nd then again in the morning during Physics, Social Science
and Literature. I thought about it after school, too, when I wandered
aimlessly about the streets. I remember stopping in front of a billboard and
mechanically reading the titles of the plays, when a girl suddenly came
round the corner and crossed the street at a run. She was without a hat and
wore nothing but a light dress with short sleeves-in such a frost! Perhaps
that was why I did not immediately recognise her.
"Katya!"
She looked round but did not stop, and merely waved her hand. I
overtook her.
"Why haven't you got your coat on, Katya? What's the matter?"
She wanted to say something, but her teeth were cluttering and she had
to clench them and fight for self-control before being able to say:
"I'm going for a doctor. Mother's very ill."
"What is it?"
"I don't know. I think she's poisoned herself."
There are moments when life suddenly changes gear, and everything seems
to gain momentum, speeding and changing faster than you can realise.
From the moment I heard the words: "I think she's poisoned herself,
everything changed into high gear, and the words kept ringing in my head
with frightful insistence.
We ran to one doctor in Pimenovsky Street, then to another doctor who
lived over the former Hanzhonkov's cimena and burst into a quiet,'tidy flat
with dust-sheets over the furniture and were met by a surly old woman
wearing what looked like another dark-blue dust-sheet.
She heard us out with a deprecating shake of the head and lef the room.
On her way out she took something off the table in case we might pinch it.
A few minutes later the doctor came in. He was a tubby pink-faced man
with a close-cropped grey head and a cigar in his mouth.
"Well, young people?"
We told him what it was all about, gave him the address and ran out. In
the street, without further ado, I made Katya put on my coat. Her hair had
come undone and she pinned it up as we ran along. But one of her plaits came
loose again and she angrily pushed it under the coat.
An ambulance was standing at the door and we stopped dead in our tracks
at the sight. The ambulance men were coming down the stairs with a stretcher
on which lay Maria Vasilievna.
Her uncovered face was as white as it had been at Korablev's the night
before, only now it looked as if carved in ivory.
I drew back against the banisters to let the stretcher pass, and Katya,
with a piteous murmur "Mummy!", walked alongside it. But Maria Vasilievna
did not open her eyes, and did not stir. I realised that she was going to
die.
Sick at heart I stood in the yard watching them push the stretcher into
the ambulance. I saw the old lady tuck the blanket round Maria Vasilievna's
feet with trembling hands, saw the steam coming from everyone's mouth, the
ambulance man's, too, as he produced a book that had to be signed, and from
Nikolai Antonich's as he peered painfully from under his glasses and signed
it.
"Not here," the man said roughly with a gesture of annoyance, and put
the book away into the big pocket of his white overall.
Katya ran home and returned in her own coat, leaving mine in the
kitchen. She got into the ambulance. The doors closed on Maria Vasilievna,
who lay there white and ghastly, and the ambulance, starting off with a jerk
like an ordinary lorry, sped on its way to the casualty ward.
Nikolai Antonich and the old lady were left alone in the courtyard. For
a time they stood there in silence. Then he turned and went inside, moving
his feet mechanically as though he were afraid of falling. I had never seen
him like that before.
The old lady asked me to meet the doctor and tell him he was not
needed. I ran off and met him in Triumfalnaya Square, at a tobacconist
kiosk. The doctor was buying a box of matches.
"Dead?" he asked.
I told him that she was not and that the ambulance had taken her to
hospital and I could pay him if he wanted.
"No need, no need," the doctor said gruffly.
I went back to find the old lady sitting in the kitchen, weeping.
Nikolai Antonich was no longer there-he had gone off to the hospital.
"Nina Kapitonovna," I said, "is there anything I can do for you?" She
blew her nose and wept and blew her nose again. This went on for a long time
while I stood and waited. At last she asked me to help her on with her coat
and we took a tram to the hospital.
CHAPTER TWENTY
ONE IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT
That night, with the sense of speed still whistling as it were in my
ears as I hurtled on, though I was lying in my bed in the dark, it dawned on
me that Maria Vasilievna's decision to do away with herself had been made
when sitting in Korablev's room the night before. That's why she had been so
calm and had smoked such a lot and said such queer things. Her mind was on
some mysterious track of its own, of which we knew nothing. Everything she
said was tinctured by the decision she had come to. It was not me she had
been asking questions, but herself, and she answered them herself.
