair just because it affects Nikolai
Antonich, who has the power to decide whether I'm to be expelled or not?
Would you have me act so meanly? Never! I know why he'll insist on having me
expelled. He wants to get rid of me, wants me to go away somewhere so's not
to meet Katya. Not likely! I'll tell them everything at the Teachers'
Council. I'll tell them that Romashka is a cad and only a cad would
apologise to him." Korablev became thoughtful.
"Wait a minute," he said. "You say Romashov eavesdrops on the boys and
then reports to Nikolai Antonich what they say about him. But how can you
prove it?" "I have a witness-Valya." "Valya whom?" "Zhukov."
"H'm that's interesting," Korablev said. "Why has Valya kept quiet
about this? He's your chum, isn't he?"
"Romashka has some influence over him. He looks at him at night, and
Valya can't stand it. Besides, he made Valya give his word of honour he
would not babble about what Romashka had told him. Valya's a fool, of
course, to have given his word of honour, but once he's given it he must
keep his mouth shut. Isn't that so?"
Korablev stood up. He paced the room, took out a comb and tidied his
moustache, then his eyebrows, and then his moustache again. He was thinking.
My heart hammered, but I did not say another word. I let him think. I even
breathed more quietly so's not to distract him.
"Very well, Sanya. You're not schooled in cunning, anyway," Korablev
said at last. "Put the thing to the Teachers' Council exactly the way you
have told me. But on one condition-"
"What's that, Ivan Pavlovich?"
"That you keep cool. You just said, for instance, that Nikolai Antonich
wants to get you expelled because of Katya. You shouldn't say that at the
Council meeting."
"Ivan Pavlovich, what do you take me for? Don't I understand?"
"You understand, all right, but you get too excited. I tell you what,
Sanya, let's make this arrangement. I'll keep my hand on the table like
this, palm downwards, and you'll keep your eye on it as you speak. If I
start drumming the table, that means you're getting excited. If I don't, you
aren't."
"All right, Ivan Pavlovich. Thank you. When's the meeting?"
"Today at three. But they'll call you in a bit later."
He asked me to send Valya to him and we parted.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I BURN MY BOATS
It was an ordinary meeting in our small teachers' room, at' a table
covered with a blue cloth with ragged tassels. But it seemed to me that they
were all looking at me with a sort of enigmatic, meaningful expression.
Korablev gave a laugh when I came in, and I thought:
"That's on purpose."
"Well, Grigoriev," Nikolai Antonich began in a mild tone, "you know, of
course, why we have called you to this meeting. You have distressed us, and
not only us, but, I may say, the whole school. Distress us by your wanton
behaviour, which is unworthy of the human society in which we live, and to
whose development we must contribute to the best of our ability and powers."
I said:
"Please put your questions."
"Allow me, please, Nikolai Antonich," Korablev put in quickly.
"Grigoriev, tell us please where you spent the nine days since you ran away
from school?"
"I did not run away, I went to Ensk," I said calmly. "My sister lives
there and I haven't seen her for eight years. Judge Skovorodni-kov can
confirm this-I stayed with him: 13, Gogolevskaya Street, formerly the
Marcouse Mansion."
If I had said frankly that I had spent those nine days with Katya
Tatarinova, who had been sent away to keep us from meeting each other at
least during the holidays, my words could not have had a more disconcerting
effect on Nikolai Antonich. He paled, blinked and cocked his head sharply to
one side.
"Why didn't you tell anybody you were going away?" Korablev asked.
I admitted that I was guilty of a breach of discipline and promised
that it would never happen again.
"Excellent, Grigoriev," said Nikolai Antonich. "Now that is an
excellent answer. It remains for us to hope that you will have just as
satisfactory explanations for your other actions."
He looked at me affectionately. His composure was marvellous! "Now tell
us what happened between you and Mr Likho." To this day I can't understand
why, in telling the story of my relations with Likho, I did not mention a
word about "idealism". It may have been because I considered that since
Likho had withdrawn his accusation there was nothing to talk about. This was
a bad mistake. Besides, I should not have mentioned that I wrote my essays
without referring to the "critics". It did not go down well. Korablev
frowned and laid his hand on the table.
"So you don't like the critics?" Nikolai Antonich said drily. "What did
you say to Mr Likho? Please repeat it word for word."
Repeat to the Teachers' Council what I had said to Likho? Impossible!
