its came from them. There was a heady scent of oranges,
peaches, dried apples and cloves. Persian tradesmen watered the asphalt
pavement which was soft from the heat, and I could hear their calm, guttural
speech. God, how good it smelt, how pleasantly cool it was. Stumbling over
my pole brought me back to earth. I clutched the kayak and stared around
me-snow, snow, snow, as far as the eyes could see. The sun is as blinding
and painful to the eyes as ever.
Thursday, June 4. Today, following in Dunayev's tracks, I noticed that
he was spitting blood. I examined his gums. The last few days he has been
complaining about his legs.
Friday, June 5. I can't get Captain Tatarinov out of my mind. During
the little speech he made when seeing us off he suddenly stopped, clenched
his teeth and looked round with a sort of helpless smile. He was ill; I had
left him when he was just out of his sickbed. God, what a frightful mistake
it was! But I can't very well turn back.
Saturday, June 6. Morev has kept at me these three last days, saying
that he has spotted, from the top of an ice-hummock, a perfectly level
stretch of ice running far out to the south. "I saw it with my own eyes.
Sir. As flat as flat can be." This morning he was missing from the tent. He
had gone off without his skis and the tracks of his snow-shoes were faintly
visible in the thin layer of dry snow. We searched for him all day,
shouting, whistling and firing shots. He would have answered us, as he had a
magazine rifle with a dozen cartridges. But we heard nothing.
Sunday, June 7. We made a mast about ten metres high out of kayaks,
skis and ski-poles, attached two flags to it and hoisted it on a hilltop. If
he is alive he will see our signals.
Tuesday, June 9. On our way again. Thirteen men left-an unlucky number.
When shall we make land, be it even barren and inhospitable land, but land
that stands still and on which you have no fear of being carried away to the
north?
Wednesday, June 10. This evening I had another vision of a southern
town, the sea front, a cafe by night with people in panama hats. Sukhumi?
Again that spicy, aromatic ordour of fruit, and the bitter thought: "Why did
I go on this voyage to a cold, icebound sea, when it was so good sailoring
in the south? There it was warm. One could go about in a shirt, and even
barefooted. One could eat lots of oranges, grapes and apples." Strange, why
was I never particularly fond of fruit? But chocolate, too, is good stuff,
eaten with ship's biscuits, the way we eat it at our midday halt. Only we
get very little of it-just one square each from the bar. How good it would
be to have a plateful of these biscuits in front of you and a whole bar of
chocolate all to yourself. How many more miles, how many hours, days and
weeks before this will become possible!
Thursday, June 11. The going is hell. Deep snow with a lot of water
under it. Open water blocks our path all the time. Did no more than three
versts today. All day a mist and that dull light that makes the eyes hurt so
much. I see this notebook now as though through a film and hot tears run
down my cheeks. It will be Whitsun soon. How good it will be "there" this
day, somewhere down south, and how bad here, on the floating ice, all cut up
by open stretches of water, in latitude 82°! The ice shifts right before our
eyes. One glade disappears to give way to another, like giants playing a
game of chess on a gigantic chessboard.
Sunday, June 14. I have made a discovery of which I have said nothing
to my companions: we are drifting past the land. Today we reached the
latitude of Franz-Josef Land and are continuing to push south, but there is
no sign of any island. We are being carried past the land. lean tell this
both from my utterly useless chronometer, from the prevailing winds and from
the direction of the line lowered in the water.
Monday, June 15. I abandoned him, a sick man, in a state of despair,
which only he was capable of concealing. This robs me of all hope for our
deliverance.
Tuesday, June 16. I now have two men with scurvy. Sotkin has fallen ill
too, his gums are bleeding and swollen. I treat them by sending them forward
on skis to find a way for us and giving them each at night a quinine water.
This may be a harsh method of treatment, but I think the only possible one
for a man whose morale has not broken down. The worst form of scurvy I had
seen was that from which Captain Tatarinov had suffered. He had had it for
close on six months and only by a superhuman effort of will did he force
himself to recover, that is, he simply forbade himself to die. And this
will, this broad, free mind and indomitable moral courage are doomed to
perish.
Thursday, June 18. Latitude 81°. The rapidity of our southward drift is
amazing.
