ster. Policemen ran along the shore, whistling. The boats began to pull away in different directions. From the other side of the horizon rose plaster-of-Paris heads of clouds. Fedya turned his face up to the sky and dropped his arm over the side of the boat. In a clear, strong tenor he began to sing the famous sailor's song: The sea is broad and deep, And land is seen no more. Comrade, were sailing far- Far from our native shore. Oars flashed. The song floated on. "Comrade, I'm done for, I cannot go on," The stoker then said to his mate. . . . Now the song could barely be heard. "Oars ready!" the sailor ordered the boys. "Give way together!" Clapping Terenti on the back, he sang out: A small white ship In the deep Black Sea. Soon my darling sailor Will come home to me. "Come on, you tramps! Why don't you help?" Terenti and the two boys gaily chimed in: Weep no more, Marusya, You will yet be mine. Soon I will sail back to you Across the foamy brine. A white seagull glided noiselessly over the boat on outspread wings. It was as if the gull had caught the gay song in flight and carried it off in its coral beak like a fluttering silver fish. For a long time the boys followed the bird with their eyes, wondering whether this could be Grandpa's snow-white soul come to look at his boat and at his grandsons. The May Day outing was over. But they did not come in to the shore right away. They circled about in the sea for another two hours or so, waiting for the right moment. First they dropped Terenti off near Zolotoi Bereg, and then they took the sailor to Langeron. Before stepping ashore the sailor looked round for a long time. Finally he waved his hand, said, "Well, here's trusting to luck", put his smart cane with its horse's head handle of German silver under his arm, and jumped out of the boat. "Thanks, lads," he said hastily. "Till our next pleasant meeting." With these words he disappeared in the crowd of promenaders. Petya returned home by dinner-time, with blisters on his palms and a face burned a deep red in one day. 45 A FAIR WIND A week passed. During this time Petya did not make a single visit to the shore. He was busy getting ready to leave for the farm. He went into town, sometimes with Daddy, sometimes with Auntie Tatyana, to buy things. Real summer had already come. In Odessa, there is no difference at all between May and June. The city was sweltering. Striped awnings with curved red trimming had been lowered over balconies and shop-fronts. On them lay the clear-cut shade of acacias just beginning to bloom. Dogs ran along with their tongues hanging out, looking for water. Between the houses, a view of a flaming sea would suddenly open up. In the "Centre", money-changers and flower-girls sat at little green tables under big canvas sunshades. Your heels sank into the soft asphalt. Here and there and everywhere, tar was bubbling in hellish cauldrons. What fun it was to spend the whole day going from one shop to another, buying holiday things for the country: a hoop, sandals, butterfly nets, fishing rods, rubber balls, fireworks .. . and then to come home on the open summer horse-tram with all those light odd-shaped packages! Petya's body was still languishing in the sultry city but his impatient spirit had flown far ahead: it was already on the steamer, it floated along in the blue breeze of voyage. But early one morning a familiar whistle sounded. Petya ran to the window and saw Gavrik in the middle of the courtyard. A minute later he was downstairs. Gavrik looked unusually worried. His greyish face, his tightly pressed lips and the unnatural brightness in his eyes meant that some misfortune had taken place. Petya's heart contracted. "What's up?" he asked, lowering his voice to a whisper without being aware of it. Gavrik frowned and turned aside. "Nothing. Want to go out with us in the boat?" "When?" "Now. Me, Motya, and you. Under sail." "You're lying." "Only dogs lie." ^Under sail?" "You can spit in my eye." "For a trip?" "Call it a trip. Coming?" "What a question!" "Then be snappy!" A trip in the boat, under sail! Naturally Petya did not bother to go back for his cap. Ten minutes later the boys were on the shore. The boat, with the mast in place and a furled sail on it, lay half in the water, rocking gently. Motya, barefooted, stood inside. She was busy putting the oaken water-keg and a big loaf of rye bread into the box at the stern. "Give us a hand, Petya," said Gavrik, putting his shoulder to the stern. The boys pushed off