to find out. But Petya had been still away. The last time their cook, Dunya, said they would soon come. That was about five days ago. Perhaps they were already there. From the market Gavrik set out for Petya's. Luckily, it was not far away: Kulikovo Field and the corner of Kanatnaya, just opposite the railway station and next to the Army Staff building. It was a big four-storey house with two front entrances. And a wonderful house it was; if you wanted to live like a lord, you couldn't find a better. In the first place, it was just the thing for street fights because it had two gateways: one leading out to Kulikovo Field, or simply Kulichki, and the other to a marvellous vacant lot with bushes, tarantula holes, and a rubbish-heap; only a small rubbish-heap, true, but an exceptionally rich one. If you dug properly in it, you could always collect a mass of useful things-from chemist's vials to dead rats. Petya was lucky. It wasn't every chap had a refuse-heap like that next to his house! In the second place, little suburban trains drawn by a tiny engine ran past the house, so that you didn't have to go very far to put a cap or a stone under the wheels. In the third place, the Army Staff building was next door. Behind its high stone wall facing the field lay a mysterious world guarded day and night by sentries. Behind that wall were the rumbling machines of the Army Staff printing plant. And what interesting scraps of paper the wind carried over the wall: ribbons, strips, vermicelli! The windows of the staff clerks' quarters faced the field too. By standing on a rock one could look through the grating and see how the clerks lived, those extraordinarily handsome, important and dashing young men in the long trousers of officers but with the shoulder straps of privates. Gavrik had learned from reliable sources that the clerks belonged to the ordinary "lower ranks", that is to say, were plain soldiers. But what a world of difference between them and the soldiers! With the possible exception of the kvass vendors, the staff clerks were the most elegant, best-dressed and handsomest fellows in town. When they saw a clerk the chambermaids from the nearby houses turned pale and began to tremble and looked as though they would faint any minute. They mercilessly scorched their hair and temples with curling-irons, they dabbed their noses with tooth powder and they rouged their cheeks with toffee paper. But the clerks paid no attention to them. To any Odessa soldier a chambermaid was a superior and unapproachable being, but to a staff clerk she was no more than "a dull peasant" and not worthy of a glance. In their rooms behind the grating the staff clerks sat on iron beds softly strumming guitars; they were sad and lonely. They sat without their jackets, in long trousers with a broad red stitched belting, and clean shirts with black neckties such as officers wore. If a staff clerk appeared in the street of a Sunday evening, it was always arm in arm with two seamstresses wearing their hair puffed up high in front. Staff clerks were unbelievably rich. With his own eyes Gavrik once saw one of them riding in a droshky. But strange as it seemed, staff clerks belonged to the "lower ranks". At the corner of Pirogovskaya and Kulikovo Field Gavrik once saw, with his own eyes, a general in silver shoulder straps striking a clerk across the mouth and shouting in a voice that sent shivers down Gavrik's back, "Is that the way to stand, you dog? Is that the way?" The clerk stood stiffly at attention and rolled his head, his light-blue peasant eyes bulging like a common soldier's. "Sorry, Your Excellency!" he muttered. "I'll never do it again!" It was this dual position that made the staff clerks, such strange, wonderful and at the same time pathetic creatures, like fallen angels exiled as punishment from heaven to earth. The life of the ordinary sentries, whose quarters were next door to the staff clerks, was very interesting too. These soldiers also had two natures. One was when they stood in pairs, in full sentry uniform, with their cartridge belts, at the alabaster front entrance of the Army Staff building, springing smartly to attention and presenting arms the way sergeants did, that is, shifting their well-greased bayonets slightly to the side whenever an officer came in or went out. The other was a plain, domestic, peasant nature, when they sat in their barracks sewing on buttons, polishing their boots or playing draughts-"dames", as they called it. Bowls and wooden spoons were always drying on their windowsills, and there were many left-over pieces of black army bread which they readily gave to beggars. They readily talked to boys, too, but the questions they asked and the words they used made the boys blush to their ears and run away horrified. The two