Perhaps she had thought that I was mistaken and that it was somebody
else the letter referred to. Perhaps she had been hoping that the passages
which I had remembered and which Katya had deliberately kept from her, would
not have the terrible import she feared. Perhaps she had been hoping that
Nikolai Antonich, who had done so much for her late husband-so much that
that alone was reason enough for marrying him-would turn out to be not so
guilty and base as she feared.
And I? Look what I had done!
I went hot and cold all over. I flung back the blanket and took deep
breaths to steady myself and think matters out calmly. I went over that
conversation again. How clear it was to me now! It was as if each word was
turning slowly round before me and I could now see its other, hidden side.
"I love Ensk. It's wonderful there. Such gardens!" It had been pleasant
to her to recall her youth at that moment. She was taking farewell, as it
were, of her hometown-now that she had made her decision.
"Montigomo Hawk's Claw - I used to call him that." Her voice had
shaken, because nobody else knew she had called him that, and so it was
undeniable proof that I had remembered the words right.
"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?" And these words, too,
which had seemed so odd to me yesterday-how clear they were now! He was her
husband, perhaps the closest person in the world to her. And she simply did
not want to upset him, knowing that she had troubles enough in store for
him.
I had forgotten all about my deep breathing and was sitting up in bed,
thinking and thinking. She had wanted to say goodbye to Korablev as
well-that was it! He loved her, too, maybe more than anybody else did. She
had wanted to take leave of the life which they might have made a go of. I
had always had a feeling that it was Korablev she cared for.
I should have been asleep long ago, seeing that I had a very serious
term-test facing me the next day, and that it was anything but pleasant to
brood over the happenings of that unhappy day.
I must have fallen asleep, but only for a minute. Suddenly a voice
close at my side said quietly: "She's dead." I opened my eyes, but nobody
was there, of course. I must have said it myself.
And so, against my will, I found myself recalling how Nina Kapitonovna
and I had gone to the hospital together. I tried to go to sleep, but I
couldn't drive the memories away.
We had sat on a big white seat next to some doors, and it was some time
before I realised that the stretcher with Maria Vasilievna on it was in the
next room so close to us.
And then an elderly nurse had come out and said: "You have come to see
Tatarinova? You may go in." And she herself hastily put a white gown on the
old lady and tied the strings.
A chill struck my heart, I understood at once that she must be in a bad
way if you were allowed in without a special permission. My heart went cold
again when the elderly nurse went up to another nurse, somewhat younger, who
was registering patients, and in answer to a question of hers, said:
"Goodness, no! Not a chance."
Then began a long wait. I gazed at the white door and imagined them
all-Nikolai Antonich, the old lady and Katya-standing around the stretcher
on which Maria Vasilievna lay. Then somebody came out, leaving the door ajar
for a moment, and I saw that it was not like that at all. There was no
longer any stretcher there, and something white with a dark head lay on a
low couch with somebody in white kneeling in front of it. I also saw a bare
arm hanging down from the couch, and then the door shut. After that came a
thin hoarse scream, and the nurse who was registering patients stopped for a
minute, then resumed her writing and explaining. I don't know why, but I
realised at once that the scream was Nikolai Antonich's. In such a thin
little voice! Like a child's.
The elderly nurse came out and, with a business-like air that was
obviously affected, began talking to some young man who stood kneading his
hat in his hands. She glanced at me-because I had come with Nina
Kapitonovna-then looked away at once. And I realised that Maria Vasilievna
was dead.
Afterwards I heard the nurse saying to someone: "Such a pity, a
beautiful woman." It all seemed to be happening in a dream, and I'm not sure
whether it was she who said it or somebody else, as Katya and the old lady
came out of the room in which she had died.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO IT ISN'T HIM
Those were miserable days and I don't feel like dwelling on them,
though I remember every conversation, every encounter, almost every thought.
They were days which cast a large shadow, as it were, on my life.
Soon after Maria Vasilievna's funeral I sat down to work. It seemed to
me that there was something like a sense of self-preservation in the fierce
persistence with which I applied myself to my studies, thrusting all
thoughts behind me. It was not easy, especially bearing in mind that when I
went up to Katya at the funeral she turned away from me.