If Likho had not been such a fathead he would have intervened at this point
to have this question withdrawn. But he just stared at me with an air of
triumph. "Well," Nikoali Antonich prompted.
"Nikolai Antonich, allow me," Korablev interposed. "We know what he
said to Mr Likho. We'd like to know what explanation he gives to his
conduct."
"I beg your pardon!" said Likho. "I insist that he repeat what he said!
I never heard such things even from the defectives at the Dostoyevsky
School."
I was silent. Had I been able to read thoughts at a distance, I would
have read in Korablev's eyes: "Sanya, tell them he accused you of
'idealism'."
"Well!" Nikolai Antonich repeated indulgently. "I don't remember," I
muttered.
It was silly, because everybody saw at once that I was lying. Likho
snorted.
"Today he insults me for giving him a bad mark, tomorrow he'll cut my
throat," he said. "What hooliganism!"
I felt like giving him a punch on the nose, like I had very nearly done
that time on the stairs, but I didn't, of course. I clenched my teeth and
stared at Korablev's hand. He was drumming lightly on the table.
"It was a bad essay, I admit," I said, trying to keep cool and thinking
with hatred how to extricate myself from this stupid position. "It may not
have earned an 'extremely feeble' mark, because there isn't such a mark, but
it wasn't up to the mark, I admit. Anyway, if the Council decides that I
ought to apologise, then I'll apologise."
Obviously, this was another silly thing to say. All started talking
together, saying God knows what, and Korablev eyed me with unconcealed
annoyance.
"Yes, Grigoriev," Nikolai Antonich said with a deprecating smile. "So
you are ready to apologise to Mr Likho only if the Council takes a decision
to that effect. In other words, you don't feel guilty. Ah, well! We'll make
a note of that and pass to the next question."
"Risk your whole future through petty vanity," the words came back to
me.
"I apologise," I said awkwardly, turning to Likho. But Nikolai Antonich
was speaking again, and Likho made out as if he had not heard me.
"Now this vicious attack on Romashov. You kicked him in the face,
Grigoriev, inflicting serious injuries, which have noticeably affected the
health of your comrade Romashov. How do you explain this conduct, the like
of which has never been heard of within the walls of our school?"
I think I hated him more than ever at that moment for the smooth
meandering way he spoke. But Korablev's fingers rose warningly above the
table and I kept my temper.
"For one thing, I don't consider Romashov a comrade of mine. Secondly,
I hit him only once. Thirdly, he doesn't show any sign of impaired health."
This roused a storm of indignation, but Korablev nodded his head ever
so slightly.
"My conduct can be explained in this way," I proceeded more calmly. "I
consider Romashov a cad and can prove it at any time. Instead of a beating,
we should try him by a court of honour and have the whole school attend the
trial."
Nikolai Antonich wanted to stop me, but I plunged on.
"I affirm that Romashov is influencing the weaker boys psychologically,
trying to get a hold on them. If you want an example I can give it to
you-Valya Zhukov. Romashov takes advantage of the fact that Valya is nervous
and scares the life out of him. What does he do? First he gets him to give
his word of honour to keep mum, then tells him all his low-down secrets. I
was simply amazed when I heard about it. A Komsomol boy who gives his word
not to tell anybody anything-about what? About what he hasn't heard yet
himself! What do you call that? And that's not all!"
Korablev had been drumming the table for some time, but I was no longer
worrying whether I was excited or not. I don't think I was a bit excited.
"And that's not all! Now I ask you," I said loudly, turning to Nikolai
Antonich, "could such a person as Romashov exist in our school if he did not
have protectors? He could not. And he does have them! At least, I know one
of them-Nikolai Antonich!"
Spoken like a man! I never thought I'd had it in me to tell him this
straight to his face! The room was silent, the whole Council waiting to see
what would happen. Nikolai Antonich gave a laugh and paled. He always did go
a bit pale when he laughed.
"Can this be proved? Easy as anything. Nikolai Antonich has always been
interested in what they say about him in the school. I don't know why he
should be. The fact remains that he hired Romashov for this purpose. I say
'hired' because Romashov never does anything for nothing. He hired him, and
Romashov started eavesdropping on the boys and reporting to Nikolai Antonich
what they said about him, and afterwards he gets Zhukov to give him his word
of honour not to blab and tells him all about his talebearing. You may ask
me-why did you keep silent if you knew about this? I got to know this just
before I went away, and Zhukov promised me to write to the Komsomol Group
about it, but he's only done that today."