courtyards were asphalted and were just the place for playing hopscotch. Fine squares and numbers could be drawn on the asphalt with charcoal or chalk. The smooth sea pebbles slid across it wonderfully. If the janitor lost his temper at the hullabaloo raised by the playing children and went after them with his broom, there was nothing easier than running into the next courtyard. Besides, the house had wonderful and mysterious cellars with woodbins. It was simply marvellous to hide in those cellars among the firewood and various junk, in the dry, dusty darkness, while out in the yard it was bright daylight. In a word, the house where Petya lived was an excellent place in every respect. Gavrik entered the yard and stopped under the windows of Petya's flat, which was on the second storey. The yard, split diagonally by the distinct midday shadow, was absolutely empty. Not a boy in sight. Evidently they were all in the country or at the seaside. Shuttered windows. The hot, lazy stillness of noon. Not a sound. But from somewhere far away-perhaps even as far as Botanicheskaya Street-came the spluttering and popping noise of a red-hot frying pan. Judging by the smell, it was grey mullet being fried in sunflower oil. "Petya!" Gavrik called, his hands cupped round his mouth. Silence. "Pe-et-ya!" Closed shutters. "Pe-e-e-et-ya-a-a!!" The kitchen window opened and the white-kerchiefed head of Dunya, the cook, looked out. "They haven't come yet." It was the usual reply, spoken quickly. "When will they?" "We expect them this evening." The boy spat on the ground and rubbed the spittle with his foot. He was silent for a while. "Please, ma'am, as soon as he comes tell him Gavrik was here." "Yes, Your Honour." "Tell him I'll drop round tomorrow morning." "It'll be quite all right if you don't. Our Petya will be going to school this year. And that means good-bye to all your monkey-business." "Never mind," Gavrik muttered dourly. "Only don't forget to tell him. Will you?" "I'll tell him, don't cry." "Good-bye, ma'am." "Good-bye, you beauty." Dunya, it seemed, was so fed up with doing nothing all summer long that she had descended to an exchange of banter with a little ragamuffin. Gavrik hitched up his trousers and strolled out of the yard. A bad business! What next? He could, of course, go to his big brother Terenti at Near Mills. But in the first place, Near Mills was a long way off, and the walk there and back would take a good four hours. And in the second place, after the disturbances he didn't know whether Terenti would be at home or not. Quite likely he was in hiding somewhere or else had nothing to eat himself. What sense was there in wearing out his feet for nothing? They were his own, weren't they? The boy walked out on the field and looked in at the barracks windows as he passed by. The soldiers had just finished their midday meal and were rinsing their spoons on the windowsill. A pile of leftover bread was drying under the hot sun. The bread was black and spongy, with a chestnut-coloured crust that actually looked sour, and flies were crawling over it. Gavrik stopped near a window, entranced by the sight of such abundance. He was silent for a while, and then to his own surprise he blurted out roughly, "Give me some bread!" But he immediately remembered himself, picked up his tank and walked away. "I didn't mean it," he said, showing the soldiers his gap-toothed smile. "I don't want any." The soldiers crowded at the windowsill, calling and whistling to the boy. "Hi there! Where you running to? Come back!" They stretched out pieces of bread to him through the grating. "Take it. Don't be afraid." He stopped in indecision. "Hold out your shirt." There was so much good-natured gaiety in their shouts and in the fuss they were making that Gavrik saw there would be nothing humiliating about it if he did take some bread from them. He walked back and held out his shirt. Chunks of bread flew into it. "Won't do you any harm to try our army bread and get used to it!" In addition to about five pounds of bread, the soldiers gave Gavrik a good helping of yesterday's porridge. He stowed it all neatly into the fish tank, accompanied by earthy jokes about the effect of army rations on the stomach, set out for home to help Grandpa mend the line. Late that afternoon they put out to sea again. 