Venyamin Alexandrovitch Kaverin, born in 1902 in a musician’s family at Pskov. Wrote poetry before graduating from the Institute of Oriental Languages in 1923. His first story, The Eleventh Axiom, was published in 1920, and was well received by Gorki. His novel Two Captains, translated into English, was awarded the 1946 State premium. During the Second World War Kaverin served as war correspondent for Izvestya. Several times he was elected member of the Presidium of Soviet Writers.
Petya Uglov, the long-legged, young scientist who knew more about complex physiology than anybody else in this world (apart from one African and two Australians), crawled up carefully onto the upper berth without even poking his fellow traveler, and fell asleep shortly after the train pulled out of Perm. As a rule Petya did not dream, but this time he saw people through a milk-white glass pitcher. Why are they coming at me, Petya asked himself, and why are they so happy? Then he knew—behind them was Leningrad.
A happy sigh escaped Petya’s sleep. He had never been to Leningrad before though he had read up all there was about it—and not only in Russian. If there was a Lenfilm movie in town he had to see it (those Lenfilm movies were usually shot on location). Not too often did Petya have money to spare, yet he could not resist buying from time to time those gravures showing finely drawn greyish or dove-colored buildings along the Neva River. Oh, how he loved Leningrad!
Then Lady Luck had smiled at him: along came this assignment—a trip to his beloved city. I’ll spend no more than half a day on it, Petya had thought, and the other two-and-a-half days I’ll devote to sightseeing: The Hermitage, the Senate Square, the Islands, then Pushkin’s Statue. … Of course, Valka, his best friend and old school buddy would have to take him to Akimov’s Theatre and the Spartak Ballet, and Tamara, his wife, might join them too …
Leningrad, as it turned out, unfolded rather disappointingly. The only view Petya was able to get from his hotel window was a narrow barnyard and a few roof tops. True, there was something of that Leningrad charm in those dingy barn walls that made up the yard well, Petya decided, but after enjoying the view for a while he made up his mind to call the Glass Institute for an appointment.
2
Petya Uglov sat in the office of the institute’s research director, his head pulled into his shoulders, and listened attentively. This tenth-generation Frenchie, he said to himself, with his bow necktie and fancy handkerchief in his breast pocket, looks like a nineteenth-century actor but he knows what he’s talking about. The director, Igor Lavrentyevitch Croizé was quick to pick up every thought of Petya, develop it nimbly, then turn it into another direction. They had been discussing the recently deceased acadamician Tshassov, the inventor of that “certain type of glass,” which Uglov considered a “must” for finishing the apparatus he had constructed. Tshassov had written a magazine article about that glass, but having been unable to arouse any interest in his invention, he had called it quits. As far as Uglov was concerned the old man had played a mean trick on him by dying at ninety, a few months too soon.
“Young man,” Croizé said, patting his bald, handsome head crowned by a whisk of grey hair, “I like your project.” The director’s suggestions on how to use the Tshassov glass were of dubious value, but Petya was pleased by the interest this influential man, unquestionably an expert in his own field, had shown in him. Later, however, when they began talking about technical matters, Petya found that things were far from rosy. Tshassov’s glass existed—but in theory only. Apart from a little sample in the possession of Yevlakhov, there was none.
“Who is Yevlakhov?” Petya asked.
Ivan Pavlovitch Yevlakhov, the director explained, was an associate of this institute, a scientist who used to be the inventor’s close friend. “If need be, of course, we can issue an order to manufacture the glass,” Croizé said, “but there’re several considerations why we shouldn’t do it without Ivan Pavlovitch’s say-so. Of course, I can pick up the phone and buzz him, but it’s better, Comrade Uglov, if you see him in person. Besides,” the director went on, “he may have some valuable information for you … By the way, you’ve never heard of Yevlakhov before?”
“No.”
“Tst, tst. In that case you’re ignorant of the fact that the history of the Russian glass stretches from Lomonossov to Yevlakhov?” There was a shade of irony in Croizé’s voice.
“I’m afraid I am,” Petya said.
“You see, that’s your specialization age,” Croizé said, flapping his arms in mock despair. From a tube on the table he pulled out a sheet of paper and drew a line in the middle of it. On the left side he printed YEVLAKHOV, on the right UGLOV.
