pupils will
be as grateful to you as I am."
"Thank you, Sanya. Thank you, dear boy," he said, giving me another
hug. He was deeply moved and his lips quivered a little.
An hour later he was sitting on the platform, in that same hall where
we had once held a court to try Eugene Onegin. And we, as guests of honour,
sat on his left and right among the platform party. The latter consisted of
Valya, who had put on a bright green tie for the occasion, Tania Velichko,
now a construction engineer, who had grown into such a tall stout woman that
it was difficult to believe this was the same slim, high-principled girl I
had once known, and several other pupils of Korablev's, who had been juniors
in our day and whom we had looked down upon as beings who were almost
sub-human. Among this generation were a number of military trainees and I
was delighted to recognise some of them who had belonged to my Pioneer
group.
Then, glamorous and dignified in white spats and a heavy knitted
waistcoat, arrived Grisha Faber, actor of the Moscow Drama Theatre. He, for
one, hadn't changed a bit! With a lordly air of condescension, as though all
this had been arranged for his benefit, he implanted a sovereign kiss upon
Korablev's cheek and sat down with legs crossed negligently. He was so
conspicuous among the platform party that it began to look as if it were his
anniversary that was being celebrated and not Korablev's at all. He passed a
languid eye over the audience, then took out his comb and combed his hair. I
wrote him a note:
"Grisha, you blighter, hullo!" He read it and waved a hand to me with
an indulgent smile.
It was a wonderful evening and a good one, because everybody who spoke
spoke the pure truth. Nobody lied-doubtless because it was not hard to speak
the pure truth about Korablev. He had never demanded anything else from his
pupils. I wish people would speak the same way about me in twenty-five years
as they did about Korablev that evening.
I, too, made a little speech, then I went up to Korablev to kiss him,
and bumped foreheads with Valya, who had come up to do the same from the
other side. My speech had received thin applause, but when we bumped
foreheads the applause became thunderous.
Tania Velichko spoke after me, but I did not even heard her, for
Nikolai Antonich had arrived.
He came in-stout, dignified, condescending. Dressed in wide trousers,
and bending slightly forward, he made his way towards the platform. I saw
our poor old Serafima, the one who used to do the "duck" teaching by the
complex method, running ahead of him to clear the way for him, while he
strode along, unsmiling, taking no notice other.
I had not seen him since that ugly scene, when he had shouted at me,
crackling his knuckles, and then spat at me. I found that he had changed a
great deal since then. Behind him walked another man, who was also rather
stout and walked with his body bent forward, unsmiling.
I should never have guessed who this man was if Valya had not whispered
to me at that moment: "There comes Romashka too."
What-that Romashka? That sleek-haired, solid figure with the big,
white, presentable face, wearing that smart grey suit? What had become of
his yellow matted hair? His unnaturally round eyes-the eyes of an owl-which
never closed at night?
He was all neat, sleek, toned down, and even the square heavy jaw did
not look so square now. If anything it was fuller and quite presentable too.
If Romashka had been able to make a new face for himself he could not have
made a better job of it. On someone who met him for the first time he might
even have made an agreeable impression.
Nikolai Antonich stepped up on the platform, followed by Romashka, who
did everything that Nikolai Antonich did. Nikolai Antonich congratulated
Korablev in a cordial, though restrained manner, and shook hands with him,
but did not kiss him. Romashka, too, only shook hands with him. Nikolai
Antonich passed an eye over the platform party and first greeted the Head of
the City Educational Department. Romashka followed suit, the only difference
being that Romashka, oddly enough, carried himself more confidently, with
greater assurance.
Nikolai Antonich did not notice me. That is, he made believe I was not
there. But Romashka on drawing level with me, stopped and threw his hands up
in mock surprise, as much as to say: "If that isn't Grigoriev!" As if I had
never kicked him in his ugly face.
"Hullo, Romashka!" I said casually.
He winced, but the next moment pretended that we were old friends who
were entitled to call each other "Sanya" and "Romashka". He sat down next to
me and began talking, but I checked him rather contemptuously and turned
away as though listening to Tania.
But I was not listening to Tania. Everything in me was boiling and
seething, and it was only by an effort of will that I was able to keep a
composed face.
After the meeting the guests were invited to table. Romashka overtook
me in the corridor.
"The affair went on splendidly, didn't it?"