15 THE BOAT AT SEA When he saw that the steamer did not stop and did not lower a boat, but continued on her course, the sailor calmed down a bit and began to think clearly. His first concern was to throw off some of his clothes; they interfered with his swimming. The jacket was water-logged and as heavy as iron, but it came off easiest of all. He did it in three movements, turning over several times and spitting out the bitter, salty sea water. For a while the jacket floated along after him with its sleeves spread out, like a living thing; it did not want to part from its master and tried to wind itself round his legs. After the sailor had kicked the jacket a few times it fell behind and slowly sank, swaying and dropping from layer to layer until it was lost in the depths to which the cloudy shafts of the late afternoon light faintly penetrated. The boots gave him the most trouble of all. They stuck as though filled with glue. He furiously scraped one foot against the other to throw off those coarse navy boots with the rust-coloured tops which had given him away. Paddling with his arms, he danced in the water; one minute his head went under, the next his shoulders reared up over the surface. But the boots would not yield. He filled his lungs with air and then, dropping his head under the surface, tugged at the slippery heel of one of the boots, mentally letting out a string of the vilest oaths and cursing everything under the sun. At last he pulled off that damned boot. The second came easier. However, the relief Rodion felt when he had got rid of his boots and trousers was accompanied by an overpowering weariness. The sea water, of which he had swallowed a good deal despite all his precautions, had set his throat afire. Besides, he had smacked the water painfully hard in his dive from the ship. The past two days he had had hardly any sleep, had walked about forty or fifty miles, and had been under great nervous strain. Now everything was going dark before his eyes. Or was that because evening was falling fast? The water had lost its daytime colour. The surface had become a bright, glossy heliotrope, while the depths were a frightening colour, almost black. From where he was, the sailor could not see the shore at all. The horizon had narrowed almost to nothingness. The edge of the cloudless sky was touched with a transparent green afterglow, and a faint, barely perceptible star twinkled in it. That showed where the shore was and which way he had to swim. All he now had on was his shirt and underdrawers, and these were no hindrance. But his head whirled, and the joints of his arms and legs ached. With every minute he found it harder to swim. At times he felt he was losing consciousness. At others he was on the verge of vomiting. Every now and then he was seized by a brief, sudden paroxysm of fear. His loneliness and the depth frightened him. Never before had he felt like that. He must be ill, he thought. His short wet hair seemed dry and hot and so coarse that he could almost feel it pricking his head. There was not a soul in sight. Overhead, in the empty darkening air, a sturdy-winged gull with a body as plump as a cat's flew by. In its long bent beak was a small fish. A new spasm of fear gripped the sailor. He felt that any minute now his heart would burst and he would go to the bottom. He wanted to cry out but he could not unclench his teeth. Suddenly he heard the soft splash of oars. A few moments later he saw the black silhouette of a boat. He mustered all his strength and struck out after the boat, thrashing his feet desperately. He caught up with it and succeeded in grabbing hold of its high stern. Hand over hand he managed somehow to pull himself to the boat's side, which was lower, and with an effort he looked in; the boat tilted. "Come now, none of your tricks!" Gavrik shouted in a threatening bass when he saw the wet head sticking out over the gunwale. The boy was not at all surprised to see the head. Odessa was famous for its swimmers. Some swam out as far as three or four miles from shore and returned late in the evening. This was probably one of them. If he was such a hero he had no business catching hold of people's boats for a rest. He ought to keep right on swimming. They'd put in a good day's work and were tired enough as it is, without dragging him! "Come now, stop fooling! Push off or I'll let you have it with this oar!" To give more weight to his words he bent over as if to take the oar out of the rowlock, exactly the way Grandpa did on such occasions. "I'm-ill-" the head said, panting. Over the side stretched a trembling arm to which the sleeve of an embroidered shirt was plastered. This, Gavrik saw at once, was not a swimmer: people didn't go swimming in the sea in embroidered shirts. "What's the matter-your boat sink?" The sailor was silent. His head and arms hung lifelessly inside the boat while his legs, clad in drawers, dragged in the water. He had fainted. Gavrik and Grandpa dropped their oars and with difficulty pulled the limp but frightfully heavy body into the boat. "How hot he is!" said Grandpa, catching his breath. Although the sailor was wet and shivering, his whole body burned with a dry, unhealthy heat. "Want a drink?" asked Gavrik. The sailor did not reply. He