“It’s good to have a plan of discussion,” Croizé advised. “ ‘What can I do for you?’ he’ll ask you. Don’t worry if he sounds brusque. You just tell him what I told you but try to be brief. Then he’ll say ‘Good, but where do I come in here?’ Then you say, ‘I can’t see how this work can be done without your participation, or at least consent.’ He’ll mutter something, like ‘Fiddlesticks,’ but you don’t give up. ‘I still can’t see …’ you repeat and start rolling out the big guns … And don’t try to soft-pedal …”
Petya was listening, his long arms firmly anchored between his knees. He always loved clarity, yet this apparently clear-cut plan was somehow fuzzy. Why had Croizé taken such an interest in him? All right, as far as he was concerned the glass was important, but why should the institute care? Then why was Croizé sending him off to Yevlakhov instead of having the glass made right away. No, Petya decided, there’s something elusive here which has nothing to do either with him personally or with his apparatus. Should he mention his suspicions to Yevlakhov? Still, Croizé was a likeable fellow—smart, maybe even brilliant. …
3
The whole morning Petya had tried in vain to reach Valka. No answer. At last a stern feminine voice asked, “Who? The Koloskovs? No, they’re not home. He’s out of town and she’s at work.”
“Out of town?” Petya asked in a deflated voice. “When’s he coming back, you know?”
“No, I don’t,” she hung up.
Hell, that’s why he didn’t meet me at the station, Petya fretted. A good friend he is, Valya Koloskov! Wrote it was O.K. then left without a word. Well, perhaps he couldn’t help it.
However, while waiting in Yevlakhov’s reception room, Petya couldn’t get Valka out of his mind. Maybe he’ll come back, he thought. I’ll call Tamara in the evening.
It took quite some time before Yevlakhov asked Petya in. Ivan Pavlovitch was a moon-faced man of silghtly above average height with a few unruly strings of hair on the top of his head. “What can I do for you?” he asked (as Croizé had predicted) in an expressionless hoarse voice, patting his hair. The sarcastic look on his plump face made Petya uneasy. Yet, while forgetting the prepared plan of discussion the young scientist felt his thoughts flowing with spontaneity.
He had begun to talk. Yevlakhov listened at first in silence, a gleam of irony playing in his grey eyes; then he began to shoot out sudden questions. What does he think, this is an exam, Petya peeved? When he in turn asked a question, Ivan Pavlovitch didn’t reply immediately.
“There’s Tshassov’s glass,” he said at last, pointing carelessly at a tiny stand between two windows.
“May I see it?” Petya asked.
“Help yourself.”
Tshassov’s glass looked no different from any other glass—a matte little circle on a velvet background. “Now you see for yourself,” Yevlakhov said, “I just can’t see where I come in here.”
There was no doubt in Petya’s mind that the right thing to do would be to tell this man that he was sent here—sent by Croizé. But he couldn’t say it; instead, blushing up to his ears, Petya uttered the “planned” phrase.
“I just can’t see how this work can be done without your participation or at least consent.”
“What kind of pussyfooting is this?” Yevlakhov frowned, giving more hiss to the word than was needed.
Petya made no reply. In spite of the obviousness of the situation he felt that he should be groping his way through. He considered mentioning Croizé’s sarcastic remark about the Lomonossov to Yevlakhov stretch, but he changed his mind. A corollary thought had suddenly broken through. “Igor Lavrentyevitch’s of the opinion that without your consent …” Petya started.
“Igor Lavrentyevitch is wrong,” Yevlakhov snapped, smoothing the top of his head. “Consent by him alone is plenty. The blueprint is published, what else is there to it?” It seemed now there were two Yevlakhovs: one who a moment ago had been condescendingly uttering a few indifferent remarks, the other who was now making a deliberate effort to participate. Hell, it occurred to Petya, these two are at each other’s throats! Somehow he ought to find his way out of here but how? Psychology was never an Uglov forte …
“Igor Lavrentyevitch presumes that the glass can’t be manufactured without my say-so,” Yevlakhov shrugged his shoulders. “Very nifty but it simply ain’t so. So … will you excuse me please …”
The discussion was apparently over, yet Petya didn’t rise. As always in such situations he sulked, slowly trying to think. He was reluctant to leave Yevlakhov without having some measure of success. Ivan Pavlovitch, however, seemed to be getting impatient, sensing perhaps an oncoming struggle with this young man who kept staring at him. “You’ll have to excuse me, please,” he said, “it’s been my pleasure …”
4
The Spartak Ballet was out of the question. When Petya returned to the hotel he was told that there had been a call for him from Perm. My boss is an impatient man, Petya thought, he likes things done without delay. But that soon?