Even his voice had become mellower.
"Yes."
"It's a pity, really, that we meet so rarely. Afterall we're old
friends. Where do you work?"
"In civil aviation."
"So I see," he said laughing. "I meant 'where' territorially."
"In the Far North."
"Yes, of course! I'd quite forgotten. Katya told me. At Zapolarie."
Katya! Katya had told him. I grew hot, but answered in a calm voice:
"Yes, Zapolarie."
After a pause, he asked guardedly: "Are you here for long?"
"I don't know yet." My reply, too, was guarded. "Depends on a lot of
things."
I was pleased with myself for having answered so calmly and guardedly,
and from that moment I fully recovered my composure. I became cold and
courteous, cunning as a snake.
"Katya told me you were going to read a paper. At the Scientists' Club,
I believe?"
"No, the Geographical Society."
Romashka eyed me with pleasure. He looked as if I'd made him happy by
saying I was going to read the paper at the Geographical Society and not at
the Scientists' Club. And so he was, though I didn't know it at the time.
"What's it about?"
"Come and hear it," I said coolly. "You'll find it interesting."
He winced again, this time markedly.
"Yes," he said, "I'll have to make a note not to miss it." And he began
to write in his pocket diary. "What's the paper called?"
"A Forgotten Polar Expedition."
"I say, isn't that about Ivan Lvovich's expedition?"
"Captain Tatarinov's expedition," I said drily.
But he affected not to hear my correction.
"Some new information?"
The crafty gleam in his eyes told me at once what it was all about.
"Aha, you rat," I said to myself. "Nikolai Antonich put you up to this.
Wanted you to find out whether I intend to prove again that it was he, and
not some von Vyshimirsky or other, who is to blame for the disaster which
overtook the expedition."
"Yes, new information," I said.
Romashka looked at me closely. For a fleeting moment I saw the old
Romashka, calculating what per cent of profit would work out if I let the
cat out of the bag.
"By the way," he said, "Nikolai Antonich also has some interesting
documents concerning that expedition. He has a lot of letters, some of them
very interesting. He has shown them to me. Why not get him to show them to
you?"
"I see," I said to myself. "Nikolai Antonich has asked you to bring us
together to talk this matter over. He's afraid of me. But he wants me to
take the first step. Nothing doing!"
"Well, no," I answered casually. "He doesn't know much about it,
really. Oddly enough, I know more about his own part in the expedition than
he does himself."
This was a well-directed blow, and Romashka, who was a dimwit for all
that he had greatly developed, suddenly opened his mouth and stared at me
dumbly.
"Katya, Katya," I thought, my heart sore on her account and my own.
"Well, well, so that's how it is," Romashka muttered.
"That's how it is."
We had approached the table and our conversation came to an end. I sat
through the evening with difficulty and only did so for Korablev's sake, so
as not to hurt his feelings. I felt out of sorts and would have liked to
down a few drinks but I took only one glass-to the hero of the day. It was
Romashka who proposed the toast. He stood up and waited for a long time in
dignified patience for the noise at the table to subside. A self-satisfied
expression crossed his face when he delivered himself of a well-turned
phrase. He said something about "the friendship which links all the pupils
of our dear teacher". He turned to me when he said this, and raised his
glass to show that he was drinking to me too. I politely raised my own
glass. My own expression must have been none too amiable, because Korablev
looked closely first at him, then at me, and suddenly-for the moment I
couldn't remember what it meant-laid his hand on the table and motioned to
it with his eyes. The fingers began drumming on the table. It was our old
pre-arranged signal warning me to keep cool. We both laughed at the same
time, and I cheered up a bit.
CHAPTER THREE WITHOUT A TITLE
I had an appointment that day with a member of the Pravda editorial
staff whom I wished to tell about my discoveries. He had put me off twice,
being too busy to see me, then at last he telephoned and I went to see him
at the Pravda office.
He was a tall, attentive old chap in spectacles, who had a slight
squint, so that he seemed to be looking away all the time, thinking of
something else. "A specialist of a sort in aviation," he introduced himself.
He seemed sincerely interested in my story-at any rate, he began to take it
down on his writing pad as soon as I started speaking. He made me sketch a
drawing of my method of anchoring a grounded aeroplane during a blizzard and
said I ought to write an article about it for the Civil Aviation magazine.