merely rolled his glazed, unseeing eyes and stirred his swollen lips. The boy offered him the water-keg. He pushed it aside weakly and swallowed his saliva in revulsion. A second later he vomited. His head fell and banged against the thwart. Then, like a blind man, he reached out in the darkness for the keg, found it and, his teeth chattering against the oaken side, managed to gulp down some water. Grandpa shook his head. "A bad business!" "Where are you from?" asked the boy. Again the sailor swallowed his saliva. He tried to say something but only managed to stretch out his arm and then dropped it lifelessly. "To the devil with him!" he muttered indistinctly. "Don't let anybody see me. I'm a sailor-hide me somewhere-or else they'll hang me-it's the truth, so help me God-by the true and holy-" He evidently wanted to make the sign of the Cross but couldn't raise his hand. He tried to smile at his weakness but instead a film passed over his eyes. Again he lost consciousness. Grandfather and grandson exchanged glances but neither said a word. Times were such that keeping mum was the best policy. They carefully laid the sailor on the floor-slats, through which unbailed water splashed up, placed the keg under his head and sat down at the oars. They rowed slowly, idling along so as to reach shore when it was altogether dark. The darker the better. Before landing they circled about for a while near the familiar crags. Fortunately, there was no one on the shore. It was a warm, dark night full of stars and crickets. Grandfather and grandson pulled the boat up on the beach. The pebbles rustled mysteriously. While Grandpa remained behind to guard the sick man Gavrik ran ahead to make certain the coast was clear. He soon returned. From his soundless footsteps, Grandpa gathered that all was well. With great difficulty, but gently, they pulled the sailor out of the boat and stood him on his legs, propping him from both sides. The sailor put his arm round Gavrik's neck and pressed him to his now dry and extraordinarily hot body. He did not realise, of course, how heavily he was leaning on the boy. Gavrik braced his legs more firmly. "Can you walk?" he asked in a whisper. The sailor did not reply but took a few swaying steps forward, like a sleepwalker. "Easy does it, easy does it," urged Grandpa, supporting the sailor from behind. "It's not far. Only a couple of steps." They finally made their way up the little hill. No one saw them. And even if anyone had, he would hardly have paid any attention to that reeling white figure supported by an old man and a boy. It was a familiar enough scene: a drunken fisherman was being led home by his relatives, and if he wasn't swearing or bawling songs that was simply because he had taken too much. The minute they got the sailor into the hot and smelly darkness of the hut he collapsed on the plank-bed. Grandpa covered the tiny window with a piece of plywood from a broken box and closed the door tightly. Only then did he light the small, chimneyless paraffin lamp, turning down the wick as low as possible. The lamp stood in the corner, on a shelf covered with an old newspaper. On the same shelf lay the army bread wrapped in a damp rag to keep it fresh, a cup made out of a tin can, the soldiers' porridge in a tin bowl, two wooden spoons, and a big blue seashell with coarse grey salt in it-in a word, a poverty-stricken but neat household array. An old smoke-blackened icon was nailed in the corner above the shelf: an oblong coffee-coloured stain that was the face of St. Nicholas the Miracle Worker-the protector of fishermen-looked down with glittering eyes painted in the manner of the old Kiev school. A wisp of smoke and the lamp-light streamed up the ancient face from below. It seemed to be alive, to be breathing. For a long time now Grandpa had believed in neither God nor the devil. He had not seen them bring either good or evil into his life. But in St. Nicholas the Miracle Worker he did believe. How could he not believe in this saint who helped him in his difficult and dangerous occupation? Especially since this occupation, fishing, was the most Important thing in Grandpa's life. But lately, to tell the truth, the miracle worker had been falling down on the job. When Grandpa was younger and stronger, when he had had good tackle and a sail, the miracle worker had been of some use. But the older Grandpa became the less help did he get from his patron saint. Of course, when there was no sail, when the old man's strength was waning from day to day, and when there was no money to buy meat for bait, the fish caught would be small and good for nothing, be he the most miraculous miracle worker the world had ever seen. And so there was no sense expecting anything of him. Yes, even the miracle worker was stumped when