White Walls: Collected Stories

SLEEPWALKER IN A FOG

HAVING made it halfway through his earthly life, Denisov grew pensive. He started thinking about life, about its meaning, about the fleetingness of his half-spent existence, about his nighttime fears, about the vermin of the earth, about the beautiful Lora and several other women, about the fact that summers were humid nowadays, and about distant countries, in whose existence, truth be told, he found it hard to believe.

Australia aroused special doubt. He was prepared to believe in New Guinea, in the squeaky snap of its fleshy greenery, in the muggy swamps and black crocodiles: a strange place, but, all right. He conceded the existence of the tiny, colorful Philippines, he was ready to grant the light blue stopper of Antarctica—it hung right over his head, threatening to dislodge and shower him with stinging iceberg chips. Stretching out on a sofa with stiff, antediluvian bolsters and worn-out springs, smoking, Denisov glanced at the map of the hemispheres and disapproved of the continents’ placement. The top part’s not bad, reasonable enough: Landmasses here, water there, it’ll do. Another couple of seas in Siberia wouldn’t hurt. Africa could be lower. India’s all right. But down below everything’s badly laid out: the continents narrow down to nothing, islands are strewn about with no rhyme or reason, there are all kinds of troughs and trenches…. And Australia is obviously neither here nor there: anyone can see that logically there should be water in its place, but just look what you’ve got! Denisov blew smoke at Australia and scanned the water-stained ceiling: on the floor above him lived a seafaring captain, as white, gold, and magnificent as a dream, as ephemeral as smoke, as unreal as the dark blue southern seas. Once or twice a year he materialized, showed up at home, took a bath, and drenched Denisov’s apartment along with everything in it, though there wasn’t anything in it other than the sofa and Denisov. Well, a refrigerator stood in the kitchen. A tactful man, Denisov couldn’t bring himself to ask: What’s the matter?—especially since no later than the morning following the cataclysm the splendid captain would ring the doorbell, hand him an envelope with a couple of hundred rubles—for repairs—and depart with a firm stride. He was off on a new voyage.

Denisov reflected on Australia irritatedly; on his fiancee, Lora, distractedly. Everything had already been pretty much decided; sooner or later he intended to become her fourth husband, not because she lit up the world, as the saying goes, but because with her no light was needed. In the light she talked incessantly, saying whatever came into her head.

“An awful lot of women,” said Lora, “dream of having a tail. Think about it yourself. First of all, wouldn’t it be pretty—a thick fluffy tail, it could be striped, black and white, for example—that would look good on me—and you know, on Pushkin Square I saw a little fur coat that would have been just the thing for that kind of tail. Short, with wide sleeves, and a shawl collar. It would go with a black skirt like the one that Katerina Ivanna made for Ruzanna, but Ruzanna wants to sell, so just imagine—if you had a tail, you could get by in a coat without a collar. Wrap it around your neck—and you’re all warm. Then, say you’re going to the theater. A simple open dress, and over it—your own fur. Fabulous! Second, it would be convenient. In the metro you could hold on to the straps with it; if it’s too hot—you’ve got a fan; and if someone gets fresh—slap him with your tail! Wouldn’t you like me to have a tail?… What do you mean, you don’t care?”

“Ah, my beauty, I should have your worries,” Denisov said morosely.

But Denisov knew that he himself was no prize—with his smoke-stale jacket, his ponderous thoughts, his nocturnal heart palpitations, his predawn fear of dying and being forgotten, being erased from human memory, vanishing without a trace in the air.

Half of his earthly life was behind him, ahead lay the second half, the bad half. At this rate Denisov would just whir over the earth and depart, and no one would have reason to remember him! Petrovs and Ivanovs die every day, their simple names are carved in marble. Why couldn’t Denisov linger on some memorial plaque, why couldn’t his profile grace the neighborhood of Orekhovo-Borisovo? “In this house I dwell…. ” Now he was going to marry Lora and die—she wouldn’t have it in her to make an appeal to the place where these things are decided, whether or not to immortalize… “Comrades, immortalize my fourth husband, okay? Comrades, pleeease.” “Ho-ho-ho…” Who was he anyway, in point of fact? He hadn’t composed anything, or sung anything, or shot anyone. He hadn’t discovered anything new and named it after himself. And for that matter, everything had already been discovered, enumerated, denominated; everything alive and dead, from cockroaches to comets, from cheese mold to the spiral arms of abstruse nebulae. Take some old virus—swill, worthless rubbish, couldn’t make a chicken sneeze, but no, it’s already been grabbed, named, and adopted by a couple of your scholarly Germans—just have a look at today’s paper. If you think about it—how do they share it? They probably found the useless bit of scum in some unwashed glass and fainted from happiness—then the shoving and shouting started: “Mine!” “No, mine!” They smashed eyeglasses, ripped suspenders, gave each other a thrashing, puffed and panted, then sat down with the glass on the sofa and embraced: “Hey, pal, let’s go fifty-fifty!” “All right, what can I do with you?…”

People assert themselves, sink their hooks in, refuse to go— it’s only natural! Take the recording of a concert, for example. A hush falls over the hall, the piano thunders, the keys flash like lozenges gone berserk, lickety-split, hand over fist, wilder and wilder; the sweet tornado swirls, the heart can’t stand it, it’ll pop right out, it quivers on the last strand, and suddenly: ahem. Ahe he kherr hem. Khu khu khu. Someone coughed. A real solid, throaty cough. And that’s that. The concert is branded from birth with a juicy, influenza stamp, multiplied on millions of black suns, dispersed in all possible directions. The heavenly bodies will burn out, the earth will become crusted in ice, and the planet will move along inscrutable stellar paths like a frozen lump for all time, but that smart aleck’s cough won’t be erased, it won’t disappear, it will be forever inscribed on the diamond tablets of immortal music—after all, music is immortal, isn’t it?—like a rusty nail hammered into eternity; the resourceful fellow asserted himself, scribbled his name in oil paint on the cupola, splashed sulfuric acid on the divine features.

Hmmm.

Denisov had tried inventing things—nothing got invented. He had tried writing poems—they wouldn’t be written. He started a treatise on the impossibility of Australia’s existence: He made himself a pot of strong coffee and sat at the table all night. He worked well, with élan, but in the morning he reread what he had written, tore it up, cried without shedding tears, and went to sleep in his socks. It was soon after this that he met Lora and was nourished, listened to, and comforted many a time, both at his place in Orekhovo-Borisovo, where the captain of course drenched them in a golden rain, draining his Kingston valves again, as well as in her messy little apartment, where something rustled in the hallway all night.

“What is that,” asked Denisov, alarmed, “not mice?”

“No, no, go to sleep, Denisov, it’s something else. I’ll tell you later. Sleep!”

What was there to do? He slept, dreamt nasty dreams, woke up, thought over what he’d dreamt, and dozed off again, and in the morning he drank coffee in the kitchen with the sweet-smelling Lora and her widower father, a retired zoologist, a most gentle old man, blue-eyed, a bit on the strange side—but who isn’t a bit strange? Papa’s beard was whiter than salt, his eyes clearer than spring; he was quiet, quick to shed tears of joy, a lover of caramels, raisins, rolls with jam; he bore no resemblance to the noisy, excitable Lora, all gold and black. “You know, Denisov, my papa’s wonderful, a real dove of peace, but I’ve got problems with him, I’ll tell you about it later. He’s so sensitive, intelligent, knowing, he could go on working and working, but he’s retired—some ill-wishers schemed against him. He gave a paper in his institute on the kinship of birds and reptiles or crocodiles or something—you know what I mean, right?—the ones that run and bite. But the research director’s last name is Bird, so he took it personally. These zoologists are always on the lookout for ideological rot, because they haven’t decided yet whether man is actually a monkey or if it just seems that way. So they sacked poor Papa, bless his heart, now he stays at home, cries, eats, and popularizes. He writes those, you know, notes of a phenologist, for magazines, well, you know what I mean. On the seasons, on toads, why the cock crows, and what it is that makes elephants so cute. He writes really well, none of that wishy-washy puffery, but like an educated person, plus he’s lyrical. Poppykins, I tell him, you’re my Turgenev—and he cries. Love him, Denisov, he deserves it.”

His head lowered, sad and humble, Lora’s snow-white papa listened to her monologues, dabbed the corners of his eyes with a handkerchief, and shuffled off to his study with little steps. “Shhhhh,” whispered Lora, “quiet now…he’s gone to popularize.” The study is silent, desolate, the shelves are cracking, the encyclopedias, reference books, yellowed journals, and packets with reprints of someone’s articles are all gathering dust—everything is unneeded, disintegrating, grown cold. In a corner of the necropolis, like a solitary grave, stands Papa’s desk, a pile of papers, copies of a children’s magazine: Papa writes for children; Papa squeezes his many years of knowledge into the undeveloped heads of Young Pioneers; Papa adapts, squats, gets down on all fours; noise, exclamations, sobs, and the crackle of ripping paper issue from the study. Lora sweeps up the scraps, it’s all right, he’ll calm down now, now everything will work out. Papa’s on the wolf today, he’s tackling the wolf, he’s bending him, breaking, squeezing him into the proper framework. Denisov looked distractedly at the swept-up scraps:

“The Wolf. Canis lupus. Diet.”