Since Perm could not be reached before midnight, he decided to drop in on Tamara. It was a better-than-an-hour boring bus ride in the Viborg section and as he passed street after street of drab brick houses, Petya speculated that this must be the most untypical part of Leningrad.
Tamara was home. Valya had gone to Moscow, she said. For how long? Who knows. Why? She didn’t know that either, though she guessed it must have been on account of that new rocket. Didn’t he know Valya was now connected with it?
“Since when?” Petya asked.
“Oh,” she paused, as if she had to make sure that what she was going to say was absolutely necessary, “for some time.”
Petya was all ears. Everything Valya had ever said or done was right, wise and most interesting. So he must have had his reasons for marrying this lanky, pale-faced creature with her strawlike short-cut hair that made her look like a little girl. At about ten he returned to the hotel and just in time. The boss called again. Petya reported how things stood; first, the boss screamed at him, then asked him to buy three oscillographs. “Yes, Professor Nikitin,” Petya said, “I’ll try to get them.” He knew, however, that none were to be had—he had investigated already. No sooner had he hung up than Croizé’s office called. It was his secretary. “Igor Lavrentyevitch would like to know,” she said, “how you made out with Yevlakhov.” She was sorry Ivan Pavlovitch was uncooperative. She wanted to have details. “He said there was no emergency,” Petya lied.
She paused, then said something to somebody over the cupped mouthpiece. “Are you there, Comrade Uglov?” she asked. “Igor Lavrentyevitch would like you to drop in tomorrow at half past eleven. So long.”
A strange call, Petya mused. Once again there was that vagueness—only one conclusion could be drawn: Croizé needed him as much as he needed Croizé!
5
This time the conversation was a tug and pull from the start. Petya wanted Croizé to issue the manufacturing order and the director was finding excuses why he should refer him to Yevlakhov or at least have his consent.
“Why don’t you give him a ring?” Petya asked bluntly, tired of alibis.
“Indeed, why don’t I?” Croizé said, picking up the receiver. The director’s hand seemed to tremble a little.
“No answer, probably not in yet,” Croizé said gaily a moment later, hanging up. “Just as I thought. I’ll tell you. I’m going to send you now to Oganezov—I’ll tell you why. In the first place you ought to get acquainted with him anyway—glass is made by hand and he’s our hands. In the second place, how shall I say it, he’s Ivan Pavlovitch’s alter ego.” The director picked up the phone again. “Aram Ilyitch,” he said a while later, “Uglov from Perm is sitting in my office now … a physiologist. … He came here on a business matter which could and should be settled right away. I’ve a request to you. … Show him around the institute, please …” There was a pause. “Why today? Please, the man came all the way from Perm … I’d appreciate it greatly, Aram Ilyitch … Very good …” Croizé smiled as he hung up. “Aram Ilyitch will only be too glad,” he told Petya.
“Then may I tell him that he has your consent, Igor Lavrentyevitch?” Petya asked.
“Please do,” Croizé said, pulling out a sheet of paper from his drawer.
Not another plan, Petya lamented in his mind. There was nothing wrong in seeing the institute, but this director was too fast today, too eloquent. Something about him was too elusive … He seemed cooler than yesterday, as if yesterday had been his opportunity and today was just another day, in the literal and metaphorical sense of the word.
Croizé had in fact made another sketch, but not of a discussion—it was the plan of the ninth floor where, as he said, it was not only difficult but almost impossible to find Oganezov without it.
“So you’ll issue the manufacturing order today?” Petya asked.
Croizé’s laughter had a ring of irritation in its gaiety. “It will be done,” he said. His parting handshake was as firm as the day before; his “So long” was accompanied by that same warm smile. Petya knew better, however: this was the Croizé trademark. Without words the director had let him know that there was no sense in further meetings. As if he had said, “Look here, I’ve done everything I could for you. I’m sorry but I’ve no more time nor attention for you.”