He phoned the magazine there and then and arranged when and to whom I was to
hand in my article. He seemed to be well aware of the significance of the
St. Maria expedition and said that now, when everybody was taking such a
great interest in the Arctic, the subject was a timely and useful one.
"But there has already been an article about it," he said. "If I am not
mistaken, in Soviet Arctic."
"In Soviet ArcticT
"Yes, last year."
That was news indeed! An article about Captain Tatarinov's expedition
in Soviet Arctic last year?
"I didn't see it," I said. "In any case, the writer cannot know what I
know. I've deciphered the diaries of the navigating officer, the only
survivor of the expedition to reach the mainland."
That was when I realised that the man before me was your true-born
journalist. His eyes suddenly gleamed and he began taking me down quickly,
even breaking his pencil in the process. Evidently it was something in the
nature of a scoop. He said as much.
"Why, it's a sensation!"
Then he locked his office, and took me to see the "boss", as he
declared in the corridor.
I repeated my story briefly to the "boss" and we agreed:
(a) that I would bring the diaries to the office the next day,
(b) that Pravda would send a reporter to my lecture, and
(c) that I would write an article about my discoveries and then "we
shall see about where to publish it".
I should have raised the question, while there, of organising a search
for the expedition, but decided that this was a special question which had
nothing to do with the press. That was a pity, because the journalists would
have been able to put me on to somebody at the Northern Sea Route
Administration or even telephoned to that person for me. As it was, I spent
two hours in the waiting-room for the honour of seeing one of the
secretaries of the Head Office. I was shown into a private office, where I
spent another half-hour. The secretary was busy. Every minute some sailor,
airman, radio-operator, engineer, carpenter, agronomist or artist went in to
see him, and all the time he had to pretend he knew all there was to know
about aviation, agronomy, painting and radio engineering. At last he turned
to me.
"It's only of historical interest," he said when I had rushed through
my story. "We have other problems to deal with, more up-to-date."
I said I knew perfectly well that it wasn't the job of the
Administration to organise searches for lost expeditions. But since a
high-latitudes expedition was going out that year to Severnaya Zemlya, it
was quite possible to give it the minor parallel task of exploring the area
of Captain Tatarinov's ill-fated expedition.
"Tatarinov, Tatarinov..." the secretary said trying to recall
something. "Didn't he write something about it?"
I said he could not have written about it, as the expedition had set
out from St. Petersburg about twenty years ago and the last news of it was
received in 1914.
"Yes, but who was the Tatarinov who wrote about it?"
"Tatarinov was the Captain," I explained patiently. "He set sail in the
autumn of 1912 aboard the schooner St. Maria with the aim of navigating the
Northern Sea Route, that is, that very Route in whose administrative offices
we now happen to be sitting. The expedition was a failure, but incidentally
Captain Tatarinov made important geographical discoveries. There is full
reason to believe that Severnaya Zemlya, for instance, was discovered by
him, not by Vilkitsky."
"To be sure, there was an article about that expedition and I read it,"
the secretary said.
"Whose article?"
"Tatarinov's, if I'm not mistaken. Tatarinov's expedition, Tatarinov's
article. So what are you proposing?"
I repeated my suggestion.
"Very well, write a memo about it," the secretary said, sounding as if
he felt sorry for my having to write a memo which would remain lying in his
desk drawer.
I left.
It could not be just a coincidence. In a book-shop in Gorky Street I
thumbed through all the issues of Soviet Arctic for the last year. The title
of the article was "A Forgotten Expedition"-the title of my own paper!-and
was signed "N. Tatarinov". It had been written by Nikolai Antonich!
It was a long article written in a reminiscent vein but with a faint
touch of scholarship. It began by describing the schooner St. Maria as she
lay at her moorings near Nikolayevsky Bridge in St. Petersburg in the summer
of 1912: "The white paint on her walls and ceilings was still fresh, the
polished mahogany of her furniture gleamed like a mirror and carpets covered
the floors of her cabins. The storerooms and hold were packed with all kinds
of supplies. They had everything conceivable-nuts, sweets, chocolate,
different kinds of tinned fruit, pineapples, crates of jam jars, biscuits,
and many other items, including such necessities as preserved meat and
stacks of flour and cereals in bags."