without any special difficulty and then jumped in. "We're off!" Gavrik skilfully unfurled and set the new rectangular sail. The light breeze slowly filled it. The boat heeled. Kneeling in the stern, Gavrik attached the heavy rudder with an effort and fixed the tiller to it. The boat, yielding to the rudder, went straighter. "Look out!" Petya squatted and ducked just in time. The boom, turned by the wind, swung heavily from left to right directly over his head, opening up the glistening sea and hiding from sight the clay shore where Motya's mother, shading her eyes with her hand, stood knee-deep in the weeds and wild parsley. Gavrik bore down on the tiller and put the weight of his back to it. The mast tipped. The water along the side began to gurgle. Bouncing up and slapping the waves with its flat bottom, the boat came out into open water and then sailed along parallel with the shore. "Where to?" Petya asked, "You'll see." "Far?" "You'll find out." That hard, tense light came into Gavrik's eyes again. Petya looked at Motya. She sat on the prow with her bare legs hanging over the sides and stared straight in front of her. Her cheeks were pulled in sternly; the wind ruffled her hair, not yet long enough to be braided. For some time all three were silent. Suddenly Gavrik reached into his pocket and pulled out a rather large blue steel watch. He put it importantly to his ear, listened to its ticking, and then, not without difficulty, pried open the cover with a fingernail that had a mass of little white spots on it-a sure sign, as everybody knows, of good luck. Had Gavrik pulled out a squirming adder or a handful of precious stones, Petya would have been less surprised. A pocket-watch of his own! Why, that was almost the same as owning a bicycle, or a Monte Cristo! Come to think of it, perhaps even more. Petya caught his breath. He could not believe his eyes. He was crushed. Meanwhile Gavrik was intently counting the numerals with his forefinger. "One o'clock, two, three, four, five. . ." he mumbled. "Nine and a little bit more. That's all right. We'll make it on time." "Let's see it!" cried Petya, overcome with amazement. "Hands off, it's not for sale." "Is it yours?" "No." Gavrik took Petya by the sleeve and pulled him close. "It's the Committee's," he whispered mysteriously. "See?" "I see," Petya replied, also in a whisper, although he really did not see a thing. "Now listen," Gavrik continued, glancing at Motya out of the corner of his eye. "Our sailor's caught. See? He's in jail. Been there five days. They caught him in Langeron, right after the May Day outing. But his papers are in a different name, and so far it's all right. But if those snakes ever find out, you can say your prayers for him, because they'll hang him in a jiffy. See? And they can find out any minute. They can shave off his moustache and find some skunk who'll give him away. So now you see what a fix it is?" "You're kidding!" Petya exclaimed in fright. "If I said it it means I know what I'm talking about. Now listen to me. Before they find out who he is, the Committee's going to help him break out. Today. At half past ten on the dot he's going to break out of jail and go straight to Bolshoi Fontan. From there he'll sail in our boat back to Rumania. So now you know where we're going? To Bolshoi Fontan. We're taking the boat there. Terenti brought me the watch from the Committee so we won't be late." Gavrik pulled out the watch again and examined it attentively. "Almost ten. We'll be just on time." "How will he break out?" Petya whispered. "What about the guards and the sentries?" "That's nothing. At half past ten they let them out for a walk. In the prison yard. All he has to do is run across the vegetable patches to the Maly Fontan road. Terenti'll be waiting for him there in a droshky. Then they'll come straight to the boat. See?" "Yes. But how'll he get over the prison wall? It's as high as anything. It's like the second storey. He'll start climbing and they'll shoot him down with their rifles." Gavrik made a wry face as if he had eaten something sour. "Naw! Listen. Why should he climb over the wall? Terenti'll blow it up." "What do you mean?" "You're a funny bloke. Just what I said: blow it up. He'll blow a hole in it. Last night a man from the Committee put dymanite under it. Today, on the dot of half past ten, just when our sailor's let out for a walk, Terenti'll light the fuse on the other side and run to the droshky. He'll wait. And then the dymanite'll go