Petya took the elevator to the ninth floor. Like most young people, without knowing it he had yet to discover himself. Having found the obstacles more formidable than they had appeared on the surface, he didn’t know how to overcome them. Yet he was convinced that he would not leave Leningrad without the glass. As he began looking for Oganezov he had already searched in his mind for a way out. His thoughts in physiology always ran deep, but his love for instruments as wise tools of science was as great. Institute glasses were tools too, he reasoned, so he was in his own element. …
Apparently Oganezov sensed Petya’s interest because no sooner had he met him than his erstwhile frown returned into eager congeniality. Small, thin, eagle-nosed, Oganezov talked fast, not realizing that Uglov could not absorb the rain of details yet was too bashful to ask questions, as if afraid that those pointed elbows of his, jutting out from his tucked-up cowboy shirt might goad him. A little pepper mill, Petya mentally nicknamed Oganezov, thinking of his hunched walk and grizzly, pepper-colored hair. But he’s more salt than pepper, a mind like quicksilver, grasping instinctively a thread of thought before a sentence was finished. This man, Petya decided, was obviously the soul of the institute and he might appreciate frankness. “The Tshassov glass,” Petya said, “this is the only reason I came here.”
“No problem, we’ll make it,” Oganezov assured. “Have you been to Croizé?”
“Uhm … I was,” Petya replied. “I’m not sure but it seems he said ’yes.’ You see … Igor Lavrentyevitch asked me to see Yevlakhov, I saw him and Ivan Pavlovitch declined. True, Igor Lavrentyevitch said that Ivan Pavlovitch’s consent was not important …”
“I don’t get it,” Organezov interrupted, blushing slightly. “Why isn’t it important?”
“I mean practically …”
“What do you mean practically?” Oganezov asked in such a loud voice that a secretary that had passed them looked back startled. “Listen, young man, anything Ivan Pavlovitch Yevlakhov does is important.”
“I beg your pardon,” Petya said, unable to contain his annoyance. “I’m an outsider here, and to be frank with you, I can’t make out what’s going on between all of you. But it seems to me that whatever it is it shouldn’t affect the point in question. If you’re of the opinion that Yevlakhov’s consent is indispensable and Comrade Croizé is … or isn’t … why don’t you have a talk with him about it?”
Perhaps, had Petya used a humbler tone of voice he might have won over Oganezov. But somehow the impression he conveyed to that little “pepper mill” was lack of respect for a scientist. Oganezov flared up, his voice trembled and every phrase opened with a “What do you mean?”
“I’m sorry that you misunderstood me,” Petya said with restrained anger. “Maybe the best thing for me here is to go over to Igor Lavrentyevitch and find out what he intends to do about the manufacturing order. Thank you for showing me the institute. So long.”
Croizé, however, would not receive him. He was about to confer with a Czech delegation, Petya was told by his usually polite secretary who had now a fancy hairdo and spoke curtly. Then as the buzzer on her desk sounded, she jumped up and dashed to the inner office. Through the wide open door Petya could see handsome Igor Lavrentyevitch, all in smiles, his white whisk of hair agleam, ready to go into orbit, so to speak …
6
Petya took off to look for oscillographs, and although he knew beforehand that he wouldn’t find any, he still felt disappointed. While eating dinner—which was his supper too—he planned his conversation with the boss, Professor Nikitin. He didn’t think it would be wise to try explaining all the mess over the phone. “I’ll just tell him that everything is in tip-top shape,” Petya thought. Eventually things would turn out all right.
Tickets for neither the Spartak Ballet nor the Comedy Theatre were to be had, so he took the third best: a dramatic play in the Bolshoi which somebody said was supposed to be good. However, when he called Tamara she told him that what was supposed to be good was another play, and this one wasn’t good at all.
“Any news from Valka?” Petya asked.
“No.”
“At least he might’ve called, the ox.”
“Yes,” Tamara said without enthusiasm.
He decided to rest a while and then take a little walk to see the Nevski Boulevard in the dark. He woke up around two in the morning. Annoyed at himself, Petya sat at the window and gazed at the patched barn roofs. As it often happened, he had thought while sleeping. He got out his drawing book and made a sketch. A moment later he crumpled it and threw it in the waste basket. When he fell asleep he didn’t wake up until late in the morning.
