Chapter 3 Chapter two

They lived with a relative, Mariana Nikolaevna, and in the evenings they often had guests, almost always those same people.Yevgenia was considered the head of the family.She had an endearing sense of humor; it was she who nicknamed her sister "Vanya," even though the latter wanted people to call her "Mona Vanna" (after a play in which heroine) after discovering that her real name—Varvara—sounds somehow fat and pockmarked.It took me a while to get used to the masculine "Ivan" nickname; gradually, however, Vanya and the feminine feminine name took on a perfectly matching tone in my eyes.

The two sisters look very much alike; the bulldog-like bulkiness of the older sister's brows can be vaguely seen on Vanya's face, but in a different style, which gives meaning and innovation to the beauty of her face.The eyes of the two sisters are also similar--dark brown, slightly asymmetrical, a little slanted, and the dark and thin double eyelids are quite cute.Vanya's eyes were darker than Eugenia's in the iris area, and, unlike her sister's, were a little nearsighted, as if they were too beautiful to be used every day.Both are brown-haired and brunette, with the same hairstyle: parted down the middle, with a large, tight bun hanging down at the nape of their necks.Yet my sister's hair didn't have the same sky-like shine, and lacked that precious luster.I wanted to get rid of Eugenia, put her out of the way, there was no need to compare the two sisters; at the same time I knew that without this resemblance, Vanya's charm would not be perfect.It's just that her hands are not very delicate: the contrast between the pale palm and the pink back of the hand with large knuckles is too strong.There are always some small white spots on her round nails.

If the brain wants to enslave a person's visual image, how much more focus and stare do it need?They were sitting on the sofa; Eugenia in a black velvet dress with a necklace of large beads adorning her white neck; Vanya in a crimson dress with small pearls instead of large ones; Her eyes were drooping under thick black eyebrows; a thin layer of makeup did not hide the faint rash between the broad brows.The two sisters were wearing the same new shoes, and they kept flirting at each other's feet -- no doubt, the same shoes looked better on their own feet than on other people's feet.Mariana, a blonde doctor, was telling Smurov and Roman Bogodanovich in a domineering voice the horrors of the recent Russian Civil War.Yevgenia's husband, Khrushchev, a jolly, fat-nosed gentleman who kept picking at his nose, either tugging at it or trying to wring it out by one nostril, was standing Talk to Mu Xin, the young man in the pince-nez, at the door of the next room.The two stood on both sides of the door, facing each other, like two male statues.

Muxin and the dashing Roman Bogodanovich were old acquaintances of the family, while Smurov was a newcomer by comparison, although that hardly seemed the case.No one could detect in him the shyness that makes a person stand out in public.These people knew each other so well, and what bound them together was the established sympathy of intimate jokes, the suggestive aftertaste of names of people who were lively and special to them, which always made the newcomer feel as if he were beginning to read. The periodical serial of the story, which had begun long ago in an old back issue too old to be found; and as he listened to the general conversation about events of which he knew nothing, he was quite an outsider, and was left speechless. Speechless, his eyes quickly follow whoever opens his mouth to speak, and the faster his mouth changes, the more frequently his eyes move; however, soon this invisible world that is active in the words of people around him begins to oppress him. and he wondered if they had contrived to contrive a conversation in which he would be left alone.In the case of Smurov, however, if he occasionally feels left out, he certainly doesn't show it.I must say he made a pretty good impression on me the first few nights.He is not very tall, but his parts are well proportioned and he looks very lean.The plain black suit and black tie seemed to imply, in a reserved way, that he was secretly mourning.The pale, thin face is full of youthful vitality, but the discerning observer can distinguish traces of sadness and experience.He is personable.A quiet and slightly melancholy smile was always on his lips.He doesn't talk much, but when he opens his mouth, he always has a few witty words, which are just right. He occasionally makes a joke. freshness.One would have thought that because of that noble and mysterious modesty, because of that pale brow and slender hands, Vanya would have fallen in love at first sight... and there were things—for example, "Blagodarstevejet" ("Thank you You"), pronounced without the usual ambiguity but with a formality which preserves the flavor of the consonants—certainly revealed to the discerning observer that Smurov belonged to the elite society of St. Petersburg.

Mariana paused for a moment while she was telling the horrors of war: she finally noticed Roman Bogodanovich, an imposing bearded man who wanted to interject because it was like a big caramel It's in his mouth.But he did not have this blessing, because Smurov exported faster. "While listening to the horrors of war," Smurov misquotes a famous poem with a smile, "I regret 'neither for my friend nor for my friend's mother', but for those who never People at war regret it. It's hard to put into words the musical pleasure you get from the roar of bullets...or when you're galloping at full speed to attack..."

"War is always terrible," Mariana interrupted sharply, "I must have been brought up differently than you. A man who takes another's life must be a murderer, whether he be an executioner or a cavalry officer. " "My personal opinion is that ..." began Smurov, but she interrupted again: "Valor is a thing of the past. In the course of my practice I have seen far too many people maimed and killed by wars. Humanity now has new ideals. There is nothing more degrading than being cannon fodder. Maybe Because of the difference in upbringing..." "My personal opinion is..." Smurov said.

