few  minutes later, carrying a  rather  large box with
bright  lacquered  pictures  pasted  all over  it. It  was a box of the best
rahat-lakoum.
     "Where did you get that?" Father asked severely.
     "I bought it," Pavlik answered with bravado.
     "What with?"
     "I had a piastre and a half."
     "Where did you get the money?"
     "I won it!" Pavlik said proudly.
     "What do you mean, you won it? Where? When? From whom?"
     And so the whole story  came out. While  Father had  been busy studying
the planning  of their travels and balancing expenses, while  Petya had been
spending his time  on deck, Pavlik  had made friends with the Italian waiter
and  had been  introduced to  the society  of  the  second-class  restaurant
personnel.  He had  played lotto  with them,  using the three  kopeks he had
found  in  his  pocket and  which the Italian waiter  changed  into  Turkish
currency. Pavlik had been lucky, he had won a few piastres. Vasily Petrovich
seized Pavlik by  the shoulders and began to shout and shake the life out of
him, heedless of the fact that  they  were in the middle of a large oriental
bazaar.
     "How dare  you gamble?  Wretch! How many times have I told  you that no
one  with  any  respect for himself plays  for  money!  And  with  ...  with
foreigners!"
     Pavlik was  feeling sick from the  sweets and began to howl-he did  not
share  his father's ideas about  gambling, especially since he  had been  so
lucky at it. Father was livid, there was no telling  how it would have ended
if the  guide had not suddenly looked at his gold-plated American watch with
four lids. They had just two hours left till sailing time.
     All they needed now was to  miss the boat! They  rushed to the pier and
jumped into the first wherry they saw without bothering to bargain  down the
price. Soon they were safely on board  the Palermo. She had finished loading
and had moved out into the harbour, ready to sail.
     The parting with their guide was a dramatic scene.  He had received his
fee  of  two lire,  but remained standing  in the  rocking  boat  on legs as
all-enduring  as  those  of an old wolf, watching Vasily  Petrovich land the
boys climb up the ladder. Then he began to ask for baksheesh.
     He  had always been very  eloquent, a necessary accomplishment  in  his
profession, but this time he outdid himself. He usually spoke three European
languages simultaneously, inserting  only the  essential  words  in Russian.
Now, however, he spoke mostly in Russian, inserting French phrases from time
to  time.  His  speech  sounded  something  like  a  monologue  out  of  the
pseudo-classical tragedies of Racine and Corneille.
     The language was obscure, the meaning clear.  Extending his hand, which
was covered with copper rings glittering with paste  diamonds,  and speaking
as  passionately as when he  described the wonders of the city, he told them
of his poverty-stricken family, burdened by a paralysed grandmother and four
small  children  who  had  neither  milk  nor  clothing.  He  complained  of
approaching old age, of his trouble with the police  who fleeced him of most
of his earnings, of a  chronic ulcer, of unbearable taxes,  of the cutthroat
competition. He begged them to take pity on an aged, penniless  Turk who had
dedicated his whole life to tourists. His thick greying eyebrows raised, his
face took on a tragic expression, and the tears streamed down his cheeks.
     All this  could have  passed  for charlatanry, pure and simple, were it
not for the genuine human suffering in his frightened brown  eyes. Unable to
withstand his pleading, Vasily  Petrovich took the last  Turkish coins  from
his pockets and poured them into the guide's outstretched hand.


        CHICKEN BROTH


     It was nearly evening, and one could  sense  the slowly gathering storm
in the motionless  air, heavy from the  heat of the day.  The storm was  not
approaching from any definite direction, it seemed to  be materializing  out
of nothing over the amphitheatre of the city, over the mosques and minarets.
By  the  time  the  heavy,  grating  anchor chain  crawled  upward, and  the
overloaded  ship,  sunk deeper  than  its  water-line,  began slowly to turn
round, the sun had disappeared in the storm clouds. It was so dark that they
had to  turn on  the  lights. Hot smells of cooking and engines escaped from
the  hatches.  The sight  of the now  colourless city heightened  the stormy
green of the Golden Horn.
     The ship's  engines  were snorting heavily and laboriously. The surface
of the  water seemed as flat as a sheet of glass, yet the ship began to rock
slightly.
     Pavlik  had just  finished^  the last  piece of  rahat-lakoum,  thickly
coated with powdery  sugar. He all but  choked on it; it  tasted doughy, and
was gummy and sticky. Suddenly he felt an  acid metallic after-taste in  his
mouth. His jaws contracted spasmodically. The  greenness of  the clear water
reminded  him of the rahat-lakoum and he shut his eyes tight. But the moment
he  did so, he  felt he was flying up and down on a swing. With great effort
he tried to say, "Daddy, I'm sick," but he was overtaken by vomiting.