Friday, June 19. At about four o'clock, E.S.-E. of our halting place I
spotted "something". It was two pinkish cloudlets on the horizon, which did
not change shape until hidden in the mist. I don't think we were ever
surrounded by so many open lanes of water as now. Lots of pochards and
screaming white gulls are flying about. Oh, these gulls! How often, at
night, they keep me awake with their fuss and bustle and bickering over the
entrails of a shot seal thrown out onto the ice. Like evil spirits they mock
at us, laughing hysterically, screeching, whistling and all but cursing. How
long, I wonder, will I be haunted by these "cries of the snow-white gull",
by these sleepless nights in a tent, by this sun which never sets and shines
through its canvas!
Saturday, June 20. During the week we have been halted we have drifted
a whole degree southward with the ice.
Monday, June 22. In the evening, as usual, I climbed to the top of some
pack-ice to scan the horizon. This time, E. of where I stood, I saw
something which made me so excited that I had to sit down on the ice and
start hastily rubbing both my eyes and my binoculars. It was a bright strip
like a neat stroke made by a brush on a light-blue ground. At first I took
it for the moon, but the left segment of that moon grew gradually dimmer
while the right one became more sharply etched. During the night I went out
four or five times to look through my binoculars and each time I found this
piece of moon in the same place. I am surprised none of my companions saw
it. How hard it was for me to restrain myself from running into the tent and
shouting at the top of my voice: "What are you sitting here like dummies,
why are you sleeping, don't you see we are being carried towards land?" But
for some reason I kept it to myself. Who knows, maybe it was a mirage too.
Hadn't I seen myself on the sea-front of a southern town on a hot summer's
day, in the shade of tall buildings!
The first notebook ended on this sentence. The second started on July
11.
Saturday, July 11. We killed a seal from which we drew two bowls of
blood. With this and some pochards we made a very good soup. When we are
making tea or soup we are usually very serious about it. This morning we ate
a pailful of soup and drank a pailful of tea; for dinner we ate a pailful of
soup, drank a pail of tea; and now for supper we have eaten over a pound of
meat each and are waiting impatiently for our pail of tea to boil. Our pail
is a big one, shaped like a truncated cone. I daresay we wouldn't mind
cooking and eating another pail of soup right now, only we feel we must
restrict ourselves, "economise". Our appetites are more than wolfish; it is
something abnormal.
And so we are now sitting on an island, and beneath us is not ice, on
which we have been these last two years, but earth and moss. All is well but
for one thought, which gives me no peace: why did the Captain not come with
us? He did not want to leave his ship, he couldn't go back empty-handed.
"They'll make short work of me if I come back empty-handed." And then that
childish, foolhardy idea:
"Should desperate circumstances compel me to abandon ship I shall make
for the land which we have discovered." Lately, I think, he had that land on
the brain. We sighted it in April 1913.
Monday, July 13. To E.S.-E. the sea is free of ice right up to the
horizon. Ah, St. Maria, this is where we could do with you, my beauty! This
is where you could bowl along without using your engines!
Tuesday, July 14. Today Sotkin and Korolkov went to the tip of the
island where they made a surprising discovery. Slightly inshore they saw a
small mound built of stones. They were struck by its regular shape. On
coming closer they saw an empty English beer bottle with a screw cap. The
men quickly uncovered the mound and found an iron container under the
stones. In it was a well-preserved British flag, and beneath it another
bottle. This bottle had a paper pasted on it with several names and inside
it was a note written in English. With some difficulty and by the joint
efforts of Nils and myself, I made out that the British polar expedition led
by Jackson, having sailed from Cape Flora in August 1897 had arrived at Cape
Mary Harmsworth, where it had placed this flag and the note. The note said
that all was well on the good ship Windward.
In this surprising manner all my doubts were cleared up: we were on
Cape Mary Harmsworth, the south-western tip of Alexandra Land. Tomorrow we
intend to go to the southern shore of the island and make for Cape Flora
where this famous Englishman Jackson had his base.
Wednesday, July 15. Broke camp. We had the choice of either going all
together across the glacier and dragging our baggage along or breaking up
into two parties, one of which would go across the ice on skis while the
other, consisting of five men, would sail along the icefield in the kayaks.
We chose the latter method.