it came to offsetting old age and poverty. For all that, there were times when Grandpa felt bitter and hurt as he looked at the stern but useless saint. True, he was no expense and hung there in his corner without disturbing anybody. Oh well, let him hang there: perhaps he'd do a good turn some day. In time the old man had come to take a patronising and even somewhat ironical attitude towards the miracle worker. Returning to the hut with a catch-and the catch these days was almost always pitifully small-Grandpa would grumble, looking at the embarrassed miracle worker out of the corner of his eye, "Well, you old codger, so we're empty-handed again, eh? This is such trash it makes me blush to take it to market. They're not bullheads but lice." Then, so as not to hurt the saint's feelings too much, he would add, "It's only natural. Would a real big bullhead ever go for shrimps? A real, well-fed bullhead's ready to spit on a shrimp. What a real, well-fed bullhead wants is meat. But where'll we get it, eh? You can't buy meat with a miracle, can you? So you see?" Now, however, the miracle worker was farthest from the old man's thoughts. He was greatly worried about the sailor. And not so much by his fever and unconsciousness as by his premonition of mortal danger from some unnamed source. Naturally, Grandpa did have an idea of what it was all about, but to help the man he would have to know a little more. As luck would have it, however, the sailor was unconscious and feverish; he lay sprawled out on the patchwork quilt, staring straight in front of him with open but unseeing eyes. One of his hands hung down from the bed. On the other, which lay on his chest, Grandpa saw a blue anchor. Every now and then the sailor attempted to spring up; moaning, the hot sweat pouring from him, unconscious, he would bite his hand as though trying to bite out the anchor, as if once the anchor were gone he would instantly feel better. Grandpa forced him to lie down again and wiped his forehead. "Lie down, now," he urged. "Lie quiet, I tell you. And go to sleep, don't be afraid. Go to sleep." Out in the vegetable patch Gavrik was boiling water in a cauldron to make the sick man some tea. Not real tea, that is, but a brew of the fragrant herb which Grandpa gathered in the nearby hills in May, and then dried and used instead of tea. 16 "TURRET GUN, SHOOT!" They passed a fitful night. The sailor tore at the shirt on his chest. He was suffocating. Grandpa put out the lamp and opened the door to let in fresh air. The sailor saw the starry sky but he could not understand what it was. The night breeze blew into the hut and cooled his head. Gavrik lay in the weeds near the door, his ears attuned to the faintest rustle. He did not close an eye until morning. His elbow turned numb from lying on it. Grandpa made a bed for himself on the earthen floor of the hut but he did not sleep either; he listened to the crickets, to the waves and to the moans of the sick man, who from time to time sprang up excitedly and shouted in a weak, colourless voice, "Turret gun, shoot! Koshuba! Turret, give it to them!" and other such nonsense. Grandpa would take him firmly by the shoulders, shake him gently and whisper straight into his hot, feverish mouth, "Lie quiet. For the sake of the Lord God himself, don't raise a row. Lie quiet. What a trial!" Little by little the sailor, grinding his teeth, would quieten down. Who was this strange patient? Rodion Zhukov was one of the seven hundred men of the battleship Potemkin who had gone ashore in Rumania. He in no way stood out among the other men of the mutinous ship. From the first minute of the uprising, from that very minute when the commander of the battleship dropped in horror and despair to his knees before the crew, when the first rifle shots rang out and the dead bodies of certain officers were thrown overboard, when the sailor named Matyushenko ripped off the door of the Admiral's cabin, that very cabin past which they still could not walk without a feeling of fright-from that very minute Rodion Zhukov lived, thought, and acted as did most of the other sailors: in a sort of haze, in a state of feverish exaltation until the time when they had to surrender to the Rumanians and disembark at Constantsa. Rodion had never before set foot in a foreign land. And a foreign land, like useless freedom, is broad and bitter. The Potemkin stood quite close to the pier. Among the feluccas, freighters, yawls, yachts and cutters, and side by side with an emaciated-looking Rumanian cruiser, the grey three-funnelled battleship was absurdly huge. The flag of St. Andrew, like a white envelope crossed with blue lines, still hung aloft, above the gun-turrets, boats and yards. But suddenly it quivered, fell limp, and slid down in short spurts. Rodion then