Mary

14

The black trains roared past, shaking the windows of the house; with a movement like ghostly shoulders shaking off a load, heaving mountains of smoke swept upward, blotting out the night sky. The roofs burned with a smooth metallic blaze in the moonlight; and a sonorous black shadow under the iron bridge awoke as a black train rumbled across it, sending a chain of light flickering down its length. The clattering roar and mass of smoke seemed to pass right through the house as it quivered between the chasm where the rail tracks lay like lines drawn by a moonlit fingernail and the street where it was crossed by the flat bridge waiting for the next regular thunder of railway carriages. The house was like a specter you could put your hand through and wriggle your fingers.

Standing at the window of the dancers’ room, Ganin looked out onto the street: the asphalt gleamed dully, black foreshortened people walked hither and thither, disappearing into shadows and re-emerging in the slanting light reflected from shop windows. In an uncurtained window of the house opposite, sparkling glass and gilded frames could be seen in the bright amber gap. Then an elegant black shadow pulled down the blinds.

Ganin turned around. Kolin handed him a quivering glassful of vodka.

The room was lit by a somewhat pale unearthly light, because the ingenious dancers had shrouded the lamp in a scrap of mauve silk. On the table, in the middle of the room, bottles gave off a violet-colored gleam, oil glistened in open sardine tins, there were chocolates in silver wrappings, a mosaic of sausage slices, glazed meat patties.

Sitting at the table were Podtyagin, pale and morose, with beads of sweat on his large forehead; Alfyorov, sporting a brand new shot-silk tie; Klara in her eternal black dress, languid and flushed from drinking cheap orange liqueur.

Gornotsvetov, without a jacket and wearing a soiled silk shirt with an open collar, was sitting on the edge of the bed tuning a guitar which he had somehow obtained. Kolin kept constantly on the move pouring out vodka, liqueurs, pale Rhine wine, his fat hips wriggling comically while his trim torso, gripped by a tight blue jacket, remained almost motionless as he moved.

‘What — not drinking?’ he pouted, asking the conventional reproachful question as he raised his melting glance to Ganin.

‘Yes — why not?’ said Ganin, sitting down on the window ledge and taking the light, cold wineglass from the dancer’s trembling hand. Tossing it down, he glanced round the people sitting at the table. All were silent — even Alfyorov who was much too excited by the fact that in eight or nine hours’ time his wife would arrive.

‘The guitar’s in tune,’ said Gornotsvetov as he adjusted a key and plucked the string. He struck a chord, then damped the twanging sound with his palm.

‘Why aren’t you singing, gentlemen? In Klara’s honor. Come along now. “Like a fragrant flower —”’

Grinning at Klara and raising his glass with mock gallantry, Alfyorov leaned backward in his chair — at which he nearly fell over, as it was a revolving stool without a back — and made an effort to sing in a false, affected little tenor, but no one else joined in.

Gornotsvetov gave a final pluck to the strings and stopped playing. Everyone felt awkward.

‘Some singers!’ Podtyagin grunted despondently, and shook his head, propped on his hand. He felt bad: the thought of his lost passport was combined with a stifling shortness of breath.

‘I shouldn’t drink, that’s the trouble,’ he added glumly.

‘I told you so,’ murmured Klara. ‘You’re like a baby, Anton Sergeyevich.’

‘Why isn’t anybody eating or drinking?’ said Kolin, waggling his hips as he minced around the table. He began filling up empty glasses. Nobody said anything. The party, obviously, was a failure.

Ganin, who until then had been sitting on the window ledge and staring, with a faint smile of pensive irony, at the mauve glimmer of the table and the strangely lit faces, suddenly jumped down to the floor and gave a peal of clear laughter.

‘Fill ’em up, Kolin,’ he said as he walked over to the table. ‘Some more for Alfyorov. Tomorrow our life changes. Tomorrow I shan’t be here any longer. Come on, down the hatch. Stop looking at me like a wounded deer, Klara. Give her some more of that liqueur. You too, Anton Sergeyevich — cheer up. No good moping about your passport. You’ll get another one, even better than the old one. Recite us some of your poetry. Oh yes, by the way —’

‘Can I have that empty bottle?’ Alfyorov said suddenly, and a lascivious gleam sparkled in his joyful, excited eyes.

‘By the way,’ Ganin repeated, coming up behind the old man and putting his hand on his fleshy shoulder, ‘I remember some of your verses, Anton Sergeyevich. “Full moon — forest and stream” — that’s right, isn’t it?’

Podtyagin turned and looked at him, then gave an unhurried smile. ‘Did you find it in an old calendar? They were very fond of printing my poetry on calendar leaves. On the underside, above the recipe for the day.’

‘Gentlemen, gentlemen, what is he trying to do?’ shouted Kolin, pointing at Alfyorov, who, having flung open the window, had suddenly raised the bottle and was aiming it into the dark blue night.

‘Let him,’ Ganin laughed. ‘Let him act up if he wants to.’

Alfyorov’s beard gleamed, his Adam’s apple swelled and the sparse hair at his temples stirred in the night breeze. Bringing back his arm in a wide sweep, he stood still for a while and then solemnly placed the bottle on the floor.

The dancers burst into laughter.

Alfyorov sat down beside Gornotsvetov, took the guitar from him and began to try to play it. He was a man who got drunk very quickly.

‘Klara’s so serious-looking,’ Podtyagin said with difficulty. ‘Girls like her used to write me such moving letters. Now she doesn’t want to look at me.’

‘Don’t drink any more. Please,’ said Klara, thinking that she had never been so miserable in her life as now.

Podtyagin managed a forced smile and pulled at Ganin’s sleeve. ‘Now here’s the future savior of Russia. Tell us a story, Lyovushka — where did you roam, where did you fight?’

‘Must I?’ asked Ganin with a good-natured grimace.

‘Yes, do. I feel so depressed, you know. When did you leave Russia?’

‘When? Hey, Kolin. Let’s have some of that sticky stuff. No, not for me — for Alfyorov. That’s right. Mix it into his glass.’