Monday Starts on Saturday

1

I was nearing my destination. On both sides the green forest pressed right up against the road, giving way now and then to clearings overgrown with yellow sedge. The sun had been trying in vain to set for hours and still hung low over the horizon. As the car trundled along the crunching gravel surface of the narrow road, I steered the wheels over the large stones, and every time the empty gas cans in the trunk clanged and clattered.

Two figures emerged from the forest on the right, stepped out onto the edge of the road, and halted, looking in my direction. One of them raised his hand. I eased off the accelerator as I examined them. They looked to me like hunters, young men, perhaps a little older than me. I liked the look of their faces, and I stopped. The one who had raised his hand stuck his swarthy, hook-nosed face into the car and asked with a smile, “Could you give us a lift to Solovets?”

The other one, who had a ginger beard but no mustache, peeped over his shoulder, also smiling. They were definitely nice people.

“Get in,” I said. “One in the front and the other in the back—the backseat’s pretty cluttered.”

“Our guardian angel!” the hook-nosed one exclaimed delightedly, slipping his gun off his shoulder and getting into the seat beside me.

The one with the beard glanced in uncertainly through the rear door and said, “Do you mind if I just…?”

I leaned over the back of my seat and helped him clear the space that was occupied by the sleeping bag and folded tent. He sat down cautiously, setting his hunting gun between his knees. “Make sure you close the door properly,” I said.

So far everything seemed normal. I drove on. The young man with the hooked nose turned to face the back and started talking boisterously about how much nicer it was to ride in a car than to walk. The young man with the beard mumbled his agreement and kept trying to slam the door shut.

“Pull in your raincoat,” I advised him, looking through the rearview mirror. “Your coat’s jamming it.”

Five minutes later everything was all sorted out. “About ten kilometers to Solovets, isn’t it?” I asked.

“Yes,” replied the hook-nosed one. “Or maybe a bit more. Only the road’s not so good, of course—it’s just for trucks.”

“The road’s just fine,” I retorted. “I was told I wouldn’t be able to get through at all.”

“You can get down this road even in autumn.”

“Here, maybe, but from Korobets on it’s a dirt track.”

“It’s a dry summer this year—everything’s dried out a bit.”

“They say there’s rain up around Zaton,” remarked the bearded young man in the backseat.

“Who says?” asked the hook-nosed one.

“Merlin says.” And for some reason they laughed.

I took out my cigarettes, lit up, and passed them around.

“The Clara Zetkin Plant,” said the hook-nosed one, eyeing the pack. “Are you from Leningrad?”

“Yes.”

“Doing a bit of traveling?”

“Yes,” I said. “Are you local?”

“Born and bred,” said the hook-nosed one.

“I’m from Murmansk,” declared the bearded one.

“I suppose from Leningrad there’s no difference between Solovets and Murmansk—it’s all the North,” said the hook-nosed one.

“No, not at all,” I said politely.

“Will you be staying in Solovets?” asked the hook-nosed one.

“Certainly,” I said, “Solovets is where I’m headed.”

“Have you got family or friends there?”

“No,” I said, “I’m just going to wait for some guys. They’re hiking along the coast, and we arranged to meet up in Solovets.”

I spotted a large patch of rocks ahead, braked, and said, “Hold on tight.” The car started shuddering and shaking. The young man in the front hit his hooked nose against the barrel of his gun. The motor roared and stones smashed against the bottom of the car.

“Your poor car,” said the hook-nosed one.

“Can’t be helped,” I replied.

“Not everyone would drive down a road like this in their own car.”

“I would,” I said.

The patch of large rocks came to an end. “So, it’s not your car then,” the hook-nosed one deduced.

“Where would I get a car from? It’s rented.”

“I see,” said the hook-nosed young man, and I thought he sounded disappointed.

I was stung, so I answered, “What’s the point of buying a car for driving around on asphalt? The places covered in asphalt aren’t interesting, and in the interesting places there isn’t any asphalt.”

“Yes, of course,” Hook-Nose agreed politely.

“I think it’s stupid to turn a car into a fetish,” I declared.

“It is,” said the bearded one, “but not everybody thinks that way.”

We talked a bit about cars and came to the conclusion that if you were going to buy anything, then it should be a GAZ-69 all-terrain model, but unfortunately they weren’t for sale.

The hook-nosed one asked, “Where do you work?”

I answered the question.

“Tremendous!” he exclaimed. “A programmer. A programmer’s just what we need. Listen, why don’t you leave your institute and come to work for us?”

“And what have you got?”

“What have we got?” asked the one with the hooked nose, turning around to the back.

“An Aldan-3,” said the one with the beard.

“A very versatile machine,” I said. “And does it run OK?”

“Well, how can I put it…?”

“I get it,” I said.

“Actually, they haven’t debugged it yet,” said the bearded one. “If you stayed with us you could debug it.”

“We could arrange the transfer in no time at all,” added the hook-nosed one.

“What’s your line of work?” I asked.

“Like all science,” said the hook-nosed one, “our work deals with human happiness.”

“I see,” I said. “Something to do with space?”

“Yes, space too,” said Hook-Nose.

“I’m happy enough where I am,” I said.

“A capital city and good pay,” the bearded passenger muttered in a low voice, but I heard him.

“That’s not the point,” I said. “You can’t measure everything in money.”

“I was only joking,” said the bearded one.

“It’s just his sense of humor,” said the hook-nosed one. “You won’t find any place more interesting than here with us, though.”

“What makes you think so?”

“I’m certain of it.”

“But I’m not.”

The hook-nosed one laughed. “We’ll come back to that later,” he said. “Are you going to be in Solovets for long?”

“Two days at the most.”

“Then we’ll talk about it the day after tomorrow.”

The bearded passenger declared, “Personally I see the finger of fate in this—there we are strolling through the forest and we run into a programmer. I think it’s your destiny.”

“Do you really need a programmer that badly?” I asked.

“We need a programmer desperately.”

“I’ll have a word with the guys,” I promised. “I know a few who aren’t too happy.”

“We don’t need just any old programmer,” said the young man with the hooked nose. “Programmers are in short supply; they’ve gotten spoiled, but we need an unspoiled one.”

“Yes, that’s a bit more difficult,” I said.

The hook-nosed passenger started bending down his fingers as he counted: “We need a programmer who is (a) not spoiled; (b) keen and willing; (c) who’ll agree to live in a hostel…”

“And (d),” put in the bearded one, “for 120 rubles a month.”

“Perhaps you’d like one with wings?” I asked. “Or maybe with a halo around his head? That’s one in a thousand!”

“We only need one,” said Hook-Nose.

“And what if there are only nine hundred?”

“We’ll make do with nine-tenths.”

The forest opened up in front of us. We drove across a bridge and trundled on between fields of potatoes.

“It’s nine o’clock,” said the hook-nosed one. “Where are you planning to spend the night?”

“I’ll sleep in the car. How late do your shops open here?”

“Our shops are already closed,” said the hook-nosed one.

“You can stay in the hostel,” said the bearded one. “I’ve got a spare bed in my room.”

“You can’t drive up to the hostel,” the hook-nosed one said pensively.

“I suppose not,” said the bearded one, and for some reason he laughed.

“You could park the car by the police station,” said the hook-nosed one.

“This is just plain stupid,” said the bearded one. “I’m talking drivel and you’re no better. How will he get into the hostel?”

“Yeah, damn it,” said the hook-nosed one. “You’re right, take one day off work and you clean forget all these little wrinkles.”

“Maybe we could transgress him?”

“Oh, sure,” said the hook-nosed one. “He’s no sofa. And you’re no Cristóbal Junta, and neither am I…”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I’ll sleep in the car. I’ve done it before.” But I suddenly felt a terrible longing to sleep between sheets. I’d already spent four nights in a sleeping bag.

“I know,” said the hook-nosed one. “Oho! The Lohuchil!”

“Right!” exclaimed the bearded one. “We’ll take him to the curving seashore!”

“Honestly, I can sleep in the car,” I said.

“You’re going to sleep in a house,” said the hook-nosed one, “in more or less clean sheets. We have to thank you somehow.”

“We can’t just slip you fifty kopecks,” said the bearded one.

We drove into the town, with its lines of sturdy old fences and massive timber houses built out of gigantic blackened logs, with carved lintels around the narrow windows and wooden cockerels on their roofs. We passed a few dirty brick buildings with metal doors, and at the sight of them my memory threw up the half-forgotten word “emporium.” The street was straight and wide and it was called Peace Prospect. Ahead of us, closer to the center of town, we could see two-story cinder block buildings with small open yards.

“The next side street on the right,” said the hook-nosed one.

I signaled, braked, and turned right. The roadway here was overgrown with grass, but there was a brand-new Zaporozhets car nestling against one gate. The numbers of the houses hung above the gateways, the figures barely discernible on the rusty tin-plate signs. The alley bore the elegant name of Curving Seashore Street, but its narrow passage was squeezed in between massive old fences that had probably been erected in the days when Swedish and Norwegian pirates roamed these parts.

“Stop,” said the hook-nosed passenger. I braked sharply and he banged his nose against the barrel of his gun again. “All right,” he said, rubbing his nose. “You wait for me while I go and arrange everything.”

“Really, there’s no need,” I said one last time.

“No arguments. Volodya, you keep a close eye on him.”

The young man with the hooked nose got out of the car, hunched over, and wedged himself through a low wicket gate. I couldn’t see the house behind the towering gray fence. The main gates were absolutely immense, like the gates of a railway depot, with rusty iron hinges that must have weighed sixteen kilograms apiece. I was astonished when I read the signs, of which there were three. On the left-hand gate there was a respectable-looking blue sign with silver letters glinting behind thick glass:

Hanging on the right-hand gate was a rusty tin plate with the legend 13 CURVING SEASHORE STREET, N. K. GORYNYCH, and below it was a quaint piece of plywood with a crooked, sprawling inscription in ink:

“What CAT’s that?” I asked. “The Committee for Advanced Technology?”

The young man with the beard chuckled. “Don’t you worry about a thing,” he said. “This is a funny old place, but everything will be just fine.”

I got out of the car and started wiping the windshield. Suddenly I heard a commotion above my head. I glanced up. Settling down on the gate, trying to make himself comfortable, was a gigantic cat—I’d never seen one like it—a black and gray tabby. When he finally settled down, he peered at me with his well-fed, indifferent yellow eyes. “Puss-puss-puss,” I said automatically. The cat opened its sharp-toothed jaws with polite indifference, emitted a hoarse, throaty sound, then turned and began looking back into the yard, beyond the fence, from where I heard my hook-nosed passenger’s voice say, “Vasily, my friend, I’m sorry to trouble you.”

The bolt squeaked. The cat stood up and vanished into the yard without a sound. The gates swayed ponderously, creaking and groaning in a quite terrifying manner, and the left-hand gate slowly swung open to reveal the young man with the hooked nose, red faced from the effort.

“Guardian angel!” he called to me. “Please drive in!”

I got back into the car and drove slowly into the spacious yard. Standing at the back of it was a house built of thick logs, and standing in front of that was a low, handsome oak tree with an immensely thick trunk and a broad, dense crown that hid the roof of the house from view. Running from the gates to the house, skirting the oak tree, was a path of flagstones. To the right of the path was a vegetable garden, and to the left, rising up in the middle of a plot of grass, stood a wooden well with a windlass, its logs all black with age and covered with moss.

I parked the car off to the side, turned off the engine, and climbed out. Bearded Volodya also climbed out, set his gun against the side of the car, and began settling his rucksack on his shoulders. “So now you’re home,” he said.

The young man with the hooked nose closed the gates with a creak and a groan. I looked around, feeling rather awkward and not knowing what to do.

“And here’s the lady of the house!” Volodya exclaimed. “Good health to you, Naina Kievna!”

My hostess must have been over a hundred years old. She walked slowly toward us, leaning on a knotty stick, shuffling along on feet clad in felt boots with rubber galoshes. Her face was dark brown; from the center of a solid mass of wrinkles her nose protruded out and down, as crooked and sharp as a Turkish dagger, and her eyes were pale and dull, as if they were covered by cataracts.

“Welcome, welcome, little grandson,” she said in a surprisingly resonant bass. “So he’s going to be the new programmer? Welcome, dear guest, welcome indeed!” I bowed, realizing that I should keep quiet. Over the fluffy black shawl knotted under her chin, the old granny’s head was covered by a cheerful nylon scarf with brightly colored pictures of the Atomium and an inscription in several languages: BRUSSELS INTERNATIONAL EXHIBITION. Her chin and upper lip had a sparse covering of coarse, gray stubble. She was wearing a sleeveless padded vest and a black woollen dress.

“It’s like this, Naina Kievna!” said the young man with the hooked nose, brushing the rust off his hands as he walked toward her. “We have to put our new colleague up for two nights. Allow me to introduce… mmm…”

“Don’t bother,” said the old woman, looking me over closely. “I can see for myself.” And she ran through the answers to the standard employment questionnaire: “Alexander Ivanovich Privalov, born 1938, male, Russian, member of the Leninist Komsomol, none, no, never joined, never has, none—but you, my treasure, shall travel a distant road and do business in a public place, and you should beware, my precious, of a wicked man with red hair, come, cross my palm with gold, my darling one…”

“Hm-hmm!” the hook-nosed young man said loudly, and the old woman stopped short. An awkward silence set in.

“You can call me Sasha,” I said, forcing out the phrase I’d prepared in advance.

“And where am I going to put him?” the old granny inquired.

“In the storeroom, of course,” said the hook-nosed young man, slightly annoyed.

“And who’s going to take responsibility?”

“Naina Kievna!” the hook-nosed young man bellowed in the thunderous tones of a provincial tragedian, grabbing the old woman by the arm and dragging her toward the house. I could hear them arguing: “But we agreed!” “But what if he pinches something?” “Keep your voice down! He’s a programmer, don’t you understand? A Komsomol member! A scientist!” “And what if he sucks on his teeth?”

I turned in embarrassment toward Volodya. Volodya was giggling.

“I feel kind of awkward about this,” I said.

“Don’t worry about it—everything will be just fine.”

He was about to say something else, but then the old granny roared out, “And what about the sofa, the sofa!”

I shuddered and said, “You know, I think I’d better go…”

“Quite out of the question!” Volodya said firmly. “We’ll sort everything out. It’s just that the old woman’s looking for a bribe, but Roman and I don’t have any cash with us.”

“I’ll pay,” I said. By this time I really wanted to leave; I can’t stand these so-called domestic altercations.

Volodya shook his head. “Certainly not. Here he comes now. Everything’s OK.”

Hook-nosed Roman came up to us, took me by the arm, and said, “Right, that’s all settled. Let’s go.”