     At that  instant  a  jagged  flash of lightning  pierced the coal-black
clouds over  the  crescent of St. Sophia's and the  surrounding minarets. It
was followed by a crack that  seemed to split the sky in two and poured  the
shattered fragments down upon the city  and harbour. A whirlwind whipped  up
columns  of dust on  the  hills. The water foamed.  When  they cleared Serai
Burna and entered  the Sea of  Marmara, that is,  the Marble Sea, its shoppy
surface did indeed resemble the colour pattern of marble.
     Petya missed the storm in the Sea of Marmara, for he,  too, fell victim
to Pavlik's malady. The two of them, white as chalk, lay prone in the stuffy
cabin. Father rushed from one to  the other, not knowing what to do. But the
Italian stewardess, with long-practiced  efficiency,  ran  up  and  down the
corridor, providing the afflicted with basins.
     There was more to it than  the  rocking of  the vessel and  the Eastern
sweets. The boys, overtired, were feeling  the effects  of the rushing about
in the heat, the noise  of the streets, and the mass of new impressions. The
seasickness soon passed, but  they  were feverish and delirious.  The ship's
doctor  examined them  thoroughly,  in  the  traditional  manner of the  old
European doctors: he pressed their tongues down  with the handle of a silver
spoon  borrowed from  the first-class dining-room; his  strong,  experienced
fingers   kneaded  their  bare  stomachs;  he  tapped  them  with  a  little
rubber-tipped  hammer; he listened  to their breathing through a stethoscope
and  without it, by placing his large, fleshy  ear to their bodies; he  felt
their pulse, keeping his eyes on his  large gold  watch,  the lid  of  which
reflected  the  round porthole and the  water rushing past it; he  joked  in
Latin with an alarmed Rather, trying to cheer him. He said there was nothing
seriously  wrong, that they should stay in bed for  three days; he gave them
laxative  powders  and  left  graciously,  after prescribing  chicken broth,
toast, and a light omelette.
     His last  words gravely upset  Vasily  Petrovich,  because  experienced
travellers in Odessa had  warned  him never  to  request anything  from  the
ship's dining-room that was not on the menu, because:  "You don't know those
thieves: they'll rob you,  that's how they  make their money; they'll charge
you for the  service,  the  bread,  la  ten per-cent tip, and God knows what
else, and before you know where you are, you'll have nothing left."
     Although  mortified  by  the prospect,  Vasily  Petrovich  nevertheless
struggled  with  his  dictionary and  in broken Italian ordered two bowls of
chicken broth with toast and two omelettes, a la carte.
     And to the boys missed the Dardanelles and Salonika, as well as the Sea
of  Marmara. Only the  noises  of the  port,  mingled with the confusion  of
Greek,  Turkish, and  Italian  voices, reached  them  through  the half-open
porthole.


        THE ACROPOLIS


     They were sailing south through the Gulf of Salonika, with the open sea
on  the left and  barren shores on the  right.  The coast gave way  to hills
which rose gradually until they became a  mountain range. A single peak rose
above the range, and  a bank of motionless fluffy clouds hung over the peak.
There  was something enchanting about the lone mountain  and the clouds that
threw  blue shadows on it. The passengers trained  their binoculars on it as
if they expected to see a miracle performed there before their very eyes.
     Father, pressing his  red  Baedeker  to  his  breast with  one hand and
holding his binoculars in the other, was also peering at the magic mountain.
When Petya came up, he turned towards his son eagerly. His eyes shining with
excitement, he  placed  Mother's  little  mother-of-pearl  opera-glasses  in
Petya's hand and said:
     "Look, Mount Olympus!"
     Petya did not get the import of his words.
     "What?"
     "Olympus!" Vasily Petrovich  repeated triumphantly. Petya  decided that
Father was joking, and laughed.
     "You're not serious?"
     "I told you it's Olympus!"
     "Which Olympus? Mount Olympus?"
     "Do you know of any other?"
     And  Petya  suddenly realized that the land that was  now so close  was
none other than ancient Pieria,  and that this mountain was Homer's Olympus,
the home of the Greek gods whom Petya knew so well from his ancient history.
     Maybe the gods were still there? Petya lifted Mother's opera-glasses to
his eyes,  but,  unfortunately,  they  were too weak  to  magnify the sacred
mountain. All he could make  out was a flock of sheep moving up a slope like
the shadow of a cloud and  the erect  figure of  the shepherd  surrounded by
dogs. He was certain, however, that he could see the gods quite clearly. One
of the clouds  resembled  the reclining Zeus, another, flying  in  a flowing
garment  like  Athena, was in  all probability  rushing to help  Achilles at
Troy.