I stopped speaking. Korablev removed his hand from the table and turned
to Nikolai Antonich with a look of interest. He was the only one, by the
way, who bore himself with ease. The other teachers looked embarrassed.
"Have you finished your explanations, Grigoriev?" said Nikolai Antonich
in a level voice, as though nothing had happened.
"Yes."
"Are there any questions?"
"Nikolai Antonich," said Korablev in a courteous tone, "I believe we
can dismiss Grigoriev. Don't you think we ought to invite Zhukov or Romashov
in now?"
Nikolai Antonich undid the top button of his waistcoat and placed his
hand over his heart. He had gone paler still and a strand of hair combed
back over his head suddenly came loose and tumbled over his forehead. He
fell back in his chair and closed his eyes. Everyone rushed over to him. So
ended the meeting.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
AN OLD FRIEND
My speech at the Teachers' Council was the talk of the school, and I
found myself a very busy man. To say that I felt a hero would be an
exaggeration. Nevertheless, the girls from other classes came to look at me
and commented audibly on my appearance. For the first time in my life my
short stature was overlooked.
I was therefore disagreeably surprised when, at the height of my glory,
the Komsomol Group passed on me a severe reprimand and warning. The
Teachers' Council was not meeting owing to Nikolai Antonich's illness, but
Korablev said that they might decide to transfer me to another school.
This did not make pleasant hearing, and what's more, it was unfair. I
had nothing to say against the Group's decision. But to have me transferred
to another school! For what? For having shown up Romashka for the cad he
was? For having shown up Nikolai Antonich, who was his protector? I was in
such a cheerless mood that, sitting in the library, I heard a loud whisper
in the doorway: "Which one?" • I looked up to see a tall young fellow with a
mop of red hair eyeing me questioningly from the doorway. Red-haired people
always cultivate shocks of hair, but this chap's had a wild sort of look,
like those you see on primitive man in your geography textbook. I leapt to
my feet and rushed towards him, overthrowing a chair.
"Pyotr!"
We pumped each other's hands, then, on second thoughts, embraced.
He was very much like his photograph, which Sanya had shown me, except
that on the photograph his hair was smoothed down. Was I glad! I did not
feel the slightest embarrassment-it was like meeting my own brother.
"Pyotr! This is a surprise! Gee, I'm glad to see you!"
He laughed.
"I thought you were living in Turkestan. Didn't you make it?"
"What about you?"
"I did," said Pyotr. "But I didn't like it. Much too hot out there, you
feel thirsty all the time. I was run in, got fed up and came back. You'd
have kicked the bucket there."
We put on our coats and started down the stairs, talking away all the
time. And here a very strange encounter took place.
On the landing outside the geography room stood a woman in a coat with
a squirrel collar. She was standing by the banisters looking down the well
of the staircase-for a moment I thought she was going to throw herself down
the well, because she swayed by the banisters with her eyes closed. We must
have frightened her, and she moved uncertainly towards the door. It was
Maria Vasilievna. I recognised her at once, though she was in an unfamiliar
guise. Perhaps, if I had been alone, she would have spoken to me. But I was
with Pyotr, so she just nodded to me in response to my awkward bow and
turned away.
She had grown thinner since I last saw her and her face was mask-like
and sombre. With this thought in my mind I went out into the street, and
Pyotr and I went for a walk together-just the two of us again, again in
winter, again in Moscow, after a long separation.
"Remember?" we kept saying, as we dug up old memories, walking very
quickly for some reason. It was snowing and there were lots of children on
the boulevards. One young nursemaid looked at us and laughed.
"Hey, what are we running like this for?" said Pyotr, and we slowed
down.
"Pyotr, I've got a proposal," I said, when, having walked our fill, we
were sitting in a cafe in Tverskaya.
"Go ahead!"
"I'm going to make a phone-call, and you sit here, drink your coffee
and say nothing."
The telephone was some distance from our table, right near the
entrance, and I deliberately spoke loudly.
"Katya, I'd like you to meet a friend. Can you come along? What are you
doing? By the way, I want to speak with you."
"So do I. I'd come, but everybody's ill here." She sounded sad and I
felt a sudden urgent desire to see her.
"What do you mean, everybody? I've just seen Maria Vasilievna."
"Where?"
"She was calling on Korablev."