“Listen, I feel kind of awkward,” I said. “After all, she’s not obliged—”

But we were already walking toward the house. “Yes she is, yes she is,” Roman intoned.

Rounding the oak tree, we came to the back porch. Roman pushed open the leatherette-upholstered door, and we found ourselves in a hallway that was spacious and clean but poorly lit. The old woman was waiting for us, with her hands clasped over her belly and her lips pursed. At the sight of us she boomed out vindictively, “I demand a receipt this instant! All right and proper: received, such-and-such and such-and-such from so-and-so, who has leased out the aforementioned to the undersigned…”

Roman let out a low howl, and we went through into the lodging assigned to me. It was a cold room with a single window covered by a short chintz curtain. Roman said in a tense voice, “Please, make yourself at home.”

The old woman immediately inquired malevolently from the hallway, “Are you sure as the gentleman doesn’t suck on his teeth?”

Without turning around, Roman snapped, “No, he doesn’t! I told you—the gentleman doesn’t have any teeth.”

“Then let’s go and write out the receipt.”

Roman raised his eyebrows, rolled his eyes upward, bared his teeth, and shook his head violently, but he went out anyway. I looked around. There wasn’t much furniture in the room. Standing by the window was a solid table covered with a threadbare gray tablecloth with a fringe, and in front of the table was a rickety stool. There was a spacious sofa set against a bare log wall, and on the opposite wall, which was covered with an assortment of wallpapers, was a set of hooks with various pieces of junk hanging on them (padded jackets, mangy fur coats, tattered cloth caps, and fur hats with earflaps). Jutting out into one corner of the room was a large Russian brick oven, gleaming with fresh whitewash, and hanging in the opposite corner was a large, cloudy mirror in a frame with peeling varnish. The floor had been scraped clean and covered with striped mats.

I could hear two voices muttering on the other side of the wall, the old woman booming away on a single bass note and Roman’s voice repeatedly rising and falling. “One tablecloth, inventory number 245…”

“Why not put in all the floorboards while you’re at it!”

“One dining table…”

“Are you going to put the oven in too?”

“Rules are rules. One sofa…”

I went over to the window and pulled back the curtain. The window looked out at the oak tree, and I couldn’t see anything else. I started looking at the tree. It was obviously very ancient. Its bark was gray and somehow lifeless looking, and the monstrous roots that had crept up out of the ground were covered with red and white lichen.

“Why not put in the oak tree as well?” said Roman on the other side of the wall.

There was a plump, well-thumbed book lying on the windowsill. I leafed through it idly, then walked away from the window and sat down on the sofa. And immediately I felt sleepy. I thought of how I’d driven for fourteen hours that day but probably needn’t have been in such a hurry, how my back ached and everything was getting muddled up in my head and when it really came down to it I couldn’t give a damn about this tedious old woman, and how I wished it would all be over soon so I could lie down and go to sleep…

“Right, then,” said Roman, appearing in the doorway. “The formalities are concluded.” He brandished one hand in the air, its splayed fingers stained with ink. “Our little fingers are exhausted; we’ve been writing and writing… You go to bed. We’re leaving. You just relax and go to bed. What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Waiting,” I replied listlessly.

“Where?”

“Here. And outside the post office.”

“You probably won’t be leaving tomorrow, then?”

“Probably not. Most likely the day after.”

“Then we shall meet again. Our love is yet to come.” He smiled, waved, and went out. I thought sluggishly that I ought to have seen him off and said good-bye to Volodya, then I lay down. That very moment the old woman came in. I got up. The old woman stared at me intently for a while.

“I fear, dear guest, as you might start a-sucking on your teeth,” she said anxiously.

“I’m not going to suck on my teeth,” I said wearily. “I’m going to go to sleep.”

“Lie down, then, and sleep… Pay your money and go to sleep…”

I reached into my back pocket for my wallet. “How much?”

The old woman raised her eyes to the ceiling. “Let’s say a ruble for the room… Fifty kopecks for the bedsheets—they’re mine, not state property. For two nights that makes three rubles… And whatever you want to throw in out of the kindness of your heart—for the inconvenience, that is—that’s up to you…”

I held out a five-ruble note. “For a start it’s one ruble out of the kindness of my heart,” I said. “We’ll see how things go.”

The old woman grabbed the money avidly and left the room, muttering something about change. She was gone for quite a long time, and I was on the point of giving up hope of any change or any sheets when she came back and laid out a handful of dirty coppers on the table.

“There’s your change, dear guest,” she said. “One ruble exactly—you don’t need to count it.”

“I’m not going to count it,” I said. “What about the sheets?”

“I’ll make up the bed straightaway. You go out and have a stroll in the yard, and I’ll make up the bed.”

I went out, tugging my cigarettes out of my pocket on the way. The sun had finally set and the white night had begun. Somewhere dogs were barking. I sat on a little bench sunk into the ground under the oak, lit up, and began staring at the pale, starless sky. The cat appeared soundlessly out of nowhere, glanced at me with his fluorescent eyes, scrambled rapidly up the oak, and disappeared into the dark foliage. I immediately forgot about him, and I was startled when he began rustling about above me and debris came showering down onto my head. “Why you…” I said, and started brushing myself off. I felt exceedingly sleepy. The old woman came out of the house without noticing me and wandered across to the well. I took this to mean that the bed was ready and went back into the room.

The spiteful old woman had made up my bed on the floor. Oh no, I thought, closed the door on the latch, heaved the bedding up onto the sofa, and started getting undressed. A dim twilight came in at the window; the cat rustled about noisily in the oak tree. I started shaking my head around to get the detritus out of my hair. It was strange detritus, unexpected: large, dry fish scales. That’s going to feel prickly in the night, I thought, then collapsed onto the pillow and instantly fell asleep.

2

I woke up in the middle of the night, because someone was talking in the room. There were two voices, speaking in a barely audible whisper. The voices were very similar, but one was a little muffled and hoarse, while the other betrayed extreme irritation.

“Don’t wheeze,” whispered the irritated voice. “Can you manage that, not wheezing?”

“Yes,” replied the muffled voice, and started clearing its throat.

“Keep it down,” hissed the irritated voice.

“My throat tickles,” explained the muffled voice. “It’s a smoker’s cough.” It started clearing its throat again.

“You get out of here,” said the irritated voice.

“It doesn’t matter, he’s asleep.”

“Who is he? Where did he appear from?”

“How should I know?”

“It’s annoying… It’s such incredibly bad luck.”

The neighbors can’t sleep again, I thought, only half awake. I imagined I was at home. I shared a flat with two brothers, physicists, and they just loved working at night. Round about two o’clock in the morning they ran out of cigarettes, then they crept into my room and started groping around, clattering the furniture around and squabbling with each other.

I grabbed the pillow and flung it into space. Something tumbled onto the floor with an almighty racket and everything went quiet.

“Give back the pillow,” I said, “and get out. The cigarettes are on the table.”

The sound of my own voice finally woke me completely. I sat up. The dogs were barking despondently and the old woman was snoring menacingly on the other side of the wall. I finally remembered where I was. There was no one else in the room. In the dim twilight I made out my pillow lying on the floor, with the junk that had fallen off the hooks. The old granny will have my guts for garters, I thought, and leaped out of bed. The floor felt cold and I stepped onto the mats. The old woman stopped snoring. I froze. The floorboards creaked; something crackled and rustled in the corners. The old woman gave a deafening whistle and started snoring again. I picked up the pillow and tossed it onto the sofa. The old clothes smelled of dogs. The set of hooks had slipped off one of its nails and was hanging askew. I set it straight and began picking up the junk. The moment I hung up the last shapeless old woman’s coat, the hooks came loose again and went scraping down the wallpaper to end up hanging on one nail. The old granny stopped snoring and I broke into a cold sweat. Somewhere nearby a cock started screeching. You’re for the soup, I thought vindictively. The old woman next door began tossing and turning, her bedsprings creaking and clanking. I waited, poised on one leg. Outside someone said softly, “It’s time to go to sleep, we’ve sat up late today.” It was a young voice, a woman’s.

“I suppose it is,” a different voice responded. I heard a protracted yawn.

“Aren’t you going to take another dip today?”

“It’s a bit chilly. Let’s go bye-byes.”

Everything went quiet. The old granny began snarling and muttering, and I walked carefully back to the sofa. I could get up early in the morning and fix everything properly…

I lay down on my right side, pulled the blanket up over my ear, closed my eyes, and suddenly realized I didn’t feel sleepy at all—I felt hungry. Oh, hell, I thought. Urgent measures had to be taken, and I took them.

Let’s take, for instance, a system of two integral equations, such as stellar statistics equations; both unknown functions are under the integral. Naturally, the only way to determine them is numerically—say, on a BESM. I remembered our BESM, the cream-colored control panel…

Zhenya puts down a bundle wrapped in newspaper on the panel and unwraps it without hurrying. “What have you got?”

“I’ve got cheese and sausage.” Lightly smoked Polish sausage, in round slices.

“You ought to get married! I’ve got rissoles, with garlic, homemade. And a pickle.” No, two pickles… Four rissoles and, to balance the figures, four crunchy pickles. And four pieces of bread and butter…

I threw off the blanket and sat up. Maybe there was something left in the car? No, I’d eaten everything. There was nothing left but the cookbook for Valka’s mother, who lived in Lezhnev. How did it go?… Piquant sauce. Half a glass of vinegar, two onions… and pepper. Serve with meat dishes… I can just picture it now—with small beefsteaks. The words surfaced from somewhere in the depths of my subconscious: He was served the dishes usual at inns, namely: sour cabbage soup, brains with peas, pickles… I gulped. And the ubiquitous sweet layered cake… I’ve got to distract myself, I thought, and picked up the book from the windowsill.

It was Alexei Tolstoy’s Bleak Morning. I opened it at random. “Makhno, having broken the key off the sardine can, took a mother-of-pearl knife with fifty blades out of his pocket and carried on working with that, opening cans of pineapple”—this is not good, I thought—“French pâté, and lobster, which filled the room with a pungent smell.”

I carefully replaced the book and sat down on the stool at the table. There was suddenly a delicious, pungent smell in the room—it must have been the smell of lobsters. I began wondering why I had never even tried lobster. Or oysters, for instance. In Dickens everybody eats oysters, working away with their folding knives, carving thick slices of bread and spreading them with butter… I began nervously smoothing out the tablecloth. I could see the old stains on it that hadn’t washed out. A lot of tasty food had been eaten on that tablecloth. Lobsters and brains with peas had been eaten on it. Small beefsteaks with piquant sauce had been eaten on it. Large and medium-sized beefsteaks too. People had stuffed themselves to bursting and sucked on their teeth in satisfaction… I had nothing to stuff myself with, but I started sucking my teeth.

My sucking must have sounded loud and hungry, because the old woman’s bed next door began creaking, she started muttering angrily and clattering about, and suddenly she came into my room. She was wearing a long gray shirt and carrying a plate, and the room was instantly filled with a smell of food that was real, not imaginary. The old woman was smiling.

She set the plate down right in front of me and boomed out in honeyed tones, “Eat, dear guest, Alexander Ivanovich. Eat what God has given, what he has sent with me.”

“Oh no, Naina Kievna,” I mumbled, “you shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble.”

But out of nowhere a fork with an ivory handle had already appeared in my hand and I began eating, with the old granny standing beside me, nodding and intoning, “Eat, dear guest, eat to your heart’s content.”

I ate it all. It was hot potatoes with clarified butter…

“Naina Kievna,” I said fervently, “I’d have starved to death without you.”

“Had enough?” asked Naina Kievna, suddenly sounding rather unfriendly.

“That was magnificent. Thank you very, very much! You have no idea—”

“I don’t need any of your ideas,” she interrupted, seriously annoyed. “I asked if you’d had enough. Give me your plate here… I said, give me your plate!”

“By… by all means,” I said.

“‘By all means, by all means’… And that’s all I get for feeding you…”

“I can pay,” I said, beginning to get angry.

“‘Pay, pay’…” She went to the door. “And what if it’s something as can’t be paid for? And why did you have to go and lie?”

“What do you mean, lie?”

“Just that, lie! You said you wouldn’t go sucking on your teeth.” She stopped speaking and went out.

What’s wrong with her? I thought. A strange sort of old granny… Maybe she’d noticed the clothes hooks? I could hear the springs creaking as she squirmed about on her bed, muttering irritably. Then she started singing in a low voice, a strange, barbaric kind of song: “Oh, I’ll go strolling and I’ll go rolling, when I’ve eaten young Ivan’s tasty flesh.” Suddenly I felt a cold draft from the window. I shivered and stood up to go back to the sofa—then it struck me that I’d locked the door before I went to sleep. Bewildered, I walked over to the door and reached out a hand to check the latch, but the moment my fingers touched the cold metal, everything went hazy and I found myself lying on the sofa with my face buried in the pillow and my fingers groping at a cold log in the wall.

I lay there for a while in a half swoon before I realized that the old woman was snoring somewhere close at hand and there was someone talking in the room. A quiet voice was intoning solemnly and didactically, “The elephant is the largest of all animals that live on land. On the front of his face he has a large lump of flesh that is called a trunk, it being hollow and elongated like a pipe. He can extend it and flex it in all sorts of ways and use it instead of a hand…”

Chilled but curious, I cautiously turned over onto my right side. The room was as empty as ever. The voice continued even more didactically: “Consumed in moderate amounts, wine is highly beneficial for the stomach, but when too much is drunk, it produces vapors that degrade man to the level of mindless cattle. You have sometimes seen drunks and still remember the just revulsion that you felt for them…”

I jerked upright on the sofa and lowered my feet to the floor. The voice stopped. I got the feeling it had been speaking on the far side of the wall. Everything in the room was back the way it had been; I was surprised to see that even the set of hooks was hanging as it ought to be. And to my amazement, I felt very hungry again.

“Ex vitro tincture of antimony,” the voice suddenly declared. I shuddered. “Magifterium antimon angeli salae. Bafilii oleum vitri antimonii alexiterium antimoniale!” I clearly heard giggling. “What a load of gibberish!” the voice said, and continued in a tone of lament, “Soon these eyes, as yet unopened, shall no longer behold the sun, but allow them not to close without the viscero-beatific message of my forgiveness and bliss… These are The Spirit or Ethical Thoughts of the Glorious Jung, Abstracted from His Nocturnal Meditations. On sale in Saint Petersburg and Riga in Sveshnikov’s bookshops for two rubles in pasteboard.” Someone sobbed. “More raving nonsense,” the voice said, then declaimed with feeling:

I had realized now where the voices were. The sound was coming from the corner where the cloudy mirror hung.

“And now,” said the voice, “next: ‘Everything is a single Self; this Self is the universal Self. The identification with ignorance that results from the eclipse of the light of the Self disappears with the development of spirituality.’”