It happened like this. Unexpectedly, very many people came to the
funeral-colleagues of Maria Vasilievna's and even students who had been at
the Medical Institute with her. She had always seemed a lonely person, but
apparently many people knew her and liked her. Among these strangers, all
talking in whispers and gazing at the gateway, waiting for the coffin to be
carried out, stood Korablev, hollow-eyed, his big moustache looking enormous
on his haggard face.
Nikolai Antonich stood slightly apart with lowered head, and Nina
Kapitonovna held his arm. It looked as if she was supporting him, though he
stood quite straight. The Bubenchikov old ladies were there, too, looking
like nuns in their old-fashioned black dresses.
Katya was standing next to them staring steadily at the gate. Her
cheeks were rosy in spite of her grief, which was evident even in the
impatient gesture with which she adjusted her hat when it kept slipping down
on her forehead-probably she had not pinned her hair up properly.
Half an hour passed, but the coffin had not been carried out yet. And
then suddenly I decided to go up to her.
It may not have been the right thing for me to do at such a moment as
this-I don't know. But I wanted to say something to her, if only a single
word.
"Katya!"
She had looked at me and turned away.
I sat over my books for days on end. This was my last semester at
school, and I was determined to get "highly satisfactory" marks on all
subjects. This was no simple task, especially when it came to Literature.
Came the day when even Likho, with an air of pained reluctance, gave me
his "highly satisfactory". My passing-out essay did not worry me-I just
dashed it off in accordance with the requirements of this loaf-head, knowing
that he would give me a high mark if only through gratified pride.
I came out top of the class, with only Valya ahead of me. But then he
had brilliant capabilities and was much cleverer than me.
But the shadow crept on. It was with an effort that Korablev brought
himself to look at me whenever we met. Nikolai Antonich did not come to the
school, and though no one mentioned our clash at the Teachers' Council, they
all regarded me with a sort of reproach, as if that fainting fit of his at
the council meeting and Maria Vasilievna's death vindicated him completely.
Everyone avoided me and I was lonelier than ever. But I little knew
what blow awaited me.
One day, about a fortnight after Maria Vasilievna's death, I went in to
see Korablev. I wanted to ask him to go with us to the Geology Museum (I was
then a Young Pioneer leader and my group had asked to be taken to the
museum).
But he came out to me in a very agitated state and told me to call
later.
"When, Ivan Pavlovich?"
"I don't know. Later."
In the hall hung a coat and hat and on a side table lay the brown
woolen scarf which I had seen the old lady was knitting. Korablev had
Nikolai Antonich in his room. I went away.
What was Nikolai Antonich doing there? He hadn't been in Korab-lev's
place for at least four years. What was Korablev so upset about?
When I went back, Nikolai Antonich was no longer there. I remember
everything as if it were yesterday: the stove was burning, and Korablev,
wearing the thick shaggy jacket he always put on when he was a little tipsy
or out of sorts, was sitting in front of the stove, gazing into the fire. He
looked up when I came in, and said: "What have you done, Sanya! My God, what
have you done!"
"Ivan Pavlovich!"
"My God, what have you done!" he repeated in a tone of despair. "It
isn't him, it isn't him at all! He has proved it undeniably,
incon-testably."
"I don't understand, Ivan Pavlovich. What are you talking about?"
Korablev got up, then sat down and got up again.
"Nikolai Antonich has been to see me. He has proved me that the
Captain's letter does not refer to him at all. It's some other Nikolai, some
merchant by the name of von Vyshimirsky."
I was astounded.
"But Ivan Pavlovich, it's a lie. He's lying!"
"No, it's true," said Korablev. "It was a vast undertaking of which we
know nothing. There were lots of people involved, merchants, ship chandlers
and what not, and the Captain knew all about it from the very beginning. He
knew that the expedition had been fitted out very badly, and he wrote to
Nikolai Antonich about it. I saw his letters with my own eyes."
I could hardly believe my ears. I had always thought that the letter I
had found at Ensk was the only one in existence, and this news about other
letters from the Captain simply bowled me over.