"Ah," Katya said in a rather odd voice. "No, Grandma's ill. Sanya, I
gave Mother those letters," she added in a whisper, and I involuntarily
pressed the receiver closer to my ear. "I told her that we had met in Ensk
and then I gave it to her."
"And how did she take it?" I asked, also in a whisper.
"Very badly. I'll tell you later. Very badly."
She fell silent and I could hear her breathing through the telephone.
We said goodbye and I returned to the table with a sense of guilt. I felt
dejected and uneasy, and Pyotr seemed to guess my state of mind.
"I say," he began, deliberately going off on a new tack, "did you
discuss this flying school plan of yours with Father?"
"Yes."
"What does he say?"
"He approves."
Pyotr sat with his long legs stretched out, thoughtfully fingering the
places where a beard and moustache would be growing in the course of time.
"I must talk things over with him too," he murmured. "You see, last
year I wanted to enter the Academy of Arts."
"Well?"
"But this year I've changed my mind."
"Why?"
"I may not have the talent for it."
I started laughing. But he looked serious and worried.
"Well, if you'd like to know, I think it strange, your wanting to go in
for art. I always thought of you as becoming an explorer, say, or a sea
captain."
"That's more interesting, of course," Pyotr said irresolutely. "But I
like painting."
"Have you shown your work to anybody?"
"Yes, to X-."
He gave the name of a well-known painter.
"Well?"
"He says it's not bad."
"That settles it, then! It would be cockeyed if you, with your talent,
were to go to some flying school or other! You may be ruining a future Repin
in you."
"Oh, I don't know."
"I'm not so sure."
"You're kidding," Pyotr said with annoyance. "This is a serious
matter."
We left the cafe, and wandered about Tverskaya for half an hour,
talking about everything under the sun, switching from our Ensk to Shanghai,
which had just been captured by the People's Army, from Shanghai to Moscow,
to my school, from my school to Pyotr's, trying to impress upon each other
that we were not living in this world just any old how, but with a
philosophical purpose...
CHAPTER NINETEEN
IT COULD ALL HAVE BEEN DIFFERENT
Gone were those remote times when, coming in after ten o'clock, we had,
with fast-beating heart, to sidle round the fearsome Japhet, who, clad in
his huge sheepskin coat, sat on a stool at the entrance and slept-if you
were lucky to find him asleep. But now I was in my last year and could come
in whenever I liked.
It wasn't very late, though-round about twelve. The boys were still
chatting. Valya was writing something, sitting on his bed with his legs
tucked under him.
"I say, Sanya, Korablev wants to see you," he said. "That's if you came
in before twelve. What's the time now?"
"Half past eleven."
"Hurry up!"
I slipped into my overcoat and ran off to see Korablev.
Ours was a most extraordinary conversation, one that I shall never
forget as long as I live, and I must describe it with perfect calm. I must
keep calm, especially now, when so many years have passed. It could all have
been different, of course. It could all have been different if I had but
realised what every word of mine meant for her, if I had been able to
foresee what would happen after our conversation. But there is no end of
these "ifs" and there is nothing I can blame myself for. Here, then, is the
conversation that took place.
When I came in I found Maria Vasilievna with Korablev. She had been
sitting there all the evening. But she had come to see, not him, but me, and
she said as much in her very first words.
She sat erect with a blank face, patting her hair from time to time
with a slim hand. Wine and biscuits stood on the table, and Korablev kept
refilling his glass while she only took one sip at hers. She kept smoking
all the time and there was ash all over the place, even on her knees. She
was wearing the familiar string of coral beads and gave little tugs at it
several times as though it were strangling her. That's all.
"The navigating officer writes that he cannot risk sending this letter
through the post," she said. "Yet both letters were in the same post-bag.
How do you account for that?"
I said that I did not know. One would have to ask the officer about
that, if he were still alive. She shook her head. "If he were alive!"
"Perhaps his relatives would know? And then, Maria Vasilievna," I said
in a sudden flash of inspiration, "the navigating officer was picked up by
Lieutenant Sedov's expedition. They would know. He told them everything, I'm
sure of it." "Yes, maybe," she answered.
"And then there's that packet for the Hydrographical Board. If the
navigating officer sent the letter through the post he probably sent that
packet by the same mail. We must find that out." Maria Vasilievna again
said: "Yes."
I paused. I had been speaking alone, and Korablev had not yet uttered a
word.