Thursday, July 16. In the morning Maxim and Nils started to bring the
kayaks closer in to where we had halted, and Nils was carried out so far by
the current that two men had to be sent to his aid. I looked through my
binoculars and saw Nils ship his paddle and look at the approaching rescue
craft with a helpless air. Nils must be very sick; it's the only way I can
account for his behaviour. He acts rather strange-walks unsteadily and sits
apart all the time. Today, for supper, we cooked two pochards and an eider.
Friday, July 17. Dirty weather. Still sitting on Cape Grant, waiting
for the shore party. Weather cleared up at night. E.N.-E. ahead, seemingly
quite near, we can see a rocky island across the icefield.
Can this be Northbrook, where Cape Flora is? We shall soon know whether
I was right in trying to make this cape. Twenty years is a long time. There
may be nothing left of Jackson's log houses. But what else could we do? Make
a wide detour? Would my wretched, sick companions have stood it, their
clothes, soaked in blubber oil, all in rags and full of vermin?
Saturday, July 18. Tomorrow, weather permitting, we will push on. I
cannot wait any longer. Nils can hardly walk and Korolkov is almost as bad.
Dunayev complains of pains in his legs, too, but he does not show signs of
that apathy and exhaustion which frightens me in Nils and Korolkov. What can
be delaying the walking party? In any case we cannot stay here any longer-it
spells death.
Monday, July 20. Bell Island. When we stepped out of the kayaks we saw
that Nils could not walk any more. He fell down and tried to crawl forward
on all fours. We put up a tent of sorts, carried Nils into it and wrapped
him up in our only blanket. He kept trying to crawl away, but then quieted
down. Nils is a Dane. During his two years' service aboard the St. Maria he
learned to speak Russian well. But since yesterday he has forgotten his
Russian. What strikes me most of all is the blank, fear-stunned look in his
eyes, the eyes of a man who has lost his reason. We boiled some broth and
gave him half a cupful. He drank it and lay down. I feel sorry for him. He
is a good sailor, a sensible, hard-working man. All went to sleep, but I
took my rifle and went to look at Cape Flora from the cliffs.
Tuesday, July 21. Nils died in the night. He had not even thrown off
the blanket we had wrapped him in. His face was serene, undis-torted by
death agonies. Within a couple of hours we carried out our dead comrade and
laid him on a sledge. The grave was a shallow one, as the earth was frozen
hard. No one shed a tear over this solitary, remote grave. His death did not
come as a surprise to us and we took it as a matter of course. This was not
callousness or heartlessness on our part. It was the abnormal torpor one
feels in the face of death, a sense of irrevocable doom that haunted every
one of us. It was with something akin to animosity that we now kept glancing
at the next "candidate", Dunayev, trying to guess whether he would "make it
or not". One of his mates even shouted at him angrily: "What are you sitting
there like a wet hen? Want to go after Nils? Come on, get some driftwood,
stir your stumps!" When Dunayev humbly rose to go, they shouted after him:
"Now, no buckling, mind!" There was no resentment against Dunayev. Even the
driftwood was of no importance now. It was resentment against the sickness
which had claimed their comrade, it was a call to fight death to one's last
breath. Buckling, when your legs give way under you as though paralysed, is
very characteristic. After that your tongue refuses to obey you. The sick
man articulates his words carefully, then gives it up in some confusion when
he sees that nothing comes of it.
Wednesday, July 22. At three o'clock we started out for Cape Flora. My
thoughts again were with Captain Tatarinov. I have no further doubt now that
he was somewhat obsessed with this new land we had discovered. Lately he
kept reproaching himself for not having sent out a party to explore it. He
spoke about it also in Ms farewell speech to us. I shall never forget that
leavetaking. That pale, inspired face with its inward look! How different
from that once ruddy-faced, cheerful man with his fund of yarns and funny
stories, the idol of his crew, a man who always came to his task, however
difficult, with a joke on his lips! Nobody moved after his speech. He stood
there with closed eyes, as though nerving himself for the last word of
farewell. But instead of words, a low moan broke from his lips and tears
glistened in the corners of his eyes. He began jerkily, then continued more
calmly: "We all find it hard to say goodbye to friends with whom we have
lived through two years of struggle and work. But we must remember that,
although the expedition's main task has not been accomplished, we have done
a good deal. By the labours of Russian men, some very important pages have
been written in the history of the North, and Russia can be proud of them.