"Lots of things went wrong with them," Korablev continued. "Some
shipowner took the crew off just when they were putting out to sea, they
managed, with great difficulty, to get a wireless telegraph installation,
but had to leave it behind because they couldn't get an operator, and other
troubles-so why should Nikolai Antonich be blamed for all this? It's as
clear as anything, my God. And I-I guessed as much... But I-"
He broke off and suddenly I saw that he was crying. "Ivan Pavlovich," I
said looking away. "It turns out then, that it's not his fault, but the
fault of that 'von' somebody or other. In that case why did Nikolai Antonich
always claim that he had been in charge of the whole business? Ask him how
many beef tea cubes the expedition took with them, how much macaroni,
biscuits and coffee. Why did he never mention this 'von' before?"
Korablev wiped his eyes and moustache with his handkerchief. He got
some vodka from the cupboard, poured out half a tumbler and immediately
poured a little back with a shaking hand. He drank the vodka and sat down
again.
"Oh, what does it matter now?" he said with a wave of his hand. "But
how blind I was, how terribly blind!" he exclaimed again in a tone of
despair. "I should have persuaded her that it was impossible, incredible,
that even if it was Nikolai Antonich-all the same you couldn't throw the
blame for the failure of such a vast venture on a single man. I could have
said that your insistence was due to your hatred of the man."
I listened to Korablev in silence. I had always liked him and had a
great respect for him, and it was all the more unpleasant to me to see him
in this abject state. He kept blowing his nose, and his hair and moustache
were dishevelled.
"Whether I hate him or not," I said -quietly, "has nothing to do with
it. I don't know what you meant by it, anyway. Do you mean that I stuck to
my version for base personal motives?" Korablev was silent. "Ivan
Pavlovich!" He was still silent.
"Ivan Pavlovich!" I shouted. "You think I got mixed up in this on
purpose so's to have my revenge on Nikolai Antonich? Is that why you said
that even if it was him and not some 'von' or other-all the same you
couldn't throw the blame for the failure of such a vast enterprise on a
single man? You believe it's all my fault? Why don't you answer? Do you?"
Korablev was silent. Everything went dark before my eyes and my heart
pounded in my ears.
"Ivan Pavlovich," I said in a quivering but determined voice. "It
remains for me now to prove that I am right, even if I have to die in the
attempt. But I will prove it. I'll go and see Nikolai Antonich this very day
and ask him to show me those documents and letters. He has convinced you,
now let him convince me."
"Do whatever you like," Korablev said drearily.
I went away. He hadn't stirred and remained seated by the stove, weary
and sunk in despair. We were both in despair, only with me this feeling was
mixed with a sort of cool fury, whereas he was utterly desolated, old and
alone in a cold, empty flat.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE SLANDER
It was all very well to say I'd go and see him and ask him to show me
those letters. I felt sick at the mere thought. I doubted whether he would
even speak to me. As likely as not he'd throw me down the stairs without
further ado. I couldn't very well fight him. After all, he was a sick old
man.
I would have abandoned the idea but for a single thought that never
left me - Katya.
I felt my head beginning to ache at the mere thought of how she had
turned away from me at the funeral. Now I knew why she had done that:
Nikolai Antonich had convinced her that it was all my fault.
I could imagine him talking to her and my heart sank. "That friend of
yours has such an excellent memory. Why did he never mention those letters
before his trip to Ensk?"
Why indeed? How could I have forgotten them? I, who had been so
fascinated by them as a child? I, who had recited them by heart on the
trains between Ensk and Moscow? To forget letters which had dropped upon our
little town like a message from some distant stars?
I had only one explanation-judge for yourselves whether it is correct
or not.
When Katya told me the story of her father, when I examined those old
photographs of him in his regulation jacket with epaulettes and service cap,
when I read his books, it had always seemed to me that all this belonged to
a very distant past, at any rate years before I left Ensk. The letters, on
the other hand, belonged to my childhood, that is, to quite a different
time. It never occurred to me that these two entirely different periods
followed close upon each other. This was not an error of memory, but quite a
different kind of error.