     The previous summer Vasily Petrovich,  anxious to broaden  the horizons
of his sons, had  read them the Iliad from cover to cover, so that Petya now
had  no  trouble at all singling out the flying Athena.  However, that meant
that Troy, too, must be somewhere nearby.
     "Daddy, where's Troy? Shall we see it?" Petya asked breathlessly.
     "Alas, my boy," Father said, "we've left Troy far behind. It's near the
Dardanelles, and you won't see it now." Then he added reproachfully, hinting
at the sad  affair  of  the Eastern  sweets, "Thus Fate punishes  Greed  and
Gluttony."
     His words, undoubtedly, were just. Still, Petya  thought Fate  had been
too cruel  in depriving  them of the  delight of seeing Troy  with their own
eyes-and all because of that awful rahat-lakoum.
     In  order not to set Petya too strongly against Fate, Vasily  Petrovich
hastened to add that they would not have been able to see Troy from the ship
anyway, and peace between the boy and Fate was restored.
     Two  days later, when Petya saw Athens, he was more  than  rewarded for
having missed seeing Troy.
     The barren rocky  mountains  of  Euboea, longest of the  Greek islands,
stretched for  many  weary miles. At last they left  the island behind. That
night they sailed  through straits and saw lighthouses along the shore.  The
ship  changed speed  several times and swung  round. It  was late when  they
finally  fell asleep, and next morning when they awoke the ship was anchored
in Piraeus harbour, in full sight of Athens.
     This time Vasily Petrovich was determined to do without the services of
a guide.
     The  Greek guides  differed  from  the Turkish  in that they  had amber
rosaries in their hands, were  shorter, and  wore small black fezzes without
tassels  instead of red ones with  black tassels. Unlike the warlike Moslems
they  did not make a frontal assault  on the tourists, cursing and shouting;
instead,  they surrounded  them  silently  like humble  Christians and their
endurance usually won out. When Vasily Petrovich found himself in the centre
of a tight circle of guides fingering amber rosaries and looking at him with
quiet, gentle, olive-black eyes, he did not feel at all intimidated.
     "Nyet!"  he  said  vehemently in  Russian,  and  then,  to  sound  more
convincing, he added in French and in German, "Non!  Nein!" At the same time
his arm sliced through the air so swiftly in a gesture of refusal that Petya
thought he heard the air whistle.
     None of this, however,  made any impression  on  the guides. They  kept
their  ground,  fingering  their  rosaries,   their  large  noses   drooping
forlornly. Vasily Petrovich took his  boys  firmly  in tow and forged ahead.
The guides too moved on and did not let them out of the circle.
     Vasily Petrovich ignored them. He  strode  down the  streets of Piraeus
with the confidence of a native. It was not for nothing  that he  had  spent
the past  few days in his cabin, unmindful of the sea breezes, poring over a
guide-book to Piraeus and Athens.
     The startled  guides made a timid attempt to  hustle the Bachei  family
into one of  the large, dilapidated carriages that trailed their  footsteps;
Pavlik yelled, "Go away!" as loud as he could, causing the guides to retreat
somewhat. But the magic circle remained intact.
     They reached the railway  station without  having  once lost their way,
bought tickets, and departed for Athens under  the  noses of the dumbfounded
guides who crowded  the  platform. Athens turned out  to be a stone's  throw
away.  When they arrived there, they made their way to another station  just
as silently  and as resolutely as  before, and set out immediately  for  the
ancient city in a suburban train with open carriages.
     Excited  by  the  battle  with  the  guides,  their  victory,  and  the
possibility of renewed attacks, they  had not been paying much attention  to
their surroundings. However, when they  reached the  mountain-top, which was
covered with  marble fragments,  and  suddenly  beheld  the  Acropolis:  the
Parthenon,  the  Propylaea,  the small temple of Wingless  Victory,  and the
Erechteion-all of which seemed to be a confused mass and yet was an ensemble
of heavenly unity-they gasped at the sheer beauty of the scene,  an art that
had been imitated time without number all over the world, becoming ever more
insignificant and trivial.
     Like all great monuments of architecture, they seemed at first sight to
be rather small and  exquisite, seen against the wild  expanse  of  sky,  so
clear and so blue that it made their heads swim.
     This was the realm of marble columns and  stairways,  yellowed by time,
alongside which the figures of the numerous tourists seemed dwarfed.
     Oh,  how Vasily Petrovich had dreamed  of seeing the Acropolis with his
own eyes, of touching the ancient stones! It had been the dream of his life.
He had visualized the day when  he would take his  children to the Parthenon
and  tell them of the  Golden Age of  Pericles  and of its genius, the great
Phidias.  Reality, however,  which was much cruder and simpler, added to the
majesty, so  much  so that  Vasily Petrovich was  unable to utter a word; he
stood in silence, stooping slightly under the impact of the scene that moved
him almost to tears.