took off his sailor cap with both hands and bowed so low that the ends of the new ribbons of St. George spread out gently over the dust, like those orange-and-black country flowers. "It's a dirty shame! Twelve-inch guns, enough ammunition to last a month, and crack gunners, every mother's son of them. We ought to have listened to Dorofei Koshuba. He was right when he said we ought to throw the lousy petty officers overboard, sink the Georgi Pobedonosets and land a force in Odessa. We would have roused the whole Odessa garrison, all the workers, the whole Black Sea! Oh, Koshuba, Koshuba, if only we'd listened to you! What a hell of a mess we're in!" Rodion bowed to his beloved ship for the last time. "Never mind," he said through his teeth, "never mind. We won't give in. We'll rouse the whole of Russia all the same!" With his last money he bought a civilian outfit, and a few days later, at night, he reached Russian territory by crossing the estuary of the Danube near Vilkovo. His plan was to make his way across the steppe to Akkerman, and then on a barge or a boat to Odessa. From Odessa it would be simple to reach his native village of Nerubaiskoye, and there he would decide his next move. He knew only one thing for certain: that all the roads to the past were closed to him, that he was cut off once and for all both from the servile life of a sailor on the tsar's battleship, and from the hard peasant life at home, in the clay hut with the dark-blue walls and the light-blue window-frames, standing among pink and yellow hollyhocks. Now it was either the gallows or going into hiding, starting an uprising, setting fire to landowners' manors, reaching the city and locating the revolutionary headquarters. He began to feel ill on the road but stopping was out of the question and he continued on his way. And now.. . . What's the matter with him? Where is he? Why are stars rocking in the doorway? And are they really stars? Like a dark sea, night engulfs Rodion. The stars gather into clusters, flare up, and form a low-lying row of Quarantine lights before his eyes. The city breaks into commotion. The trestle bridge in the port bursts into flames. Running men lose their direction in the raging fire. Rifle volleys smack down on the roadway like long steel rails. The night is a rocking ship's deck. The bright circle of a searchlight skims along the winding shore, making the corners of houses glow white-hot and windows glare dazzlingly; and out of the darkness it snatches the figures of running soldiers, ragged red flags, ammunition-wagons, gun-carriages, overturned horse-trams. And then he sees himself in the gun-turret. The gunner glues his eye to the range-finder. The turret revolves smoothly, bringing the empty, shining, mirror-like, grooved barrel to bear on the city. Stop! Now it is directly on a line with the blue cupola of the theatre where an imposing general is holding a war council against the insurgents. The turret telephone buzzes faintly and monotonously. Or can that be crickets in the steppe? No, it's the telephone. With a slow clang the electric hoist brings up a shell from the magazine. It sways on the chains and comes straight into Rodion's hands. Or can that be a cool melon instead of a shell? Ah, what a joy to bite into a juicy melon! But no, it's a shell. "Turret, shoot!" That very same instant there is a ringing in his ears, as if some giant hand outside has struck the armour of the turret like a tambourine. There is a flash of fire. The smell of a burning celluloid comb pours over him. The entire breadth of the roadstead shudders. The boats begin to rock. A strip of iron comes down between the ship and the city. An "over". Rodion's hands are flaming hot. Then again the crickets meander in a crystal stream among the close-set stars and the weeds. Or can that chirping be the telephone? Now the second shell crawls out of the hoist and into Rodion's hands. Now we'll finish off that general! "Turret, shoot!" "Lie down and stop your yelling. Want a drink? Lie quiet." A second strip crosses the bay. Again an "over". But never mind, the third time we won't miss. And there are plenty of shells. A magazine full of them. In his weary hands the third shell feels lighter than a feather and yet heavier than a house. Fire it as quickly as possible, send smoke pouring out of that blue cupola-and then things'll roll along! But why has the telephone stopped chirping, why have the crickets stopped tinkling? Have they all dropped dead there overhead? Or is that the dawn, so quiet and so pink? Smoothly the turret turns back. "Cease firing!" The shell slips out of his lowered hands and is carried back into the magazine, with a rattle of the hoist chains. But no-the cup has slipped from his fingers and water is trickling slowly from the bed to