“The wolf’s diet is varied.”

“The wolf has a varied diet: rodents, domesticated livestock.”

“Varied is the diet of the gray one: here you have both rodents and domesticated livestock.”

“How varied is the diet of the wolfling cub—our little gray dumpling tub: you’ll find both bitty baby rabbits and curly little lambs….”

Don’t worry, don’t worry, Papa, my darling, write on; everything will pass. Everything will be fine. Denisov is the one destroyed by doubts, worm-eaten thoughts, cast-iron dreams. Denisov is the one who suffers, as if from heartburn, who kisses Lora on the top of the head, rides home, collapses on the sofa under the map of the hemispheres, his socks toward Tierra del Fuego, his head beneath the Philippines. It’s Denisov who sets an ashtray on his chest and envelops the cold mountains of Antarctica in smoke—after all, someone is sitting there right now, digging in the snow in the mighty name of science; here’s some smoke for you, guys—warm yourselves up; it’s Denisov who denies the existence of Australia, nature’s mistake, who feebly dreams of the captain—time for another drenching, the money’s run out—and whose thoughts again turn to fame, memory, immortality….

He had a dream. He bought some bread, it seems—the usual: one loaf, round, and a dozen bagels. And he’s taking it somewhere. He’s in some sort of house. Maybe an office building—there are hallways, staircases. Suddenly three people, a man, a woman, and an old man, who had just been talking with him calmly—one was explaining something, one was giving him advice about how to get somewhere—saw the bread and sort of jerked, as if they were about to attack him but immediately refrained. And the woman says: “Excuse me, is that bread you have there?” “Yes, I bought it—” “Won’t you give it to us?” He looks and suddenly sees: Why, they’re siege victims. They’re hungry. Their eyes are very strange. And he immediately understands: Aha, they’re victims of the siege of Leningrad, that means I’m one too. That means there’s nothing to eat. Greed instantly overwhelms him. Only a minute ago bread was a trifle, nothing special, he bought it just like he always does, and now suddenly he begrudges it. And he says: “We-ell, I don’t know. I need it myself. I don’t know. I don’t know.” They say nothing and look him straight in the eyes. The woman is trembling. Then he takes one bagel, the one with the fewest poppy seeds, breaks it into pieces, and hands it out; but he takes one piece for himself all the same, he holds it back. He crooks his hand strangely—in real life you couldn’t bend it that way—and keeps the piece of bagel. He doesn’t know why, well, simply… so as not to give everything away at once…. And he leaves posthaste, leaves these people with their outstretched hands, and suddenly he’s back at home and he understands: What the devil kind of siege? There is no siege. We’re living in Moscow anyway, seven hundred kilometers away—what is this all of a sudden? The refrigerator is full, and I’m full, and out the window people are walking around contented, smiling…. And he is instantly ashamed, and feels an unpleasant queasiness around his heart, and that plump loaf oppresses him, and the remaining bagels are like the links of a broken chain, and he thinks: So there, I shouldn’t have been so greedy! Why was I? What a swine… And he rushes back: Where are they, those hungry people? But they aren’t anywhere to be found, that’s it, too late, my friend, you blew it, go look your heart out, all the doors are locked, time has opened and slammed shut, go on then, live, live, you’re allowed! But let me in!… Open up! It all happened so fast, I didn’t even have time to be horrified, I wasn’t prepared. But I simply wasn’t prepared! He knocks at a door, bangs on it with his foot, kicks it with his heel. The door opens wide and there is a cafeteria, a café of some sort; tranquil diners are coming out, wiping well-fed mouths, macaroni and meat patties lie picked apart on the plates…. Those three passed by like shades lost in time; they dissolved, disintegrated, they’re gone, gone, and will never come back. The branches of a naked tree sway, reflected in the water, there’s a low sky, the burning stripe of the sunset, farewell.

Farewell! And he surfaces on his bed, on the sofa, he’s surfaced, the sheets are all tangled around his legs, he doesn’t understand anything. What nonsense, really, what is all this? If he would just fall asleep again immediately, everything would pass and by morning it would be forgotten, erased, like words written on sand, on the sea’s sonorous shore—but no, unsettled by what he had seen, he got up for some reason, went to the kitchen, and, staring senselessly straight ahead, ate a meat-patty sandwich.

A dark July dawn was just breaking, the birds weren’t even singing yet, no one was walking on the street—just the right sort of time for shades, visions, succubi, and phantoms.

How did they put it? “Give it to us”—was that it? The more he thought about them, the clearer the details became. As alive as you and me, honestly. No, worse than alive. The old man’s neck, for example, materialized and persisted, stubbornly incarnating itself, a wrinkled, congealed brown neck, as dark as the skin of a smoked salmon. The collar of a whitish, faded blue shirt. And a bone button, broken in half. The face was indistinct—an old man’s face, that’s all. But the neck, the collar, and the button stayed before his eyes. The woman, metamorphosing, pulsating this way and that, took the shape of a thin, tired blonde. She looked a little like his deceased Aunt Rita.

But the other man was fat.

No, no, they behaved improperly. That woman, how did she ask: “What’ve you got there, bread?” As if it weren’t obvious! Yes, bread! He shouldn’t have carried it in his string bag, but in a plastic bag, or at least wrapped in paper. And what was this: “Give it to us”? Now what kind of thing is that to say? What if he had a family, children? Maybe he has ten children? Maybe he was bringing it to his children, how do they know? So what if he doesn’t have any children, that’s his business, after all. He bought the bread, therefore he needed it. He was walking along minding his own business. And suddenly: “Give it to us!” How’s that for a declaration?

Why did they pester him? Yes, he did begrudge the bread, he did have that reflex, it’s true, but he gave them a bagel, and a flavorful, expensive, rosy bagel, by the way, is better, more valuable than black bread, if you come right down to it. That’s for starters. Second, he immediately came to his senses and rushed back, he wanted to set things right, but everything had moved, changed, warped—what could he do? He looked for them— honestly, clearly, with full awareness of his guilt; he banged on doors, what could he do if they decided not to wait and vanished? They should have stayed put, held on to the railings— there were railings—and waited quietly until he ran back to help them. They just couldn’t be patient for ten seconds, how do you like that? No, not ten, not seconds, everything’s different there, space slips away, and time collapses sideways like a ragged wave, and everything spins, spins like a top: there, one second is huge, slow, and resonant, like an abandoned cathedral, another is tiny, sharp, fast—you strike a match and burn up a thousand millennia; a step to the side—and you’re in another universe…

And that man, come to think of it, was the most unpleasant of them all. For one thing, he was very stout, sloppily stout. He held himself a bit apart, and although he was aloof, he looked on with displeasure. And he didn’t try to explain the way to Denisov either, he didn’t take part in the conversation at all, but he did take the bagel. Ha, he took the bagel, he pushed himself ahead of the others. He even elbowed the old man. And him, fatter than everyone. And his hand was so white, like a child’s, stretched taut and covered with freckles like spilt millet, and he had a hook nose and a head like an egg, and those glasses. A nasty sort all round, and you couldn’t even figure out what he was doing there, in that company. He obviously wasn’t with them, he had simply run up and hung around, saw that something was being given out—so, why not…. The woman, Aunt Rita… She seemed the hungriest of the three…. But I gave her a bagel, after all! It’s a real luxury in their situation—a fresh, rosy morsel like that…. Oh God, what a situation! Who am I justifying myself to? They don’t exist, they don’t. Not here, not there, nowhere. A murky, fleeting, nighttime vision, a trickle of water on glass, a momentary spasm in some deep dead end of the brain; some worthless, useless capillary burst, a hormone gurgled, something skipped a beat in the cerebellum or the hippocampus—what do they call them, those neglected side streets? Neglected side streets, paved thoroughfares, dead houses, night, a street lamp sways, a shadow flits by—was it a bat, a night-flying bird, or simply an autumn leaf falling? Suddenly everything trembles, dampens, floats, and stops again—a short, cold rain had fallen and vanished.

Where was I?

Aunt Rita. Strange traveling companions Aunt Rita had chosen for herself. If, of course, it was her.

No, it wasn’t her. No. Aunt Rita was young, she had a different hairdo: a roll of bangs on her forehead, fair, wispy hair. She would whirl in front of the mirror, trying on a sash and singing. What else? Why, nothing else. She just sang.

She must have been planning to get married.