It is up to us to show ourselves worthy successors of the Russian explorers
of the North. And if we perish, our discovery must not perish with us. So
let our friends report that through the efforts of our expedition an
extensive territory, which we have named Maria Land, has been added to
Russia." He stopped, then embraced each of us in turn and said: "I want to
say to you not 'goodbye', but 'till we meet again'."
Thursday, July 30. There are only eight of us left now-four in the
kayaks and four somewhere on Alexandra Land.
Saturday, August 1. This is what happened today: we were within two or
three miles of Cape Flora when a strong Northeaster rose, which quickly
built up to gale force and whipped up a heavy swell. Before we knew it we
lost the second kayak in the mist, the one with Dunayev and Korolkov in it.
It was impossible to battle against the wind and current in this swell, so
we sought the protection on one of the larger icebergs, climbed up it and
dragged our kayak on to it. We planted a mast at the top of the iceberg and
hoisted a flag in the hope that Dunayev would see it and follow our example.
It was pretty cold, and, being rather tired, we decided to get some sleep.
We put on our parkas and lay down on the top of the iceberg head-to-toe, so
that Maxim's feet were in my parka, behind my back, and my feet were in
Maxim's parka, behind his back. We slept soundly for some 7 or 8 hours. Our
awakening was frightful. We were wakened by a terrific crash and found
ourselves hurtling down. The next moment our improvised double sleeping-bag
was full of water; we were submerged and making desperate efforts to get out
of this treacherous bag by trying to kick each other away. We were like cats
thrown into the water to be drowned. I don't remember how many seconds we
threshed about in the water, but it seemed a dreadfully long time to me.
Together with thoughts of rescue and death, a kaleidoscope of scenes from
our voyage whirled through my head-the death of Morev, Nils and the four who
had set out on foot. Now it was our turn and nobody would ever know what had
happened to us. At that moment my feet found Maxim's and we kicked each
other free. The next moment found us standing drenched to the skin on the
under-water foot of the iceberg, fishing out of the water our boots, caps,
blanket and mittens which were floating round us in the water. Our parkas
were so heavy that we had to lift each one out together, and the blanket
sank before we could get to it. I cudgelled my brain what to do now. We
would surely freeze to death! As if in answer to our question, our kayak
dropped down into the water from the top of the iceberg: either the wind had
blown it down or the ice had given way under it as it had under us. Now we
knew what to do. We wrung out our socks and jackets, and put them on again,
threw everything we had left into the kayak, got in and started paddling
away. My God, how furiously we worked those paddles! It was this, I think,
that saved us. In about six hours we approached Cape Flora...
Among the earlier entries made soon after the navigating officer had
left the ship, I found an interesting chart. It had an old-fashioned look
about it, and I thought it resembled the chart that was appended to Nansen's
account of the voyage of the Fram.
But what surprised me was this: there was a chart of the drift of the
St. Maria from October 1912 to April 1914, and the drift was shown as having
taken place in the area of what was known as Peter-mann's Land. Who nowadays
does not know that this land does not exist? But who knows that this fact
was first established by Captain Tatarinov in the schooner St. Maria'.
What then did he accomplish, this Captain, whose name appears in no
book of geography? He discovered Severnaya Zemlya and proved that
Petermann's Land does not exist. He changed the map of the Arctic, yet he
considered his expedition a failure.
But the most important thing was this: reading the diary for the fifth,
sixth and seventh time from my own copy (with nothing now to interfere with
the actual process of reading), my attention was drawn to the entries
dealing with the Captain's attitude to this discovery:
"Lately he kept reproaching himself for not having sent out a party to
explore it" (i.e. Severnaya Zemlya).
"If we perish, our discovery must not perish with us. So let our
friends report that through the efforts of our expedition an extensive
territory, which we have named Maria Land, has been added to Russia."
"Should desperate circumstances compel me to abandon ship I shall make
for the land which we have discovered."
And the navigating officer called this idea childish and foolhardy.
Childish and foolhardy! The Captain's last letter which Aunt Dasha once
read to me contained those two words.