Still in his night shirt, Petya pulled out the sketch from the waste basket, smoothed it on his knobby knees and added a few lines which had occurred to him while he was asleep. He felt as reluctant to go to the institute as an angler who has to wade into cold water to disentangle a fishing hook. But there was nothing else to do. Half an hour later he was again in the elevator to the ninth floor.
“Hello,” Petya said, finding Oganezov. “I’ll take only a minute. I just wanted to tell you …”
Oganezov seemed not to remember right away what they were talking about the day before. Then, after he did, he apologized for having been rude. “Funny!” he said, opening his mouth wide, like a baby. “You’re a funny fellow. What is your name?”
“Uglov. But the point you didn’t understand yesterday …”
“Phenomenal,” Oganezov said, bending his long, wrinkled ear. He stared at Petya in silence for a while. “No, it won’t work,” he uttered abruptly.
“What won’t work?” Petya asked. They talked more. “Have you seen Croizé?” Oganezov shot a sudden question.
“No, not today.”
“Don’t go then,” Oganezov advised. “I’ll tell you what, we’ll get hold of Skatchkov.”
“Who’s he?”
“Didn’t I introduce you to him yesterday?”
“No.”
“I didn’t?” Oganezov said incredulously. “Well, Skatchkov’s a fellow who has a feel of glass—it’s music to him. Follow me.”
Skatchkov, however, the man with the musical feel of glass, showed no such finesse toward Petya. “They’ll ask me, I’ll do it,” he sighed. “Besides, Igor Lavrentyevitch already spoke to me.”
“He did?” Both Petya and Oganezov shouted at the same time.
“Yes … How much do you need?” Skatchkov asked without the slightest emotion.
“How much?” Petya repeated. “One kilo’ll be enough.”
“You must be joking,” Skatchkov laughed. “How would you go about buying one kilo?”
“What does that mean?”
“Accounting won’t issue an order for that quantity,” Skatchkov shook his head.
“Not enough?” Petya asked.
“That’s right,” Skatchkov replied. “Aram Ilyitch,” he turned to Oganezov, “didn’t you explain this to Comrade …”
“What do you mean won’t issue an order?” Oganezov interrupted. “The formula’s here—one kilo today, twenty tomorrow. An order’s an order, what’s there to it?”
“There’s no order yet … to be exact,” Skatchkov said, scratching his head. “What can I do?” Then, as if struck by sympathy toward Uglov, he eagerly suggested, “Listen, Comrade, why don’t you have a talk with Yevlakhov? Maybe Ivan Pavlovitch won’t mind making a kilo for you in his laboratory; it’s worth a try.”
7
When things didn’t go his way Petya usually sulked. He was glum when he knocked at Yevlakhov’s office door that afternoon. There was no answer. He entered: the office was empty, a white coat was carelessly thrown over a chair. All right, Petya decided, I’ll wait. After a moment he walked up to the stand. The matte little circle lay untouched under a glass lid. One of the threads which tied it to the velvet background was torn. Petya lifted the lid, gingerly picked up the glass and took it to the window. A glass like any other—dull-colored, with a slightly nacreous shade. How strange, Petya mused, this plain-looking surface has such extraordinary properties!
The door creaked. Startled, Petya slipped the glass into his pocket and turned around. It had been one of those quick, mechanical motions which he had acquired in his adolescence when trying to hide a burning cigarette butt from his strict father.
“Oh, it’s you,” Yevlakhov said, lifting his face from a letter he had been reading on his way in. “What can I do for you? Would you care to sit down?” Ivan Pavlovitch had made no effort to hide his frown.
He doesn’t know I took the glass, flashed through Petya’s mind. He stood in a stupor, gaping at Yevlakhov. If there was a second of decision to return the glass it had passed. Now it seemed to burn him in his pocket, and when he walked up to the table, instead of sitting down, Petya kept standing, clutching the chair with both hands.
Yevlakhov remained standing too, hoping perhaps that his visitor would leave soon if he wasn’t invited again to sit down. Every now and then Ivan Pavlovitch stole a glance at the letter which he had tossed onto the desk but said nothing. Finally the silence got the better part of him. “If I’m not mistaken,” he said, “I’ve already explained to you that I’ve got nothing to do with your problem. Unless, of course … something new?”