     Petya  and Pavlik,  on the other hand,  were  not losing any time; they
scrambled up the slippery  pebbles towards the  Parthenon, wondering  why it
seemed so near and yet was  so  far. They helped each other  up, scaring the
lizards  as  they  climbed the weather-beaten  stairways, until  they  found
themselves  at last among the Doric columns, which seemed to  have  been put
together from gigantic marble millstones.
     The  noonday  sun  blinded  them, but they were  not aware  of the heat
because  there  was  a fresh  wind blowing from  the  Archipelago. The tiled
roof-tops of  Athens  glittered far below, blending with the landscape. They
could  see the port, the rows of ships, the forest  of masts about the roofs
of  the warehouses,  and out  in  the harbour,  sprinkled with  the  silvery
glitter  of sunshine,  was an English warship, emitting an  ominous cloud of
smoke.
     Still  further  down, on the opposite shore, away beyond the hills, was
the Gulf of Petalis,  and  they could see the azure strip  of water that was
more ancient than Hellas itself-the Gulf of Corinth.
     One could stand there silently till nightfall, feeling neither fatigue,
nor boredom,  nor anything earthly, nothing  but an awareness of the supreme
beauty created by man.


        THE NEW HAT


     But they  would have to hurry, for the ship sailed  at five, and Vasily
Petrovich  wanted  to  show  the boys  the Athens museums. Nothing, however,
could  add  to the  impression  made by the  Acropolis:  neither the  marble
statues of the  gods  and heroes, nor the earthen vessels  behind  the glass
show-cases, nor the Tanagra  statuettes, nor the amazing  amphorae and  flat
bowls adorned with red and white figures against a black background.
     Out once  more in the  narrow  streets of  the  Piraeus port,  with its
picturesque oriental atmosphere, but possessing nothing that the Bacheis had
not already seen in Constantinople, they decided to risk a cup  of coffee in
a Greek cafe.
     It  was cooler  inside. The cafe smelt of  boiling coffee, anise, roast
lamb,  and something else  that was so appetizing it made  the boys'  mouths
water. Vasily Petrovich  tried to calculate the cost of  a meal in drachmas,
land decided to order two portions  of a Greek dish for the three of them. A
kindly little Greek woman, with a pronounced moustache and dressed in black,
wiped  the marble  table-top  with a kitchen towel and set down a platter of
lamb stew with Greek sauce.
     It was  then, that they realized just  what could be done  with a small
amount  of  purple  egg-plants, red  tomatoes,  green  pepper, parsley,  and
genuine olive oil.
     While  they were busy polishing off the last traces of the  amber sauce
with pieces of  bread, the kindly proprietress stood stroking Pavlik's head.
Her dark-brown hand was adorned with an Athos signet-ring and  her  sad eyes
were full of maternal tenderness, as she said in broken Russian:
     "Eat, boy, eat!"
     When they  had finished, she cleared  the  table, wiped the marble  top
again, and retired modestly behind  the  counter, where a candle was burning
beneath an  icon and a palm  branch.  Her husband  now took  her  place.  He
brought in a tray with three small cups of steaming coffee, three glasses of
water, three saucers with Greek pastry, and three saucers of wild-orange jam
with  nuts. Besides all this,  he  asked Vasily Petrovich in  broken Russian
whether he  would care  for  a hookah,  an  offer which  was  rejected  with
considerable vehemence.
     It was cosy and homely in  the cafe. There  were lace  curtains on  the
windows, the walls were papered, and a canary warbled in a bamboo cage.
     There were other customers  in the  cafe,  but  they sat  around  their
tables so sedately  and unobtrusively  that they did not  in any way disturb
the tranquillity  of the  establishment. They had cups of coffee and glasses
of water before  them, but,  engrossed  in games of dominoes, telling  their
beads, or reading  newspapers, they hardly touched them; they were more like
relatives than chance customers. Even the portraits of the King and Queen of
Greece over the door leading  to the kitchen did  not  have an official look
about them, and could have passed for enlargements of Grandma and Grandpa on
their  wedding day. It  was  hard to believe that the marble temple  of  the
Parthenon which crowned the  summit of the nearby mountain had been built by
the  ancestors of  these  mild-looking Greeks  who were moving  the dominoes
across  the  marble table-tops and  sucking  the  snake-like  pipes of their
gurgling hookahs.
     While the  Bacheis  were  sipping  the strong  coffee,  the  proprietor
remained standing near their  table, entertaining  them in their own tongue.
His  sister, he told them, was married  to the  eldest  son of  Themistocles
Kriadi, the  owner of  a Greek bakery  in  Odessa, and he himself had  spent
three years  in Odessa as a boy.  His grandfather, who had  been a member of
the Hetaeria, a secret society,  had lived in Odessa for a while too, whence
he had returned to fight for the liberation  of Greece and had been executed
by the Turks.