"Willy-nilly, we had to abandon our original plan of making Vladivostok
along the coast of Siberia. But this proved to be a blessing in disguise. It
had given me quite a new idea. I hope it does not strike you, as it does
some of my companions, as childish and foolhardy."
The page had ended with those words and the next sheet was missing. Now
I knew what that idea was: he wanted to leave ship and head for that land.
The expedition, which had been the principal aim of his life, had been a
failure. He could not return home "empty-handed". His one desire was to
reach that land, and it was clear to me that if any trace of the expedition
were to be found anywhere, then it was in that land that it had to be
sought.
Would I ever find out what had happened to this man, who had entrusted
me, as it were, with the task of telling the story of his life and death?
Had he left the ship to explore the land he had discovered, or had he died
from hunger along with his men, leaving his schooner, icebound off the coast
of Yamal, to drift for years along Nansen's route to Greenland with a dead
crew? Or, one cold stormy night, when stars, moon and Northern Lights were
blotted out, had the ship been crushed in the ice, her masts, topmasts and
yards crushing to the deck, killing the men there, while the hull groaned
and creaked in its death throes, and in some two hours the blizzard had
cloaked the scene of the disaster in snow?
Or were men from the St. Maria still alive somewhere, on some Arctic
desert island, men who could tell the story of the ship's fate and the fate
of her Captain? Had not six Russian sailors lived for several years in an
uninhabited corner of Spitzbergen, hunting bears and seals, eating their
flesh, wearing their skins and using them to cover the floor of their hut,
which they had built from ice and snow?
But how could they? Twenty years had passed since that "childish",
"foolhardy" idea of abandoning ship and striking out for Maria Land had been
voiced. Had they made for this land? Had they reached it?
CHAPTER EIGHT
"/ THINK WE HAVE MET"
Volodya, the doctor's son, called for me at seven in the morning. Half
awake, I heard him down below scolding his dogs Buska and Toga. We had
arranged the day before to visit the local fur-breeding farm and he had
suggested making the trip by dog-sledge.
When we had settled in the sledge he shouted briskly, like your true
Nenets, "mush, mush!", and the dogs started off at a spanking speed. The
snow dust struck my face, stinging my eyes and taking my breath away. When
the sledge bounced over a snowdrift I clutched Volodya, who looked round in
surprise. I let go of him and started to bounce up and down in my straps,
which, I thought, were not drawn tight enough.
Woosh! Without warning the dogs stopped dead in their tracks, all but
catapulting me out of the sledge. Nothing alarming. It appeared that we had
to turn off here, and Volodya had stopped the dogs to change direction. His
dogs had one fault-they couldn't take a turning on the run.
We continued down the new track and after a while the dogs spurted
forward and began to bark. Hark!-what was that? All of a sudden, as if in
answer to the dogs a chorus of barks came from behind a clump of trees,
first remote, then nearer and nearer. It was a long-drawn-out, wild,
confused barking, which sent a chill up your spine.
"Volodya, why are there so many dogs here?"
"They're not dogs, they're foxes."
"Why do they bark?"
"They're cannies!" Volodya shouted over his shoulder. "They bark!"
I had, of course, seen ordinary foxes, but Volodya explained that this
farm was breeding silvery-black foxes, and this was something quite
different. There were no foxes like it anywhere else in the world. A
white-tipped tail was considered beautiful, but here they were trying to
breed a fox without a single white hair.
In short, he really got me interested, and I was very annoyed when,
some fifteen minutes later, we arrived at the farm gate to find a watchman
there with a rifle slung over his shoulder who told us that the farm was not
open for inspection.
"What is it open for?"
"For scientific work," said the watchman.
"Could we see the director?"
"The director is out."
"Who's in charge?"
"The Senior Research Associate," the watchman said impressively.
"Ah, that's the man we want."
I left Volodya at the gate and went in search of the S.R.A. Obviously
not many people came to the farm, for only a single narrow track ran through
the snow-covered courtyard to the house which the watchman had pointed out
to me. After shaking the snow off my boots I opened the door and found
myself in a large low-ceilinged room which led into another larger room
where a man was sitting at a desk. He got up on seeing me. He looked at me
in a way that was very familiar and reminded me of Valya Zhukov. The same
amiable, slightly mad expression. He even had the same dark down on his
cheeks, only thicker and blacker. Could this be Valya? I voiced the thought:
"Valya! Is that you?"