And she disappeared, and Denisov’s mother ordered him never to ask about her again. To forget. Denisov obeyed and forgot. Her perfume flacon, all that remained of her, a glass one with an atomizer and a dark blue silk tassel, he traded in the courtyard for a penknife and his mother hit him and cried that night—he heard her. Thirty-five years had passed. Why torment him?…

What does the siege have to do with it, I’d like to know. The siege was already long past by then. That’s what comes of reading all sorts of things at bedtime…

I wonder who those people are. The old man looks like the farmer-fisherman type. How did he get in there?… And the fat guy—what, is he dead too? Oh, how he must have hated dying, his kind are afraid of dying. What squealing there must have been. And his children probably shouted, Papa, Papa!… Why did he die?

But comrades, why visit me? What do I have to do with it? What did I do, murder someone? These aren’t my dreams, I don’t have anything to do with it, it’s not my fault. Go away, comrades. Please, go away.

Lord, how sick I make myself!

Better to think about Lora. A pretty woman. And one good thing about her—although she shows all signs of really loving Denisov, she doesn’t pester him, doesn’t demand uninterrupted attention, hasn’t set her sights on changing his way of life, but entertains herself, goes to the theater, to underground art openings, to saunas, while Denisov, thinking arduously, wastes away on his sofa and searches for the path to immortality. What problems could she be having with her father? He’s a good, quiet papa, just what the doctor ordered, he keeps himself busy. He sits in his study, doesn’t meddle in anything, nibbles on chocolates, writes articles that he puts by for winter: “The master of the woodlands loves a tasty treat of dry, fleshy multicarpels and dry indehiscents…. But as soon as the north wind blows, as soon as foul weather begins to sport and play, the Bruin’s overall metabolism slows abruptly, the tone of the gastrointestinal tract lowers, and we observe a corresponding growth of the lipid layer. But the minus range doesn’t frighten our friend Mikhailo Ivanych: a first-rate scalp and a splendid epidermis…” Oh, to crawl into a cave like a bear, to burrow into the snow, close your eyes tight, grow deaf, depart into sleep, pass through the dead city along the fortress wall from gate to gate, along the paved streets, counting the windows, losing count: this one’s dark, that one’s dark, and this one too, and that one will never light up—and there are only owls, and the moon, and dust grown cold, and the squeak of a door on rusty hinges… but where have they all gone? Aunt Rita, now there’s a nice little house, tiny windows, a staircase to the second floor, flowers on the windowsill, an apron and a broom, a candle, a sash, and a round mirror, why don’t you live here? Why don’t you look out the window in the morning? The old man in the blue shirt is sitting on a bench, resting from his long life, the freckled fat man is bringing greens from the marketplace, he’ll smile and wave; here the knife grinder sharpens scissors, and over there they’re beating rugs… And there’s Lora’s papa riding a bicycle, turning the pedals, dogs are following him, they get in the way of the wheels.

Lora! I’m sick, my thoughts oppress me. Lora, come on over, say something. Lora? Hello!

But Lora doesn’t have the strength to come all the way out to Orekhovo-Borisovo, Lora’s terribly tired today, I’m sorry, Denisov, Lora went to see Ruzanna, something’s wrong with Ruzanna’s leg, it’s a real nightmare. She showed the doctor, but the doctor doesn’t have a clue—as usual—but there’s a woman named Viktoria Kirillovna, she took one look and immediately said: You’ve been jinxed, Ruzannochka. And when they put the hex on you, it always affects the legs. And you could probably find out who put this spell on you, Viktoria said, but that is a secondary question because there are thousands of witches in Moscow, and right now the main thing is to try and lift the spell. First off you have to fumigate the apartment with onion stalks, all the corners. So we went and fumigated, and then Viktoria Kirillovna checked out all the potted plants and said: These are all right, you can keep them, but this one—what, are you crazy, keeping this in the house? Throw it out immediately. Ruzanna said that she knows who’s out to get her, it’s the women at work. She bought herself a third fur coat, went to work, and right away she felt the atmosphere tense up. It’s just plain envy, and it’s not even clear why they have such base feelings; after all, like Ruzanna says, it’s not like she bought the fur coat for herself, she really bought it for others, to raise the aesthetic level of the landscape. Ruzanna herself can’t see anything from inside the coat anyway, but it makes things more interesting for everyone on the outside, there’s more variety for the soul. And for free too. I mean, it’s almost like an art show, like the Mona Lisa or Glazunov; for that they push and shove and wait in humongous lines for five hours and have to pay their own hard-earned rubles to boot. But here Ruzanna spends her own money and presto—art delivered to your door. And then they’re unhappy about it. It’s just crass ignorance. And Viktoria Kirillovna agreed: That’s right, it’s crass ignorance, and instructed Ruzanna to lie on the bed with her head to the east. Ruzanna showed her a photo of the dacha that she and Armen have on the Black Sea so that Viktoria could tell her whether everything was all right there, and Viktoria looked at it carefully and said: No, not everything. The house is heavy. A very heavy house. And Ruzanna got upset, because so much money’s been put into that dacha, would they really have to redo everything? But Viktoria reassured her; she said shed find some time and visit the dacha with her husband—he possesses amazing abilities too—she’d stay there awhile and see what could be done to help. She asked Ruzanna whether the beach and the market were nearby, because they are sources of negative energy. It turned out that they’re very close, so Ruzanna got even more upset and asked Viktoria to help right away. She begged her to fly to the Caucasus immediately and do everything possible to screen out these sources. So Viktoria—she’s really got a heart of gold—is taking a photograph of Ruzanna’s leg with her so she can work on healing her down south.

And Viktoria told Lora that her energy core had become completely unfocused, her spinal cord was polluted, and her yin was constantly sparking, which could mean serious trouble. It’s because we live near the TV tower and Papa’s and my fields are incredibly warped. And as for Papa’s case—I’m having some problems with Papa—Viktoria said it’s beyond her capabilities, but there’s an absolutely amazing guru visiting Moscow now, with some unpronounceable name, Pafnuty Epaminondovich, or something like that; he cures people who believe in him, with his spittle. A wonderful, totally uneducated old fellow with a beard to his knees and piercing, piercing eyes. He doesn’t believe in blood circulation and has already convinced a lot of people that it doesn’t exist—even a woman doctor from the departmental clinic, a big fan of his, is completely convinced that he’s basically right. Pafnuty teaches that there’s no such thing as blood circulation, only the appearance of it, but juices, on the other hand, do exist, that’s certain. If a person’s juices have stagnated—he gets sick; if they’ve coagulated—he’ll be disabled; but if they’ve gone to hell and completely dried up, then it’s curtains for the poor guy. Pafnuty won’t treat everybody, only those who believe in his teachings. And he demands humility, you have to fall at his feet and beg—“Grandfather, help me, poor, wretched worm that I am”—and if you do it just right, then he spits in your mouth and they say you feel better instantly, it’s as if you’ve seen the light and your soul has been uplifted. The healing takes two weeks, and you can’t smoke or drink tea, or even take a drop of milk, God forbid—you can only drink unboiled water through your nose. Well, the academicians are furious, of course. You see, all their scientific work is shot, and their graduate students are beginning to look elsewhere, but they can’t touch him because he cured some bigwig. They say that firm from Switzerland came—what’s it called, Sandoz or something—anyway, they took his saliva to analyze —those guys won’t do anything without chemistry, they’ve got no spirituality, it’s just awful—so, well, the results are top secret, but supposedly they found levomycitin, tetracycline, and some sort of psi factor in the old man’s saliva. And back in Basel they’re building two factories for the production of this factor, and that journalist Postrelov, you know, the famous one, he’s writing a very polemical article about how we shouldn’t stand for bureaucratic red tape and the squandering of our national saliva, or else we’ll end up having to buy back our own resources for foreign currency. Yes, I’m sure of this, and just yesterday I was in that shop called Natasha, waiting in line for Peruvian tops—not bad, only the collars were pretty crude— and I started talking to a woman who knows this Pafnuty and can arrange a meeting with him while he’s still in Moscow, or else he’ll leave and go back to his Bodaibo in the Far East again. Are you listening to me?… Hello!

Silly woman, she, too, ambles along haphazardly, her arms outstretched, groping at ledges and fissures, tripping in the fog; she shudders and twitches in her sleep, reaches for will-o’-the-wisps, her graceless fingers grasp at the reflection of candles; she grabs ripples on the water’s surface, lunges after smoke shadows; she leans her head to one side, listens to the swish of wind and dust, smiles a distracted smile, and looks around: something flickered by just now—where has it gone?

Something bubbled, rippled, tripped, skipped, snapped— pay attention!—behind, up above, upside down, it’s vanished, it’s gone!