     Apparently, he had taken Vasily  Petrovich for a Russian revolutionary,
forced to  flee abroad, and  so he made no bones about criticizing the state
of  affairs in Russia and the  Russian government; he  heaped abuse  on  the
tsar,  Nicholas  the  Bloody, and was certain  there  would soon be  another
revolution in Russia which would dethrone the  tyrants and bring freedom for
all.
     Vasily Petrovich felt uncomfortable and anxiously  looked round several
times,  but each  time  the proprietor  assured him that  all decent  Greeks
sympathized with  the Russian revolution, and that they would  soon  have  a
revolution -in Greece,  too, to get rid of the Turks  once and for all.  His
Russian  was  so  impossible  that  the boys  were  bursting with restrained
laughter.  Pavlik even  held  his  nose tight to  keep from giggling. Father
tapped the  marble table menacingly  with his wedding-ring  and  they calmed
down a bit.
     Street  vendors came in several times and offered the foreigners  their
wares.
     One  had long strings  of dried sponges hanging round  his neck and was
carrying a bowl of goldfish. The orange-red fish swam among wisps of seaweed
and were of such a brilliant  hue that the coffee shop was lighted up by  an
eerie glow and resembled a submarine kingdom.
     Another had dozens of pairs of hard  slippers with curled  pointed toes
and   streaming  pink  and  light-blue   gauze  scarves   which  immediately
transformed the cafe into a kind of Arabian Nights shop.
     This  impression was heightened by a  Syrian selling oriental rugs, and
when a man with long robes and copper-wares appeared on the threshold, there
could  be no doubt left that the Bachei  family  was now in Baghdad and that
the cafe proprietor was none other than Harun-al-Rashid in disguise.
     However,  the appearance of a seller  of Eastern  sweets, who laid  out
before  them  his bright lacquered boxes of halvah, rahat-lakoum, and dates,
so terrified the boys, and  especially Pavlik, who felt a menacing acid lump
in his throat, that the mirage vanished on the instant.
     Although Vasily  Petrovich had made up his mind not to buy anything, he
failed to resist the temptation, the only excuse Being that the purchase was
both inexpensive and essential. He bought Petya a wide-brimmed straw hat. It
did  not exactly go with  his naval cadet's outfit, but  he  could no longer
wear his warm sailor's cap.  Petya's  head  was dripping wet; sweat trickled
down  his  temples  and  his  neck.  His  cap  would  be  so  drenched  with
perspiration during the day that it would barely dry by morning.
     Petya was loath to  part with the cap which made him  look like the Boy
Captain.  He tried the new hat on in front of  the  fly-blown mirror and saw
that he now resembled a Boer. At any  rate, Boer generals wore the same kind
of wide-brimmed hats, although theirs were  felt, not straw. Petya had often
seen their pictures in old copies of the Niva, dating back to the  Boer War.
All he needed now was a carbine and bandolier.
     "You look just like a young Boer," Father said. That settled it.
     The young Boer strutted around in front of the mirror and  was eager to
parade on the streets in his new attire.
     Just then the  sound of a long boat whistle came  from the direction of
the  port. They  immediately  recognized  the deep Italian baritone  of  the
Palermo-they could pick it  in a thousand. And so, leaving a few drachmas on
the table, they rushed towards the pier.
     The Palermo  was already out in the  harbour.  Suddenly, Petya realized
that he  had forgotten his  old  cap in the coffee-house. He broke out  in a
cold sweat; without a word, he turned  round  and raced back. Neither Father
nor Pavlik noticed his absence at first.  It was all too apparent,  however,
when they were  getting  into  the boat.  That  which  Vasily  Petrovich had
dreaded above all was now a reality: one of the children was lost!
     Meanwhile,  Petya was  frantically  running  up  and  down the dockland
alleys looking  for the coffee-house.  But all  the side-streets were alike,
and there were so many coffeehouses on  each street that he soon realized he
was lost. He had lost all sense of direction and cursed  himself for  having
got so excited about the new hat as to forget the old one. In  every cafe he
saw  the  same  marble-topped  tables, portraits of the  King  and Queen  of
Greece, dominoes, steaming cups of coffee, gurgling hookahs,  papered walls,
lace curtains, little  moustached women  behind the counters under the icons
with  the palm branches and burning  candles, proprietors  absorbed in their
newspapers.
     Petva rushed  into passionate  explanations, switching from  Russian to
French, telling them he had lost his cap, but no one understood him, because
the Greeks knew  very little Russian,  and his French was pretty  bad. Petya
thought  of Near Mills,  of Terenty, and Sinichkin. The  picture  of  Gavrik
stuffing the  letter under the lining of the sailor's  cap  Uncle Fedya  had
made was so clear  in his memory. Now he knew that Uncle Fedya had  left the
seam open  on  purpose,  that  he,  Petya, had  been entrusted  with  a very
important mission. They  had relied on him,  and he had behaved like a vain,
foolish child who had imagined he looked like a Boer in his silly straw hat.