"What?" he said in a bewildered way, cocking his head to one side as
Valya used to do.
"Valya, you sonofagun!" I said, my heart giving an enormous bound.
"What's the matter? Don't you recognise me?"
He smiled vaguely and gave me his hand.
"Why, yes," he said in an artificial tone. "I think we have met."
"Think? You think we have met!"
I grabbed his arm and dragged him to the window.
"Look, you cow!"
He looked and gave a vague little laugh.
"Dammit, don't you recognise me?" I said with amazement.
He blinked. Then the vagueness left his face, leaving a real, true
Valya which you could confuse with no one else in the world.
"Sanya!" he yelled with a gasp. "Is that you?"
We embraced and started off arm in arm. In the doorway he kissed me
again.
"So it's you? Ã11 bejiggered! When did you arrive?"
"I didn't arrive, I live here."
"What d'you mean?"
"What I say. I've been here six months."
"No, really?" Valya muttered. "But of course, I'm seldom in town, or I
might have run into you. H'm... Six months!"
He led me into another room, which looked much the same as the one we
had just left, except that it had a bed in it and a gun hanging on the wall.
The other room was his study and this was his bedroom. Somewhere nearby
there was a laboratory, judging by the stink in the house. It struck me as
funny how this animal smell went with Valya, with his absent-looking eyes,
his shock of hair and that down on his cheeks. Valya had always carried the
smell of some animal around with him.
I reminded myself that I had left Volodya at the gate, and Valya sent a
junior research associate for him. This junior, by the way, was some thirty
years older than Valya, an imposing bearded figure with a queer thin nose.
Apparently, he had made an impression on Volodya, because they did not come
in until half an hour later, chatting in a friendly fashion, and Volodya
announced that Pavel Petrovich-that was the man's name-had promised to show
him the fox kitchen.
"And even treat him to a fox dinner," said Pavel Petrovich.
"Show him the 'jungle'," Valya said.
Volodya flushed and held his breath when he heard the word. Jungle-it
sounded so thrilling.
They went out, leaving Valya and me alone together. We started
reminiscing about Korablev and the boys. After a while Valya reminded
himself that the fox cubs had to be given their medicine.
"Have somebody give it to them."
"No, I've got to do that myself," Valya said. "It's Vigantol, for
rickets. You wait here, I won't be long."
I did not want to part from him and we went off together.
CHAPTER NINE GOOD NIGHT!
Valya persuaded me to stay the night, and we telephoned the doctor to
say that Volodya would be returning home by himself.
We took a walk in the woods, then went back to Valya's room and had a
drink together. He told me that he had seldom left the farm during the last
six months. He was engaged in interesting work-examining the stomachs of
sables in order to discover what they ate. He had several stomachs of his
own, from the farm and some two hundred or so presented to him by some
animal reservation. And he had discovered a very interesting thing: that
when hunting small furbearers it was important to spare the ground squirrel,
and this was the sable's staple diet.
I listened to him in silence. We were quite alone, in an empty house,
and the room was absolutely bare-the big, comfortless room of a lonely man.
"Yes, that's interesting," I said, when Valya had finished. "So the
sable needs ground squirrels to live on? Well, well! And d'you know what you
need most of all? What you're badly in need of? A wife!"
Valya blinked, then laughed.
"What makes you think that?" he said irresolutely.
"Because you live like a dog. And d'you know what kind of wife you
need? One who'd bring you sandwiches in your lab and wouldn't be demanding
on your attention."
"I don't know," Valya muttered. "I'll marry eventually I suppose. When
I'm through with my thesis I'll be quite free. I'll soon be going back to
Moscow, you know. What about you?"
"What about me?"
"Why don't you marry?"
After a pause, I said: "Oh, it's different with me. I lead a different
life-here today and at the other end of the earth tomorrow. I can't marry."
"No, you ought to marry too," Valya retorted , then, struck by a sudden
thought, he added: "I say, do you remember coming to see me at the Zoo with
Katya, who brought a friend along? What was her name? A tall girl with
plaits."
His face assumed such a gentle, childish expression that I could not
help laughing.
"Yes, of course. Kiren! Good-looking, isn't she?"