Petya shook his head. Such moments of bewilderment had been part of him only in his childhood …
“In the name of sweet heaven,” Yevlakhov lamented, “why are you here then? If you have something to tell me, come out with it; if not, please leave. What the hell!” Ivan Pavlovitch stormed, as Petya continued staring at him. “Oganezov told me a thing or two about you and I didn’t like what he had to say. Then Skatchkov. All those round-about, side-about ways … In the name of Allah, I pray, why should I busy myself with your problems, huh?”
Yevlakhov had wiped his forehead several times. Strings of hair looked awfully funny the way they bristled on the top of his head. He suddenly seemed remorseful for scolding his young visitor, then annoyed at himself for feeling remorseful. “Do you know what I’d do if I were in your place?” he said, getting crimson on his face and glowering at Petya. “Instead of begging every Ivan in this place for that glass I’d simply steal it and that would be the end of it. … And nobody would be the wiser …”
Perhaps, had Petya not happened to have followed Yevlakhov’s advice, he’d have known what to say. But as it was, the only thing he could think of was to take out the glass from his pocket and stare at it forlornly.
“What have you got there?” Yevlakhov asked angrily, obviously unable to see well. He stepped forward to have a closer look at the matte circle lying in Uglov’s palm. Petya, for some strange reason, had made a step forward also. The two of them almost bumped foreheads.
“It’s here, the glass,” Petya uttered simplemindedly.
Yevlakhov took one glimpse at the glass and screamed. Uglov’s first impulse was to pull his head into his shoulders. However, Ivan Pavlovitch hadn’t screamed from anger but from delight. He dashed toward the stand, made sure that the glass wasn’t there, then slapped himself on his knee. “Swiped it, huh?” he burst out laughing. “What a boy!”
“I didn’t mean to, honest I didn’t,” Petya began to laugh too.
“What a liar!”
“No, honest,” Petya said. “You came in so suddenly as I was looking at it, and then … I don’t know why I slipped it into my pocket …”
“Yeah, yeah—we know,” Yevlakhov gasped in between spasms of laughter. He acted now like the little mischievous boy Petya thought he had detected blades of before. Ivan Pavlovitch’s eyes glistened with excitement, he raised his eyebrows and his tousled hair gave his face an endearing look. Petya felt himself drawn to this man. …
“All right,” Ivan Pavlovitch said after his last spasm of laughter had died. “Now we can talk it over seriously,” as if there could have been no serious talk until the Tshassov glass had been swiped. “All right, young man, once again—why do you need this glass?”
Once again Petya explained that he needed this glass to complete an apparatus for use in physiology. But this time he spoke with emotion, and while he spoke a thought which had been knocking at his mind since he saw Skatchkov cautiously edged in—as if to tease: why did he need this glass? “I’m not a technician,” Petya said unsurely, “but it seems to me that if the surface, that is … if I could … then why, even the thinnest film might …”
Ivan Pavlovitch had been listening, blinking his eyes, “Uhm, well,” he said at last, realizing perhaps that his original judgement about this young man had been wrong, “now let’s go.”
“Where to?”
“To my house.”
“What for?”
“What for? To have dinner with me,” Ivan Pavlovitch said. “You’ll meet my family … By the way, you may keep the glass, too.”
8
Petya returned to his hotel in the tender frame of mind he usually got into after spending a pleasant evening with a friendly family. He had liked the whole Yevlakhov clan: the hostess—a little, nimble woman; the son—an oceanologist recently returned from the Antarctic; and the daughter with her husband—both doctors. They seemed to be a closely-knit family in spite of their presently divergent interests and separate homes. They had enjoyed Ivan Pavlovitch’s story about the “theft” of Tshassov’s glass; but whenever Croizé’s name was mentioned, somebody would promptly change the subject. Those two didn’t get along well, Petya knew now for sure. Whatever the reason the Frenchie was probably to blame, he thought.
Only a few hours left to catch his train to Perm at 10:40. He would see at least the Senate Square; Petya was already in the hallway when they called him to the telephone. It was Croizé’s secretary. “Igor Lavrentyevitch was very sorry,” she cooed. “A foreign delegation, you know …” Petya wondered whether the director had found out already about his visit to Yevlakhov. “Igor Lavrentyevitch would like you to stop in tomorrow about twelve,” the secretary cajoled, “he’d like to have all the details …”
“I’m sorry,” Petya said, “but I’m leaving tonight. Please give Igor Lavrentyevitch my best regards and also the best wishes of my chief, Professor Nikitin. So long.”