the floor. And then all is quiet, oh, so quiet. "What's this? They betrayed freedom, the damned swine! They turned cowards! Once you start fighting you've got to fight to the end! To leave not a single stone standing!" "Shoot, turret gun, shoot!" "Oh, Lord, oh, St. Nicholas, holy miracle worker! Lie down and drink some more water. What a misfortune!" The pink quietness of dawn lays a tender and soothing hand on Rodion's inflamed cheek. Far away on the gilded bluff the cocks begin to crow. 17 THE OWNER OF THE SHOOTING GALLERY After talking things over, grandfather and grandson decided not to show the sick man to anybody for the time being, let alone send him to the city hospital, where they would most certainly ask to see his papers. In Grandpa's opinion the sailor had a plain, ordinary fever, and it would soon pass. Then it would be up to him to think of what to do next. Meanwhile it had grown completely light. It was time to take the boat out again. The sick man no longer slept. Weakened by his sweating during the night, he lay motionless on his back, looking up with conscious, attentive eyes at the icon of the miracle worker and the bunch of fresh cornflowers stuck behind its dark, time-warped board. "Your head clear?" asked Grandpa, coming up to the bed. The patient moved his lips as though trying to say "yes". "Feeling better?" He dropped his eyelids in sign of affirmation. Grandpa glanced at the bread and porridge on the shelf. "Like something to eat?" The sailor shook his head weakly. "Well, as you like. Listen, son. We have to go out in the boat for bullheads, understand? We'll leave you here by yourself and lock the door. You can trust us. We're Black Sea folk, the same as you. Understand? You lie here nice and quiet. If anybody knocks, don't say a word. Gavrik and I'll do our work and then we'll come right back. I'm leaving you a cup of water. If you feel thirsty take a drink, it won't hurt you. And don't worry about anything at all. You can depend on us. Understand?" The old man said "Understand?" after every other word, talking to the sailor as though he were a child. The sailor forced a smile to his eyes, and from time to time he dropped his lids, as if to say, "Don't worry. I understand. Thanks." The fishermen locked him in and went out in the boat. They returned four hours later to find everything in order. The patient was asleep. This time they had had luck. They had taken about three hundred and fifty fine big bullheads off the line. Grandpa gave the miracle worker a pleased look, chewed his wrinkled lips, and remarked, "Not bad. Not at all bad today. They're big ones, even though we did use shrimps. God bless you." But the miracle worker, fully conscious of his powers, looked down at Grandpa sternly, haughtily even, as if he wanted to say, "And you doubted me, called me an old codger. You're the one who's an old codger." Grandpa decided to take the bullheads to market himself. It was high time he had it out with Madam Storozhenko. After all, no matter how much fish he brought her he always remained in debt and never saw any hard cash. In that case what was the use of fishing? Today was just the day for that talk. With these select bullheads he could look her straight in the eye. Naturally Gavrik would have liked to go along with him to market. Then, on the way back, he could see Petya and finally get a drink of kvass at the corner. But leaving the sailor alone was risky because this was Sunday and a crowd of people would probably come down to the beach from the city. Grandpa lifted the wet fish tank to his shoulder and shuffled off to market. Gavrik poured fresh water into the cup, covered the sailor's feet against the flies, hung the padlock on the door, and went out for a stroll. Not far away, on the beach, were various places of entertainment: a little restaurant with a garden and a skittle-alley, a shooting gallery, a merry-go-round, automatic dynamometers, stands where you could buy soda-water and Turkish delight-in short, a small fair-ground. The place was a real feast for the boy's eyes. The morning service had not yet ended. The pealing of church bells floated above the bluffs. And every now and then a snow-white cloud as round and bright as that sound of the bells was wafted across the sky by the breeze, although down at the beach no wind could be felt at all. It was early for the real fun, but several well-dressed city people were hovering about the merry-go-round waiting for the canvas cover to be taken off. From the skittle-alley came the slow, cast-iron rumbling of the heavy ball as it rolled down the narrow board. The ball rolled an awfully long time and its noise grew fainter and fainter until suddenly, after a short silence, the soft musical clink of scattered pins came through the yellow acacias