I thought about that "von" a thousand times if I thought about him
once. It was about him, then, that Captain Tatarinov had written:
"The whole expedition sends him our curses." It was about him, then,
that he wrote: "We owe all our misfortunes to him alone." And Korablev had
said that you couldn't throw the blame for the failure of such an enterprise
on a single man. The Captain had thought otherwise.
So it was about him that he wrote: "That's the price we had to pay for
that good office." But why should some "von" or other render Captain
Tatarinov this good office? A good office could have been rendered by his
rich cousin-no wonder he had always had so much to say about it.
In short, I had no plan of action whatever when, dressed in my Sunday
best, I called on the Tatarinovs that evening and told the girl-a stranger
to me-who answered the bell that I wanted to see Nikolai Antonich.
Through the open door I could see them drinking tea in the dining-room.
Nina Kapitonovna was saying something in a low voice and I saw her sitting
by the samovar in her striped shawl.
I don't know what Nikolai Antonich thought when he saw me, but when he
appeared in the doorway he started and slightly recoiled. "What do you
want?" "I wanted to talk to you." There was a brief pause, then he said:
"Come in." I was about to go into his study, but he said: "No, this way."
Afterwards I realised this had been a deliberate ruse on his part-to get me
into the dining-room so as to deal with me in front of everybody.
They were all somewhat startled to see me following at his heels. The
old Bubenchikov ladies, who were the last people I expected to see there,
jumped up all together. Katya came into the dining-room through another door
and stood stockstill in the doorway. I murmured: "Maybe it's inconvenient
here." "No, it's quite convenient."
I should have said "good evening" the moment I came in, but now it was
too late to say it. Nevertheless, I bowed. Nina Kapitonovna was the only one
who responded-with a slight nod. "Well?"
"You told Ivan Pavlovich that Captain Tatarinov wrote you about a von
Vyshimirsky. I want to know this because it makes me look as if I purposely
tried to convince Maria Vasilievna of your guilt because I had a grudge
against you. At least, that's what Korablev thinks. And others too. In
short, I ask you to show me these letters which go to prove that some von
Vyshimirsky or other is responsible for the loss of the expedition and that
the death of-" (I swallowed the word) "and that all the rest is my fault."
It was rather a long speech, but as I had prepared it beforehand I
rattled it off without a hitch. I only stumbled when I mentioned the death
of Maria Vasilievna and again at the words "and others too", because I was
thinking of Katya. She was still standing in the doorway, tensed, holding
her breath.
Only now, during this speech, did I notice how old Nikolai Antonich had
grown. With that hooked nose of his and the sagging jowls he was like an old
bird, and even his gold tooth, which used to light up his whole face, had
lost its brightness.
He breathed heavily as he listened to me. He seemed to be at a loss for
a reply. Just then one of the Bubenchikov ladies asked in surprise: "Who is
this?"
He drew his breath and began to speak.
"Who is this?" he queried with a hiss. "It's that foul slanderer I've
been telling you about day in day out."
"Nikolai Antonich, if you're going to call names-"
"It's the person who killed her," Nikolai Antonich went on. His face
quivered and he began to crack his knuckles. "That is the person who
slandered me with the most frightful slander the imagination is capable of.
But I'm not dead yet!"
Nobody thought he was, and I was about to tell him as much, when he
started shouting again:
"I'm not dead yet!"
Nina Kapitonovna took hold of his arm. He wrenched it free.
"I could have had the law on him and have him condemned for everything
... for all that he has done to poison my life. But there are other laws and
other bars, and by these laws he will yet be made to feel one day what he
has done. He killed her," said Nikolai Antonich, and the tears fairly gushed
from his eyes. "She died because of him. Let him go on living if he can..."
Nina Kapitonovna pushed her chair back and took hold of his arm as
though she were afraid he was going to fall. He stared at her dully. For a
moment I doubted whether I was in the right. But only for a moment.
"Because of whom? My God, because of whom?" Nikolai Antonich went on.
"Because of this guttersnipe, who is so devoid of feeling that he dares to
come again to the house in which she died. Because of this guttersnipe of
impure blood!"
I don't know what he meant by this and why his blood should be any
purer than mine. No matter! I listened to him in silence. Katya stood by the
wall, rigid and very straight.