The ocean is empty, the ocean rages, mountains of black water crowned by wedding wreaths of seething foam move with a roar: These watery mountains can run far and free—there are no obstacles, nothing to limit the gale-force turmoil. Denisov abolished Australia, tore it out with a crackling rip like a molar. He dug one foot into Africa—the tip broke off—and then dug in more firmly: good. He pressed the other foot into Antarctica —the cliffs jabbed him and snow got into his boot—steady now. He grasped the erroneous continent more firmly and swayed back and forth. Australia was staunchly moored in its maritime nest; his fingers slipped in the slimy seaweed, coral reefs scratched his knuckles. Come on now! One more time… there we go! He ripped it out, broke into a sweat, held it with both hands, wiped his brow on his forearm; Australia was dripping at the root, sand flaked from the top—a regular desert. The sides were cold and slippery, the slime had grown fairly thick. Well, and where to put it now? In the Northern Hemisphere? Is there any room there? Denisov stood with Australia in his hands, the sun shone on the nape of his neck, evening was coming on, he could see far into the distance. His arm itched under the flannel shirt—yikes, there are bugs or something crawling on it. They’re biting! Damn! He flopped the heavy stump back—spray shot up—it gurgled, listed, sank. Ehh… That’s not the way he wanted to… But something had bitten him. He squatted and disappointedly ran his hand through the murky water. To hell with Australia. It doesn’t matter. The population there is uninteresting. A bunch of ex-convicts. He only wanted what was best. But he did feel sorry for Aunt Rita—Denisov turned on the sofa, knocking over the ashtray; he bit his pillow and howled.

Deep in the night he nurtured the thought that it would be fine to lead some small, pure movement. For honesty, say. Or against theft, for example. To purify himself and call on others to follow. For starters hed return all borrowed books. Not filch any more matches and pens. Not steal toilet paper from offices and trains. Then greater and greater things—before you knew it, people would follow. Hed nip evil in the bud, wherever he encountered it. Before you knew it, people would remember you with a kind word.

The very next evening, standing in line for meat, Denisov noticed that the shop assistant was cheating, and he decided to expose him immediately in word and deed. He loudly informed his fellow citizens of his observations and proposed that everyone whose meat had already been weighed and who was waiting in line to pay, return to the counter and demand that it be reweighed and the price recalculated. There are the control scales right over there. How long, O compatriots, will we tolerate falsehood and injury? How long will the greedy beasts, those insatiable leeches, flout the sweat of our labor and mock our dovelike timidity? You, old grandfather, reweigh your brisket. I swear on my honor that there’s twenty kopecks’ worth of paper there.

The line grew agitated. But the old man to whom Denisov’s righteous appeal had been directed cheered up immediately and said that he had cut down counterrevolutionaries like Denisov on the southern and southeastern fronts, that he had fought against Denikin, that as a participant in the Great Patriotic War he now received his bit of caviar on holidays, an iron-shaped tin of ham made in the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia, and even two packets of yeast, which testified to the government’s unconditional trust in him, a participant of the GPW, in the sense that he wouldn’t use the yeast improperly and make moonshine. He said that now, in response to the government’s trust, he was trying to stamp out sexual dissolution in their Black Swan cooperative and he wouldn’t allow any lowlifes in Japanese jackets to lead a revolt against our Soviet butchers, that a correctly oriented person should understand that the meat shortage was due to the fact that certain individuals had gotten an expensive breed of dog inaccessible to simple people, and the dogs had eaten all the meat; and so what if there’s no butter—that means there won’t be any war, because all the money from butter has gone into defense, and those who wear Adidas shoes will betray our motherland. When he had spoken his piece, the old man left contented.

Having listened to the old-timer’s speech, a few people grew serious and vigilantly examined Denisov’s clothes and feet, but the majority willingly made a fuss, and returned their meat to be weighed. Convinced that they had indeed been variously cheated, they grew joyfully irate and, pleased with their just cause, crowded toward the manager’s office in the basement. Denisov led the masses, and it was as though church banners were waving in the air and the unseen sun of Bloody Sunday were rising, and in the back rows some people apparently even began singing. But then the manager’s door flew open and out of the dim storeroom, laden with bursting bags—women’s bags, quilted ones with flowers—emerged the famous actor, the handsome Rykushin, who just that week had frowned manfully and smoked meaningfully into the face of each and every one of them from the television screen. The rebellion fell apart instantly; the recognition was joyous, if not mutually so. The women formed a ring around Rykushin, the curly-headed manager beamed, fraternization ensued, a few people shed tears, unacquainted people embraced one another, one stout woman who couldn’t see what was going on climbed onto a small barrel of herring and delivered such an impassioned speech that it was decided then and there to direct a note of collective gratitude to the central trading organization, and to ask Rykushin to take on the creative leadership of Nursery School No. 238, with an annual appearance as Santa Claus. Rykushin riffled a notebook, tore off pages with autographs, and sent them wafting over the waves of heads; new admirers poured in from the store up above; they led a four-time award-winning schoolteacher who had gone blind with excitement, and Pioneer scouts and schoolchildren slid whistling down the shaky banister, plopping into the cabbage bins. Denisov kept talking hoarsely about truth. No one listened to him. He took a risk, bent down, lifted the edge of Rykushin’s bag, and picked at the paper. There were tongues of beef in there. So that’s who eats them. Squatting, he glanced up into the cold eyes of the gourmand and received an answering look: Yes. That’s how it goes. Put it back. The people are with me.

Denisov acknowledged his accuracy, apologized, and took off against the stream.

The view of a serenely existing Australia infuriated him. Fake that! He yanked at the map and tore off the fifth continent plus New Zealand. The Philippines cracked in the bargain.

The ceiling oozed during the night. The captain was back. There’d be some money. Why not write a story about the captain? Who he is and where he comes from. Where he sails. Why he drips. Why does he drip, anyway? Can’t do without water, is that it?

Maybe his pipes have rusted.

Or he’s drunk.

Or maybe he goes into the bathroom, lays his head on the edge of the sink, and cries, cries like Denisov, cries and mourns his meaningless life, the emptiness of the seas, the deceptive beauty of lilac islands, human vice, feminine silliness, mourns the drowned, the perished, the forgotten, the betrayed, the unneeded; tears overflow the soiled ceramic glaze of the sink, pour onto the floor, they’re already up to the ankles, now they’ve risen to the knees, ripples, circles, wind, storm. After all, isn’t there a saying: the heart of the wise is in the house of mourning, but the heart of fools is in the house of mirth.

Aunt Rita, where are you? In what spaces does your weightless spirit wander, is peace known to you? Do you sweep like a wan breeze across the meadows of the dead, where hollyhocks and asphodels grow, do you howl like a winter storm, pushing your way through the cracks of warm human dwellings, is it you singing in the sounds of the piano, living and dying with the music? Maybe you whimper like a homeless dog, run across the night road like a hurrying hedgehog, curl up under a damp stone like an eyeless worm? You must be in a bad way wherever you are now, otherwise why infiltrate our dreams, reach out your hand, ask for alms—bread, or, perhaps, simply memory? And who are these people you’ve taken up with, you, so pretty, with your fair hair and colored sash? Or are the roads that all of you take so dangerous, the forests where you spend the night so cold and deserted, that you band together, press close to one another, and hold hands as you fly over our lighted houses at night?…

Can it really be that this is what lies in store for me as well: to wander, whimper, pound on doors—remember, remember!… The predawn clatter of hooves on cobblestone, the dull thud of an apple in an orchard gone to seed, the splash of a wave in the autumn sea—someone is beseeching, scratching, someone wants to return, but the gates are closed, the locks have rusted, the key has been thrown away, the caretaker has died, and no one has come back.

No one, do you hear, no one has come back! Do you hear? I’m going to scream!!! Aaaaaaaa! No one! No one! And we are all pulled that way, an invincible force pushes at our backs, our legs slip on the crumbling incline, our hands clutch at clumps of grass, at least give me time to collect myself, to catch my breath. What will remain of us? What will remain of us? Don’t touch me! Lora! Lora! For heaven’s sake, Lora!!!

…And she arose from the dark, from the damp fog, arose and moved toward him, unhurried—clip-clop, slip-slop—in some sort of outrageous, slit-open gold boots, in brazen, wantonly short boots; her thin, orphaned ankles creaked, wobbling in the gold leather, higher up a flamboyant raincoat furled and rustled in the black beads of the night fog, buckles clinked and clanked, higher still her smile played, the lunar rainbows of streetlamps set her rosy teeth ablaze; above the smile hung her heavy eyes, and all this rustling, all this effrontery and finery, triumph and abomination, the entire living, swirling maelstrom was topped off with a tragic man’s hat. Lord almighty, Father in heaven, it was with her that he would share his bed, his table, and his dreams. What dreams? It doesn’t matter. All sorts. A beautiful woman, a garrulous woman, a head full of rubbish, but a beautiful woman.

“Well, hello there, Denisov, I haven’t seen you in ages.”

“What are those puttees you’re wearing, my lovely?” Denisov asked disapprovingly as Lora kissed him.