     He was so ashamed of himself and so upset that he was ready to cry.
     He hated the  new straw hat that was  bobbing up and down on an elastic
band on his back as  he darted  among the peddlers,  donkeys  with creels of
fruit, ice-cream vendors, and street barbers. The coffee-house he sought had
vanished into thin  air. His one thought  v/as  to find it, and there was no
telling how it would  have ended if  he had  not heard the Palermo blow  her
third and last whistle. He ran in the  direction  of the  sound and  finally
came  out  on  the  pier  where Father  was  explaining something  from  his
Self-Taught Greek handbook  to a port official in  a tunic and a hard-peaked
cap with purling.
     "There  he  is!  Thank  God!"  Vasily Petrovich shouted and  shook  his
handbook so  vigorously over his head that his pince-nez  fell off his  nose
and dangled on the black cord. "Dreadful child! How dare you! Where have you
been all this time?"
     "I forgot my cap,"  Petya  panted. "I looked everywhere for it. I don't
know where it is. I couldn't find our coffeehouse."
     "What!" Father screamed. "Because of a filthy, rotten cap!"
     "Daddy, it's not rotten!" Petya mumbled mournfully.
     "Rotten!" Father bellowed.
     "Oh, Daddy, you don't understand a thing!" Petya groaned.
     "I don't understand?" Father  said and his lower jaw and shaking  beard
jutted out as he grabbed the boy by the shoulders.
     He  began  to   shake   him,  shouting,  "I  don't  understand?   Don't
understand?" when the moustached Greek proprietress suddenly appeared on the
pier, carrying a small package.
     "Boy," she said, smiling sadly, "you  forget your  hat. Ai-ai-ai. It so
hot in Athens,  but in the  nights on the  vapora  in Archipelago you'll  be
cold, your little head gets cold. Here your hat."
     Petya  grabbed  his  cap.  It  was wrapped up  in  la back  copy  of  a
French-Language newspaper,  Le Messager  d'Athenes.  He  did not even get  a
chance to thank  the kind woman, as his  father  bundled him  into the boat,
which hurried them off to the ship. They reached it just as the sailors were
about to pull in the gangway.
     An  hour later the "vapora," as the kind  Greek  woman had  called  the
ship, was passing Aegina Island.  Athens had vanished in the  blur  of magic
colours of a Mediterranean sunset.
     Petya  saw  nothing  of it.  He was  busy  in  the cabin,  removing the
slightly creased  and sweat-soaked  letter from the  lining  of his cap  and
putting it in the inner  pocket of his Alpine rucksack. The  address  on the
envelope was in French:

     W. Oulianoff
     4. Rue Marie Rose
     Paris XIV.



        THE MEDITERRANEAN


     They were  a  long time rounding Greece, and finally they  cleared Cape
Malea.  The  last  of  the  islands, resembling a hunk  of  dry  bread,  was
swallowed  up by the purple swell of the Archipelago. For two days they were
out  of sight of land. The sun  rose and set, but the barren flatness of the
Mediterranean seemed motionless. The sea kept  changing colours: it was dark
blue at dawn, bright  blue at  noon, and copper-purple at  sunset, but there
was no hint of green in it, as in the Black Sea. They were already conscious
of  the nearness of Africa, that huge burning  continent,  and if it had not
been for the wind-true, a hot one, but tempered somewhat by the sea-it would
have been very hard to endure the intense, almost tropical, heat.
     The wind was chasing long rows  of waves along the Ionian Sea. The deck
rose and fell gently  enough to make the rolling of the ship  even pleasant.
The  engines  worked  steadily. From time to time stokers who  had  finished
their shifts would appear in the forecastle,  where  they would  douse  each
other with sea water from the  fire-pump. Petya had learned to tell the time
by  their appearance. But in point  of fact it was immaterial what  the time
was-time seemed just as motionless as  the ship in the  middle of  the  blue
expanse.
     Petya  roamed all over the Palermo. One of the strangest places was the
cattle-deck which housed a herd of cows. Petya felt that he was in a cowshed
as he walked down the narrow  passage-way  between  the rows of cows' tails.
The cows shifted their weight  lazily, making the manure ooze  through their
cloven hoofs. He was  glad to feel  the springy  layers of straw beneath his
feet instead of the hard deck planks. Part of the deck was taken up by bales
of pressed hay which  obscured the view of the sea. The hot sun beat down on
the hay, making it exude all its stored-up field smells.  Petya would pull a
dry, withered stalk  of  siage  or  burdock out of  the  solid mass,  rub it
between his palms, and smell the powdered leaves. Then he would think he was
somewhere in Bessarabia, in Budaki,  and not on board  a ship sailing in the
Mediterranean. It was strange and very pleasant.