It was amusing to see the way Nikolai Antonich began his article by
first describing the food-for me this was further incriminating evidence.
Further on, however, he was more circumspect. While mentioning that the
expedition had been fitted out at public expense, he modestly hinted that it
was to him that the idea of "following in the footsteps of Nordenskjold"
first occurred. He spoke with bitterness about the obstacles which the
reactionary press and the Ministry of Marine had put in his way. He quoted
the note which the Minister of Marine wrote on the report concerning the
loss of the St. Maria: "It is a pity that Captain Tatarinov has not
returned. I should have had him prosecuted for negligence in the handling of
government property."
Still more bitterly did he write about how the Archangel tradesmen had
cheated his cousin by palming off on him poor, untrained dogs, which might
well have been bought off any street urchin for twenty kopecks a pair, and
how the whole business had gone to pieces the moment Nikolai Antonich was
forced by illness to withdraw from it. He did not name the tradesmen-no
fear! Only one of them was indicated by the initial V. Nikolai Antonich
blamed V. for having supplied, at great profit to himself, meat which had
had to be thrown overboard even before they reached Yugorsky Shar.
This part of the article was written knowledgeably. Nikolai Antonich
even quoted Amundsen to the effect that the success of any expedition
depends entirely on its provisioning, and brilliantly proved this point by
the example of his "late cousin's" expedition. He quoted passages from his
"late cousin's" letters, complaining bitterly of the speculators who took
advantage of the fact that he had to cut short his stay at Archangel and put
out to sea in a hurry.
Nikolai Antonich wrote practically nothing about the actual voyage,
beyond mentioning that at Yugorsky Shar the St. Maria encountered a number
of merchant vessels lying at anchor waiting for the break-up of the ice
which filled the southern part of the Kara Sea. According to one of the
skippers the St. Maria was seen heading into the Kara Sea at dawn on
September 17th and was lost to view over the horizon behind an uninterrupted
line of ice. "The task which I. L. Tatarinov set himself," Nikolai Antonich
wrote, "was not fulfilled." "In passing, however, he made a remarkable
discovery-that of Severnaya Zemlya, which he named 'Maria Land'."
I bought this issue of Soviet Arctic, all the more as it contained
references to other articles by the same writer on the same subject, and
returned to my hotel.
I returned in anything but a good humour. It seemed to me that since
this lie had been printed, and so long ago into the bargain-over a year
ago-then there was nothing more to be said. It was too late to challenge it,
and nobody would listen to me if I did. He had forestalled me. It was a lie,
but a lie mixed with truth. He had been the first to point out the
significance of the expedition of the St. Maria. He had been the first to
show that Severnaya Zemlya had been discovered by Captain Tatarinov six
months before it was first sighted by Vilkitsky. He had taken this, of
course, from the Captain's letter, which I had given to Katya. He had beaten
me to it on all points.
I paced my room whistling.
Truth to tell, what I wanted most at that moment was to go to the
railway station and book a ticket to Krasnoyarsk and from there fly to
Zapolarie. But instead of going to the station I sat down to write my
memorandum. I wrote it all day, and when you work all day all the cheerless
thoughts that keep coming into your head have to go away again because the
place is occupied.
CHAPTER FOUR NEWS GALORE
I came in to find Korablev squatting in front of the stove, which he
was making up. It was such a familiar scene-Korablev there at the stove in
his old, shaggy jacket-that I even felt for a moment that all those years
had never been, that I was still a schoolboy, and was going to get a
wigging, as I did that time when I went to Ensk to see Katya. But then he
turned round. "How old he has gone," I thought, and in a flash everything
fell back into place.
"There you are at last!" Korablev said gruffly. "Why didn't you come
and stay with me?"
"Thanks, Ivan Pavlovich."
"You wrote you'd stay with me, didn't you?"
"I'd be inconveniencing you."
He looked at me, closing one eye, as if the better to take me all in.
It was the appraising look of a master examining his handiwork. The sight
must have pleased him, because he stroked his moustache and told me to sit
down.
"I didn't get a proper look at you yesterday," he said. "I was too
busy."
He laid the table, got a bottle out of the cupboard, cut some bread,
then got out some cold veal and cut it up. He was still living alone, but
the damp old flat looked cosier and did not seem to be so damp. The only
thing I didn't like was that while I was talking he was helping himself to
the bottle without taking a bite. It worried me.