“And where’s that gibberish from?” I asked. I wasn’t expecting an answer. I was certain I was asleep.

“Aphorisms from the Upanishads,” the voice promptly replied.

“And what are the Upanishads?” I asked, no longer certain that I was asleep.

“I don’t know,” said the voice.

I got up and tiptoed over to the mirror. I couldn’t see my reflection. The cloudy glass reflected the curtain, the corner of the brick oven, and all sorts of other things. But I wasn’t there.

“What’s the matter?” asked the voice. “Do you have questions?”

“Who’s that speaking?” I asked, glancing behind the mirror. Behind the mirror there was a lot of dust and dead spiders. I pressed on my left eye with my forefinger. That was an ancient method for recognizing hallucinations that I’d read about in V. V. Bitner’s fascinating book What to Believe and What Not to Believe. All you have to do is press on your eyeball with your finger, and all the real objects—as distinct from the hallucinations—go fuzzy. The mirror went fuzzy, and my reflection appeared in it—a drowsy, anxious image. I could feel a draft on my feet. Curling up my toes, I went across to the window and looked out. There was no one outside, and there was no oak tree either. I rubbed my eyes and took another look. In front of me I could clearly see the mossy well with its windlass, the gates, and my car standing beside them. I am asleep, I thought in relief. My gaze fell on the windowsill and the tattered book. In my previous dream it had been the third volume of Alexei Tolstoy’s Road to Calvary. Now I read on the cover “P. I. Karpov. The Creative Work of the Mentally Ill and Its Influence on the Development of Science, Art, and Technology.” Shuddering, with my teeth chattering, I leafed through the book, looking at the colored inserts. Then I read poem number 2:

The floor suddenly tilted beneath my feet. There was a long, earsplitting creak and then, like the rumbling of a distant earthquake, I heard a thunderous “Cluuuck, cluuck…” The hut started pitching to and fro like a boat on choppy water. The yard outside the window shifted sideways and a gigantic chicken leg emerged from below the window and thrust its talons into the earth, making deep furrows in the grass before disappearing from sight again. The floor keeled over sharply, and feeling myself falling, I grabbed hold of something soft with both hands, banged my side and my head against something hard and tumbled off the sofa. I lay there on the mats, clutching the pillow that had fallen with me. It was quite light in the room. Outside the window someone cleared his throat thoroughly.

“Very well, then…” said a well-trained male voice. “In a kingdom long ago, in a certain state I know, there lived a king called… mmmeh… well, it doesn’t really matter that much. Let us say… mmmeh… Polyeuctus… And he had three princely sons. The first… mmmeh… The third prince was a fool, but what was the first?”

Crouching down like a soldier under fire, I crept over to the window and peeped out. The oak was back in its proper place. Standing on his hind paws with his back to the tree, lost in thought, was the cat Vasily. He had a water lily clenched between his teeth. The cat looked down at his feet and drawled: “Mmmeh-eh…” Then he shook his head hard, put his front paws behind his back, and, stooping slightly like the university professor Dubino-Knyazhitsky giving a lecture, strode smoothly away from the oak tree.

“All right…” the cat muttered to himself. “Once upon a time there were a king and a queen. This king and this queen had one son… Mmmeh. A fool, of course…”

The cat spat out the flower in annoyance, pulled a wry face, and rubbed his forehead.

“This is getting desperate,” he said. “I do remember something, though! ‘Ha-ha-ha! Such tasty viands there’ll be to savor: the steed for dinner, the youth for supper…’ Now where would that be from? Anyway, Ivan—he’s a fool, you know—answers, ‘The more fool you, vile monster, to devour the snow-white swan before she’s caught!’ And then, of course, there’s the red-hot arrow, and off with all three heads. Ivan takes out the three hearts and brings them home to Mother, the cretin… What a charming present!” The cat gave a sardonic laugh, then heaved a sigh and declared, “It’s a sickness, that’s what it is—arteriosclerotic dementia.”

He sighed again, turned back toward the oak, and started to sing: “Quack-quack my little children! Quack-quack, my little darlings! I… mmmeh… I have fattened you on my tears… fed you, that is…” he sighed for a third time and carried on walking for a while without speaking. Drawing level with the oak tree, he suddenly bellowed tunelessly, “I have left you the daintiest morsel!” Suddenly he was holding an immense psaltery in his paws—I didn’t see where he got it from. He struck it despairingly with one paw and, plucking at the strings with his claws, started bellowing even louder, as if he were trying to drown out the music:

He stopped bellowing and strode about for while, banging on the strings without speaking. Then he started singing in a low, uncertain voice:

He went back to the oak tree, leaned the psaltery against it, and scratched himself behind one ear with his back paw.

“All work, work, work,” he said. “Nothing but work!”

He put his front paws behind him again and walked away from the oak tree to the left, muttering, “I have heard, oh great and mighty king, that once in the glorious city of Baghdad there dwelt a tailor, by the name of…” He went down on all fours, arched his back and hissed viciously. “Oh, how I loathe all these repulsive names! Abu… Ali… Some Ibn somebody or other… All right, then, let’s call him Polyeuctus. Polyeuctus Ibn… mmmeh… Polyeuctovich… But anyway, I don’t remember what happened to the tailor. To hell with him, let’s start a different one…”

I lay there with my belly on the windowsill, fascinated to watch the unfortunate Vasily wandering around the oak tree, first to the left and then to the right, muttering, clearing his throat, whining, groaning, dropping down on all fours when the strain was too much for him—in short, suffering quite inexpressibly. The extent of his knowledge was vast. He didn’t know a single story or song more than halfway through, but there were Russian, Ukrainian, Western Slavic, German, and even, I think, Japanese, Chinese, and African fairy tales, legends, fables, ballads, songs, romances, jingles, and rhymes. His inability to remember drove him into a fury; several times he threw himself at the trunk of the oak tree and shredded the bark with his claws, hissing and spitting, and when he did this his eyes blazed with the fires of hell and his tail, fluffed out as thick as a log, stood vertically erect or twitched convulsively or lashed at his sides. But the only song he sang right through was the Russian rhyme about the little bird, “Chizhik-Pyzhik,” and the only story he told coherently was The House That Jack Built in Marshak’s Russian translation, and even then with several abridgements. Gradually—evidently as he became exhausted—the feline accent of his speech became more and more distinct. “And in the field, the fiaowld,” he sang, “the pliaow runs of itself, and mmmeh… mmmeow, and following that pliaow… mmeow… Our Lord himself does walk… or stalk?”

Eventually, when he was totally exhausted, he sat down on his tail and stayed there for a while, hanging his head. Then he gave a final quiet, desolate meow, picked up the psaltery under one front leg, and hobbled off slowly on the other three across the dewy grass.

As I got down off the windowsill I dropped the book. I remembered quite clearly that last time it had been The Creative Work of the Mentally Ill, and I was certain that was the book that had fallen on the floor. But what I picked up and put on the windowsill was Crime Detection by A. Svensson and O. Wendel. I opened it, feeling rather stupid, ran my eye over several paragraphs at random, and instantly got a strange feeling that there was a hanged man dangling from the oak tree. I looked up warily. Hanging from the lowest branch of the oak tree was a wet, silver-green shark’s tail. The tail was swaying heavily in the gusty morning breeze.

I started back and banged my head against something hard. A telephone began ringing loudly. I looked around. I was lying sprawled diagonally across the sofa, the blanket had slipped off me onto the floor, and the morning sun was shining through the leaves of the oak tree and in at the window.

3

The telephone was ringing. I rubbed my eyes and looked out the window (the oak tree was there, all right), looked at the set of hooks (it was in the right place, too). The telephone kept ringing. There was no sound from the old woman’s room on the other side of the wall. I hopped down onto the floor, opened the door (the latch had been on), and went out into the hallway. The telephone was still ringing. It was standing on a little shelf above a large water tub—a very modern piece of equipment in white plastic, like the ones I’d seen in movies and in our director’s office. I picked up the receiver.

“Hello…”

“Who’s that?” asked a piercing woman’s voice.

“Who do you want?”

“Is that Lohuchil?”

“What?”

“I said, is that the Log Hut on Chicken Legs or not? Who is this?”

“Yes,” I said, “this is the hut. Who do you want?”

“Oh, damnation,” said the woman’s voice. “I have a telephonogram for you.”

“All right.”

“Write it down.”

“Just a moment,” I said. “I’ll get a pencil and paper.”

“Oh, damnation,” the woman’s voice repeated.

I came back with a notepad and a pencil. “I’m listening.”

“Telephonogram number 206,” said the woman’s voice. ‘To citizeness Naina Kievna Gorynych…’”

“Not so fast… Kievna Gorynych… OK, what’s next?”

“‘You are hereby… invited to attend… today the twenty-seventh… of July… at midnight… for the annual… republican rally…’ Have you got that?”

“Yes, I have.”

“‘The first meeting… will take place… on Bald Mountain. The dress code is formal… Mechanical transport is available… at your own expense. Signed… Head of Chancellery… C. M. Viy.’”

“Who?”

“Viy! C. M. Viy.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Viy! Chronos Monadovich Viy! You mean you don’t know the head of the chancellery?”

“No, I don’t,” I said. “Spell it out for me.”

“Damnation! All right, I’ll spell it out: Vampire, Incubus, Yeti. Have you got that?”

“I think so,” I said. “I’ve got ‘Viy.’”

“Who?”

“Viy.”

“Have you got adenoids or something? I don’t understand!”

“Vile, Inconceivable, Yucky!”

“Right. Read back the telephonogram.”

I read it back.

“Correct. Transmitted by Onuchkina. Who received it?”

“Privalov.”

“Cheers, Privalov! Been in harness long?”

“Horses wear harness,” I said angrily. “I do a job.”

“You get on with your job then. See you at the rally.”

The phone started beeping. I hung up and went back into the room. It was a cool morning. I rushed through my exercises and got dressed. It seemed to me that something extremely curious was going on. The telephonogram was somehow associated in my mind with the events of the night, although I didn’t have a clue exactly how. But I was beginning to get a few ideas, and my imagination had been stimulated.

There was nothing in what I had witnessed that was entirely unfamiliar to me. I’d read something about similar cases somewhere, and now I remembered that the behavior of people who found themselves in similar circumstances had always seemed to me extremely exasperating and quite absurd. Instead of taking full advantage of the attractive prospects that their good fortune presented to them, they took fright and tried to get back to ordinary, everyday reality. There was even one hero who adjured his readers to keep as far away as possible from the veil that divides our world from the unknown, threatening them with mental and physical impairment. I still did not know how events would unfold, but I was already prepared to take the plunge enthusiastically.

As I wandered around the room in search of a scoop or a mug, I continued with my deliberations. Those timid people, I thought, were like certain experimental scientists, very tenacious and very industrious but absolutely devoid of all imagination and therefore ultracautious. Having produced a nontrivial result, they shy away from it, hastily attempting to explain it away by experimental contamination and effectively rejecting the new because they have grown too accustomed to the old that is so comfortably expounded in authoritative orthodox theory… I was already mulling over several experiments with the whimsical book (it was still lying there on the windowsill, but now it was Aldridge’s The Last Exile), with the talking mirror, and with sucking my teeth. I had several questions to ask the cat Vasily, and the mermaid who lived in the oak tree was an especially interesting prospect. Although there were moments when I thought I must have dreamed her after all. I’ve got nothing against mermaids, I just can’t imagine how they can clamber around in trees… but then, what about those scales?

I found a dipper on the tub under the telephone, but there was no water in the tub, so I set out for the well. The sun had already risen quite high. There were cars droning along somewhere in the distance, I could hear a militiaman’s whistle, and a helicopter drifted across the sky with a sedate rumbling. Walking up to the well, I was delighted to discover a battered tin bucket on the chain, and I began winding out the rope with the windlass. The bucket sank down into the black depths, clattering against the sides of the well shaft. There was a splash and the chain went taut.

As I turned the windlass I looked at my Moskvich. The car had a tired, dusty look; the windshield was plastered with midges that had been flattened against it. I’ll have to put some water in the radiator, I thought. And all those other jobs…

The bucket seemed very heavy. When I stood it on the wall of the wooden well, a huge pike stuck its green, mossy-looking head up out of the water. I jumped back.

“Are you going to drag me off to the market again?” the pike asked in a strong northern accent. I was too flabbergasted to say anything. “Why can’t you just leave me alone, you pest? How many more times? I’m just getting settled, just snuggling down for a bit of a rest and a doze—and out she pulls me! I’m not a fit young thing any longer; I must be older than you are… and my gills are giving me trouble too…”

It was strange to watch the way she spoke, exactly like a pike in the puppet theater—the way the opening and closing of her sharp-toothed jaws coincided with the sounds she pronounced was very disconcerting. She pronounced that final phrase with her jaws clamped shut.

“And the air is bad for me,” she went on. “What are you going to do if I die? It’s all because of your stupid, peasant meanness… always saving, but you have no idea what you’re saving up for… Got your fingers badly burned at the last reform, didn’t you. Oh yes! And what about those old hundred-ruble notes you used to paper the inside of your trunks! And the Kerensky rubles! You used the Kerensky notes to light the oven…”

“Well, you see…” I said, recovering my wits slightly.

“Ooh, who’s that?” the pike said in fright.

“I… I’m here by accident, really… I was just going to wash up a little.”

“Wash up! And I thought it was the old woman again. I can’t see too well; I’m old. They tell me the index of refraction in air is quite different. I ordered myself some air goggles once, but then I lost them and I can’t find them again… But who are you, then?”

“A tourist,” I said tersely.

“Ah, a tourist… And I thought it was the old granny again. The things she does to me, you wouldn’t believe! If she catches me she drags me off to the market and sells me. For chowder, so she says. So what else can I do? Naturally, I tell the buyer: It’s like this, you let me go back to my dear little children—only what little children could I have at my age? Those that are still alive are all grandparents by now. You let me go, I say, and I’ll grant you a wish: you just have to say, ‘By the pike’s true command, at my urgent demand.’ And they let me go. Some out of fear, some out of kindness, and some out of sheer greed… So there I go, swimming back along the river, swimming along, and it’s cold and I’ve got rheumatism, until finally I get back into the well, and there’s the old woman again with her bucket…”

The pike ducked under the water, gurgled a bit, releasing a few bubbles, and stuck her head out again. “So what are you going to ask for, my fine soldier boy? Only keep it simple—folks keep asking for televisions and transistor radios and what have you… One fellow went absolutely crazy: ‘Fulfill my annual quota at the sawmill,’ he says. But I can’t go sawing wood at my age.”

“Aha,” I said. “But you could manage a television, then?”

“No,” the pike confessed honestly. “I can’t manage a television. And I can’t do that… music center thing with a record player either. Keep it nice and simple. Something like a nice pair of seven-league boots, or a cap of darkness… Eh?”