"Very," said Valya. "Very."
He wanted to give me his bed, but I preferred a shakedown on the floor.
There were plenty of cots in the house, but I had always liked sleeping on
the floor.
I did not feel like sleeping that night. We talked about everything
under the sun, then harked back to the subject of Korablev.
"You know." Valya said, "I may be wrong, of course, but I have an idea
that he was a little in love with Maria Vasilievna. Don't you think so?"
"Maybe."
"Because a very odd thing happened. One day, when I called to see him,
I saw her portrait on his desk. I asked him something, because I happened to
be going to Tatarinovs the next day, and he suddenly started talking about
her. Then he fell silent, and he had such a look on his face ... I decided
there was something wrong there."
"You don't say so?" I said with annoyance. "What the hell-you must be
living up in the clouds. A little in love! Why, he couldn't live without
her! And all this was going on right under your nose. But you were busy with
your snakes then!"
"No, really? Poor devil!"
"Poor devil's right."
After a pause I asked:
"Were you often at the Tatarinovs?"
"Not very often. About three times."
"How are they getting on?"
Valya rose on his elbow. He seemed to be trying to see my face in the
dark, though I had spoken quite calmly.
"They're all right. Nikolai Antonich is a professor now."
"Is that so! What does he read?"
"Pedology," Valya said. "And a highly respected professor, I'd haVe you
know. As a matter of fact..."
"As a matter of fact what?"
"I think you were mistaken about him."
"Do you?"
"Yes," Valya said with conviction. "You were wrong about him. Just look
how he treats his pupils, for instance. Why, he's ready to go through fire
and water for them. Romashov told me that last year-"
"Romashov? Where does he come in?"
"What d'you mean? It was he who took me to the Tatarinovs."
"How does he come to be there?"
"He's Nikolai Antonich's assistant. He's there every day. He's an
intimate friend of the family."
"Wait a minute, what are you talking about? I don't understand. You
mean Romashka?"
"Yes, of course," said Valya. "Only nobody calls him that now. By the
way, I believe he's going to marry Katya."
I felt a sudden stab through the heart and sat up. Valya sat up, too,
and stared at me blankly.
"What's the matter?" he asked. "Oh, of course. Damn it. I'd quite
forgotten!"
He muttered something, then looked around with an air of bewilderment
and got out of his bed.
"Well, not exactly going to marry-"
"Finish what you were going to say," I said quite calmly.
"What d'you mean 'finish'?" Valya stammered. "I didn't say anything. It
was just my idea, it doesn't mean anything. I get funny ideas sometimes, you
know."
"Valya!"
"I don't know anything!" Valya said in desperation. "It's only an idea.
I get some crazy ideas sometimes. You don't have to believe me!"
"You have an idea that Romashov is going to marry Katya?"
"Hell, no! I tell you, no! Nothing of the sort! He started to dress up,
that's all."
"Valya!"
"I swear I don't know anything more."
"Has he talked to you about it?"
"Well, yes. He told me he'd been saving up money since he was thirteen
and had now taken and spent it all in six months. Has that got anything to
do with it, you think?"
I was no longer listening to him. I lay on the floor, staring out at
the sky, and it seemed to me that I was lying in some deep abyss and the
whole world was humming and talking above me, while I was lying all alone
with nobody to say a word to. The sky was still dark and the stars still
visible, but already a faint, distant light was hovering over the earth, and
I was thinking-here we had spent the whole night talking and this is where
it has led us!
"Good night!"
"Good night!" I answered mechanically.
I wished now I had left with Volodya. A choking sensation came into my
throat and I felt like getting up and going out into the fresh air, but I
lay where I was, merely turning over onto my stomach with my face in my
hands. So that was that! Incredible though it was, I could not stop thinking
about it for a minute. The incredible thing about it was Romashka, for I
could not imagine him and Katya together. But what made me think she had not
forgotten me all this time? After all, we hadn't met for so many years.
Valya was asleep and my going out would probably have awakened him. But
I did not feel like talking to him any more, and so I remained lying on my
stomach, then on my back, then again on my stomach with my face in my hands.
Afterwards-it must have been round about seven-the telephone rang and
Valya jumped up, sleepy-eyed, and ran into the next room dragging the
blanket behind him.