She was surprised and looked down at her boots, at their dead, gold cuffs, rolled inside out like the pale flesh of poisonous mushrooms. What’s that supposed to mean? What’s with him? She’d been wearing them for a whole year already, had he forgotten? Of course, it was definitely time to buy new ones, but she wasn’t up to it at the moment, because while he had been off keeping himself in seclusion, she’d had a horrific misfortune. She got out to the theater only once in a blue moon, and she wanted to take a little break from Papa and live like a human being, so she sent Papa to the country and asked Zoya Trofimovna to keep an eye on him. Zoya Trofimovna couldn’t stand it more than three days—well, no one could, but that’s beside the point—so anyway, while she was cooling out in one of those basement theaters—a very fashionable little theater and very hard to get tickets to—where the whole decor is only matting and thumbtacks, where the ceiling drips, but there’s a lofty spirit, where there’s always a draft on your legs, but as soon as you enter you have this instant catharsis, there’s so much enthusiasm and the tears are so divine that you want to burst. So anyway, while she was hanging out there and lapping it all up, hoodlums cleaned out their apartment. They took everything, literally everything: candlesticks, brassieres, an entire subscription set of Molière, a poisonous pink Filimonovsky clay toy in the shape of a man with a book—it was a gift from one of those village writers, a born genius, they won’t publish him, but he came on foot from the backwoods, he spends the night with kind people and he doesn’t bathe on principle; on principle, because he knows the Fundamental Truth and hates tile with a fierce hatred, he simply turns purple if he sees glazed or brick tile somewhere, he even has a cycle of anti-tile poems—powerful lines with the strength of timber, all full of “Hail!” this and “Hail!” that, and about magical singing zithers, something really profound—so anyway, his present disappeared and so did that Vietnamese bamboo curtain, and whatever they couldn’t carry off they either moved somewhere else or piled up. What kind of people are these, tell me, I just don’t know; naturally, she had reported it to the police, but of course nothing would come of it, because they have such awful bulletin boards there—missing children, women they haven’t been able to find for years—so how could they be expected to rush out and comb Moscow for a bunch of brassieres? It was good that they didn’t throw out Papa’s manuscripts, only scattered them. Anyway, she was terribly depressed about all this, and she was also depressed because she went to a reunion of her former classmates—they graduated from school fifteen years ago—and everyone had changed so much that you simply couldn’t recognize them, it was a nightmare, total strangers.

But that’s not the main thing, the main thing is that there were these guys, Makov and Sysoev, they used to sit at a desk in the back row and shoot spitballs, they brought sparrows to school, and on the whole were thick as thieves. So anyway, Makov died in the mountains—and remained there—that was four years ago, and no one knew, just think, a real hero, nothing less, while Sysoev had become fat and happy—he arrived in a black car with a chauffeur and ordered the chauffeur to wait, and the fellow actually slept in the car the whole evening, but when the guys found out that Sysoev was so important and such a big shot, and that Makov was lying somewhere in a crevice under the snow and couldn’t come, and that swine Sysoev was too lazy to walk over on his own two feet and rolled up in an official car just to show off—there was a scuffle and a rumble, and instead of warm embraces and beautiful memories they boycotted Sysoev, as if there were nothing else to talk about! As if it were his fault that Makov had climbed those mountains. And everyone became simply beastly, it was all so sad, and one boy—of course, he’s completely bald now, Kolya Pishchalsky— picked all the crabs out of the salad and threw them right in Sysoev’s face and shouted: Go on, eat them, you’re used to it, but we’re just simple people. And everyone thought that Sysoev would kill him for it, but no, he got terribly embarrassed and tried to be friendly, but everyone gave him the cold shoulder, and he walked around completely flustered, offering antifog headlights to anyone who wanted to buy them. And then he sort of slipped out, and the girls began to feel sorry for him and started screaming at the others: You aren’t human! What did he do to you? So everybody left hostile and angry, and nothing came of the evening. So there you have it, Denisov, why are you being so quiet, I’ve missed you. Let’s go to my place, it’s completely ransacked, but I’ve managed to make everything more or less presentable.

Lora’s gold boots squeaked, her raincoat rustled, her eyes shone from beneath the hat, her eyebrows smelled of roses and rain… while at home, in the stale smoky room, under the wet ceiling, squeezed between dislocated layers of time, Aunt Rita and her comrades thrash about; she perished, the sash tore, the perfume spilled, and the fair hair rotted; she didn’t accomplish anything during her short life, only sang in front of the mirror, and now, lifeless, old, hungry, and frightened, she rushes about in the realm of dreams, begging: remember me!… Denisov tightened his grip on Lora’s elbow and turned toward her house, driving away the fog: they shouldn’t split up, they should remain together always, united inside one pair of equation brackets, inseparable, indivisible, indissoluble, merged, like Tristan and Isolde, Khor and Kalinych, cigarettes and matches.

The cups had been stolen, so they drank tea from glasses. Snow-white Papa, cozy, like a Siberian tomcat, ate doughnuts, shutting his eyes in contentment. We, too, are like those three —the old man, the woman, the fat man—thought Denisov; we, too, have banded together high above the city; seen from the outside, what unites us? A little family, we need each other, we’re weak and confused, robbed by fate: he’s out of work, she’s out of her mind, I’m out of a future. Perhaps we should huddle even closer, hold hands—if one of us trips, the other two will hold him up—eat doughnuts, and not strive for anything, lock ourselves away from people, live without raising our heads, not expecting fame… and at the appointed hour close our eyes a bit tighter, tie up our jaws, cross our hands on our chests… and safely dissolve into nonbeing? No, no—not for anything!

“They took all the curtains, the creeps.” Lora sighed. “What do they need my curtains for anyway?”

The fog settled, or perhaps it hadn’t risen to the sixteenth floor, that light summer fog. Pure blackness and the jeweled lights of distant dwellings looked into the naked windows, and on the horizon, in the Japanese-lacquer dark, the orange half-circle of the rising moon swelled, looking like a mountaintop that had pushed through, illuminated by fruit-colored morning light. Somewhere in the mountains Lora’s classmate Makov, who had risen higher than everyone and remained there forever, slept an eternal sleep.

The rose-colored summit grows lighter, the cliffs are dusted with snow, Makov lies there gazing into the firmament; cold and magnificent, pure and free, he won’t decay, won’t grow old, won’t cry, won’t destroy anyone, won’t become disillusioned by anything. He is immortal. Could there be a more enviable fate?

“Listen,” Denisov said to Lora, impressed, “if those jerks of yours didn’t know anything about this Makov, then maybe his coworkers do?… Couldn’t a museum be organized or something? And why not rename your school in his honor? After all, he made it famous.”

Lora was surprised: what museum, good Lord, Denisov, a museum, why? As a student he was nothing to brag about, he dropped out of college, then he went into the army, did this and that, and in recent years worked as a stoker because he liked to read books. He drove his family crazy, it was awful, I know from Ninka Zaitseva, because her mother-in-law works with Makov’s mother. There’s no way the school can be named after Makov anyway, because it’s already named after A. Kolbasiavichius. And his story isn’t all that straightforward either, because, you see, there were two Kolbasiavichius brothers, twins, one was killed by Lithuanian partisan rebels in ’46, and the second was a rebel himself and died from eating bad mushrooms. And since their initials were the same, and even their own mother couldn’t tell them apart, an extremely ambiguous situation arises. You could say that the school is named after the hero-brother, but at one time local hero-trackers came up with the theory that the hero-brother infiltrated the rebel den and was perfidiously killed by the bandits, who saw through the substitution and fed him poisonous soup, while the bandit-brother realized the error of his ways and honorably went to turn himself in, but was accidentally shot. Do you get it, Denisov? One of them is a hero for sure, but which one hasn’t been established. Our director was just going crazy, she even filed a petition to have the school’s name changed. But there can’t even be any question of naming it after Makov, I mean, he’s not some steelworker, right?

There you have it, human memory, human gratitude, thought Denisov, and he felt guilty. Who am I? No one. Who is Makov? A forgotten hero. Perhaps fate, shod in gold boots, is giving me a hint. Stop tossing and turning, Denisov—here is your goal in life, Denisov! Extricate this perished youth from nonbeing, save him from oblivion; if they laugh at you—be patient, if they persecute you—stand firm, if they humiliate you—suffer for your idea. Don’t betray the forgotten, the forgotten are knocking at our dreams, begging for alms, howling in the night.

Later, as Denisov was falling asleep in the pillaged apartment high above Moscow, and Lora was falling asleep next to him, her dark hair redolent of roses, the blue moon climbed in the sky, deep shadows fell, something creaked in the depths of the apartment, rustled in the foyer, thumped beyond the door, and softly, evenly, slowly—click-clack—moved along the corridor, skipped to the kitchen, made a door squeak, turned around, and—clack-clack-clack—went back again.

“Hey, Lora, what is that?”

“Sleep, Denisov, it’s nothing. Later.”