My hopes of getting out of changing the oil in the Moskvich wilted and died. “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “There isn’t anything I need, really. I’ll just let you go.”

“Good,” said the pike calmly. “I like people like that. There was one not all that long ago… He bought me at the market, so I promised him a king’s daughter. There I was, swimming along the river, feeling so ashamed I didn’t know what to do with myself. I couldn’t see where I was going and I swam into these nets. So they pull me out and I’m thinking, now I’ll have to start lying all over again. But what does the man do? He grabs me around the jaws so I can’t open my mouth. That’s it, I thought, they’ll boil me for soup. But no. He clips something on my fin and tosses me back in the river. Look!” The pike rose up out of the bucket and held out a fin with a metal tag clipped around its base. On the tag it said, “This specimen released in the Solova River in 1854. Return to His Imperial Majesty’s Academy of Sciences, Saint Petersburg.”

“Don’t tell the old woman about it,” the pike warned me. “She’ll rip my fin off to get it. She’s so mean and greedy.”

What could I ask her for? I thought frantically. “How do you work your miracles?”

“What miracles are those?”

“You know… granting wishes…”

“Oh, that! How do I do it? I was trained when I was little, so I just do it. How should I know how I do it? The Golden Fish used to do it even better, but she still died all the same. You can’t cheat fate.” I thought I heard the pike sigh.

“From old age?” I asked.

“What d’you mean, old age? She was still young and full of life… They got her with a depth charge, my soldier boy. Turned her belly up, and sank some submarine that happened to be there as well. She’d have bought them off, but they didn’t bother to ask—the moment they saw her, they just dropped the bomb… That’s the way it goes sometimes.” She paused for a moment. “So, are you letting me go or not? It’s feeling a bit close; there’s going to be a storm.”

“Of course, of course,” I said with a start. “Should I throw you in, or use the bucket?”

“Throw me in, my fine boy, throw me in.”

I carefully lowered my hands into the bucket and lifted out the pike—she weighed at least eight kilograms. She muttered, “Right, then, and if you should happen to fancy a magic tablecloth or a flying carpet, you know where I am… I’ll see you all right.”

“Good-bye,” I said, and released my grip. There was a loud splash.

I stood there for a while, gazing at the green stains on my hands. I felt rather strange. Every now and again I was visited, like a gust of wind, by the realization that I was sitting on the sofa in the room, but I only had to shake my head and there I was back beside the well. Then it passed. I washed up in the fine icy water, filled the car radiator, and had a shave. The old woman still hadn’t put in an appearance. I was hungry, and I had to go into town to the post office, where the guys might already be waiting for me. I locked the car and went out through the gate.

I walked slowly along Curving Seashore Street, with my hands stuck in the pockets of my gray bomber jacket from the GDR, looking down at my feet. The old woman’s copper coins jangled in the back pocket of my favorite jeans, crisscrossed all over with zippers. I thought things over. The thick pamphlets of the “Knowledge” Society had accustomed me to believe that animals were not capable of speech. Ever since I was a child folktales had assured me of the opposite. Naturally, I had agreed with the pamphlets, because I’d never seen any talking animals, not once. Not even parrots. I had known one parrot who could growl like a tiger, but he couldn’t talk like a human being. And now I had the pike, the cat Vasily, and even a mirror. But, then, inanimate objects talked all the time. That was an idea that could never have occurred to my great-granddad, for instance. From his point of view, a talking cat would be nowhere near as fantastic as a shiny wooden box that wheezes, howls, plays music, and speaks all kinds of languages. As far as the cat was concerned, the situation seemed more or less clear. But how did the pike manage to speak? A pike doesn’t have any lungs. That’s certain. True, it must have an air bladder, the function of which, as far as I’m aware, is still not entirely clear to ichthyologists. One ichthyologist I know, Zhenka Skoromakhov, even believes that this function is in fact entirely unclear, and when I try to argue, using the evidence from my “Knowledge” Society pamphlets, Zhenka starts growling and spitting and entirely loses the power of human speech… I have the impression that we still know very little about what animals are capable of. Only recently it was discovered that fish and marine mammals exchange signals underwater. What they write about dolphins is very interesting.

Or take the monkey Raphael, for instance. I’ve seen for myself. True, he can’t actually talk, but he did develop a reflex response: green for a banana, red for an electric shock. And everything was just fine until they switched on the red light and the green light at the same time. Then Raphael started behaving the same way as Zhenka does. He got terribly worked up, started squealing and growling, made a dash at the little window where the experimenter was sitting, and started spitting at it. And then there’s that joke—one monkey says to another, “Do you know what a conditioned reflex is? It’s when the bell rings and all those pseudo-monkeys in white coats come running across with bananas and sweets.” It’s all highly complicated, of course. The terminology hasn’t been developed yet. In such circumstances, you feel absolutely helpless when you try to answer questions about the psychology and potential abilities of animals. But then, on the other hand, it doesn’t make you feel any better when they give you, say, that stellar statistics–type system of integral equations with unknown functions under the integral. The important thing is to think. As Pascal said, “Let us learn to think well—that is the fundamental principle of morality.”

I emerged onto Peace Prospect and stopped, my attention claimed by an unusual sight. There was a man holding children’s toy flags in his hands walking along the road. Creeping along slowly about ten steps behind him with its engine roaring came a large white MAZ truck towing a gigantic, silverish tank that was giving off smoke. The tank bore the words FIRE HAZARD, and creeping along just as slowly on the right and the left of it were two red-painted jeeps bristling with fire extinguishers. From time to time a different sound mingled with the even roar of the engine, sending an icy shower down my spine, and then yellow tongues of flame erupted from the hatches of the tank. The firemen’s helmets were pulled down tight above their grimly courageous faces. A crowd of little kids swarmed around the cavalcade, screeching piercingly, “Swing him up and swing him down, they’ve brought the dragon into town!” Adult passersby apprehensively pressed themselves back against the fences on both sides, their faces clearly expressing the desire to protect their clothes from possible damage.

“They’ve brought my sweetheart,” a familiar rasping voice boomed right in my ear.

I turned around. Standing behind me looking rather mournful was Naina Kievna, with a mesh bag full of blue packets of sugar. “They’ve brought him,” she repeated. “Every Friday they bring him…”

“Where to?” I asked.

“Why, to the firing range, dear guest. They’re always experimenting… They’ve got nothing better to do with their time.”

“But who is it they’ve brought, Naina Kievna?”

“What do you mean, who? You can see for yourself, can’t you?”

She turned and walked away, but I caught up with her. “Naina Kievna, there was a telephonogram for you.”

“Who’s it from?”

“C. M. Viy.”

“And what’s it about?”

“You’ve got some kind of rally today,” I said, looking at her intently. “On Bald Mountain. Dress code formal.”

The old woman was clearly delighted. “Really?” she said. “Goody-goody! Where’s the telephonogram?”

“On the phone in the hall.”

“Does it say anything about membership dues?” she asked, lowering her voice.

“What do you mean?”

“You know, outstanding dues owed must be paid as from seventeen hundred—” she stopped.

“No,” I said, “It didn’t say anything like that.”

“That’s all right, then. What about transport? Will they send a car or what?”

“Let me carry your bag for you,” I offered. The old woman started back.

“What for?” she asked suspiciously. “You just stop that—I don’t like it… Give him my bag! And him still so young; he must be an early starter…”

I don’t like old women, I thought.

“So, what about the transport?” she asked again.

“At your own expense,” I said with malicious delight.

“Agh, the misers!” the old woman groaned. “They took my broomstick and put it in a museum, they don’t repair the flying mortar, they try to rob me of five rubles’ membership dues, and say I’ve got to get to Bald Mountain at my own expense! That’s some expense, dear guest of mine, and while the taxi’s waiting…” Mumbling and coughing, she turned and walked away from me. I rubbed my hands together and also went on my way. My conjectures had been confirmed. The knot of remarkable events was being drawn ever tighter. I’m ashamed to admit it, but at that moment it seemed to me even more interesting than modeling a reflex arc.

Peace Prospect was by now almost deserted. There was a swarm of little kids scurrying about at the crossroads—I think they were playing tipcat. Catching sight of me, they abandoned their game and started moving in my direction. Sensing approaching hostility, I walked hurriedly past them and set off toward the center of town. I heard a muffled exclamation of delight behind me: “Dandy!” I started walking faster. “Dandy!” several voices immediately howled out together. I began almost running. Behind me they squealed, “Dandy! Skinny-legs! Fancy-pants!” Passersby were giving me looks of sympathy. In situations like this the best thing to do is to go to ground somewhere. I dived into the nearest shop, which turned out to be a grocery store, and walked along the counters, noting that they had sugar in stock and that the range of salami and sweets wasn’t very extensive but the choice of so-called fish products exceeded all possible expectations. What wonderful salmon they had! I drank a glass of sparkling water and glanced out into the street. The little boys were gone, so I went out of the shop and continued on my way. Soon the “emporiums” and log-built fortress-huts came to an end and their place was taken by the modern two-story apartment blocks with little open yards, where little infants toddled and crawled about, middle-aged women knitted something warm, and middle-aged men played dominoes.

In the center of the town I found a wide square surrounded by two-story and three-story buildings. The surface of the square was covered with asphalt, and in the middle of it there was a little green garden. Rising up out of the greenery was a large red board with the inscription BOARD OF HONOR, and several smaller boards with maps and diagrams. I found the post office on the square too. I had agreed with the guys that the first to arrive would leave a note saying where he was. There was no note for me, so I left a letter giving my address and explaining how to get to the Log Hut on Chicken Legs. Then I decided to have some breakfast.

Walking around the square I came across the following: a theater that was showing the film Kozara; a bookshop that was closed for inventory; the town council building, with several dusty jeeps standing in front of it; the Icebound Sea Hotel, which, as usual, had no rooms available; two kiosks selling sparkling water and ice cream; shop number 2 (industrial goods) and shop number 18 (household goods); cafeteria number 11, which opened at twelve o’clock, and buffet number 3, which was closed with no explanation offered. Then I discovered the town militia station, and in front of its open doors I had a conversation with a very youthful militiaman holding the rank of sergeant, who explained to me where the gas station was and which was the road to Lezhnev.

“And where’s your car?” the militiaman inquired, surveying the square.

“At my friends’ place,” I replied.

“Ah, at your friends’ place…” the militiaman said with emphasis. I believe he made a mental note of me. I timidly said good-bye, feeling nervous.

Beside the huge three-story bulk of the Solovets Fish Suppliers, Processors, and Consumers Trust (as I deciphered the sign SOLFISUPPROCONSUMTRUST) I eventually found the tidy little tearoom number 16/27. It was very pleasant inside. There weren’t many people and they really were drinking tea and speaking about things I could understand: how the bridge at Korobets had finally collapsed and now you had to ford the river; how it had been more than a week since the traffic police post on the fifteen-kilometer mark had been removed; how “it’s sparking fit to kill an elephant, but it just won’t turn over.” The place smelled of gasoline and fried fish. Those who were not engaged in conversation inspected my jeans in great detail, and I felt glad that they had a working-man’s stain at the back—fortunately I’d sat on a grease gun two days earlier.

I took a plate full of fried fish, three glasses of tea, and three sturgeon sandwiches, paid with a heap of the old woman’s copper coins (“Been standing begging at the church door…” the woman at the counter growled), made myself comfortable in a secluded corner, and tucked in, observing with pleasure these manly men with voices hoarse from smoking cigarettes. It was a pleasure to see how tanned, independent, and robust they were, how well they knew life, how they enjoyed eating their food, smoking, and talking. They were squeezing every last drop out of their break before the long hours jolting down a dull road in the stuffy heat of the cabin, the dust, and the sun. If I weren’t a programmer, I would have been a driver, and I wouldn’t have been working in some pitiful little automobile, or even on a bus, but on some great monster of a truck so big you’d need a ladder to climb up into the cabin and a small crane to change a wheel.

The two young men sitting at the next table didn’t look like truckers, so I paid no attention to them at first. And they paid no attention to me either. But just as I was finishing my second glass of tea, I heard the word “sofa.” And then one of them said, “In that case, it’s not clear why that Lohuchil exists at all…” and I started listening. Unfortunately they were talking softly and I was sitting with my back to them, so I couldn’t hear very much. But the voices sounded familiar: “No theses… just the sofa…”; “That hairy one?”; “The sofa… sixteenth degree…”; “For transgression no higher than the fourteenth degree…”; “Easier to model the translator…”; “Well, who doesn’t giggle at him!”; “I’ll give him a razor…”; “We can’t do it without the sofa…” Then one of them tried to clear his throat in such a familiar manner that I immediately remembered the night before and turned around, but they were already walking toward the door—two big young guys with massive shoulders and bodybuilders’ necks. I saw them through the window for a while, too: they walked across the square, around the little garden, and disappeared behind the diagrams. I finished off my tea and my sandwich and went out. So they’re concerned about the sofa, I thought. They’re not bothered about the mermaid. They’re not interested in the talking cat. But it seems they can’t manage without the sofa… I tried to remember what the sofa in my room was like, but I couldn’t recall anything unusual. Just an ordinary sofa. A good sofa. Comfortable. Only the reality you dreamed about on it was rather strange.

It would be a good idea now to go back there and get a firm grip on all this sofa business. Try experimenting a bit with the whimsical book, have a frank word with Vasily the cat, and see whether there was anything else interesting to be found in the Log Hut on Chicken Legs. But my Moskvich was waiting for me back there, and I needed to carry out a DM and a TS. I could just about live with the idea of a DM—that was only daily maintenance, shaking out the floor mats and washing the car down with a pressurized hose, which if necessary could be replaced by a garden watering can or a bucket. But that TS… On a hot day any man who likes to keep himself neat and tidy shudders at the very thought of a TS, because a TS is a technical service, and a technical service involves me lying under the car with a grease gun in my hands, gradually transferring the contents of the gun to the grease nipples and my own facial features. It’s hot and stuffy under the car, and its bottom is crusted with a thick layer of dried-on mud… In other words, I didn’t really feel like going back.

4

I bought the day before yesterday’s Pravda, drank a glass of sparkling water, and settled down on a bench in the little garden, in the shade of the Board of Honor. It was eleven o’clock. I looked through the newspaper carefully. It took me seven minutes. Then I read an article about hydroponics, an exposé about bribe-takers in Kansk, and a long letter to the editor from the workers at a chemical plant. Maybe I should go to the movies, I thought. But I’d already seen Kozara—once in the theater and once on television. Then I decided to have another glass of water, folded up the newspaper, and stood up. I only had a five-kopeck piece left out of all the old woman’s coppers. I’ll drink it all away, I decided, downed a glass of sparkling water with syrup, received one kopeck change, and bought a box of matches with it at the next kiosk. Now there was absolutely nothing at all left for me to do in the center of town, so I just followed my nose—into the narrow street between shop number 2 and cafeteria number 11.