I said I was going to tell him only the bare essentials, but it is not
easy to pick these out when after so many years you meet a person who is
near and dear to you. Korablev questioned me about the North, about my work
as an airman, and was displeased at the brief answers I gave him.
"Do you remember, Sanya, what you said to me when you were leaving
Moscow? You said: 'It remains for me now to prove that I am right even if I
have to die in the attempt.' Well, have you proved it?"
It was an unexpected question and I digested it. I remembered our talk
all right. I remembered how Korablev had shouted: "What have you done,
Sanya! My God, what have you done!" And how he had wept, saying that it was
all my fault, because I had insisted that the Captain's letter referred to
Nikolai Antonich when in fact it referred to some von Vyshimirsky or other.
I couldn't quite see why Korablev should have mentioned that talk of
ours. But he must have had some reason for wanting me to remember it. He
looked at me gravely and seemed secretly pleased about something.
"I don't know who cares whether I prove something or not," I said
gloomily. "Who wants it?"
"That's just where you're mistaken, Sanya," Korablev said. "You want
it, and I want it, and so does one other person. Especially since you have
proved to be right."
I stared at him. Five years have passed since that talk of ours. I now
knew more than anybody else in the world about Captain Tatarinov's
expedition. I had found the navigator's diaries and read them-the hardest
job I had ever undertaken. I had had the good luck of meeting that old
Nenets, the last man who, with his own eyes, had seen a sledge belonging to
the expedition, and on this sledge, a dead man who might have been the
Captain himself. Yet I had not found a single piece of evidence to show that
I was right.
And now, when I had returned to Moscow and called on my old
teacher-who, I would have supposed, had long since forgotten about this
affair-now he tells me: "You have proved to be right!"
"Ivan Pavlovich," I began rather shakily, "you really shouldn't say
such things unless you have-"
I was going to say "irrefutable evidence", but he checked me. The
doorbell rang. Korablev bit his lip and looked round anxiously.
"I say, Sanya... I have to see a certain person. Do you mind sitting
here a bit?"
As he said this he led me into the next room, which was like a large
bookcase cluttered up with books. Instead of a door it had a green curtain
which was full of holes.
"And keep your ears open. It'll be worth your while."
I forgot to mention that Korablev that evening had struck me as
behaving rather oddly. Several times he had started to whistle softly. He
had paced the room with his hands chasped on his head and ended by chewing
the pear stem with which he had been picking his teeth. After piloting me
into the "bookcase" he hastily removed the vodka from the table, then took
something out of his desk, chewed on it, then took several deep breaths with
his mouth wide open, and went out to open the door.
Who do you think was with him when he came back into the room? Nina
Kapitonovna! Yes, it was Nina Kapitonovna, bent, thinner than before, with
the shadows of age round her eyes, and wearing the same old velvet coat.
She was saying something, but I was not listening. I was watching
Korablev as he attended solicitously to his visitor's comfort. He was about
to pour her out some tea, but she checked him.
"I don't want any. I've just had some. Well, how are you?"
"So-so, Nina Kapitonovna," Korablev said. "My back aches."
"How come? Making old bones! Fancy saying such a thing! Rub Born Bengue
into your back if it aches. It helps."
"Born Bengue-what is that?"
"An ointment. Do you drink?"
"I don't, Nina Kapitonovna, honestly," Korablev said. "I've given ft
up. Just once in a while, maybe, a small glass before dinner. Even the
doctors advise it."
"No, you do drink. Now, when I was young I lived on a farm down south.
My father was a Cossack, you know. He'd come in, hardly able to stand on his
two legs, and say: 'That's nothing, if a man wants to kill himself he drinks
a glass before dinner every day.' "
Korablev laughed. Nina Kapitonovna looked at him and began to laugh
too. Then she told him a story about some winebibber of a countess who "used
to down a glass of vodka first thing in the morning, as soon as she woke up.
Then she'd start walking around. All yellow, puffy and blowsy. She'd walk
around a bit, then have another one. In the morning she was still normal,
but by dinnertime she was tight as a drum. In the evening she'd have a
houseful o' visitors. Dressed beautifully, she'd sit down at the piano and
sing. Talk about kind-hearted! Everyone went to her. With the most trifling
things. A fine person, she was. But a drunkard!"