“What do you mean, later? Do you hear what’s going on?”

“Oh Lord,” whispered Lora. “Well, it’s Papa, Papa! I told you I had problems with Papa. He’s a somnambulist—he walks in his sleep. I told you that they kicked him out of work, well, it started right after that. What can I do? I’ve been to see the best doctors! Tengiz Georgievich said: He’ll run around a bit and stop. But Anna Efimovna said: What do you want, it’s his age. And Ivan Kuzmich said: Just thank your lucky stars he’s not out chasing devils. And through Ruzanna I found a psychic at the Ministry of Heavy Industry, but after that session it only got worse: he runs around naked. Go to sleep Denisov, we can’t do anything to help him anyway.”

But how could he possibly sleep, especially since the zoologist, judging by the sound, had skipped back to the kitchen, and something fell with a crash.

“Oh, I’m going to go stark-raving mad,” Lora said, growing anxious. “He’ll break the last glasses.”

Denisov pulled on his pants and Lora ran to her father; shouts could be heard.

“Now what is he doing? Lord almighty, he’s put on my boots! Papa, I’ve told you a thousand times…. Papa, for heaven’s sake, wake up!”

“Warm-blooded, ha-ha!” shouted the old man, sobbing. “They call themselves warm-blooded. Mere protozoa, I say. Get your pseudopods out of here!”

“Denisov, grab him from the side! Papochka, Papochka, calm down! I’ll get some valerian…. His hands, hold his hands!”

“Let me go! There they are! I see them!” The sleepwalker broke away, and somehow he mustered incredible strength. His mustache and beard seemed like wintry, woolly things on his naked body.

“Papa, for heaven’s sake!”

“Vasily Vasilevich!”

Night flew over the world, in the distant dark the ocean seethed, distraught Australians looked around, distressed by the disappearance of their continent, the captain drenched Denisov’s smoke-filled lair with bitter tears, Rykushin, famished with fame, ate cold leftovers straight out of the pot, Ruzanna slept facing east, Makov slept facing nowhere. Each was occupied with his own affairs, and who cared that in the middle of the city, many stories up, in the moon’s mother-of-pearl light, real live people were in the throes of struggling, stamping, shouting, and suffering: Lora in her transparent nightshirt—a sight that even tsars would not be loath to gaze upon—the zoologist in gold boots, and Denisov, tormented by visions and doubts.

…The countryside around this cluster of dachas was marvelous—oaks everywhere and under the oaks, lawns, and on the lawns people playing volleyball in the reddish evening light. The ball smacked resonantly, a slow wind passed through the oaks, and the oaks slowly answered the wind. And Makov’s dacha was also marvelous—old, gray, with little towers. Amid the flower beds, under the damp evening-time wild cherry tree, his four sisters, mother, stepfather, and aunt sat at a round table drinking tea with raspberries and laughing. The aunt held an infant in her arms, and he waved a plastic parrot; to the side a harmless dog lay endearingly; and some kind of bird walked unhurriedly about its business along the path, not troubling, even out of courtesy, to become alarmed and flutter off at the sight of Denisov. Denisov was a little disappointed by the idyllic scene. It would have been pointless, of course, to expect that the house and garden would be draped in mourning banners, that everyone would walk on tiptoe, that the mother, black with grief, would be lying motionless on the bed, unable to take her eyes off her son’s ice axe, and that from time to time first one, then another member of the family would clutch a crumpled handkerchief and bite it to stifle the sobs—but all the same, he had expected something sad. But they had forgotten, they had all forgotten! Then again, who was he to talk, arriving with a bouquet, as if to congratulate them?… They turned to Denisov with perplexed, frightened smiles, looked at the bunch of carnations in his hand, crimson like a sunset before foul weather, like clotted, bloody scabs, like memento mori. The infant, the most sensitive, having not yet forgotten that frightening darkness from which he had recently been called, immediately guessed who had sent Denisov; he kicked and screamed, wanted to warn them, but didn’t know the words.

No, there was nothing sad to be seen, the only sad thing was that Makov wasn’t here: he wasn’t playing volleyball under the slow oaks, wasn’t drinking tea under the wild cherry tree, he wasn’t shooing away unseasonably late mosquitoes. Denisov, having firmly resolved to suffer in the name of the deceased, overcame the awkwardness, presented the flowers, straightened his mourning tie, sat down at the table, and explained himself. He was the envoy of the forgotten. Such was his mission. He wanted to know everything about their son. Perhaps he would write his biography. A museum, but if that wasn’t feasible, then he could at least arrange a corner of a museum. Display cases. His childhood things. His hobbies. Maybe he collected butterflies, beetles? Tea? Yes, yes, with sugar, thank you, two spoonfuls. He’d have to get in touch with glaciologists. It’s possible that Makov’s climb was in some way important for science. Immortalization of his memory. Annual Makovian readings. Let us dare to dream: Makov Peak—why not? The Makov Foundation with voluntary donations. The possibilities!…

The sisters sighed, the stepfather smoked and raised his gray eyebrows in boredom, the mother, aunt, and infant started crying, but it was a sun shower—all tears dried out here amid the raspberries, oaks, and wild cherry. The slow wind, flying in from distant flowering glades, whispered in his ear: Drop it.

Everything’s fine. Everything’s peaceful. Drop it…. The mother squeezed her nose with a handkerchief to stop the tears. Yes, it’s sad, sad…. But it’s all over, thank God, over, forgotten, water under the bridge, it’s all covered with yellow water lilies. You know how it is, life goes on. There’s Zhannochka’s firstborn.

He’s our little Vasya. Vasya, come on now, where’s Grandma’s nose? That’s ri-iiight. Goo goo goo, ga ga ga. Vera, he’s wet.

This is our garden. Flower beds, do you see? Well, what else….

There’s our hammock. Comfortable, isn’t it? And this is our Irochka, she’s getting married. There’s a lot to do, you know. You have to get the youngsters settled, you have to take care of everything for them.

Irochka was extremely pretty—young, tanned. The mosquitoes were feasting on her bare back. Denisov couldn’t take his eyes off Irochka. A breeze swayed the black berries on the wild cherry.

“Come, let’s look at the garden. My tomatoes have really taken off.” Makov’s mother led Denisov deep into the garden and whispered: “The girls really loved Sasha. Especially Irochka. Well, what can you do. You have a heart, I can tell, you want to help. We have a request to make of you…. She’s getting married, we’re trying to get ahold of furniture for them…. And you know, she wants a Sylvia china cabinet.

We’ve tried everything. After all, they’re young, you know…. They want to live it up a bit. If Sasha were alive, he would have turned Moscow inside out…. In Sasha’s memory… for Irochka… a Sylvia, eh? What do you say, young man?”

A Sylvia for the deceased!—cried invisible forces. Eternal memory!

“A Sylvia cabinet, Sylvia… Sasha would be so pleased…. How happy he would have been…. Come on, have some more tea.”

And they drank tea with raspberries, and the oaks hurried nowhere, and Makov lay on high in the diamond splendor, baring his unaging teeth to the sky.

Duty is duty. All right then, let it be a cabinet. Why not? From Makov a cabinet will remain. From Aunt Rita—a glass perfume flacon. I traded the flacon. Nothing remained. Sepulchral darkness. The scorched steppe. An icy crust. The mushroom damp of a cellar. The ferrous smell of blood. One-sixth of the earth, torn out with flesh. No! I don’t want to know anything. I couldn’t help. I was little! I am only helping Makov, for all of them, for all, all! And when the polite, heavyset orderlies took away the sobbing captain and he grabbed onto the lintels, the mailboxes, the elevator shaft, spread his legs wide, bent his knees, and shrieked, and then they carried hundreds of little paper boats out of the apartment and gave them to the Pioneer scouts for recycling, as all the neighbors and I stood by and watched—I couldn’t help then either, I am only helping Makov!

I don’t want to know anything! The cabinet, only the cabinet. The cabinet, a sideboard, a wall unit with bronze inlay—a golden hair’s width, no thicker—with shiny corners, delicate fretwork, and the slight gleam of diamond-shaped panes. Gentle dimples of carving—so soft and light, as though a wild hare had run past—a marvelous, marvelous piece of home.

As though a wild hare had run down the hallway. Lora’s papa. Ping!—he broke something. A flacon? No, a glass. They drink tea with raspberries from glasses. Makov looks at the sky. Get hold of a cabinet in my name. All right. I’ll try. I’m prepared to suffer. I’ll suffer—and Makov will release me. And so will the captain. And Aunt Rita. And her comrades will lower their unbearable eyes.