There was almost no one on the street. A big, dusty truck with a clattering trailer overtook me. The driver had his elbow and head stuck out of the window of his cab, drearily observing the cobbled road surface. The street ran downhill around a sharp turn to the right, and beside the pavement at the bend there was the cast-iron barrel of an old cannon sticking up out of the ground, its mouth choked with earth and cigarette butts. Soon after that the street ended at the sheer bank of the river. I sat on the steep edge, admiring the view, then crossed to the other side of the street and started making my way back.

I wonder where that truck went, I thought. There was no way down that steep bank. I started looking around for gateways along the street, and I came across a small but very strange building, squeezed in between two gloomy brick “emporiums.” The windows on the ground floor of the building were protected by iron bars and painted over halfway up with whitewash. There were no doors into the house at all. I noticed that straightaway because here the sign that is usually set beside the gates or over the entrance was hanging between two windows. It read NITWiT AS USSR. I backed away to the middle of the street: yes, two stories, each with ten windows, and not a single door. And adjoining emporiums on the left and the right. NITWiT of the Academy of Sciences of the USSR, I thought. National Institute of TWiT, I suppose. And Lohuchil, the Log Hut on Chicken Legs, I thought, is this NITWiT’s museum. My traveling companions must be from here too. And those others in the tearoom… A flock of crows rose into the air from the roof of a building and circled, cawing, above the street. I turned and walked back toward the square.

We are all naive materialists, I thought. And we are all rationalists. We demand an immediate rational explanation for everything; we want everything reduced to a handful of known facts. And not one of us has even an ounce of dialectics. It never occurs to anybody that the known facts and some new phenomenon might be separated by an entire ocean of the unknown, so we declare the new phenomenon supernatural and, therefore, impossible. What kind of response, for instance, would Montesquieu have given to the statement that a dead man had revived forty-five minutes after his heart was known to have stopped? No doubt a hostile one. He would have declared it obscurantism and superstitious nonsense. That is, if he didn’t simply dismiss such a claim out of hand. But if it had happened in front of his very eyes, then he would have found himself in an extremely difficult situation. As I did now, only I was more used to it. He would have been obliged to regard the resurrection as a fraud, or to deny the evidence of his own senses, or even to abandon materialism. Most likely he would have chosen to regard the resurrection as a fraud. But for the rest of his life the memory of that cunning trick would have irritated his mind, like a mote in his eye…

We, however, are children of a different age. We’ve seen all sorts of things: a live dog’s head sewn to the back of another living dog, and an artificial kidney the size of a wardrobe, and a dead metal hand controlled by living nerves, and people who can remark casually in passing, “That was after I died the first time…” Yes, in our time Montesquieu’s chances of remaining a materialist wouldn’t have been too good. But we seem to manage it without too much bother.

It can be difficult at times, of course—when a chance breeze wafts the petals of mysterious plants across the ocean to us from the vast continents of the unknown. And what makes it difficult most often is when what you find is not what you were looking for. Soon the zoos and museums will be showing amazing animals, the first creatures from Mars or Venus. Yes, of course, we’ll gape at them and slap our thighs, but we’ve been expecting these animals for a long time already, and we’re well prepared for them to put in an appearance. We’d be far more amazed and disappointed if these animals proved not to exist at all, or to resemble our cats and dogs. As a rule, the science in which we believe (quite often blindly) prepares us long in advance for the miracles that lie ahead, and we only suffer psychological shock when we come up against the unforeseen, like some hole through into the fourth dimension, or biological radio communication, or a living planet… Or, say, a log hut on chicken legs… Volodya with the ginger beard was right when he said this was a funny old place they had here…

I reached the square and halted in front of the sparkling water kiosk. I remembered quite definitely that I had no change and I would have to break a note, and I was already preparing an ingratiating smile, because the kiosk women who sell sparkling water hate changing paper money, when I suddenly discovered a five-kopeck piece in the pocket of my jeans. I was amazed and delighted, but mostly delighted. I drank a glass of sparkling water with syrup, received a wet kopeck in change, and had a brief word with the kiosk attendant about the weather. Then I set off resolutely to walk home, to get the DM and TS over and done with as soon as possible and continue with my rational dialectical deliberations. As I stuck the kopeck in my pocket I stopped dead on discovering that there was another five-kopeck piece in there. I took it out and looked at it. The coin was slightly damp, and in the inscription “5 kopecks 1961” the “6” was obscured by a shallow dent. Perhaps even then I might not have paid any attention to this minor incident if it weren’t for the familiar, fleeting feeling that at one and the same time I was standing here on Peace Prospect and sitting on the sofa, gazing stupidly at that set of hooks. And this time, too, when I shook my head, the feeling disappeared.

I walked on slowly for a while, absentmindedly tossing the five-kopeck piece up in the air and catching it (it always fell on my palm tails up) and trying to concentrate. Then I saw the grocery store where I’d taken refuge from the crowd of kids that morning. Holding the coin between my finger and thumb, I went straight back to the counter where they sold fruit juices and water and drank a glass of water without syrup, and without enjoying it one little bit. Then, clutching the change in my fist, I walked off to one side and checked my pocket.

It was one of those cases when there is no psychological shock. I would have been more surprised if the five-kopeck piece hadn’t been there. But it was there—damp, dated 1961, with a dent over the digit “6.” Someone gave me a shove and asked if I was asleep. Apparently I was standing in the line for the cash desk. I said I wasn’t asleep and took a sales check for three boxes of matches. I was perfectly calm. After collecting my three boxes I went back out onto the square and began experimenting.

My experiment took about an hour. During that hour I made ten rounds of the square, until I was bloated with water and heavily burdened with boxes of matches and newspapers. I got to know all the salesmen and saleswomen and reached a number of interesting conclusions. The coin came back if it was used to pay. If you simply threw it away, dropped it, or lost it, then it would stay where it was. The coin returned to the pocket at the moment when the change passed from the seller’s hands into the hands of the buyer. If at that moment I held my hand in one pocket, the coin appeared in the other. It never appeared in a pocket that was closed with a zipper. If I kept both my hands in my pockets and took my change with my elbow, the coin could appear anywhere at all on my body (in one case it turned up in my shoe). The coin’s disappearance from the saucer of coppers was quite imperceptible; the five-kopeck piece immediately became invisible among the other copper coins and no movement occurred in the saucer at the moment when the five-kopeck piece moved back to my pocket.

And so, what we were dealing with was a so-called “unchangeable” five-kopeck piece in action. In itself the fact of unchangeability did not interest me very much. What astounded me most of all was the possibility of extraspatial displacement of a physical body. It was absolutely clear to me that the mysterious transference of the coin from the seller to the buyer represented a clear case of the notorious “zero-transport,” well known to lovers of science fiction under its various pseudonyms: hypertransit, repagular leap, Tarantoga’s phenomenon, etc. The possibilities in prospect were dazzling.

I had no scientific instruments. A basic laboratory thermometer would have been very useful, but I didn’t even have that. I was obliged to restrict myself to purely visual, subjective observation. I began my final round of the square with the following objective in mind: Placing the five-kopeck piece beside the saucer for small change and as far as possible preventing the salesperson from putting it in with the other money until he or she hands me my change, visually monitor the process of the coin’s displacement in space, while at the same time attempting to determine, at least qualitatively, the change in temperature in the vicinity of the presumptive trajectory of transit. However, the experiment was interrupted before it had even begun.

When I approached the sales assistant Manya, now an acquaintance of mine, the youthful militiaman with the rank of sergeant was already waiting for me. “All right, then,” he said in his professional voice.

I gave him an inquiring look, feeling an uneasy presentiment.

“Your papers, if you don’t mind, citizen,” said the militiaman, saluting and looking straight past me.

“What’s wrong?” I asked as I took out my passport.

“And the coin too, if you don’t mind,” the militiaman said as he took the passport. I handed him the five-kopeck piece without speaking. Manya watched me with angry eyes. The militiaman inspected the coin, said “Aha…” in a satisfied tone of voice, and opened my passport, which he studied the way a bibliophile studies a rare incunabulum. I waited in torment. A crowd was gathering around me, and some members of it were already expressing various opinions concerning my character.

“You’ll have to come with me,” the militiaman said eventually. I went with him. While we were on our way, the crowd that escorted us concocted several different versions of my troubled life history and proposed a large number of hypotheses concerning the reasons for the investigation that was beginning before their very eyes.

In the station the sergeant handed on the five-kopeck piece and the passport to a lieutenant, who inspected the five-kopeck piece and invited me to sit down. I sat down. The lieutenant said casually, “Hand over your small change,” and then also immersed himself in the study of my passport. I raked the coppers out of my pocket. “Count it, Kovalyov,” said the lieutenant, and setting aside the passport began looking into my eyes.

“Buy a lot, did you?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Hand that over too,” said the lieutenant.

I set out on the table in front of him four copies of the day before yesterday’s issue of Pravda, three issues of the local newspaper the Fisherman, two issues of the Literary Gazette, eight boxes of matches, six Golden Key toffees, and a reduced-price wire brush for cleaning Primus stoves.

“I can’t hand over the water,” I said dryly. “Five glasses with syrup and four without.”

I was beginning to understand what the problem was, and the realization that I would have to justify my actions gave me an extremely awkward and unpleasant feeling.

“Seventy-four kopecks, comrade Lieutenant,” the youthful Kovalyov reported.

The lieutenant contemplated the heap of newspapers and boxes of matches. “Just having fun were you, or what?” he asked me.

“What,” I said morosely.

“Careless,” said the lieutenant. “Very careless, citizen. Tell me about it.”

I told him. At the end of my story I earnestly requested the lieutenant not to interpret my actions as an attempt to save up the money to buy a Zaporozhets car. My ears were burning. He laughed.

“Why shouldn’t I?” he inquired. “Some people have managed it.”

I shrugged. “I assure you, the idea could never even have entered my head… I mean it really never did!”

The lieutenant maintained a long pause. The youthful Kovalyov took my passport and began studying it again.

“I can’t even imagine it…” I said in dismay. “An absolutely crazy idea… Saving up kopeck by kopeck…” I shrugged again. “You’d be better off standing out on the church porch…”

“We’re waging a campaign against begging,” the lieutenant said emphatically.

“Quite right, of course… I just don’t understand what it’s got to do with me, and—” I realized that I was shrugging my shoulders a lot and promised myself not to do it anymore.

The lieutenant maintained another excruciatingly long pause while he examined the five-kopeck piece. “We’ll have to draw up a report,” he said eventually.

I shrugged. “By all means… although…” But I didn’t actually know “although” what.

The lieutenant carried on looking at me for a while, waiting for me to continue, but I was trying to work out which article of the criminal code my activities came under. Then he pulled across a sheet of paper and began writing.

The youthful Kovalyov returned to his post. The lieutenant scraped his pen across the paper, frequently dipping it into the inkwell with a bang. I sat there, idiotically examining the posters hanging on the walls and thinking vaguely that in my place Lomonosov, for instance, would have grabbed his passport and leaped out of the window. What is the essential point here? I thought. The essential thing is whether or not a person thinks of himself as guilty. In that sense I am not guilty. But guilt, it seems, may be either objective or subjective. And a fact is a fact: all those copper coins amounting to seventy-four kopecks are from a legal point of view the fruit of theft committed with the use of a technical device—to wit, one unchangeable five-kopeck piece…

“Read that and sign it,” said the lieutenant.

I read it. It emerged from the report that I, the undersigned A. I. Privalov, had in a manner unknown to me come into possession of a working model of an unchangeable five-kopeck piece of type State Standard 718-62, of which I had made improper use; that I, the undersigned A. I. Privalov, asserted that I had acted in this way solely for purposes of scientific experimentation and entirely unmotivated by the pursuit of personal gain; that I was prepared to reimburse the state for the losses inflicted on it in the sum of one ruble and fifty-five kopecks; and finally, that I had, in accordance with Solovets Municipal Soviet decree of March 22, 1959, surrendered the aforesaid working model of an unchangeable five-kopeck piece to the duty officer at the local militia station, Lieutenant U. U. Sergienko, and received in exchange five kopecks in the valid currency of the Soviet Union. I signed it.

The lieutenant checked my signature against the signature in my passport, counted the copper coins carefully once again, phoned somewhere to confirm the cost of the toffees and the Primus stove brush, then wrote out a receipt and handed it to me together with five kopecks in valid currency. As he gave me back the newspapers, matches, sweets, and brush, he said, “On your own admission, you drank the water. So altogether you owe another eighty-one kopecks.”

I settled my debt with a tremendous sense of relief. The lieutenant leafed carefully through my passport once again and handed it back to me.

“You can go, citizen Privalov,” he said. “And take more care from now on. Are you going to be in Solovets long?”

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” I said.

“Well, try to be more careful until tomorrow.”

“Oh, I’ll do my best,” I said, putting away my passport. Then, on a sudden impulse, I asked him in a quiet voice, “But tell me, comrade Lieutenant, don’t you find things a bit strange here in Solovets?”

The lieutenant was already looking through some papers. “I’ve been here a long time,” he said absentmindedly. “I’m used to it.”

5

Until that evening I tried to be extremely careful. From the militia station I set off straight back home to Curving Seashore Street, and once there I climbed straight under the car. It was very hot. A menacing black cloud was slowly advancing from the west. While I was lying under the car covering myself with grease, old Naina Kievna, who had suddenly become very attentive and polite, came toadying up to me with a request to give her a lift to Bald Mountain. “They do say, dear guest, that it’s bad for a car to be standing around idle,” she cooed in her rasping voice, glancing in under the front bumper. “They say it’s good for it to go driving about. And I’d pay you, you can be sure of that.” I didn’t want to drive to Bald Mountain. In the first place, the boys might turn up at any moment. In the second place, I found the old woman’s unctuous persona even less endearing than her cantankerous one. And then it turned out that the journey to Bald Mountain was ninety versts in one direction, and when I asked the old granny how good the roads were, she declared happily that I needn’t worry about that—the road was smooth and if there was a problem she’d push the car herself. “Don’t you worry about me being old, dear guest, I’m still fit and strong,” she said.

After her first unsuccessful sally the old woman beat a temporary retreat, withdrawing into the house. The cat Vasily came and joined me under the car. He watched my hands closely for about a minute and then pronounced in a low but clearly audible voice, “I wouldn’t advise it, citizen… mmnaa… I wouldn’t advise it. They’ll eat you up.” Then he immediately left, twitching his tail. I was still trying to be very careful, so as soon as the old woman launched her second assault, I asked her for fifty rubles in order to put an end to the whole thing there and then. She retreated immediately, giving me a respectful look.