growing by the fence. Every once in a while a report resounded from the shooting gallery. Sometimes it would be followed by the crash of a broken bottle, or the whirr of a moving target. The shooting gallery lured Gavrik irresistibly. He walked over to it and stopped near the door. Greedily he breathed in the smell of gunpowder, a bluish-leaden smell like nothing else on earth. He could even feel its peculiar sourish and choky taste on his tongue. And those guns, so tantalising in their special racks! The small butts, expertly made out of wood as heavy as iron, with a sharp network of lines cut into it on the places where you held it, so that your hand would not slip. The thick, long barrel of burnished blue steel with the small hole of the muzzle, no larger than a pea. The blue steel sight, and the bolt handle that moved up and down so smoothly and simply. Even the very richest boys dreamed of owning a gun like that, a Monte Cristo. This was a word that made your heart miss a beat. It had an all-embracing meaning: fabulous wealth, happiness, glory, manliness. Owning a Monte Cristo was even more than having your own bicycle. A boy who had a Monte Cristo was known far beyond the street in which he lived. And he was referred to in this way: "You know, the Volodka from Richelieu Street who has a Monte Cristo." Gavrik, of course, could never dream of owning a Monte Cristo. Or even of firing one, for that was terribly dear: five kopeks a shot. You had to be awfully rich for that. Gavrik could dream only of aiming from the wonderful gun. Occasionally the owner of the shooting gallery gave him that pleasure. Now there was a visitor in the gallery, so it was out of the question. Perhaps when he left Gavrik would ask the owner, and then. . .. But the visitor was in no hurry to leave. He stood there with his sandaled feet planted wide apart and instead of shooting was talking with the proprietor. When the proprietor happened to glance his way, Gavrik greeted him respectfully, "Many happy returns of the day." He acknowledged the greeting with a dignified nod, as became the owner of such an unusual place of amusement. That was a lucky sign. It meant he was in a good mood and might very well let you handle a Monte Cristo. Encouraged, Gavrik came closer, right into the doorway. With eager, admiring eyes he examined the pistols hanging above the counter, the branched rifle-support, and the various mechanical targets, one of which appealed to him especially. This was a Japanese battleship, with guns and a flag, riding the garish green waves of a tin sea. Out of the sea jutted a rod topped by a little metal circle, and if you hit that circle the battleship broke in two with a bang and went to the bottom, a fan-shaped tin geyser rising in its place. Naturally, among the hares with the drums, the ballet dancers, the anglers with a shoe at the end of their line, and the bottles moving along one after another on an endless belt, the Japanese battleship held first place both for the brilliance of its idea and its superb execution. Everybody knew that only a short while ago the Japanese had sent the whole Russian fleet to the bottom at Tsushima, and there were always visitors who thirsted for revenge on the "Japs". The gallery had, besides, a real fountain. It was set going only when a visitor asked for it. A celluloid ball put on top of the jet by the proprietor would be flung up and turned round, then suddenly dropped and just as suddenly lifted. This was a real miracle, a mystery of nature. To hit that ball was one of the hardest things in the world. Sometimes men got so excited they shot at it ten or fifteen times, and almost always they missed. But whoever did hit the ball was entitled to an extra shot free of charge. "So you say nothing unusual happened here yesterday evening?" the visitor remarked, continuing the conversation. He was toying with a beautiful gun; in his huge paws it seemed tiny. "Not as far as I know." "Hm." The man ran his eye over the targets. He took off his blue pince-nez, which left two coral dents on his fleshy nose, and aimed at a hare holding a drum. But then he changed his mind and lowered the gun. "Didn't any of the fishermen hereabouts mention anything?" "Not a thing." "Hm." The visitor picked up the Monte Cristo, then lowered it again. "I heard, though, that a man fell off the Turgenev yesterday evening, opposite the shore here. Heard anything about that?" "Not a thing." Gavrik caught his breath sharply. He felt as though a bucket of ice-cold water had been poured over him. His heart contracted so that he could no longer hear it. His legs grew limp. He was afraid to move. "I heard that a man jumped off the steamer, a man the police are looking for. Just opposite the shore here. Know anything about it?" "This is the firs