     It was  fun to crawl past  the signal bell  to the very tip of the bow,
lie down on  the hot deck, cautiously stick his  head over the side and look
all the way down. A huge anchor arm protruded from the hawse-hole there, and
still farther below he could see the  ship's stem cut through the waves with
a sure constancy. Salt spray blew into  his face, he felt the metallic smell
of the deeply ploughed waves, and below the water-line he saw the bright red
of the keel shining through the boiling sapphire of the  water. This was the
one  spot  where  the  ship's  motion,  its  full  speed,  could  really  be
appreciated, making him as dizzy as if  he were  on a merry-go-round.  Petya
could have  watched  the rushing water for  hours  on end, listening  to the
strains  of a  mandolin played by Pieripo, one of the stokers,  a young  lad
with pearly flashing teeth and blue-black curly hair. After coming off watch
he  would sit astride the  anchor chain and pluck the  strings, evoking with
its gentle tinkling notes a foretaste of Italy.
     And then,  Italy lay  before  him. A  dim cone  loomed up  through  the
morning  mist. This was  Mount  Etna. It began to  grow taller and wider; la
strip of hilly country rose from the sea. They were approaching Sicily.
     The  nearer  they got to the shore, the gloomier did the land look.  It
was nothing like Petya's mental picture of Italy.
     They could see Catania quite  clearly on the  rocky slope. The port was
surrounded by hillsides of hardened black lava which descended to the water,
giving it its dark hue.
     Italy  had a  harsh  welcome for  the travellers:  there  was a sirocco
blowing. The Italians pronounced it "shirokko"; it was a dry, scorching wind
from  Africa. The mercury  reached 113°. Clouds of dust rolled along streets
that had been hacked out of the lava streams or paved with lava stones, just
as in Odessa. The sky was a dull  leaden yellow.  Mules  and horses with red
ear-muffs harnessed to  fancy carriages stood glumly on the square, and  the
wind blew the spray of a fountain and their dusty tails to one side.
     A  few  straggling pedestrians moved phlegmatically  along the  street.
Even the guides who  were sitting around  the fountain were too  listless to
come over to the tourists, and merely waved their picture postcards.
     They could hear the dry rustle of palm leaves, whipped by the wind. The
green-black leaves  of magnolia trees gleamed dully; the  paths were  strewn
with broken  branches and  huge  waxen flowers, dead  and speckled  with the
brown  of  decay;  shreds  of  grey  cobweb  fluttered  in  the laurels  and
stone-pines-all dominated by the shadow of Mount Etna.
     The  wisest thing would  have  been  to return to the  ship. But Vasily
Petrovich's  guide-book stated that the  city stood on  the site of  ancient
Catana  which,  except for the ruins of  its Forum, theatre, and some  other
early Roman architectural relics, had been buried in lava. He was determined
that the boys should see them.
     They doggedly climbed uphill  against the wind, exhausted land sweating
profusely, until at  last they beheld the ruins. By then,  however, the boys
were so tired that the sights meant nothing to them.
     They  by-passed  the museum.  They felt  that they had been roaming for
ages through the  streets  of the city, that in all likelihood the ship  had
finished unloading and taking on fresh cargo, and they could now resume  the
voyage.
     But the sirocco had slowed  work  down at the port; the cattle had just
been taken off,  and the Bacheis had to push  their way through the  herd to
get on board. The animals were too weary to moo; they only looked at Petya's
straw  hat through bleary eyes, while the sirocco tore  at  their tails  and
whistled around their horns.


        MESSINA


     Next  day the ship entered  the  Strait of Messina  and  dropped anchor
opposite the city of the same name. What a wonderful change it was! Here was
the picturesque Italy of  world-famous  water-colours and oleographs: a blue
sky, a still  bluer sea, white sails,  cliffs, and shores covered by  orange
and olive groves.
     From  the harbour,  Messina  looked  enticing and  beautiful, but Petya
suddenly felt there was something wrong in  the number of houses and the way
they were spaced. There seemed  to be fewer than there should have been. And
there were sinister  dead spaces between  them, hidden  amongst  the scraggy
underbrush.
     There was something  vaguely frightening  in the very name of the city.
Not until  they reached  the pier did  Petya  realize  half the city  was in
ruins.