I carried out the DM and the TS, drove to the gas station with extreme caution to fill the tank, ate lunch in cafeteria number 11, and had my papers inspected once again by the vigilant Kovalyov. Just to make sure my conscience was clear, I asked him which was the road to Bald Mountain. The youthful sergeant gave me a very suspicious look and said, “Road? What are you talking about, citizen? What road? There isn’t any road there.” I drove back home in pouring rain.

The old woman had gone. The cat Vasily had disappeared. In the well two voices were singing a duet, and the effect was terrifying and dismal. The heavy rain was soon replaced by a dreary drizzle. It got dark.

I went into my room and tried to experiment with the whimsical book, but something in it had gotten jammed. Perhaps I was doing something wrong, or perhaps it was the influence of the weather, but no matter what I tried it stayed the way it was—F. F. Kuzmin’s Practical Exercises in Syntax and Punctuation. Reading a book like that was absolutely out of the question, so I tried my luck with the mirror. But the mirror reflected anything and everything and said nothing. Then I just stretched out on the sofa and lay there. I was on the point of nodding off from the boredom and the sound of the rain when the telephone suddenly started ringing. I went out into the hall and picked up the receiver. “Hello…”

The only sound in the earpiece was crackling.

“Hello,” I said, and blew into the mouthpiece. “Press the button.” There was no reply.

“Give it a bang,” I advised the silence. I blew into the phone again, tugged on the wire, and said. “Try calling again from a different phone.”

Then a voice in the receiver suddenly inquired, “Is that Alexander?”

“Yes,” I said, astonished.

“Why don’t you answer?”

“I am answering. Who’s this?”

“This is Petrovsky calling. Go down to the pickling shop and tell the foreman to give me a call.”

“What foreman?”

“Well, who have you got in today?”

“I don’t know…”

“What d’you mean, you don’t know? Is that Alexander?”

“Listen, citizen,” I said. “What number are you trying to call?”

“Seven two… Is that seven two?”

I didn’t know. “Apparently not,” I said.

“Then why did you say you were Alexander?”

“Because that’s who I am!”

“Pah!… Is this the manufacturing plant?”

“No,” I said. “This is the museum.”

“Ah… Then I beg your pardon. You can’t call the foreman, then…”

I hung up and went on standing there for a while, examining the hallway. There were five doors: the ones leading to my room, the yard, the old woman’s room, and the bathroom, and one covered in metal sheeting with a huge padlock. Boring, I thought. Lonely. And the lamp’s dim and dusty too… Shuffling my feet, I went back to my room and stopped in the doorway.

The sofa was gone.

Everything else was exactly the way it had been: the table, the brick oven, the mirror, the clothes hooks, and the stool. And the book was lying on the windowsill exactly where I’d left it. But where the sofa had been there was nothing now but a rectangle of thick dust on the floor, littered with rubbish. Then I saw the bedsheets lying neatly folded under the set of hooks.

“There was a sofa here a moment ago,” I said out loud. “I was lying on it.”

Something in the house had changed. The room was filled with an unintelligible hubbub—someone holding a conversation, music, people laughing, coughing, and shuffling their feet. For an instant a vague shadow obscured the light of the lamp, and the floorboards creaked loudly. Then suddenly I caught a medicinal smell like a drugstore and felt a puff of cold air in my face. I stepped back. And immediately I distinctly heard a sharp knock at the outside door. The noises instantly disappeared. Casting a glance around at the spot where the sofa had been, I went out into the hallway and opened the door.

Standing in front of me in the drizzle was a short, elegant man wearing a spotlessly clean cream raincoat with the collar turned up. He raised his hat and spoke in a dignified manner: “I’m very sorry to bother you, Alexander Ivanovich, but could you possibly spare me five minutes of your time?”

“Of course,” I said, confused. “Come in.”

It was the first time I’d ever seen this man, and the thought crossed my mind that perhaps he might be connected with the local militia. The stranger stepped into the hallway and set off straight toward my room. I blocked his way. I don’t know why I did it—probably because I didn’t want to answer any questions about the dust and rubbish on the floor.

“I’m sorry,” I babbled, “why don’t we talk here? My room’s a bit of a mess. And there’s nowhere to sit.”

The stranger jerked his head up sharply. “What do you mean?” he asked in a soft voice. “What about the sofa?”

We looked into each other’s eyes without speaking for about a minute. “Mmm… Yes, what about the sofa?” I asked, for some reason speaking in a whisper.

The stranger hooded his eyes. “Ah, so that’s the way it is!” he said slowly. “I understand. What a pity. Well, I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

He nodded politely, put his hat on, and strode resolutely toward the door of the bathroom.

“Where are you going?” I called. “That’s the wrong way.” Without bothering to turn around, the stranger mumbled, “Oh, it makes no difference,” and closed the door behind him. Without thinking, I switched the light on for him and stood there listening for a while, then suddenly jerked the door open. The bathroom was empty.

I gingerly took out a cigarette and lit up. The sofa, I thought. What does this have to do with the sofa? I’d never heard any fairy tales about sofas. There was a flying carpet. There was a magic tablecloth. There were caps of darkness, seven-league boots, and self-playing psalteries. There was a magic talking mirror. But there wasn’t any magic sofa. People sat or lay on sofas; a sofa was a very solid object, very ordinary… Yes, really, what kind of fantasies could be inspired by a sofa?

Going back into my room, I immediately saw the Little Man. He was sitting on the brick oven up by the ceiling, doubled over into a very uncomfortable position. His wrinkled face was unshaven and his gray ears were hairy.

“Hello,” I said wearily.

The Little Man twisted his long lips into a woeful grimace. “Good evening,” he said. “I do beg your pardon, I’m not quite sure how I came to be up here… I’ve come about the sofa.”

“Then you’ve come too late,” I said, sitting down at the table.

“So I see,” the Man said in a quiet voice, shifting awkwardly. Flakes of whitewash showered down.

I smoked and looked him over thoughtfully. The Little Man glanced down uncertainly.

“Would you like me to help?” I asked, making a move toward him.

“No thank you,” the Man said despondently. “I’d better do it myself…”

He crept to the very edge of the sleeping platform, covering himself in white chalk, and launched himself awkwardly into the air, falling headfirst. My heart skipped a beat, but he stopped dead in midair and then began descending slowly, jerking his arms and legs outward. It wasn’t very elegant, but it was amusing. He landed on all fours and immediately stood up and wiped his wet face on his sleeve.

“I’m getting old,” he declared hoarsely. “A hundred years ago, or in Gonzast’s time, they’d have stripped me of my diploma for a descent like that, no two ways about it, Alexander Ivanovich.”

“Where did you graduate from?” I inquired, lighting up another cigarette.

He wasn’t listening. He sat down on the stool opposite me and continued his lament: “There was a time when I used to levitate like Zeks. But now I can’t even get rid of this growth in my ears. It looks so untidy… But what’s to be done if you’ve got no talent? The immense number of temptations there are all around, all sorts of degrees and titles and prizes, but I’ve got no talent. Many of us get rather hirsute as we grow old. Of course, that doesn’t apply to the grand masters. Gian Giacomo, Cristóbal Junta, Giuseppe Balsamo, or comrade Fyodor Simeonovich Kivrin, for instance… Not a trace of superfluous hair there!” He gave me a triumphant look. “Not a trace! Such smooth skin, such elegance, such grace…”

“I beg your pardon,” I said, “You mentioned Giuseppe Balsamo… But he is the same person as Count Cagliostro! And according to Alexei Tolstoy, the count was fat and very unpleasant-looking.”

The Little Man looked at me pityingly and smiled condescendingly. “You’re simply not aware of the facts, Alexander Ivanovich,” he said. “Count Cagliostro is not at all the same as the great Balsamo. He is… how can I explain it to you… He is a rather unsuccessful copy of him. In his youth Balsamo made a matrix mold of himself. He was quite exceptionally talented, but you know how it is when you’re young… Get it done quick, have a laugh, any old way will do… Yes indeed… So don’t you ever say that Balsamo and Cagliostro are the same. You could end up feeling rather stupid.”

I felt rather stupid. “All right,” I said, “of course, I’m no specialist, but… pardon my impertinence, but what’s all this business with the sofa about? Who’s taken it?”

The Little Man shuddered. “Such unpardonable conceit,” he said loudly, getting to his feet. “I made a mistake and I am prepared to admit it without the slightest reservation. When giants like that… And there are those impudent boys too…” He started bowing and pressing his pale little hands to his heart. “Please forgive my intrusion, Alexander Ivanovich, I have inconvenienced you… Allow me to apologize unreservedly once again and take my leave immediately.” He moved closer to the oven and glanced upward apprehensively. “It’s my age, Alexander Ivanovich,” he said with a deep sigh. “My age…”

“Perhaps it would be more convenient if you went through the… err… There was another comrade here just before you and he used it.”

“Ahh, my dear fellow, then that was Cristóbal Junta! Seeping ten leagues through the drains is no problem for him…” The Little Man gestured mournfully. “We’re not up to that sort of thing… Did he take the sofa with him or transgress it?”

“I-I don’t know,” I said. “Well actually, he got here too late as well.”

The Little Man plucked at the fur in his right ear in stupefaction. “Too late? Him? Incredible! But then, who are you and I to judge? Good-bye, Alexander Ivanovich. Please forgive me.”

With a visible effort he walked through the wall and disappeared. I tossed my cigarette butt into the rubbish lying on the floor. This sofa was big news all right! Not your garden-variety talking cat. This was something more serious altogether… There was real drama here. Perhaps even a genuine drama of the intellect. There would probably be others arriving too late as well. There were bound to be. I glanced at the rubbish. Where was it I saw that twig broom?

The twig broom was standing beside the drinking water tub under the telephone. I started sweeping up the rubbish and suddenly something heavy snagged on the broom and rolled out into the center of the room. Glancing at it, I saw an elongated cylinder about the size of my index finger. I touched it with the broom. The cylinder swayed to and fro; there was a dry crackling sound and a sudden smell of ozone. I dropped the broom and picked up the cylinder. It was smooth, highly polished, and warm to the touch. I flicked a fingernail against it and it crackled again. I turned it around to look at its end and immediately felt the floor starting to slip away from under my feet. The world turned upside down before my eyes. I stubbed my toes painfully against something, then banged my shoulder and the top of my head. I dropped the cylinder and fell.

I was badly shaken, and it was a moment before I realized that I was lying in the narrow crevice between the oven and the wall. The lamp above my head was swaying, and looking up I was astonished to see the ribbed tracks of my shoes on the ceiling. Wheezing and groaning, I clambered out of the crevice and inspected my soles. They had whitewash on them.

“Well now,” I thought out loud, “thank goodness I didn’t end up seeping through the drains!”

I looked around to find the cylinder. It was standing with the circumference of its end surface touching the floor, in a position that couldn’t possibly be balanced. I cautiously moved a bit closer and squatted down beside it. The cylinder crackled quietly and rocked to and fro. I looked at it for a long time, then stretched out my neck and blew on it. The cylinder began swaying faster and leaned over, and immediately I heard a hoarse screech and felt a puff of wind on my back. I glanced around and immediately sat down on the floor at the sight of a gigantic vulture with a naked neck and a menacingly curving beak sitting on the oven, carefully folding away its wings.

“Hello,” I said. I was certain that the vulture could talk.

The vulture inclined its head and peered at me with one eye, which made it look like a chicken. I waved my hand in greeting. The vulture opened its beak slightly, but it didn’t talk to me. It raised one wing and started searching for lice underneath it, clicking its beak. The cylinder carried on swaying and crackling. The vulture stopped, pulled its head back into its shoulders, and veiled its eyes with a yellow film. Trying not to turn my back to it, I finished cleaning up and tossed the rubbish outside into the rainy darkness. Then I went back into the room.

The vulture was sleeping and there was a smell of ozone in the air. I looked at the clock: it was twenty minutes past twelve. I stood looking down at the cylinder for a while, pondering the law of conservation of energy and matter. Vultures were unlikely to condense out of nothing. If this vulture had appeared here in Solovets, then a vulture (not necessarily this one) had disappeared in the Caucasus or wherever it was they lived. I made a rough estimate of the energy of translocation and cast a wary glance at the cylinder. Better not touch it, I thought. Better cover it with something and let it stand there. I brought the dipper in from the hallway, lined it up carefully, and, holding my breath, put it over the cylinder. Then I sat down on the stool, lit a cigarette, and started waiting for what would happen next. The vulture was sniffling audibly. In the light of the lamp its feathers glinted with a copper sheen and its massive claws were dug deep into the whitewash. It gave off a smell of decay that was gradually filling the room.

“You shouldn’t have done that, Alexander Ivanovich,” said a pleasant male voice.

“What exactly?” I asked, glancing around at the mirror.

“I meant the plywitsum…”

It wasn’t the mirror talking. It was someone else. “I don’t understand what you mean,” I said. There was no one in the room, and that made me feel annoyed.

“I’m talking about the plywitsum,” said the voice. “You really shouldn’t have covered it with the iron dipper. A plywitsum, or as you call it, a magic wand, should be treated with extreme caution.”

“That’s why I covered it up… But do come in, comrade. This is a very inconvenient way to talk.”

“Thank you,” said the voice. A man unhurriedly condensed out of the air in front of me—pale, very respectable looking, wearing a supremely well-fitting gray suit. Inclining his head to one side, he inquired with quite exquisite politeness, “May I make bold to hope that I am not inconveniencing you too greatly?”

“Not in the slightest,” I said, getting to my feet, “Please take a seat and make yourself at home. Would you like some tea?”

“Thank you,” said the stranger, and sat down facing me, pulling up his trouser legs with an elegant gesture. “But as for tea, please excuse me, Alexander Ivanovich, I have only just finished supper.”

He looked into my eyes for a while, smiling urbanely. I smiled back. “I suppose you are here about the sofa,” I said. “I’m afraid the sofa is gone. I’m very sorry, I don’t even know—”

The stranger fluttered his hands in the air. “Such petty trifles!” he said. “All that fuss over some nonsense—I beg your pardon—that nobody actually believes in anyway… Judge for yourself, Alexander Ivanovich, these petty squabbles and wild goose chases, like some movie, upsetting people over some mythical—I am not afraid to use the word—some mythical White Thesis… Every sober-minded individual regards the sofa as a universal translator, somewhat bulky, but extremely durable and reliable. The old ignoramuses with their idle talk about the White Thesis are just making fools of themselves… No, I do not wish to talk about the sofa.”

“Just as you please,” I said, concentrating all my urbanity in this one phrase. “Do let us talk about something else.”