bang." Petya gave Gavrik a stern look. "What'll go bang?" "The dymanite," "The what?" "The dymanite," Gavrik repeated, but with much less confidence. "What explodes. Why?" "Not dymanite but dynamite," Petya said, in the tone of a tutor. "Call it whatever you want, as long as it blows that wall down." Only now did the meaning of Gavrik's words sink in. Petya felt goose-flesh break out on his back. He looked at his friend with big dark eyes. "Swear it's true." "Honour bright." "Cross yourself." "By the true and holy Cross on the church." Gavrik faced the monastery cupolas of Bolshoi Fontan and quickly and fervently crossed himself. But Petya took his word for it without that. He had made him cross himself just as a matter of form. Petya felt with all his heart that it was the truth. Gavrik lowered the sail. The boat bumped against a small landing stage for rowing boats on a rugged and deserted shore. "Got a handkerchief?" Gavrik asked Petya. "Yes " "Show it here." Petya took out a handkerchief at the sight of which Auntie Tatyana surely would have fainted. Gavrik, however, was quite satisfied with it. "It'll come in handy," he said gravely, with an important nod. "Stow it away." Then he looked at the watch. It was "ten and just a teeny bit more". "I'll stay in the boat," Gavrik said, "and you and Motya run up to the top of the hill and stand in the lane. To meet 'em. The minute you see 'em wave your handkerchief and I'll put the sail. Understand, Petya?" "Uh-huh. But what if the sentry kills them?" "He'll miss," Gavrik said confidently, with a grim smile. "He comes from Dofinovka. He's a friend. Go up there now, Petya. As soon as you see 'em start waving. Can you do it?" "What a question!" Petya and Motya climbed out of the boat and ran up the hill. Here, as everywhere along the shore from Lustdorf to Langeron, the children knew every path. Making their way through the bushes of wild lilac, the boy and the girl reached the top of the high bluff and stopped in a lane between two villas. From there they could see both the road and the sea. Far below, a little boat was bobbing up and down next to an even smaller landing stage. Gavrik himself could barely be seen. "Now listen, Motya," said Petya after he had sized up the situation. "I'll climb this mulberry tree because I can see further from there, and you keep a sharp eye out too. Let's see who sees 'em first." To tell the truth, there was no need to climb the tree, for there was an excellent view from below. But Petya now felt that he was in command. He was eager to give orders and perform deeds. He took a run and clambered up the tree, grunting. Before he knew it he had torn his trousers at the knees. But that did not disturb him. On the contrary, it only made him grimmer and prouder. He straddled a branch and frowned. "Well, what are you standing still for? Walk up and down!" "Right away." The girl looked up at Petya with frightened, devoted eyes, pulled her skirt straight with both hands, and set off sedately down the lane towards the road. "Stop! Wait!" Motya stopped. "Now, listen. The minute you see 'em, yell to me. And the minute I see 'em I'll yell to you. All right?" "All right," the girl said in a piping voice. "Well, go ahead." Motya turned and walked in the thick shade of greenish-milky acacias just about to bloom; in the dust she left imprints of her bare heels. She went to the corner, stood there a while, and then came back. "Not yet. How about your side?" "Not on my side either. Go further." The girl again went to the corner and again returned to say there was no sight of them on her side. "The same here. Walk some more." At first Petya liked this game very much. It was uncommonly pleasant to sit high up in a tree and strain his eyes for the sight of a speeding carriage at the end of the lane. How clearly he pictured it! The carriage flies up, drawn by a horse all in lather, with the coachman waving his whistling whip overhead. Terenti and the sailor jump out, revolvers in their hands. Prison guards run after them. Terenti and the sailor shoot it out with them. One after another the guards drop dead. Petya waves his handkerchief with all his might, jumps nimbly from the tree and speeds down the bluff, ahead of everybody else, to help put up the sail. As to Motya, she only now realises that it was they who came. But that can't be helped: she's nothing but a girl. . . . But time passed, and no one drove up. It was becoming tedious. Petya was tired of looking at the blinding