"-who has dared to enter the house from which I kicked him out like the
snake he is. What a fate mine has been, 0 God! I gave my whole life to her,
I did everything a man could do for the woman he loves, and she dies on
account of this vile, contemptible snake, who tells her that I am not I,
that I had always deceived her, that I had killed her husband, my own
cousin."
I was astonished to hear him speak with such passion and utter abandon.
I felt that I had gone very pale. No matter! I knew how to answer him.
"Nikolai Antonich," I said, trying to keep cool and noticing that my
tongue was obeying me none too well. "I won't reply to your epithets,
because I understand the state you are in. You did turn me out, but I came
back and will continue to come back until I have proved that I am absolutely
innocent of the death of Maria Vasilievna. And if anyone is guilty, it's not
me, but someone else. The fact is that you have certain letters of the late
Captain Tatarinov which you have used to persuade Korablev and evidently
everybody else that I have slandered you. Will you please show me those
letters so that all can be persuaded that I am the vile snake you have mst
said lam."
The uproar that followed these words was terrific. The Bubenchi-kovs,
still understanding nothing, started shouting again: "Who is this?" As
nobody explained to them who I was they went on shouting louder still. Nina
Kapitonovna was shouting at me too, demanding that I should go away. But
Katya did not utter a word. She stood by the wall and looked from Nikolai
Antonich to me and back again.
Abruptly, all fell silent. Nikolai Antonich pushed the old lady aside
and went into his room from which he returned a moment later with a batch of
letters in his hands. Not just one or two letters, but a batch, some forty
or so. I don't think they were all Captain Tatarinov's letters, more
probably they were miscellaneous letters from different people in connection
with the expedition or something of that sort. He flung the letters at me,
spat in my face and dropped into a chair. The old ladies rushed over to him.
Very likely, if he had spat in my face and hit the target, I would have
knocked him down or even killed him. Nobody had ever spat in my face, and I
would have killed the man who did, rules or no rules. But he missed. And the
letters fell short too.
Naturally, I did not pick them up, though there was a moment when I
very nearly picked one of them up-one which bore a big wax seal and the
words St. Maria on it. But I did not pick them up. I was in this house for
the last time. Katya stood between us, by the armchair in which he lay with
clenched teeth, clutching at his heart. I looked at her, looked her straight
in the face, which I was seeing for the last time.
"Ah, well," I said. "I'm not going to read these letters which you have
thrown into my face. I'll do another thing. I'll find the expedition-1 don't
believe it can have disappeared without a trace-and then we'll see who's
right."
I wanted to take my leave of Katya and tell her that I would never
forget the way she turned her back on me at the funeral, but Nikolai
Antonich suddenly got up from the armchair and a hubbub arose again. The
Bubenchikov aunts fell upon me and something struck me painfully on the
back. I waved my hand with a hopeless gesture and went away.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR
OUR LAST MEETING
I was more lonely than ever, and buried myself in my books , with a
sort of cold fury. I seemed to have lost even the faculty of J thinking. And
a good thing too. It was better that way.
Suddenly it struck me that they might not accept me in the flying
school on account of my health, so I took up gymnastics seriously-high
jumps, swallow dives, back-bends, bar exercises and whatnot. Every morning I
felt my muscles and examined my teeth. What worried me most, though, was my
short stature-all my recent troubles seemed to have made me shorter still.
At the end of March, however, I got together all the necessary
documents and sent them to the Board of Osoaviakhim (*A voluntary society
for the promotion of aviation and chemical defence.- Tr.) with an
application asking to be sent to the School of Aeronautics in Leningrad.
There is no need to explain why I wanted to leave Moscow.
Pyotr was going to Leningrad too. He had finally made up his mind to
enter the Academy of Arts. Sanya, too, for the same reason.
During the spring holidays Pyotr and I went to Ensk, travelling again
without tickets by the way, because we were saving our money for when we
left school.
But this was quite a different trip and I myself had become quite a
different person these last six months. Aunt Dasha was aghast when she saw
me, and the judge declared that people looking as I did should answer for it
before the law and that he would "take every step to discover the reasons
for the defendant's lowered morale".
Pyotr was the only person to whom I had given an account - and a brief
one at that-of my talk with Korablev and my interview with Nikolai Antonich.
Pyotr came out with a surprising suggestion. After listening to my story he
said: "I say, what if you do find it?"