“Superstition… Prejudice…” the stranger said absentmindedly. “Mental sloth and envy, hirsute envy…” He interrupted himself. “Forgive me, Alexander Ivanovich, but I will after all be so bold as to request your permission to remove that dipper. Unfortunately iron is effectively opaque to the hyperfield, and a buildup of hyperfield tension in a confined space…”

I raised my arms in assent. “By all means, just as you wish! Remove the dipper… You may even remove that… erm… erm… that magic wand.” At this point I stopped, amazed to see that the dipper was no longer there. The cylinder was standing in a puddle of liquid that looked like colored mercury. The liquid was rapidly evaporating.

“It is for the best, I assure you,” said the stranger. “But as for your magnanimous suggestion that I remove the plywitsum, unfortunately I am unable to avail myself of it. It is a matter of morality and ethics—a question of honor, if you wish… Convention is such a powerful force. Permit me to suggest that you do not touch the plywitsum again! I see that you have hurt yourself, and as for this eagle… I think you can sense… eh-eh… a certain fragrance…”

“Yes,” I said with passionate feeling. “The stench is vile, as bad as a monkey house.”

We looked at the eagle. The vulture was dozing, its feathers ruffled up.

“The art of controlling the plywitsum,” said the stranger, “is both complex and subtle. You must under no circumstances feel distressed or reproach yourself. The course in plywitsum control lasts seven semesters and requires a thorough knowledge of quantum alchemy. As a programmer, you would probably have no difficulty in mastering the electronic-level plywitsum, the so-called PEP-17… but the quantum plywitsum—the hyperfields… transgressive materialization… the unified Lomonosov-Lavoisier law…” He gestured apologetically.

“Why, naturally!” I said hastily. “I would never claim… Of course I am entirely unprepared.” At this point I suddenly remembered I hadn’t offered him a cigarette.

“Thank you,” said the stranger. “But I very much regret that I don’t.”

Then, with a polite shuffling of my fingers, I inquired—I didn’t ask, but precisely inquired—“Might I perhaps be permitted to know to what I owe the pleasure of our meeting?”

The stranger lowered his eyes. “I am afraid that I may appear indiscreet,” he said, “but I am, alas, obliged to confess that I have been here for quite a long time. I would not wish to name names, but I believe it is clear even to you, Alexander Ivanovich, far removed as you are from this entire business, that a rather unedifying commotion has developed over the sofa: a scandal is in the offing, the atmosphere is growing heated, and the tension is mounting. In such a situation mistakes and highly undesirable accidents are inevitable… We need not look too far for examples. A certain person—I repeat, I would not wish to name names, especially as this person is an associate deserving of the highest respect, and in speaking of respect, I have in mind if not perhaps his manners then his great talent and selfless dedication—well then, in his nervous haste, a certain person leaves the plywitsum here by mistake, and the plywitsum becomes the center of a sphere of events, in which there becomes implicated a certain individual having no connection with them whatsoever…” He bowed in my direction. “And in such cases it is absolutely essential to take action which will neutralize the harmful effects…” He cast a meaningful glance at the prints of my shoes on the ceiling. Then he smiled at me and said, “But I would not wish to appear to be an abstract altruist. Of course, as both a specialist and an administrator I find all these events extremely interesting… However, I have no intention of inconveniencing you any further, and since you have given me your assurance that you will not experiment with the plywitsum any further, I shall ask you please to allow me to take my leave.” He stood up.

“No, please!” I cried out. “Do not go! It is such a pleasure for me to talk with you, and I have a thousand questions to ask!”

“I am most truly appreciative of your tact, Alexander Ivanovich, but you are exhausted, you are in need of rest…”

“Not in the least!” I retorted heatedly. “Quite the contrary!”

“Alexander Ivanovich,” said the stranger, smiling kindly and staring hard into my eyes. “You really are feeling tired, and you really do want to take a rest.”

And then I realized that I actually was falling asleep. I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I didn’t want to talk anymore. I didn’t want to do anything at all. I just felt terribly sleepy.

“It has been a quite exceptional pleasure to make your acquaintance,” the stranger said in a soft voice.

I saw him start to fade, gradually becoming fainter until he dissolved into the air, leaving behind a faint odor of expensive eau de cologne. I spread the bedding out clumsily on the floor, stuck my face into the pillow, and instantly fell asleep.

I was woken by a flapping of wings and an unpleasant screeching. The room was filled with a strange, bluish half-light. The vulture on the brick oven was rustling its feathers, screaming repulsively, and banging its wings against the ceiling. I sat up and looked around. Floating in the air at the center of the room was a big, tough-looking bozo in tracksuit pants and a striped Hawaiian shirt. He was hovering above the cylinder and making passes over it with his massive, bony hands without touching it.

“What’s the problem?” I asked.

The bozo glanced briefly at me over his shoulder and then turned away.

“I didn’t hear your answer,” I said angrily. I was still feeling very sleepy.

“Quiet, mortal,” the bozo said in a hoarse voice. He stopped making passes and picked the cylinder up off the floor. I thought his voice sounded familiar.

“Hey, buddy!” I said threateningly. “Put that thing back and clear out.”

The bozo looked at me, thrusting out his jaw. I threw the blanket off and stood up.

“All right, put the plywitsum down,” I yelled at the top of my voice. The bozo descended to the floor, planted his feet firmly, and assumed a combat stance. The room became a lot lighter, although the lamp was not switched on.

“Sonny boy,” said the bozo, “it’s nighttime—you ought to be asleep. Why don’t you lay yourself down, before I help you do it?”

This guy was obviously no pushover in a fight. But then neither was I. “Shall we go outside, perhaps?” I suggested briskly, pulling up my underpants.

Someone declared with feeling, “With your thoughts directed to the higher Self, free from craving and self-love, cured of spiritual fever, fight, Arjuna!”

I started. So did the young guy.

“Bhagavad Gita!” said the voice. “Chapter 3, verse 30.”

“It’s the mirror,” I said automatically.

“I know that,” the bozo growled.

“Put the plywitsum down,” I demanded.

“Why are you yelling like an elephant with a sick head?” the guy asked. “As if it was yours!”

“You mean it’s yours?”

“Yes, it’s mine.”

I had a sudden flash of inspiration. “So it was you who took the sofa too!”

“Mind your own business,” the young guy advised me.

“Give the sofa back,” I said. “I signed a receipt for it.”

“Go to hell!” said the bozo, looking around.

At this point another two men appeared in the room, a skinny one and a fat one, both wearing striped pajamas, like inmates of Sing Sing.

“Korneev!” the fat one howled. “So you’re the sofa thief! You ought to be ashamed of yourself!”

“You can all go—” said the bozo.

“You lout!” the fat man shouted. “You ought to be thrown out. I’ll send in a report on you!”

“Go ahead,” Korneev said morosely. “Do what you enjoy doing most.”

“How dare you talk to me in that tone of voice! You insolent urchin! You left the plywitsum here! This young man could have suffered as a result!”

“I already have,” I interjected. “The sofa’s gone, I’m sleeping on the floor like a dog… these conversations all night every night… That stinking eagle…”

The fat man immediately turned toward me. “A quite unprecedented breach of discipline,” he declared. “You must complain… And you ought to be ashamed of yourself!” he said, turning back to Korneev.

Korneev was gloomily stuffing the plywitsum into his cheek.

The skinny man asked in a low, threatening voice: “Have you extracted the Thesis, Korneev?”

The bozo laughed morosely. “There isn’t any Thesis in it,” he said. “Why do you keep going on about it? If you don’t want us to steal the sofa, then give us another translator.”

“Have you read the order about not removing items from the storeroom?” the skinny man asked threateningly.

Korneev stuck his hands in his pockets and gazed up at the ceiling.

“Are you aware of the decision of the Academic Council?” the skinny man asked.

“I am aware, comrade Demin, that Monday starts on Saturday,” Korneev said morosely.

“Enough of your demagoguery,” said the skinny man. “Return the sofa immediately, and do not dare come back here again.”

“I won’t return the sofa,” said Korneev. “Not until we’ve finished the experiment.”

The fat man made a shocking scene at that. “Unpardonable insubordination,” he squealed. “You hooligan!”

The vulture started screeching excitedly again. Without taking his hands out of his pockets, Korneev turned his back and stepped straight through the wall. The fat man dashed after him, yelling, “Oh no, you give back the sofa!”

The skinny man said to me, “It’s all a misunderstanding. We’ll take measures to prevent it from happening again.” He nodded to me and also started moving toward the wall.

“Wait,” I exclaimed. “The eagle! Take the eagle! And take the smell with it!”

The skinny man, already halfway into the wall, turned back and beckoned to the bird with his finger. The vulture noisily launched itself off the oven and was sucked in under his fingernail. The skinny man disappeared. The blue light slowly faded and the room went dark. I switched on the light and looked around. Everything in the room was the same as it had been, except for the deep, gaping scratches from the vulture’s claws on the oven and the fantastically absurd, dark-ribbed imprints of my shoes on the ceiling.

“The transparent oil found in the cow,” the mirror pronounced with idiotic profundity, “does not facilitate the cow’s nourishment, but being processed in an appropriate fashion, it provides the finest of nutrition.”

I turned the light off and lay down. The floor was hard and there was a cold draft. I’ll catch it hot from the old woman tomorrow, I thought.

6

In the morning the sofa was back where it belonged. I wasn’t surprised. I just thought that one way or another the old woman had gotten what she wanted: the sofa was standing in one corner and I was lying in another. As I cleared away my bedding and did my morning exercises, I thought about how there must be some kind of limit to the capacity for surprise. Clearly I was well past the threshold now. In fact I was feeling pretty close to saturation. I tried to imagine something that would astonish me at that moment, but my imagination wasn’t up to it. I didn’t like that at all, because I can’t stand people who are incapable of being surprised. But my psychological state was still a long way from so what’s the big deal anyway—it was more like Alice in Wonderland, as if I were dreaming and prepared to accept any miracle as something perfectly natural that deserved a more adequate response than simply dropping my jaw and gaping wide-eyed.

I was still doing my exercises when I heard the hallway door slam. There was a sound of shuffling feet and clattering heels, someone coughed, something clattered and fell, and an imperious voice called out, “Comrade Gorynych!” The old woman didn’t answer, and the people in the hallway started talking to each other.

“Which door is this? Ah, I see. And this one?”

“This is the entrance to the museum.”

“And this here? What’s this? All sealed up, these locks…”

“She keeps a very strict house, Janus Polyeuctovich. And here’s the phone.”

“Then where is the famous sofa? In the museum?”

“No. There should be a storeroom here somewhere.”

“That’s in here,” said a familiar morose voice.

The door of my room swung open to reveal a tall, skinny old man with a magnificent head of snow-white hair, black eyebrows, a black mustache, and intense black eyes. Catching sight of me (I was standing there in my underpants with my arms extended to the sides and my feet planted at shoulder width), he stopped and said in a sonorous voice, “I see.”

There were other faces peering into the room on his left and right. I said: “I beg your pardon” and ran to get my jeans. But in fact they took no notice of me. Four people came into the room and arranged themselves around the sofa. I knew two of them: the morose Korneev, unshaven and red-eyed, still wearing that frivolous Hawaiian shirt, and the swarthy, hook-nosed Roman, who winked at me, made a mysterious sign with his hand, and immediately turned away. I didn’t know the white-haired man. And I didn’t know the tall, stout man with the black suit that was shiny on the back and the sweeping, imperious gestures.

“This sofa here?” the shiny man asked.

“It’s not a sofa,” Korneev said morosely. “It’s a translator.”

“To me it’s a sofa,” said the shiny man, looking in a notebook. “Sofa, soft, small double, inventory number 1123.” He leaned down and felt it. “There’s a damp spot here, Korneev, you had it out in the rain. You’ll see, now the springs will turn rusty and the upholstery will go rotten.”

“The value of the item concerned,” said Roman in a tone that I thought sounded mocking, “does not depend in any way on its upholstery, or even its springs, because it doesn’t have any.”

“Now that’s enough of that, Roman Petrovich,” the shiny man said with dignity. “Don’t you go trying to shield your Korneev from me. The sofa’s registered to my museum, and that’s where it has to stay.”

“It’s a piece of equipment,” Korneev said despairingly. “It’s for working with.”

“I don’t know anything about that,” the shiny man declared. “I don’t know what you mean by working with a sofa. I’ve got a sofa at home too, and I know what kind of work gets done on that.”

“We know that too,” Roman said quietly.

“Now, that’s enough of that,” said the shiny man, turning to face him. “You’re not in the beer hall now—this is an official institution. What exactly are you trying to say?”

“What I’m trying to say is that this is not a sofa,” said Roman, “or, to put it in a form that you can grasp, it is not entirely a sofa. It is a piece of equipment with the appearance of a sofa.”

“I would ask you please to stop making insinuations,” the shiny man said emphatically, “concerning forms that I can grasp and so forth. Let’s each of us stick to his own job. My job is to put a stop to maladministration and waste, and that’s what I’m doing.”

“Right,” said the white-haired man in a clear, ringing voice. Suddenly there was silence. “I have had a word with Cristóbal Joséevich and Fyodor Simeonovich. They believe that the only value this translator has is as a museum piece. It once belonged to King Rudolf II, which puts its historical value beyond dispute. In addition, if my memory does not deceive me, we have already ordered a serial translator, two years ago… Can you remember who put in the order, Modest Matveevich?”

“Just a moment,” said the shiny Modest Matveevich, and began leafing rapidly through his notebook. “Just a moment… One Kitezhgrad Plant TDK-80E Twin-Cycle Translator… At the request of comrade Balsamo.”

“Balsamo works on it round the clock,” said Roman.

“And that TDK’s a load of junk,” added Korneev. “Molecular-level discrimination.”

“Yes, yes,” said the white-haired man. “Now I remember. There was a report on a study of the TDK. The discrimination curve really is rather uneven… Yes. What about this… er… sofa?”

“Handcrafted,” Roman put in quickly. “Absolutely reliable. Designed and made by Loew ben Bezalel. It took him three hundred years to assemble it and tune it.”

“Now then!” said the shiny Modest Matveevich. “That’s the way to do a job! An old man like that and he did everything himself.”

The mirror suddenly cleared its throat and said, “All of them became younger after having been in the water for an hour, and they emerged from it as handsome, young, and healthy, as strong and cheerful in spirit, as they were at the age of twenty.”

“Precisely,” said Modest Matveevich. The mirror had spoken in the voice of the white-haired man.

The white-haired man frowned irritably. “Let us not try to settle this question now,” he suggested.

“When, then?” asked the loutish Korneev.

“On Friday at the Academic Council.”

“We can’t go around squandering ancient relics,” interjected Modest Matveevich.

“Then what are we supposed to do?” Korneev asked rudely. The mirror began muttering in a sinister, sepulchral voice:

The white-haired man wrinkled up his entire face into a frown, went over to the mirror, thrust his arm into it up to the shoulder, and clicked something. The mirror fell silent.