"What were you doing in Ensk?" she asked me suddenly. "Have you
relatives there?"
I said yes, I had. A sister.
"I love Ensk," she remarked, addressing herself to Korablev. "It's
wonderful there. Such gardens! I've never been in any gardens since."
And suddenly she started talking about Ensk. She said she had three
aunts living there who did not believe in God and were very proud of it, and
one of them had graduated in philosophy at Heidelberg. I had never known her
to talk so much. She sat there pale and beautiful, with shining eyes,
smoking and smoking.
"Katya told me you remembered some more passages from this letter," she
suddenly switched back from the subject of her aunts and hometown. "But I
couldn't get her to tell me what it was." "Yes, I do remember them."
I was expecting her to ask me what they were, but she said nothing. It
was as if she were afraid to hear them from me.
"Well, Sanya?" Korablev said in a brisk tone of voice that was
obviously feigned.
"It ended like this," I said. " 'Greetings from you...' Is that right?"
Maria Vasilievna nodded.
"And it went on: '...from your Mongotimo Hawk's Claw...' "
"Mongotimo?" Korablev queried, astonished.
"Yes, Mongotimo," I repeated firmly.
"Montigomo Hawk's Claw," said Maria Vasilievna, and for the first time
her voice shook slightly. "I used to call him that."
"Montigomo, if you say so," I said. "I remember it as Mongotimo... 'as
you once called me. God, how long ago that was. I am not complaining,
though. We shall see each other again and all will be well. But one thought,
one thought torments me.' 'One thought' comes twice, it's not me repeating
it, that's how it was in the letter."
Maria Vasilievna nodded again.
" 'It's galling to think,' " I went on, " 'that everything could have
turned out differently. Misfortunes dogged us, but our main misfortune was
the mistake for which we are now having to pay every hour, every minute of
the day-the mistake I made in entrusting the fitting out of our expedition
to Nikolai.' "
I may have overstressed the last word, because Maria Vasilievna, who
had been very pale already, went still paler. She sat before us, now white
as death, smoking and smoking. Then she said something that sounded very
queer and made me think for the first time that she might be a bit mad. But
I did not attach any importance to it, as I thought that Korablev, too, was
a bit mad that evening. He, of all people, should have realised what was
happening to her! But he had lost his head completely. I daresay he was
picturing Maria Vasilievna marrying him the very next day.
"Nikolai Antonich fell ill after that meeting," she said to Korablev.
"I wanted to call the doctor, but he wouldn't let me. I haven't spoken to
him about these letters. He's upset as it is. I don't think I ought to just
now-what do you say?"
She was crushed, confounded, but I still understood nothing.
"If that's the case I'll do it myself!" I retorted. "I'll send him a
copy. Let him read it."
"Sanya!" Korablev cried, coming to himself.
"Excuse me, Ivan Pavlovich, but I'll have my say. I feel very strongly
about this. It's a fact that the expedition ended in disaster through his
fault. That's a historical fact. He is charged with a terrible crime. And I
consider, if it comes to that, that Maria Vasilievna, as Captain Tatarinov's
wife, ought to bring this accusation against him herself."
She wasn't Captain Tatarinov's wife, she was his widow. She was now the
wife of Nikolai Antonich, and so would have to bring this accusation against
her own husband. But I hadn't tumbled to this either.
"Sanya!" Korablev shouted again.
But I had already stopped. I had nothing more to say. Our conversation
continued, though there was nothing more to talk about. I only said that the
land mentioned in the letter was Severnaya Zemlya
and that, consequently, Sevemaya Zemlya had been discovered by Captain
Tatarinov. All those geographical terms, "longitude", "latitude", sounded
strange in that room at that hour. Korablev paced furiously up and down the
room. Maria Vasilievna smoked incessantly, and the stubs, pink from her
lipstick, formed a small mound in the ashtray before her. She was motionless
and calm, and only tugged feebly now and again at her coral necklace. How
far away from her was that Sevemaya Zemlya, lying between some meridians or
other!
That was all. Taking leave of her, I began muttering something again,
but Korablev advanced upon me with a stern frown and I found myself bundled
out of the room.
CHAPTER TWENTY MARIA VASILIEVNA
What surprised me more than anything was that Maria Vasilievna had not
said a word about Katya. Katya and I had spent nine days together in Ensk,
yet Maria Vasilievna never mentioned it.
This silence was suspicious, and it was on my mind that night until I
fell asleep, a