white road. All that came by was a carriage with an English coachman dressed like Evgeni Onegin, and a thundering ice-wagon. After the ice-wagon, he felt especially hot and especially thirsty. He had long since made a thorough examination of the nearby villa: a bright-green lawn, gravel on the walks, thuja trees, a statue spotted with purple blots of shadow, a vase from which long sharp leaves of aloe hung down, and an artist painting a landscape. The artist, who had a curly little moustache, a pointed beard and a velvet beret, sat under an umbrella on a little folding chair with a duck seat. He was leaning back and poking at the canvas on the easel with a long brush. He would take a poke and then a look, another poke and another look. Fitted on his outstretched left thumb was his palette, that oval board which was much more beautiful than the picture itself; there, in mad but magic disorder, were mixed all the colours and shades of the sea, sky, clay, lilacs, grass, clouds, the boat. . . . In the meantime the dusty carriage had long since arrived and two men were coming slowly up the lane. Ahead of them ran Motya, shouting, "They've already come on my side. Wave your handkerchief! Wave it!" Petya nearly fell off the tree. He pulled out his handkerchief and waved it desperately over his head. The boat started to rock harder. Petya saw that Gavrik was jumping up and down and waving his hands. Terenti and the sailor passed under the mulberry tree in which Petya sat. Sweat streamed down their fiery-red faces. Petya could hear their heavy breathing. The sailor limped badly. He was without a hat, and his elegant cream-coloured trousers-the same trousers in which Petya had last seen him during the May Day outing-were torn and smeared with brick dust. His shirt-front was dirty and half-torn, showing a bulging chest shiny from sweat. The sailor's clenched fists looked as though they were bound with the blue cords of his veins. His moustache drooped. His cheekbones jutted out of his stubbly face. There was a hard sparkle in his eyes. His throat twitched. "Hello!" cried Petya. Terenti and the sailor looked up and grinned. Petya thought the sailor even winked at him. But now they were already running down to the sea, leaving a cloud of dust behind them. "I saw them first!" said Motya. Petya climbed down from the tree. He made believe he had not heard. The boy and the girl stood side by side looking down at the boat, which was setting sail. They saw the small figure of the sailor jump in. The sail billowed out. The wind carried it away from shore as though it were a petal. Now only Terenti and Gavrik stood on the landing stage. A minute later Terenti disappeared. Gavrik remained alone. He waved to Petya and Motya, then started unhurriedly up the bluff. Bouncing and cleaving the waves, the boat quickly made for the open sea, the bright-blue, heaving sea. "He's all by himself," said Petya. "That's all right. We put in some bread for him. A whole big loaf. And eight smoked sea-roaches." Soon Gavrik joined Petya and Motya. "Thank the Lord we got him off," he said, crossing himself. "It was some job!" "What about the boat?" asked Petya. "Will it be lost?" "Yes, it's lost," Gavrik said glumly, scratching the top of his head. "How will you get along without a boat?" "Never fear. We'll manage somehow." There was nowhere to hurry to. The children climbed over the fence and stopped quietly behind the artist. The landscape was almost finished. They held their breath, spellbound by the miraculous appearance of a whole world on a little piece of canvas; a world altogether different from the real one yet at the same time exactly like it. "The sea's there, but not the boat," whispered Motya. She laid her hand on Petya's shoulder, as though by accident, and tittered. Just then the artist picked up a drop of white on a thin brush, and in the very middle of the canvas, in the lacquered blue of the sea he had just painted, he put a small bulging comma. "The sail!" breathed Motya, enchanted. Now the painted sea could not be told apart from the real one. Everything was the same. Even the sail. Nudging one another, the children stood there for a long time looking now at the painting, now at the real and very broad open sea, in the misty blueness of which the little sail of Grandpa's boat, as light and airy as a seagull, was dissolving. Below, the sea is crystal azure, Above, the sun is gold aglow. But it is storm the rebel thirsts for, He will find peace in storm alone.