“All right,” said the white-haired man. “We will also decide the question of your group at the council. And in the meantime you…”—I could see from his face that he had forgotten Korneev’s name—“…you will… er… refrain from visiting the museum.”

And so saying, he left the room. By the door.

“I hope you’re satisfied,” Korneev said through clenched teeth, looking at Modest Matveevich.

“I won’t allow you to squander resources,” Modest Matveevich replied curtly, tucking his notebook away in his inside pocket.

“Squander!” exclaimed Korneev. “You couldn’t give a damn about anything. Keeping the books simple is all you’re concerned about. You just don’t want to put in an extra column.”

“Now that’s enough of that,” said the indomitable Modest Matveevich. “We’ll be setting up a commission to see what damage has been done to this relic—”

“Inventory number 1123,” Roman added in a soft voice.

“That’s the way of things,” Modest Matveevich said pompously, turning around and catching sight of me. “And what are you doing here?” he inquired. “Why are you sleeping here?”

“I…” I began.

“You slept on the sofa,” Modest declared in icy tones, his counterintelligence agent’s eyes boring into me. “Are you aware that it is an item of equipment?”

“No,” I said. “That is, I am now, of course.”

“Modest Matveevich!” exclaimed hook-nosed Roman. “This is our new programmer, Sasha Privalov!”

“Then why is he sleeping here? Why not in the hostel?”

“He hasn’t been registered yet,” said Roman, putting his arm around my waist.

“All the more reason!”

“You mean he ought to be sleeping out in the street?” Korneev asked spitefully.

“Now, that’s enough of that,” said Modest. “There’s a hostel and there’s a hotel, but this here is a museum, a state institution. What if everybody slept in the museums? Where are you from?”

“From Leningrad,” I said sullenly.

“What if I were to come to Leningrad and sleep in the Hermitage?”

“Be my guest,” I said with a shrug.

Roman still had his arm around my waist. “Modest Matveevich, you’re absolutely right, it’s most irregular, but today he’ll sleep in my room.”

“Now that’s a different matter. By all means,” said Modest magnanimously. He cast a proprietary glance around the room, saw the footprints on the ceiling, and immediately looked down at my feet. Fortunately I was barefoot. “That’s the way of things,” he said, then straightened out the old junk hanging on the hooks and left the room.

“Nin-com-poop,” Korneev hissed. “Blockhead.” He sat down on the sofa and put his head in his hands. “Ah, to hell with the lot of them. I’ll snatch it again tonight.”

“Calm down,” said Roman gently. “It’s not that bad. We just had a bit of bad luck. Did you notice which Janus it was?”

“What of it?” Korneev asked hopelessly.

“It was A-Janus.”

Korneev raised his head. “What difference does that make?”

“A huge difference,” said Roman with a wink. “Because S-Janus has flown off to Moscow. Specifically to deal with the matter of this sofa. Now do you understand, you ransacker of museums?”

“Listen, you’ve saved my life,” said Korneev, and for the first time I saw him smile.

“You know, Sasha,” said Roman, turning to me, “we happen to have an ideal director. One person in two. There’s A-Janus Polyeuctovich and S-Janus Polyeuctovich. S-Janus is a topflight international scientist. But A-Janus is just a fairly ordinary administrator.”

“Twins?” I asked tentatively.

“No, they’re one and the same man. Only he’s one person in two.”

“Oh, I get it,” I said, starting to put on my shoes.

“Never mind, Sasha, you’ll know all about everything soon,” said Roman reassuringly.

I raised my head. “Meaning?”

“We need a programmer,” said Roman with feeling.

“I need a programmer very badly,” said Korneev, perking up a bit.

“Everybody needs a programmer,” I said, going back to my shoes. “And please don’t try hypnosis or any of those enchanted places of yours.”

“He’s beginning to catch on,” said Roman.

Korneev was about to say something when we heard loud voices outside the window.

“It’s not our five-kopeck piece!” yelled Modest.

“Then whose five-kopeck piece is it?”

“I don’t know whose five-kopeck piece it is! It’s none of my business! Catching counterfeiters is your job, comrade Sergeant!”

“The five-kopeck piece was confiscated from a certain Privalov, residing here in your museum at the Lohuchil!”

“Ah, from Privalov. I knew he was a thief the moment I laid eyes on him!”

The voice of A-Janus protested reproachfully, “Come now, Modest Matveevich!”

“I’m sorry, Janus Polyeuctovich, but something has to be done! Come with me, comrade Sergeant! He’s in the house… Janus Polyeuctovich, you stand by the window so he can’t escape that way! I’ll prove it! I won’t have aspersions like this cast on comrade Gorynych’s reputation!”

I turned cold inside. But Roman had already worked out what to do. He grabbed a grubby peaked cap off one of the clothes hooks and pulled it down over my ears.

I disappeared.

It was a very strange feeling. Everything stayed where it was, except for me. But Roman didn’t give me any chance to relish the new experience.

“It’s a cap of darkness,” he hissed. “Just move out of the way and keep quiet.”

I tiptoed rapidly across into the corner and sat down in front of the mirror. That very moment Modest came bursting excitedly into the room, dragging the youthful Sergeant Kovalyov along by the arm.

“Where?” Modest howled in confusion, gazing around.

“There,” said Roman, pointing to the sofa.

“No need to get excited, it’s right where it supposed to be,” added Korneev.

“I meant, where’s that… programmer?”

“What programmer?” Roman asked in surprise.

“That’s enough of that,” said Modest. “There was a programmer here. Wearing trousers with no shoes.”

“Oh, that’s what you meant,” said Roman. “We were just playing a joke, Modest Matveevich. There wasn’t any programmer here. It was simply…” He made a strange movement with his hands and a man wearing jeans and a T-shirt appeared in the center of the room.

I only saw him from the back, so I can’t say what he looked like, but the youthful Kovalyov shook his head and said, “No, that’s not him.”

Modest walked around the apparition, muttering, “T-shirt… trousers… no shoes! That’s him!” The apparition disappeared.

“No it’s not, that’s not him,” said Sergeant Kovalyov. “He was younger and he didn’t have a beard…”

“He didn’t have a beard?” Modest echoed. He was totally confused now.

“He didn’t,” Kovalyov confirmed.

“Mmm…” said Modest. “I think he did have a beard…”

“Here, then, I’ll give you the notice,” said the youthful Kovalyov, handing Modest an official-looking sheet of paper. “And you can sort this business out with your Privalov and your Gorynych…”

“But I tell you, the five-kopeck piece isn’t ours!” roared Modest. “I can’t say anything about this Privalov. Perhaps there isn’t any real Privalov at all… But comrade Gorynych is our employee!”

The youthful Kovalyov pressed his hands to his breast as he tried to say something.

“I insist that you get to the bottom of this immediately!” roared Modest. “I won’t take any more of this, comrade Sergeant! This notice is a slur on the reputation of the entire collective! I insist that you check for yourself!”

“I have my orders—” Kovalyov began, but Modest threw himself on him with a cry of “That’s enough of that! I insist!” and dragged him out of the room.

“He’s taken him off to the museum,” said Roman. “Sasha, where are you? Take the cap off. Let’s go and watch.”

“Maybe I ought to keep it on,” I said.

“Take it off, take it off,” said Roman. “You’re a phantom now. Nobody believes in you—not the administration or the militia.”

Korneev said, “All right, I’m off to get some sleep. Sasha, come over after lunch. You can have a look at our computers and what have you.”

I took the cap off. “Now that’s enough of that,” I said. “I’m on vacation.”

“Come on, let’s go,” said Roman.

In the hallway Modest was holding on to the sergeant with one hand while he opened a massive padlock with the other. “I’ll show you our five-kopeck piece!” he shouted. “Everything’s properly registered… Everything’s in its proper place.”

“That’s not what I was saying,” Kovalyov protested feebly. “All I meant was that there could be more than one five-kopeck piece…”

Modest opened the door and we all went into a large hall.

It was a perfectly respectable museum, with stands, diagrams, display cases, models, and plaster casts. The general impression was similar to a museum of crime detection, with lots of photographs and rather off-putting exhibits. Modest immediately dragged the sergeant off somewhere behind the stands, where the two of them started droning away: “There’s our five-kopeck piece…”

“I’m not saying anything about that…”

“Comrade Gorynych…”

“But I’ve got my orders!”

“Now that’s enough of that!”

“Take a poke around, Sasha,” said Roman with a sweeping gesture, and sat down in an armchair by the door.

I began walking along the wall. I wasn’t surprised by anything, I just found it all very interesting. “Living water. Efficiency 52%. Permissible sedimentation 0.3” (an old square bottle containing water, the cork sealed with colored wax). “A diagram of the process of industrial extraction of living water.” “A model of a living water still.” “Veshkovsky-Traubenbach love potion” (a small chemist’s jar containing a poisonous-yellow ointment). “Ordinary bad blood” (a sealed ampoule containing a black liquid)… Hanging above this stand was a plaque that read, “Active chemical substances. 12th–17th centuries.” There were a lot more bottles, jars, retorts, ampoules, flasks, and working and nonworking models of apparatuses for sublimation, distillation, and condensation, but I moved on.

“Magic Sword” (a very rusty two-handed sword with a wavy blade, attached with a chain to an iron pillar inside a tightly sealed display case). “The right canine (working) tooth of Count Dracula of Transylvania” (I am no Cuvier, but to judge from this tooth, Count Dracula of Transylvania was a very unusual and unpleasant individual). “A mortar on its launching pad. 9th century” (a massive assemblage of gray, porous cast iron)… “Gorynych Wyrm, skeleton. 1/25 natural size” (it looked like the skeleton of a diplodocus with three necks)… “Diagram of the operation of the fire-breathing gland of the middle head”… “Seven-league boots, gravitational, working model” (very large rubber boots)… “Flying carpet, antigravitational. Working model” (a carpet about one and a half meters square, showing a Circassian man embracing a young Circassian woman against a background of mountains, also Circassian)…

I got as far as the stand “Development of the Idea of the Philosopher’s Stone” when Sergeant Kovalyov and Modest Matveevich came back into the hall. As far as I could tell, they hadn’t made any progress at all.

“That’s enough of that, now,” Modest said wearily.

“I’ve got my orders,” Kovalyov responded just as wearily.

“Our five-kopeck piece is in its proper place…”

“Then let the old woman come in and make a statement…”

“What do you think we are, counterfeiters?”

“I didn’t say that…”

“A slur on the name of the entire collective…”

“We’ll get to the bottom of this…”

Kovalyov didn’t notice me, but Modest stopped, ran his lackluster gaze over me, then raised his eyes and pronounced wearily, “Laboratory ham-munculus, generic view,” and went on.

I followed him, with a strange feeling that something bad was about to happen. Roman was waiting for us by the door.

“Well?” he asked.

“Outrageous bureaucracy,” Modest said wearily.

“I have my orders,” Sergeant Kovalyov repeated stubbornly from the hallway.

“Come on out then, Roman Petrovich, come on,” said Modest, jangling the keys.

Roman went out. I was about to dart through after him, but Modest stopped me.

“I beg your pardon,” he said. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“What do you mean?” I asked, crestfallen.

“You go back to your place.”

“What place?”

“Well, where is it you stand? You’re one of those… ham-munculuses, aren’t you? Go and stand where you’re supposed to.”

I thought I was done for. And I probably would have been, because Roman was obviously dismayed as well, but just at that moment Naina Kievna burst into the hall, clattering and stamping and leading a huge black goat on a rope. At the sight of the militia sergeant the goat gave a discordant bleat and made a dash for it. Naina Kievna fell over. Modest dashed out into the hallway and there was an almighty racket as the empty water tub was sent tumbling. Roman grabbed me by the arm, whispered, “Move it! Move it!” and ran for my room. We slammed the door shut behind us and leaned back against it, gasping for breath. We heard voices shouting in the hallway: “Let me see your papers!”

“Good grief, what’s going on?”

“Why’s that goat here? What’s a goat doing on the premises?”

“Me-e-e-eh…”

“That’s enough of that, you’re not in a beer hall now!”

“I don’t know anything about any five-kopeck pieces!”

“Me-e-e-eh…”

“Citizeness, take the goat outside!”

“That’s enough of that, that goat’s been properly inventoried!”

“A goat, inventoried?”

“It’s not a goat! It’s one of our employees!”

“Then let it show me its papers!”

“Out of the window and into the car!” Roman ordered.

I grabbed my jacket and jumped through the window. The cat Vasily darted out from under my feet with a loud meow. I crouched over and ran to the car, swung open the door, and jumped into the driver’s seat. Roman was already pushing back the massive main gates.

The engine wouldn’t start. As I struggled with the ignition I saw the door of the house swing open and the black goat come darting out of the hallway and away around the corner in massive bounds. The engine roared into life. I turned the car around and hurtled out into the street. The oak gates slammed shut with a crash. Roman appeared through the wicket gate and threw himself in beside me.

“Now step on it!” he said cheerfully. “Into the center!”

As we were turning onto Peace Prospect, he asked, “Well, how do you like it round these parts?”

“I like it,” I said. “Only it’s almost too lively.”

“It’s always lively at Naina’s place,” said Roman. “She’s a cantankerous old woman. Didn’t upset you, did she?”

“No,” I said. “We hardly even spoke.”

“Hang on,” said Roman. “Slow down.”

“Why?”

“There’s Vladimir. Remember Volodya?”

I stopped the car. The bearded Volodya got into the backseat and shook our hands with a beaming smile. “That’s great!” he said. “I was just on my way to see you!”

“That would have just made our day,” said Roman.

“So what happened in the end?”

“Nothing,” said Roman.

“Then where are you going now?”

“To the Institute,” said Roman.

“What for?” I asked.

“To work,” said Roman.

“I’m on vacation.”

“Makes no difference,” said Roman. “Monday starts on Saturday, and this year August starts in July!”

“But the guys are expecting me,” I pleaded.

“We can handle that,” said Roman. “The guys won’t notice a thing.”

“I don’t believe this,” I said.

We drove between shop number 2 and cafeteria number 11. “He already knows the way,” remarked Volodya.

“He’s a great guy,” said Roman, “a colossus!”

“I took a liking to him straightaway,” said Volodya.

“You obviously do need a programmer very badly,” I said.

“But we don’t need just any old programmer,” Roman retorted.

I stopped the car in front of the strange building with the sign saying “NITWiT” between the windows. “What does that mean?” I asked. “Am I at least allowed to know where I’m being press-ganged into working?”

“Yes, you are,” said Roman. “You’re allowed to know everything now. It’s the National Institute for the Technology of Witchcraft and Thaumaturgy… Well, what are you waiting for? Drive in!”

“In where?” I asked.

“You mean you can’t see it?” And then I did see it.

But that’s an entirely different story.