"Find what?"
"The expedition."
"What if I do?" I said to myself.
A shiver of excitement ran through me at the thought. And again, as in
distant childhood, dissolving views appeared before me: white tents in the
snow; panting dogs hauling sledges; a huge man, a giant in fur boots, coming
towards the sledges, and I, too, in fur boots and a huge fur cap, standing
in the opening of a tent, pipe between my teeth...
There was little hope of such a meeting, however. Deep down in my heart
I felt that I was right. But sometimes a chilling sense of doubt would creep
into it, especially when I thought of that accursed "von". Shortly before my
departure for Ensk, Korablev had told me that Nikolai Antonich had shown him
the original power of attorney issued by Captain Tatarinov authorising
Nikolai Ivanich von Vyshimirsky to conduct all the business of the
expedition. "You were wrong," he had said with succinct cruelty.
I felt lonesome at Ensk, and thought that when I got back to Moscow and
took up my books I would have no time to feel lone some. But I did find
time. Bitter and silent, I wandered round the school.
Then one day, on coming home, I found a sealed note addressed to "A.
Grigoriev, Form 9" lying on the table in the hall where the postman left all
our mail.
I opened it and read:
"Sanya, I'd like to have a talk with you. If you're free, come to the
public garden in Triumfalnaya Square today at half past seven."
It makes me laugh to think what a change came over everything the
moment I read this note. Meeting Likho on the stairs, I said "good
afternoon" to him, and at dinner I gave Valya my favourite dish of sweet
cream of wheat with raisins.
Then came six o'clock. Then half-past six. Seven. Seven o'clock found
me at Triumfalnaya Square. A quarter past. Half past. It was getting dark,
but the street lamps had not been lighted yet, and all kinds of ridiculous
thoughts came into my mind: "The lamps won't go on and I won't recognise
her... The lamps will go on, but she won't come... The lamps won't go on and
she won't recognise me..."
The lamps did go on, and that familiar public garden, where Pyotr and I
once tried to sell cigarettes, where I had swotted a thousand times at my
lessons on spring days, that noisy garden, in which one can swot only when
one is seventeen, that old garden which was the meeting place for our whole
school, and two others besides- that garden became transformed, like a
theatre. In a moment we would meet. Ah, there she was!
We shook hands in silence. It was quite warm, being April 2nd, but all
of a sudden it started snowing-as if on purpose to make me remember this day
all my life.
"I'm glad you've come, Katya. I've been wanting to speak to you too. I
couldn't explain that time, at your place, because Nikolai Antonich didn't
give me a chance, the way he started shouting. Of course, if you believe
him-"
I was afraid to finish the sentence, because if she did believe him I'd
have to leave this garden, where we were sitting pale and grave and talking
without looking at each other-leave this garden, which seemed to contain
nobody else but us two, though someone was sitting on each garden seat and
the dour-faced little keeper was limping up and down the paths.
"Don't let's talk about that any more."
"I can't help talking about it, Katya. If you believe him we have
nothing to talk about anyway."
She looked at me, sad and quite grown-up-much older and wiser than I.
"He says it's all my fault," she said.
"Yours?"
"He says that once I believe this unnatural idea that it was he who was
meant in Daddy's letter, then I was to blame for everything."
I recollected Korablev once saying to Maria Vasilievna: "Believe me,
he's a terrible man." And the Captain had written about him:
"One thing I beg of you: do not trust that man." I leapt to my feet in
despair and horror.
"Now he'll be saying it's your fault for fifteen years and you'll
believe him, just as Maria Vasilievna did. Don't you realise if you're to
blame he gets complete power over you, and you'll do everything he wants."
"I'll go away."
"Where?"
"I don't know yet. I've decided to take up geological survey. I'll
graduate and go away."
"You won't go anywhere. You might be able to do it now, but in four
years' time... I bet you won't go anywhere. He'll talk your head off, make
you believe anything. Didn't Maria Vasilievna believe that he was kind and
noble, and, what is more, that she was indebted to him for everything he had
done? Why the hell doesn't he leave you alone! Didn't he say that it was all
my fault?"
"He says you're just a murderer."
"I see."
"And that he could easily have you tried and shot."