Apparently, this example did not exactly please Korablev, who tried to
change the subject. He asked how Katya was getting on.
Nina Kapitonovna made a little deprecating gesture with her hand. "We
quarrel," she said with a sigh. "She's so touchy. And awfully
proud! If she fails in one thing, she goes after another. That's why
she's so nervous, all on edge."
"Nervous?"
"Yes. And proud. And she won't talk," said Nina Kapitonovna. "I've had
an eyeful of those who won't talk, you know. I don't like the look of it at
all. I mean the way she keeps to herself. What's the sense? Why not unburden
your mind? But she won't." "Why don't you ask her, Nina Kapitonovna?" "She
won't say. I'm like that myself. I'll never say." "I met her once, she
seemed all right to me," said Korablev. "She was going to the theatre-true,
all by herself, and I thought it strange. But she was quite cheerful, she
said, by the way, that she'd been offered a room in a Geological Institute
house."
"They did offer her a room. But she hasn't moved in." "Why not?" "She
feels sorry for him." "Sorry?" Korablev queried.
"Yes, sorry. For the sake of her mother's memory, and for his own sake,
too. And when she's not there he's not himself. Soon as he comes in he asks:
'Where's Katya? Has she phoned?'" I guessed at once that "he" was Nikolai
Antonich. "So she hasn't left. AU the time waiting for someone." Nina
Kapitonovna moved her chair up closer to Korablev. "I read a letter once,"
she whispered slyly, looking round as if Katya might see her. "They must
have become friends at Ensk when Katya was there for her holidays. His
sister. And she writes: 'He keeps asking me in every letter, where is Katya,
what's the matter with her, I'd give everything to see her. He can't live
without you and I can't understand what this quarrel of yours is about.' "
"Excuse me, Nina Kapitonovna, I didn't get you. Whose sister?" "Whose?
Why, that chap. That friend of yours." Korablev darted a look in my
direction, and I met his eyes through a hole in the curtain. My sister?
Sanya?
"Well, I suppose that's how it really is," said Korablev. "Very likely
he can't live without her. I shouldn't be surprised."
" 'He keeps asking'," Nina Kapitonovna repeated pointedly, "And 'he
can't live without you'. There! And she can't live without him."
Korablev again glanced in my direction. I fancied a smile lurking in
his moustache. "Yet she thinks of marrying another."
"Nothing of the kind. He isn't of her choice. She has no use for that
Romashov fellow. No more have I. That holy Joe." "Holy Joe?"
"That's what he is. Full o' taradiddle too. Whatever you tell him he's
sure to add something to it right away. Thievish too." "Surely not, Nina
Kapitonovna!"
"Thievish, I say. He took forty rubles from me, said it was to buy a
present, and never gave it back. I didn't remind him, of course. And such a
busybody, so nosy. My God! If it wasn't for my age-" She waved her hand with
a rueful gesture.
You can imagine what my feelings were as I listened to this
conversation! I looked at the old lady through the hole in the curtain, and
that hole was like a lens in which everything that had happened between
Katya and me was focussed, becoming clearer and clearer every minute.
Everything came nearer and fell into place, and there was such a lot of it
and all so good that my heart began to quiver, and I realised that I was
terribly excited. The only thing I couldn't understand was this: I had never
"kept asking" my sister and had never written to her that "I could not live
without Katya".
"Sanya made that up, that's what it is," I said to myself. "She was
fibbing. Yet it was all true."
Nina Kapitonovna was still speaking, but I was no longer listening. I
had forgotten myself to such an extent that I began to walk up and down my
"bookcase" and only recollected myself when I heard Korablev's warning
cough.
And there I sat in the "bookcase" until Nina Kapitonovna went away. I
don't know why she had come-maybe it was just to unburden her heart,
Korablev kissed her hand at parting and she kissed him on the brow, the way
they had always done when taking leave of each other.
I was lost in thought and did not hear him come back into the room
until suddenly I saw his nose and moustache above me between the curtains.
"Still breathing?"
"Still breathing, Ivan Pavlovich."
"What have you to say?"
"That I'm a hopeless, drivelling idiot," I answered, clutching my head.
"The way I spoke to her! My God! I did not understand a thing. Not a thing!
And she was waiting for me to say something. What must her feelings have
been, Ivan Pavlovich! What does she think of me!"