Lora breathes evenly in her sleep, her hair smells of roses, the zoologist stirs in the hall, the doors are locked—where will you run away to?—let him run around—he’ll wear himself out, get tired, he’ll sleep better. “I knew, but I forgot, I knew, but I forgot,” he mutters, and his eyes are closed and his legs lithe. Back and forth, back and forth, across the moonlit squares, past the bookshelves, from the front door to the kitchen door. Back and forth, perhaps he’s put on Lora’s hat or sandals, perhaps he’s wound a gauze scarf round his neck or adorned his head with a colander, he likes nocturnal knick-knacks; back and forth, from door to door, with soft skips, lifting his knees high, his hands outstretched as though he were trying to catch something, but hadn’t caught it yet—a festive hunt, an innocuous blindman’s buff, no harm done. “I knew, but I forgot!”

In the morning the red dawn arrived, the mountain with the black bug of Makov on its peak dissolved, the weary lunatic fell sweetly asleep, degenerate city birds struck up a song, and two sky-blue tears rolled from Denisov’s eyes into Denisov’s ears.

In search of Sylvia, Denisov knocked on all sorts of doors, but everywhere he ran up against rejection. Are you crazy? Imports have been cut back. And Sylvia all the more so. Hah!… Even a general couldn’t get one! Maybe a marshal, but it depends what kind, what kind of troops. No, Comrade Petryukov won’t help you. Neither will Kozlov. And don’t bother approaching Lyulko —there’s no point. Now, Comrade Bakhtiyarov… Comrade Bakhtiyarov could do it, help that is, but he’s a capricious, eccentric fellow, he’s got a sort of florid, unpredictable personality, and the devil knows how you can pressure Bakhtiyarov. But you’ve definitely got to catch him out of his office, in the Woodland Fairy Tale restaurant, for instance, when the comrade is eating and relaxing. You could try going to the baths, the baths would be best of all, and it’s an old trick—wait for the moment when the beauty drops her swan feathers to bathe in the spring, so to speak—then you’ve caught the little bird, you close in and stash the feathers somewhere, and you can ask whatever your heart desires. But Bakhtiyarov is no beauty, as you’ll see for yourself, and his feathers and pants and suitcase with underwear and all kinds of tasty goodies are so well guarded, and getting into the bathhouse is so difficult—like Babà Yaga’s house, it can turn its face to the forest and rear to people quick as a wink—that you shouldn’t even think of getting in there without a magic password. So why don’t you try to find him out of town, in the Fairy Tale? Well, what can you do, give it a try. He goes there to relax.

And the Fairy Tale came to pass.

Whew, how warm it was in there, how fancy, and how glorious it smelled. If only Lora were here, and I had a bit more money, yes, over there in that corner under the yellow lampshade, where the napkins are folded like fans and the armchairs are soft. Peace for a tormented, half-mad soul!

Waiters were passing by and Denisov asked the sweetest and friendliest of them: Comrade Bakhtiyarov isn’t here by any chance, is he? And the waiter immediately took to Denisov like a brother and pointed with his little finger, directing him: The comrade’s relaxing over there. In a circle of friends and lovely ladies.

Now go on over there—what will be, will be—over there— I’m not asking for myself—over there, where a dome of blue smoke billows, where giggles cavort like gusts of wind, where champagne leaps out onto the tablecloth in a frothy arc, where heavy female backs sit, where someone in a lilac-colored tie, puny, doglike, quickly prances around the Boss, incessantly adoring him. Take a step—and Denisov stepped, he crossed the line and became the envoy of the forgotten, the nameless, those who hover in dreams, who lie covered with snow, whose white bones protrude from the ruts of the steppe.

Comrade Bakhtiyarov turned out to be a round, soft, Chinese-looking person, he even seemed rather a fine fellow, and it was impossible to say how old he was, sixty or two hundred. He saw straight through people, saw everything—the liver, spleen, and heart, but he had no use for your liver or spleen—what good were they?—so he didn’t look straight at you lest he pierce right through you, and he wound conversations around somewhere to the side and past you. Comrade Bakhtiyarov was consuming veal of a downright disgraceful tenderness, as well as criminally young suckling pig; and the salad—a mere three minutes separated it from the garden—was so innocent, it hadn’t even had a chance to come to its senses; there it had been, minding its own business, growing, and suddenly—whoosh!—it was picked, and before it had time to cry out, it was being eaten.

“I love to eat young things,” said Bakhtiyarov. “But you, my little bunny rabbit, shouldn’t—you have an ulcer, I can see it in your face.” He was right on target: Denisov had had an ulcer for ages. “So I’ll treat you to something that’s for your own good,” said Bakhtiyarov. “Drink to my health, drink deep to my hospitality.”

And at the snap of his fingers they brought Denisov stewed carrots and sweet Buratino soda water.

“I keep thinking, thinking,” said Bakhtiyarov, as he ate. “Day and night I keep thinking, and I can’t figure out the answer. You look like a scholarly fellow—your eyes are oh so gloomy—come on, tell me. Why is the brewery named after Stenka Razin? After all, my little lovebirds, it’s a government organization with plans and quotas to fill, fiscal accountability, socialist competition, Party committees and—oh, goodness, I can’t take it—lo-ocal trade union committees. Trade union committees. This is serious business, it’s no joke. And then they go and name it after some bandit! No, I don’t get it. In my opinion it’s funny. Go on, laugh!”

The friends and ladies laughed, the lilac-colored one even shrieked. Denisov also smiled politely and took a sip of his warm Buratino.

“But if you look at it from the other side: Razin, Stepan Timofeevich—he’s a folk hero, an inspiration, our national pride and joy:

“That, you see, is an event with great political resonance—and now we have some measly little factory with, you get my meaning, a dubious profile. To my way of thinking, it’s funny. Go on, laugh!”

The ladies again opened their mouths and laughed.

“Like Grandma’s furs stored in the chest… he doesn’t rot, he doesn’t rust, he doesn’t sweat, he gets his rest,” the lilac-colored one suddenly sang, wiggling his shoulders and stamping his heels.

“See what great fun we’re having here,” said the contented Bakhtiyarov. “We play around and laugh like innocent children, and it’s all within the bounds of the permissible, we don’t go beyond what’s allowed, now do we?… And everything’s just hunky-dory, but I can see you’ve got a little favor to ask of me, so ask away, we’ll have a listen….”

“Well, actually, it’s very simple, that is, it’s very complicated,” said Denisov, trying to concentrate. “That is, you see, I’m not really asking for myself—personally, I don’t need anything….”

“Oh my willow, green willow, who asks favors for himself? Nowadays nobody asks for himself…. Nowadays you only have to spit—and a bunch of those inspectoring fellows grab you by your little white arms—did you spit in the right place, where did you get that spit, and on just what grounds—but what do we have to do with it, we didn’t do anything, we’re clean as a whistle…. Can I call you my little chickypoo? ‘You’re my frost—frost, don’t freeze me out,’” comrade Bakhtiyarov began to sing. “Sing, my little lovebirds!”

“Don’t freeze me out!” they struck up at the table.

“Like Grandma’s furs stored in a chest…” the lilac-colored one tried to sing against the chorus, but he was drowned out. They sang well.

“Klavdiya’s soprano isn’t just any old la-di-da,” said Bakhtiyarov. “Our Zykina! Maria, so to speak, Callas, or maybe even better. You sing too, chickypoo.”

Well, they warned me, thought Denisov, opening his mouth in time to the rhythm. They warned me, and I was prepared— after all, it’s not for myself, and you don’t get something for nothing, without suffering you won’t get anywhere, I just didn’t realize that suffering would be so incredibly unpleasant.

“No sweat, no sweets,” affirmed Comrade Bakhtiyarov, looking straight into Denisov’s heart, “what did you think, my pretty boy? You need some kind of article? A ca-a-abinet, is it? Oooh, we’re a naughty boy…. Why don’t you sing for us personally, eh? Something simple, heartfelt? Give us your best consumer solo, make our spirits rejoice. We’re listening. Quiet, my little lovebirds. Be respectful.”

Denisov sang hurriedly, suffering under the gaze of Bakhtiyarov’s guests; he sang whatever came to mind, what’s sung in courtyards, on camping trips, in trains—an urban ballad about Lenka Sharova, who believed in love and was deceived, and who decided to destroy the fruit of her frivolous lapse from virtue: “She dug a hole, pushed the stones inside, and then wee Zina gave one last cry!” he sang, already realizing that he was in a desert, that there were no people about. He sang of the sentence pronounced by the heartless judges: “To the firing squad with her, to the firing squad it be!” of the sad and unjust end of the girl who’d gone astray: “I walked right up to the prison wall, and there lay Lenka in her death pall,” and Bakhtiyarov nodded his soft head sympathetically. No, Bakhtiyarov himself was all right, not bad at all, really, his face even began to reveal some nice cozy nooks and crannies, and if you squinted, it was even possible to believe for a minute that here was a grandfather, an old-timer who loved his grandchildren… but of course only if you squinted. The others were much worse: that woman over there, for instance, an awful woman, she resembled a ski— her front was entirely encased in brocade, but her back was completely bare; or that other one, the beauty with the eyes of a cemetery caretaker; but the most horrible of them all was that fidgety giggler, that unstrung Punch with his lilac tie and toadlike mouth and woolly head; if only someone would wipe him out, exterminate him, or burn him with Mercurochrome so that he wouldn’t dare look!… But then, actually, they’re only horrid because they’re celebrating my humiliation, my trials and tribulations, otherwise—they’re just citizens like anyone else. Nothing special. “There lay Lenka in her death pall.”