“Ants in your pants, Croizé,” he said to himself, sticking out his tongue, which was as long as an anteater’s. He pranced from one end of the room to the other, then stopped in front of the mirror and began to jig. He hadn’t even heard the knock at the door until somebody said, “You dancing?”
It was Valka. They never were in the habit of embracing—just a firm handshake. “You came after all,” Petya said, looking over his friend. Valya Koloskov was still the same huge, baby-faced lug who always had trouble finding a hat for his head and never learned how to sit down without breaking a chair. They had been seeing each other rarely since Valya had left Perm to work in his own specialty, physics. However, when they’d meet they’d spend a whole night talking, just talking. Tamara had learned how to stay out of sight at such times.
But now they had just a few hours! “Hell, what luck,” Petya fretted. “I had wanted so much to see Leningrad!”
“Why haven’t you?” Valya asked. “You had plenty of time.”
“I had but I have none now,” Petya replied, and went on telling his friend about his travels between Croizé and Yevlakhov. “It’s partly my own fault,” he concluded.
“What next,” Valya scolded. “You’re always ready to blame yourself. These old gents don’t realize it that the second half of the twentieth century is almost half over … Let’s go.”
“Where to?”
“Sightseeing!” Valya said. “Sure it’s also your fault,” he added, as they went down the flight of steps. “You ought to know better than not to know how to take every hour as it comes.”
They walked out into a light rain. But they hadn’t noticed it until the sound of the Neva’s waters merging with the Great Nevka hit their ears. They stood on the Petrograd Bank. Valya had wanted to show his friend the scenic view of the revolutionary ship Aurora anchored for eternity at the opposite shore, but the contours of the vessel were outlined now dimly in the fog and rain that enveloped the river. Yet, as far as Petya was concerned, Leningrad was still dear, flowing through the depths of his subconscious while his conscious mind was wholly absorbed by Valya’s talk. Koloskov couldn’t tell him much of his classified work under the famous Professor Winkler, but what he did say was so breathtaking that Petya realized how much happier his friend must be in his field.
They passed a newspaper stand. The photos of the dark side of the moon were on the first page. Petya was amazed how matter-of-factly Valya took the news. “Of course, it’s quite a feat,” he said, “but when you stop to think of it … nothing but a new way of travel. Take a train ride; do you stop to think what makes the engine go? So when we’ll travel to Mars or Venus we won’t question what makes the rockets move. Cosmic flights—just an application of old laws, nothing else. And new discoveries are still to come … Hey, you recognize this?” Valya pointed at a large building in the fog.
“What is it?” Petya asked.
“The Winter Palace.”
“Oh.” Petya was disappointed. He had expected it to be more elegant.
“You ought to see it from the other bank, from the columnal façade,” Valya suggested, as they were crossing the palace bridge. “But to come back to your story, these two old gents—nothing but two points. Draw a line between them and … everything will become clear. Like a chart of a starry sky.”
“I don’t understand,” Petya shook his head.
“That’s because you’re still a ninny,” Koloskov said condescendingly. “Look you oaf,” he suddenly pointed to his left, “there’s the Academy of Sciences … and the University. Twelve departments!”
Everything looked smudged, as if seen through a thick, steamed-up glass. “Hell, what luck,” Petya sighed. “What were you saying about those old gents?”
“I said that your story’s only a reflection of that incessant fight in science,” Valya declared. “Only the form changes. Take your experience: just a case of application and ingenuity.”
“More complicated than that,” Petya objected.
“Perhaps,” Valya agreed. “But in the end what difference does it make why Croizé has lost touch with science! As far as you and I are concerned we are only interested in him because he reveals a degree of scheming of which we had no idea. The old generation, they’re masters in it! I knew a brilliant scientist; he gave up his work, that is he delegated it to his assistants, and he himself devotes his talents to studying the personal relations between two academicians, call them ‘A’ and ‘B.’ And he has no selfish motive, mind you, just that he can’t live without meddling into other people’s business … as some people can’t live without smoking. The same with your Croizé … Hey look, there are the sphynxes!”