"It's for you," he said, returning a moment later.
"Me?"
I threw my coat over my shoulders and went to the telephone.
"Sanya!" It was the doctor speaking. "Where've you disappeared to? I'm
phoning from the Executive Committee office. I'm handing over the receiver."
"Comrade Grigoriev," said another voice. It was the Zapolarie police
chief. "An urgent matter. You have to fly to Camp Vanokan with Doctor
Pavlov. Do you know Ledkov?"
Did I know him! He was a member of the regional Executive Committee and
one of the most respected men in the North country. Everyone knew him.
"He's wounded and needs urgent medical aid. When can you fly out?"
"Within an hour," I said.
"And you, doctor?"
I did not catch the doctor's answer.
"Instruments all in order? Good. I'll see you in an hour's time then,
at the airfield."
CHAPTER TEN THE FLIGHT
These were the people aboard the plane on the morning of March 5th when
we took off and headed northeast: the doctor, anxious-looking, wearing dark
glasses, which changed his appearance surprisingly, my air mechanic Luri,
one of the most popular men in Zapolarie or wherever else in the Arctic he
happened to appear for at least three or four days, and myself.
This was my fifteenth flight in the North, but my first flight to a
district where they had never seen a plane before. Camp Vanokan was a very
remote spot on one of the tributaries of the Pyasina. The doctor had been on
the Pyasina before and said it should not be difficult to find Vanokan.
A member of the E.C. had been wounded. It had happened while he was out
hunting-so it was believed. Anyway, I and the doctor had been asked to
ascertain in what circumstances this had happened. We should arrive at
Vanokan about three o'clock, before it grew dark. For an emergency, though,
we took with us provisions for three men to last thirty days, a
primus-stove, a flare gun with a supply of flares, a shotgun and cartridges,
spades, a tent and an axe.
As for the weather, all I knew was that it was fine at Zapolarie but
what it was like along our route I had no idea. There was no time to get a
report and no one to give it.
And so all was in order when we took off from Zapolarie and headed
northeast. All was in order, and I was no longer thinking about what I had
heard from Valya the night before. Below me I could see the Yenisei-a broad,
white band between white banks, along which ran a forest, now closing in,
now drawing back. I had a slight headache after that sleepless night and
sometimes there was a ringing in my ears, but only in my ears, for the
engine was working splendidly.
After a while I left the line of the river, and the tundra began-a
level, endless, snowy plain unrelieved by a single black dot, nothing
whatever to catch the eye...
Why had I been so sure that this could never happen? I should have
written to her when she sent me her regards through Sanya. But I had not
wanted to make any advances to her until I had proved that I was blameless.
You must never be too sure of a woman's love, however. Sure of her loving
you in spite of everything.
Snow, snow, snow, wherever you looked. There were clouds ahead, and I
climbed and drove into them. Better to fly blind than have this endless,
dismal, white waste under you which distorted perspective.
I bore Romashka no particular malice, though if he had been here at the
moment I should probably have killed him. I bore him no malice, simply
because it was impossible to associate that man with Katya, that man with
the scruffy thatch on his head and the flaming ears, who had decided at the
age of thirteen to get rich and was always saving and counting his money.
His wanting to marry her was just as senseless as his wanting, say, to
suddenly become a different person other than himself, someone with Katya's
candour and beauty.
We passed through the cloud-bank and entered another, beyond which snow
was falling. The snow glittered somewhere down below under the sun, which
was hidden from us by clouds.
My feet had begun to grow chilled and I regretted that I had put on a
pair of fur boots which were a little too tight on me. I should have put on
larger ones.
So my mind was made up-1 was going to Moscow. I would have to let her
know I was coming, though. I must write her a letter, a letter that she
would read and never forget.
We emerged from the layer of dark clouds, and the sun, as always
happens when you emerge, seemed brighter than ever-but I still could not
decide whether to begin my letter simply with "Katya" or "Dear Katya".
There were the mountains. They rested on the clouds, lit up by the sun,
some bare, others covered with dazzling snow. Through the rare rifts in the
clouds gorges could be seen, long picturesque gorges, spelling certain death
in the event of a forced landing. I could not help thinking of this, then I
went on composing my letter, continuing this until I was compelled to give
my attention to other, more urgent matters.
There did not se