“How fine, my sweets!” exclaimed Bakhtiyarov in surprise. “How fine our comrade sang for us. Downright pianissimo and nothing else. No other word for it. Come on now, let’s show him our stuff. In reply. Let’s give our guest a taste of our D-flat.”

The guests burst into song; the lilac fidget—all attentiveness—conducted with a fork, tears streamed from the beauty’s dead eyes; the diners from neighboring tables, wiping their mouths with their napkins, joined the chorus, Klavdiya’s soprano entered on a piercing, violinlike note:

There, in the mountains, the snow began to fall thicker and thicker, sweeping into drifts, burying Makov, his sprawled legs, his face turned toward eternity. He doesn’t rot, he doesn’t rust, he doesn’t sweat, he gets his rest. The snowdrifts rose higher and higher, the mountain creaked under the weight of the snow; it groaned and cracked, and with the roar of a steam engine the avalanche fell, and nothing remained on the peak. A snowy mist smoked a bit and settled on the cliffs.

“Dear visitor! Aren’t I your friend—to the bitter end!” cried Bakhtiyarov, grabbing Denisov by the cheeks. “How do you like that? I’m talking in verse. That’s me. No stranger to poetry. Eh? That’s just the way I am. Drink your Buratino to my health. Bottoms up, bottoms up! That’s the ticket. You know what: Humor an old friend. If you go to town, go all the way. Crawl under the table. For fun! Go on!”

“What the…” said Denisov, free of Makov. “Who do you think you are, old man? Arrivederci to you, I don’t need your cabinet. I changed my mind.” And he started to get up.

“Under the table. What’s going on? What’s the matter?” Bakhtiyarov tore at his coat. “We’re asking you. Gentlemen!”

“Go on, go on!” shouted the ladies, friends, guests, waiters, even the cook, who appeared from out of the blue, and the entire room, rising to its feet, moving out from behind the tables, still chewing, made a scene and clapped: “Go on!”

No, for goodness’ sake, no, no, no! Why? I’m a human being, and proud to be one. I won’t crawl, go ahead and kill me!… Yes, but what about suffering? Hey, remember! Suffering! You’re the one who wanted it.

He plunged into despair, as though facing death, he lost heart, he frowned—it didn’t help, he wanted to take a deep breath—there was no air left to breathe. And Bakhtiyarov had already thrown back the tablecloth and seated himself sideways so that his legs wouldn’t be in the way. He gestured invitingly with his hand: Go ahead, be my guest!

…He huddled in the half-light of the darned linen, hugging his knees like an embryo, and gazed dumbly at the women’s legs, the silvered tails, and the lacquered hooves; the insidious repast had clouded his hearing and sight; the soprano set his teeth on edge. Here’s what I’ll do. I know. I’ll erect a monument to the forgotten. Even if it’s only a flat patch of land in the middle of the steppes, with no fence, no marker—let feather grass or rushes grow there, let the sun scorch the earth till the salt comes out, let gravel or broken glass litter the ground, let a jackal howl in the evenings or a boisterous crowd feast. Greetings to you, tin cans, and to you, beer caps, glory to spittle, hurrah for squashed tomatoes. A hill of garbage or a salty clearing, the whoosh of feather grass or the whistle of the wind—anything will do, it makes no difference, nothing frightens the forgotten—after all, nothing else can happen to them.

A tearstained, eyeless female face hung under the table and muttered, seeking sympathy:

“Why, tell me why’s it allays rile lires, salastically yuffy for some, and others only get lurdle, glud, and droom, why?”

The heart of the wise is in the house of mourning.

The Buratino had made Denisov drowsy, and he fell asleep.

A moonbeam, breaking through a darned patch, stabbed him in the eye. The moonlit tablecloth lay on the parquet floor, a silvery garden stood beyond the window, August ignited stars in the dark. It was as if all the snow from all the mountains were cascading onto the garden, the silence, and the mute paths. Denisov creaked across the floorboards and stood by the window. He hadn’t dreamt about anyone today.

The cock crowed, Bakhtiyarov and his warlocks had vanished, the shades were sleeping, the world was at peace.

And what kind of nonsense was this anyway—to be tormented by memories of nothing at all, to ask forgiveness from a dead man for something you weren’t guilty of in human reckoning, to clutch handfuls of fog? There isn’t any fifth dimension, and no one will keep count of your sins and victories, and there isn’t any punishment or reward at the end of the road, there isn’t even a road, and fame is smoke, and the soul is vapor, and if you crawled under the table, well, pardon me, my dear, but that was your choice, a matter of personal taste, and humanity will not follow after you in a grateful throng, and unseen forces won’t cry out from the everlasting azure: “Good going, Denisov, attaboy! Keep up the good work! We fully approve and support you!”

He walked around the Fairy Tale, pulling on doors, all of which were locked. Well, what a pickle! Now just sit there till morning. Break a window, or what? There’s probably an alarm here. It’s a small village, everything’s out in the open—they’ll whistle, lights will blink, the police will move in; if they don’t catch you in the garden, then they’ll get you on the highway for sure. “The heavens are wondrous and exultant, earth slumbers in a luminous blue glow,” and Denisov is going to rush about among the bushes and watchman’s booths, squat behind trash cans, and rustle in the hawthorn to elude the searchlights. There’s no point in it. A rampart of darkness encircles the world; incorporeal moon sugar will sift from leaf to leaf, trembling and glinting; sugar, snow, dreams, depths, everything has frozen, everything’s dying, growing dull in the senseless beauty, everything’s forgotten, forgiven, and anyway nothing happened, and nothing ever will.

Oh, here’s the phone. Call Lora. I myself have died—help others to help themselves.

Lora sounded congested.

“Oh, Denisov, take a taxi, come over. A horrific accident happened. What do you mean, you’re locked in? In what fairy tale? Have you gone out of your mind, Denisov, I’m in the middle of a nightmare, it’s the problem with Papa, I took him to the country, to an old woman, you don’t know her, old lady Liza, she’s a healer and a wonderful woman. Ruzanna recommended her, to read Papa; how do they do that? Well, they sit you on a stool under an icon, light a candle, the wax drips into a basin, old lady Liza reads prayers, the energy field improves a lot; it’s all calculated to last several sessions; so you can imagine, in the meantime I took off for the village store, they have a good selection there, men’s shirts from Holland, I wanted to get you some, but they were all gone, and I got held up looking at the goods for shareholders, I don’t know what shareholders, some kind of consumer co-op or something. Well, for people who bring in birch sponge mushrooms they have men’s moccasins, white ones, Austrian, exactly what you need, you can get jeans for meat and felt pens for carrots, we don’t need any of that, but the moccasins would be good; so I said to the salesgirls: Girls, I don’t have any birch sponges, maybe you’d sell me a pair anyway? And one of them, really nice, said: Wait for the boss, maybe you can arrange something; I waited and waited, and it was already dark, but no one came, and they said: It’s not likely she’ll come back—her boyfriend from Severomorsk was supposed to visit her, so I went back, and old lady Liza was in a frightful panic. She said he was just sitting, sitting there and he fell asleep, and when he falls asleep, well, you know what he gets like; he fell asleep, jumped up, threw the door open and started running, and it was dark outside, and the area’s completely unfamiliar, and he just ran off, I don’t know what to do, Denisov, I’ve been to the police and they just laugh at me. Anyway, I’m home now, completely wiped out, I mean, Papa doesn’t have a penny on him, he’ll wake up somewhere in the forest, he’ll lose his way, he’ll freeze, he’ll die, he doesn’t know where I took him, he’s lost. Denisov, what have I gone and done!”

…So he ran away, he broke out and ran away. He knew, he knew the road all along! The forgotten roused themselves, the shades lifted their heads, transparent apparitions pricked up their ears, listening: he’s running, they’ve released him, go and meet him, go out on patrol, wave flags, light beacons! The sleepwalker is running along impassable paths, his eyelids closed, his arms outstretched, a quiet smile on his lips, as though he sees what the seeing cannot, as though he knows what they have forgotten, as though at night he grasps what is lost during the day. He runs over the dewy grass, through patches of moonlight and deep black shadows, over mushrooms and pale nocturnal bluebells, tiny baby frogs. He flies up hills, runs down hills, pure and bright, and under the bright moon, the heather lashes his fleet legs, night blows in his sleeping face, his white hair flutters in the wind, the forest parts, the maples blossom, light begins to appear.

Surely he’ll keep running till he meets the light?