Through the countless granules of fog glimmering in the rain, the naked sphynxes stared meekly. “Nothing but scheming,” Petya repeated, “back-stabbing! A game of intrigue!”
“No worse than any other game,” Valya said. “Take horse races, for instance …”
“I don’t agree with you,” Petya interrupted. “I’m glad we don’t know about it any more than we do.”
“You think so? As I see it, it all depends how you react to it. I think in that respect we both might do well to learn a few things from the old gents.”
“Meaning what?”
“What?” Valya repeated. “That neither you nor I know too well how to enter somebody’s house gracefully, how to say hello, keep up a conversation, and say a polite goodbye. That’s what!”
“Fiddlesticks.”
“Not at all, pal,” Valya said earnestly. “We’ve time for everything but for civil manners.”
They had reached the Bridge of Lieutenant Schmidt. They could see it, but the rest of Leningrad would emerge momentarily out of the fog to vanish without giving too many clues about itself. Somewhere in that soup, it might have been near or far, was the Copper Horesman, the Admiralty, the senate …
“I’d like to tell you about that engineer,” Valya resumed, “who had a letter published in the Komsomol. What’s the use of poetry if you compare it with the rockets or computers he designed?”
“My boss,” Petya suggested, “he’s the same kind, and he has two doctorates.”
“Of course,” Valya sneered. “He’s the learned Doctor Goose. He and his kind of argument are a century old. Even Chekhov wrote that art can become as boring as eating every day. Still, you’ve got to eat!”
They had turned by now to the River Boulevard and found the Copper Horseman. In the narrow beam of a projected light that seemed to tear out a strip of the fog, the horseman had a worried look—as if the inclement weather was delaying his urgent errand.
“I came here with a group of architects,” Petya said. “All young fellows—like you and me. They all were of the same opinion: the older generation are bonzes—just sitting in our way. You know what bonzes are, Valya?”
“What are you taking me for?”
“Well, then, these bonzes have a gruesome influence in the architectural field. And how’s yours?”
“There’s plenty of them in ours, too,” Valya said, “but they don’t have it too easy there. They have to keep producing and if they don’t …”
Petya looked at his watch. “Is it time?” Valya asked.
They took a taxi back to the hotel. “It seems to me,” Valya reflected on his way back, “the question here is not of bonzes or the traditional conflict of fathers and sons, but in a different dimension—in a horizontal one.”
“Meaning?”
“One group’s only interested in what science is going to do tomorrow, and the other has a hard time in parting with yesterday. Don’t you think … Here, there’s the Public Library. Pal, why don’t you move to Leningrad?” Valya sighed.
“Can’t swing it.”
“Then why don’t you take off a week in the winter. You’ll come with me to Viborg and do some skating.”
“I doubt I’ll be able to get away,” Petya said. As always the topic of conversation came back to the question of how to arrange for more frequent meetings. Sharing impressions helped them to think, and yet, strangely enough, their personal relations seemed rather restrained.
Valya helped Petya with his luggage and saw him off to the Moscow Railroad Station. Shortly after the train pulled out Petya clambered onto the upper berth and went to sleep. He dreamed again, but when he awoke late at night it wasn’t the dream that made him think. It was a strange impression, the kind that follows a long, involved nightmare. He had a feeling of emptiness, that something should have happened in that dream and hadn’t. The memory of his friend waving goodbye from the platform had a cheering effect though. He lit the nightlamp and out of his suitcase he gingerly took the Tshassov glass. It looked cool, its nacreous center seemed to vibrate. Three days ago it had been nothing but a piece of glass that happened to have the physical properties he needed to finish his apparatus, and now it was an object tied up with a multitude of impressions. Something entirely new! So what if he hadn’t really seen Leningrad. Hadn’t he carried off with him the town of Yevlakhov and his family; the town of the little, frank Oganezov—the man who bore on his puny shoulders a huge enterprise? Hadn’t he carried off with him the town of Valya Koloskov, the man who looked at the future with that same calm, cocky assurance he had since the third grade of elementary school?
Most important, however, Petya discovered something about himself: he knew now how much he had to learn about himself. Thoughts came and came. The thought that had occurred to him during the discussion with Yevlakhov: might it not bring a few changes into his set? Petya doubled up on his berth, pulled under his knobby knees and began to jot down on the back of a cigarette pack.
New ideas!