     Then,  suddenly, he recalled the  words the whole world had  uttered in
terror  three  years  before: the Messina  earthquake. He himself had  often
repeated  those words,  without really  understanding them. He  had seen the
ruins  of  Byzantium, of ancient Greece, and of early Roman settlements, but
these had  been magnificent  stones, historical monuments, and no more; they
had fallen into a  state of  decay over  thousands of centuries.  They  were
truly astounding, but they did not wring the heart. Now, however, Petya  was
looking  at heaps of recent  debris  which, not so very  long ago,  had been
streets  of  houses.  The city had been destroyed and  tens of thousands  of
people had perished in a matter of minutes, and neither fortress towers, nor
marble columns, nor anything else remained as a reminder of the catastrophe.
A pitiful heap of rubbish,  bits of  walls  with shreds  of cheap  wallpaper
still  clinging to them, stucco laths, broken  glass and twisted  iron beds,
overgrown with  pea-trees  and nightshade, was all  that met the eye. It was
the first destroyed city  that Petya had ever  seen; and it was not a famous
ancient one from his history book-no, this was a very ordinary, rather small
modern Italian city, inhabited by very ordinary Italians.
     Years later,  when Petya,  a  grown man,  beheld  the  ghastly ruins of
European cities, he was still haunted by the ruins of Messina.
     It was the same depressing scene of abject poverty everywhere, although
partially concealed  by lush southern  vegetation and the  bright colours of
the Sicilian summer. Most of the inhabitants were still living  in temporary
shacks, tents, and huts thrown together from the debris. Multi-coloured rags
were drying on the clothes-lines. Goats  grazed on  the grass-grown  rubbish
heaps. Half-naked children with eyes as shiny as anthracite roamed the razed
streets  and poked  in the ruins, still  hoping to  find something of  value
there.
     The  little  shacks  on the  sites  of  former  shops  sold  postcards,
lemonade, coal, and olives.
     The Bacheis  walked  down the scorching streets of the half-dead  city,
surrounded  by fishermen, boatmen, and children.  They grabbed the tourists'
hands, smiled, looked into their faces, and  showered them with torrents  of
rapid  Italian. These people  were neither guides  nor  beggars, and it  was
impossible  to  understand what  they  wanted.  They patted Petya's sailor's
collar  and touched his  blue  blouse  excitedly repeating, "Marinaio russo,
marinaio russo!"
     Suddenly,  Vasily  Petrovich understood  what  it  was  all  about.  He
remembered that a Russian squadron had been anchored off Messina at the time
of  the earthquake  and that the sailors  had  selflessly  and  courageously
helped the people of  the doomed city.  Petya's regulation  naval blouse and
many other things about them told the people that the Bacheis were Russians,
and  they  were expressing their gratitude, especially to the little Russian
sailor.
     They  used strange words  but  understandable gestures to  describe the
terrible earthquake  and  the heroism of the  Russian sailors who had rushed
into the burning houses and  pulled the injured and the dying from under the
ruins.
     A grey-haired, ragged woman, carrying  a large earthen  pitcher, pushed
her way through the crowd and offered the Bacheis  a tray with three glasses
of cold water-aqua frescal-as her  only means of expressing her gratitude to
the Russians. Petya's heart swelled with pride, but he regretted that he was
not wearing  his sailor's cap and was sorrier still that it did not have the
St. George ribbon.
     "Grazie, Russo!" the Italians  repeated, shaking hands with  all three,
and this was quite understandable.
     There were other words spoken too:
     "Evviva la rivoluzione, evviva la republica russa!"
     Apparently, in the  eyes of the  Messina fishermen and  boatmen, Vasily
Petrovich's   dishevelled   beard,   his    steel-framed   pince-nez,    his
democratic-looking  Russian  shirt  and  tussore coat corresponded  to their
image of a Russian revolutionary,  a man illuminated by the far-off blaze of
1905, the undying glory of the barricades in Presnya  District in Moscow and
the mutiny on board the battleship Potemkin.
     That evening the Palermo weighed anchor,  passed  out  of the Strait of
Messina, entered the Tyrrhenian  Sea,  and  set  course for Naples, her home
port.



        PLINY THE YOUNGER



     The  stifling  night was  so black  that even  the stars  that  thickly
spangled the velvet  sky  did little  to  lighten  it. Were  it not  for the
shimmering,  snow-white  foam  down  below, the  slight  tilt  of  the  deck
underfoot, and the swishing sound of the waves racing  past, one would think
the ship was flying, not sailing.
     Petya  could not fall asleep that night, perhaps because it  was  their
last night aboard. He paced up and  down his  favourite walk, the  spar-deck
near the wheel-house. The sailor at the helm was as still as a statue. Petya
liked to  watch  him,  waiting for the mysterious, inexplicable moment when,
for no apparent reason, the helmsman would move his hands and turn the wheel
a little. It spun  around smoothly and silently; yet  immediately, somewhere
right beneath their feet, the engine  began to work; they heard sh