"All right, everybody's to blame except him. And I tell you he's a
scoundrel, and it's terrifying even to think that there are people like that
in the world."
"Don't let's talk about it any more."
"All right. But tell me this: what do you believe out of all this
nonsense?"
For a long time Katya said nothing. I sat down again beside her. My
heart in my mouth, I took her hand and she did not move away, did not
withdraw it.
"I don't believe you said it on purpose. You really did think it was
him."
"I still think so."
"But you shouldn't have tried to persuade me of it, still less Mother."
"But it was him-"
Katya drew back and disengaged her hand.
"Let's not talk about it any more."
"All right, we shan't. Some day I'll prove to you it was him, even if I
have to spend my whole life doing it."
"It isn't him. If you don't want me to go away don't let's talk about
it any more."
"All right, we shan't."
And we let the matter drop. She asked me about the spring holidays, how
I had spent my time at Ensk, how Sanya and the old folks were getting on.
And I gave her regards from them. But I didn't say about how lonesome I had
been at Ensk without her, especially when I wandered alone round the places
where we had been together. I did not know now whether or not she loved me,
and it was impossible to ask, though I was dying to all the time. The very
word couldn't be uttered, now that we were sitting and talking, so grave and
pale, with Katya looking so like her mother. I recalled our journey back to
Moscow from Ensk, when we had written on the frosted window-pane with our
fingers, and suddenly through the window, a dark field covered with snow had
come into view. Everything had changed since then. And we could no longer be
to each other what we were before. I was dying to know, though, whether she
still loved me or not.
"Katya," I said suddenly. "Don't you love me any more?"
She gave me a startled look, then blushing, put her arms round my neck.
We kissed with closed eyes-at least, mine were closed and I think hers were
too, because afterwards we opened our eyes together. We kissed in the public
garden in Triumfalnaya Square, in the garden where three schools could have
seen us. But it was a bitter kiss, a kiss of farewell. Though we arranged to
meet again, I felt that it had been our parting kiss.
That's why, after Katya had gone, I remained in the garden and wandered
for a long time about the paths in anguish, then sat down on our seat,
walked away and came back again. I took off my cap;
my head felt hot and there was an ache in my heart. I couldn't go away.
When I got home I found a large envelope on my bedside table. It bore
the Osoaviakhim stamp and my full name in a large hand. I tore open the
envelope with trembling fingers. Osoaviakhim informed me that my papers had
been accepted and that I was to present myself before a medical board on May
2nd for enrolment in the flying school.
PART FOUR
THE NORTH
CHAPTER ONE FLYING SCHOOL
The summer of 1928. I see myself walking the streets of Leningrad with
a small bundle in my hands. The bundle contains my "leaving kit". All
inmates of the children's home on leaving school received such a kit. It
consisted of a spoon, a mug, two sets of underwear and "everything needed
for the first night's lodging". Pyotr and I are living in the home of Semyon
Ginsburg, a fitter at the Elektro-sila Works and a former pupil of our
school. Semyon's mother is afraid of the house-manager, so every morning I
take my things away and bring them back again in the evening, making out as
though I had just arrived. In the eating rooms we take the first course,
costing fifteen kopecks, on even days, and the second course, costing
twenty-five kopecks, on odd days. We wander about the vast, spacious city,
along the embankments of the broad Neva, and Pyotr, who feels quite at home
in Leningrad, tells me about the Bronze Horseman while I think, "Will they
accept me or not?"
Three examining boards-medical, credentials and general education.
Heart, lungs, ears, heart again. Who am I, where was I born, what school did
I go to, and why do I want to become an airman?
Was it true that I was nineteen? Hadn't I added to my age-I didn't look
it? Why was my recommendation from the Y.C.L. local signed "Grigoriev"-was
he a brother of mine or just a namesake?
And now, at last, the day of all days. I stand outside the Aviation
Museum. This is where we had our entrance examinations. It is a huge
lion-guarded building in Roshal Prospekt. The lions look at me as if they,
too, are about to ask me who I am, where I was born, and whether I am really
nineteen.
But the really terrifying part of it comes when I mount the stairs and
stand before the black showcase displaying the list of persons enrolled in
the flying school.
I read the names in their al