"A different upbringing," she went on hastily, "has made me look at war differently than you do, in terms of humanity and general cultural interest. I have never shot anyone or put a bayonet in anyone." chest. Rest assured, you will find more heroes among my medical colleagues than there are on the battlefield..." "My personal opinion is that I..." Smurov said. "Come on," said Mariana, "we can't convince anyone. That's the end of the discussion." Then there was a brief silence.Smurov sat quietly stirring his tea.Yes, he must have been an officer, a desperate man, and it is only out of modesty that he says nothing about his adventures.

"What I was trying to say," said Roman Bogodanovich in a low voice, "was that you mentioned Constantinople, Mariana Nikolaevna. Among the exiles there I had A very good friend, a guy called Kashmarin, who I had a fight with later, a very rough guy, although he calmed down quickly and showed his own kindness. Oh, yes , he nearly smoked a Frenchman out of jealousy once. By the way, he told me the following story. Gives a little Turkish folklore. Think—" "Smack him?" interrupted Smurov, laughing. "Yes. I love the story—" "Nearly died," repeated Roman Bogodanovich, and told his story.

Smurov nodded his approval repeatedly while listening.It is obvious that he is simple and quiet on the surface, but passionate in his bones.Undoubtedly, in the heat of his rage he could beat a fellow to pieces, and in the heat of passion he could bring a frightened, fragrant girl under a cloak to a blindfolded girl on a blustery night. in the boat where the oarlocks were waiting, like someone in Roman Bogodanovich's story did.If Vanya was some sort of judge of character, she must have noticed it. "I wrote it all down in my diary," Roman Bogodanovich concluded triumphantly, and took a long sip of tea.

Mukhin and Khrushchev leaned against the door frame and froze again; Vanya and Yevgenia wiped their dresses down to their knees at the same time; Mariana stared at Sri Lanka for no reason. Murov, he was sitting there facing her sideways, in order to maintain the routine of a man's habitual movements, under her unfriendly gaze, he always tensed the muscles on his jaw.I like him.Yes, I like him unambiguously; I think, Mariana, that the cultured lady doctor, the one with nerves of steel, who, because of the steppe ravine and the bombed-out train station The image of the young desperate Saburo, pale and pale after many sleepless nights, became clearer and more harmonious.Everything seems to be going well.