"Never mind, she'll change her mind."
"Never! Do you know what I told her? " I said to her: 'I'll keep you
informed.'
Korablev laughed.
"Ivan Pavlovich!"
"But didn't you write that you couldn't live without her?"
"I didn't!" I cried despairingly. "Sanya made that all up. But it's
true, Ivan Pavlovich! It's the absolute truth. I can't live without her, and
the quarrel between us is really over nothing, because I thought she didn't
love me any more. But what's to be done now? What's to be done?"
"Look here, Sanya, I have a business appointment at nine o'clock. At a
theatre. So if you-"
"All right. I'm going. May I call on Katya now?"
"She'll show you the door, and she'll be quite right."
"I don't care if she does, Ivan Pavlovich!" I said, and suddenly
embraced him. "Damn É all, I just don't know what to do now. What do you
say?"
"I have to change just now," Korablev said, going into the "bookcase".
"As for you, I suggest you pull yourself together."
I saw him take off his jacket, turn up the collar of his soft shirt and
start tying his tie.
"Ivan Pavlovich!" I suddenly yelled. "Wait a minute. I quite forgot!
You said I was right when we argued about whom the Captain's letter referred
to."
"I did."
"Ivan Pavlovich!"
Korablev came out of the "bookcase" brushed and combed, in a new grey
suit, looking young and presentable.
"Now, we're going to the theatre," he said gravely, "and you'll learn
everything. Your job will be to sit and say nothing. Sit and listen. Is that
clear?"
"I'm all in the dark. But let's go."
CHAPTER FIVE
AT THE THEATRE
The Moscow Drama Theatre! To judge from Grisha Faber's description, it
was a big, real playhouse in which all the actors wore smart white spats
like he did and spoke just as loudly and well. Something like the Moscow Art
Theatre. But it turned out to be a little place in Sretenka up some side
street.
The play that evening, as the illuminated showcase at the entrance
announced, was Wolf's Trail, and we immediately found Grisha's name in the
cast. He was playing the doctor. His name stood last in the list.
Grisha met us in the foyer, looking as resplendent as ever, and invited
us at once to his dressing-room.
"I'll call him in as soon as the second act starts," he said
mysteriously to Korablev.
I glanced questioningly at Korablev, but he was busy fitting a
cigarette into his long holder and pretended not to have noticed my look.
There were three other actors in Grisha's dressing-room, who looked as
if they belonged there. But when Grisha proffered us chairs there they
tactfully went out, and he apologised for the place. "My private
dressing-room is undergoing repairs," he said. We began talking about our
school theatre, recalled the tragedy The Hour Has Struck, in which Grisha
had played the part of a Jewish foster-child, and I said I thought him
simply wonderful in that role. Grisha laughed, and suddenly the air of
self-importance fell away from him.
"I don't understand what happened, Sanya. You used to draw well, I
remember," he said. "What made you suddenly take to the sky? Hell, come and
join our theatre. We'll make a scenic artist out 'of you. Not bad, eh?"
I said I had no objection. Then Grisha excused himself again-he had to
go on very shortly and the make-up man was waiting for him- and went out. We
were left alone.
"For God's sake, Ivan Pavlovich, what is it all about? What have you
brought me here for? Who is 'he'? Who is it you want me to
meet?"
"You won't do anything silly, will you?"
"Ivan Pavlovich!"
"You've done one silly thing already," Korablev said. "Two, as a matter
of fact. First, you didn't come and stay with me. Second, you told Katya:
'I'll keep you informed.' "
"But Ivan Pavlovich, how was I to know? You simply wrote to me that I
should come to you. I never suspected it was so important. Now tell me, who
are we waiting for here? Who's this person, and why do you want me to meet
him?"
"All right," said Korablev. "Only don't forget-you've got to sit still
and say nothing. The man is von Vyshimirsky."
We were sitting, you will remember, in Grisha's dressing-room in the
Moscow Drama Theatre. But at that moment it seemed to me that all this was
taking place, not in the dressing-room, but on the stage, because Korablev
had hardly finished the sentence than into the room, ducking not to knock
his head on the low lintel of the doorway, stepped von Vyshimirsky himself.