Smurov became a clerk for Vikendi Lvovich Weinstock (replacing the useless old man), but Weinstock knew Smurov less than anyone else.There was a charming recklessness in Weinstock's nature.That's probably why he hired someone he didn't know well.His doubts need constant nourishment.Just as some normally respectable people have an unexpected penchant for collecting dragonflies or prints, so, the grandson of a junk dealer and the son of an antiques dealer, Weinsch, a steady, sober, lifelong book dealer Tork, he has carved out a separate little world for himself.There, in the half-dark fringe world, mysterious incidents frequently occur. India conjured up in him a mystical reverence: someone who, when they mentioned Bombay, inevitably imagined, not a blushing British civil servant, but an ascetic, he was just such a man.He believed in disaster stars and disasters, in magic numbers and devil kings, in poisonous eyes, in the hidden power of symbols and signs, in bronze gods with bare bellies.At night, like a pianist in a daze, he would press his hand on a small, light three-legged table.The little table began to creak softly, chirp like a cricket, and then, with all its might, it lifted up on one side and smacked one leg on the floor with clumsy force.Weinstock could recite the alphabet.The small table followed intently, tapping on the appropriate letter when it was read.Information comes from Caesar, Mehmet, Pushkin and a deceased cousin of Weinstock.Sometimes the table was mischievous: it would either rise up and hang in mid-air, or it would attack Weinstock and punch him in the stomach.Weinstock would soothe the spirit with kindness, like a tamer teasing a lively beast; On the table.In order to talk to the dead, he also used a marked plate and other queer contraptions, with a pencil propped underneath it.The conversation was recorded in a special notebook.Maybe there will be such a passage: Weinstock: Have you found peace? Lenin: This is not Baden-Baden. Weinstock: Would you like to tell me about life in the Underworld? Lenin (pause): No. Weinstock: Why? Lenin: We must wait until we have all arrived. Many such notebooks had been accumulated, and Weinstock often said that one day he would publish the more significant dialogues.Interestingly, a ghost of unknown origin named Abum, silly and tasteless, acted as an intermediary, arranging meetings between Weinstock and all kinds of dead celebrities.He behaved affectionately towards Weinstock. Weinstock: Ghost, who are you? Answer: Ivan Sergeyevich. Weinstock: Which Ivan Sergeyevich? Answer: Turgenev. Weinstock: Are you still creating masterpieces? Answer: Idiot. Weinstock: Why are you scolding me? Answer (the table is tilted): I'm playing tricks on you!I am Abum. Sometimes when Abom started playing tricks, it was almost impossible to get him out of the séance altogether. "He's as bad as a monkey," Weinstock often complained. Weinstock's partner in these tricks was a pink-faced, red-haired petite woman with chubby little hands who smelled of eucalyptus gum and who suffered from frequent colds.I later learned that they had been having an affair, but Weinstock, though very candid in some respects, had done it seamlessly.They called their fathers by their birth names and acted as if they were just friends.She often stopped by the bookstore, warmed herself by the fire, and read one of the Theosophical publications published in Riga.She encouraged Weinstock to experiment with the dead, and often told how the furniture in her house periodically came to life, how a deck of cards flew from place to place, or scattered all over the floor. , how her bedside lamp once jumped off the table it was sitting on, imitating a dog yanking impatiently at its string; the plug was pulled out at last, and there was a running sound in the dark, later found in the hall Lights up, right next to the front door.Weinstock used to say, well, the real "power" hadn't been given to him yet, his nerves were sagging like old braces, and the medium's nerves were like harp strings.However, he didn't believe in apparitions, and the only reason he kept a snapshot given to him by a spiritualist was as a marvelous object, showing a short, pale-faced woman spitting out a gasp from her closed eyes. A flowing cloud-like thing. He liked Edgar Poe and Barbe d'Olévieil, adventure, unmasking, prophetic dreams, and secret societies.Local Masonry, Suicide Club, Black Mass, and especially the Soviet agents sent from "over there" to spy on some poor little refugee's tail ("over there" in such a clever and terrible way) at He was at home in what had turned Weinstock's Berlin into a magical city before his eyes.He often hints that he is a member of a larger organization supposedly dedicated to destroying the fine web of a scarlet spider.Weinstock had long since recreated the spider in a dazzling signet ring that gave his hairy hand an exotic color. "They're everywhere," he used to say quietly but meaningfully, "everywhere. If I go to a party and there's five, ten, maybe twenty people, you can be sure that at least some A secret agent. For example, I am talking to Ivan Ivanovich, but who can guarantee that Ivan Ivanovich can be trusted? Or, for example, my company hired someone to work for me—— Any company, not necessarily this bookstore (I want to keep everybody out of this, you know what I mean) - hey, how do I know he's not a spy? They're everywhere, I I repeat, everywhere...is the kind of unscrupulous espionage...I came to the party, all the guests knew each other, but there is no guarantee that this modest gentleman Ivan Ivanovich is not..." , Weinstock often nodded meaningfully. I soon began to suspect that Weinstock, despite his caution, must have meant something.Generally speaking, anyone who chatted with him for a while walked away with the impression that Weinstock was attacking either the person he was talking to or a friend everyone knew.Most notably at one point—and Weinstock looks back on it with some pride—he didn’t miss the point: a man he knew well, a friendly, easy-going, “God-like” As honest as a fellow" (Weinstock's account), who turned out to be a vicious Soviet agent.My impression is that he couldn't have been more upset if he had let a spy slip through the net than if he hadn't taken the opportunity to hint to the spy that he Weinstock had found him. Even if Smurov did exude an aura of mystery, even if his past seemed somewhat clouded, could it be possible that he...?I saw him, for example, standing behind the counter in a crisp black suit, with his hair brushed back and his delicate, pale face.Every time a customer came in, he carefully put the unsmoked cigarettes on the edge of the ashtray, rubbed his slender hands, and received the buyers carefully.Sometimes—especially when it was a female customer—he would break into a smile, express his condescending attitude towards the book in general, or make fun of his role as an ordinary clerk, and then offered valuable suggestions-this Worth reading, it's a little too heavy; the eternal battle of the sexes is so funny here, it's not a novel, but it's brilliant and intoxicating, you know, like champagne.So the lady who bought the book, the lady with red lips in a black fur coat, left with a charming image: a pair of slender hands, a little clumsy movement when picking a book, a soft voice, an erratic smile, elegant demeanor.In the Khrushchev household, however, Smurov had begun to make a slightly different impression on someone. The life of the family at No. 5 Peacock Street is extremely happy.Yevgenia and Vanya's father was in London most of the year, sending handsome checks to the family, and besides, Khrushchev made a lot of money.However, that is not the problem: even if they are penniless, nothing will change.The sisters would still be sheltered by the same blissful breeze which, though unknown from where, could be felt by even the most morose and dull-witted visitor.It was as if they had embarked on a pleasure trip: the top floor glides like an airship.People cannot accurately locate the source of happiness.I looked at Vanya and began to feel that I had discovered this source... Her happiness was speechless.Sometimes she would ask a short question out of the blue, and as soon as she had the answer, she would fall silent again and stare at you with her surprised, beautiful, short-sighted eyes. "Where are your parents?" she once asked Smurov. "In a churchyard far away," he answered, and made a slight bow for no apparent reason. Eugenia, tossing a ping-pong ball in one hand, said she remembered their mother, but Vanya did not.There was no one else that night but Smurov and the obligatory Mukhin: Mariana went to the concert, Khrushchev worked in his room, Roman Bogdanovich stayed at home Journaling is his Friday routine.The quiet and well-behaved Mu Xin kept silent, occasionally adjusting the clip of the rimless pince-nez on his thin nose.He was well-dressed and smoked real English cigarettes.