I guessed at once that it was he, though until that moment it had never
occurred to me that the man ever existed. I had always thought that Nikolai
Antonich had invented him in order to heap on him all my accusations. He had
been no more than a name, and now here he was, suddenly materialising as a
tall, weedy old man with a bent back and yellow-grey moustache. Nowadays, of
course, he was simply Vyshimirsky, with no "von" handle to his name. He wore
a uniform jacket with brass buttons-that of a cloakroom attendant.
Korablev said "good evening" to him. He responded easily, even
patronisingly, with an extended hand.
"So this is who is waiting for me-Comrade Korablev," he said. "And not
alone, but with his son. He is your son?" he added quickly, glancing swiftly
from me to Korablev and back again.
"No he's not my son, he's a former pupil of mine. But he's an airman
now and he wants to meet you."
"An airman and wants to meet me?" Vyshimirsky said with an unpleasant
smile. "Why should an airman be interested in my poor person?"
"Your poor person interests him," said Korablev, "because he happens to
be writing an account of Captain Tatarinov's expedition. And you, as we
know, took a very active part in that expedition."
This remark did not exactly please Vyshimirsky, I could see. He darted
another quick look at me, and something like suspicion-or was it
fear?-flashed in his old rheumy eyes.
The next moment he assumed a dignified air and began to talk nineteen
to the dozen. Almost every other word was "Comrade Korablev", and he boasted
blatantly. He said that it had been a great, historic expedition, and that
he had done a lot "to make it a shining success". While saying this, he kept
fidgeting about all the time, standing up, making various motions with his
hands, seizing his left whisker and nervously tugging it downward, and so
on.
"But that was a very long time ago," he wound up in a surprised sort of
way.
"Not so very long," Korablev interposed. "Just before the revolution."
"Yes, just before the revolution. In those days I wasn't working in an
artel of disabled men. The work I'm doing now is only temporary, though,
because I have important services to my credit. We put in some good work
those days. Yes, very good work."
I was about to ask him what, exactly, that work was, but Korablev
silenced me with a steady, blank gaze.
"You once told me something about this expedition," Korablev went on.
"I remember you saying you have certain papers and letters. Would you please
repeat your story to this young man, whom you can simply call Sanya. Name
the day and hour he can come and see you and leave your address with him."
"Certainly! I shall be delighted. You can come and see me, though I
must apologise beforehand for my lodgings. I used to have an eleven-room
apartment, and I don't conceal the fact, on the contrary, I write it down
whenever I have to fill up a questionnaire, because I have done good service
for the people. On the strength of this I have applied for a special
pension, and I shall get it, because I have rendered great services. This
expedition is a mere drop in the ocean! I have built a bridge across the
Volga."
And off he went again! With that tuft of grey hair sticking up on his
head he resembled a harassed old bird.
Then the lamp in Grisha's dressing-room went out for a
second-signalling the end of the act-and this spectre of a past age vanished
as suddenly as it had appeared.
The whole conversation had lasted some five minutes, but it seemed to
me that it had gone on for a very long time, as in a dream. Korablev looked
at me and laughed; my face must have been a study.
"Ivan Pavlovich!"
"Yes, my boy?"
"Was that him?"
"It was."
"Can that be?"
"It can."
"The very same man?"
"The very same."
"What did he tell you? Does he know Nikolai Antonich? Does he go
there?"
"Oh, no," Korablev said. "That he doesn't."
"Why not?"
"Because he hates Nikolai Antonich."
"Why?"
"For various reasons."
"What did he tell you? That power of attorney made out to von
Vyshimirsky-where did it come from? You remember telling me
about it?"
"Ah! That's just it!" Korablev said. "The power of attorney! He nearly
burst a blood vessel when I asked him about it."
"Ivan Pavlovich, tell me all about it, please, I beg you! D'you think
it was nice, your telling me at the last moment that Vyshimirsky was coming?
I was so flabbergasted he must have thought me an idiot."
"On the contrary, he took a fancy to you," Korablev answered gravely.
"He has a grown-up daughter and he looks at every young man from one
angle-whether he's eligible or not. You are definitely eligible-young,
good-looking and an airman to boot."
"Ivan Pavlovich," I said reproachfully, "I don't know what's come over
you, really. You've changed a lot, yes, you have. You know how important
this is for me, yet you make fun of me."
"Oh, all right, Sanya, don't be angry. I'll tell you everything," said
Korablev. "But first let's get out of here before Grisha catches us