Chapter 4 third chapter

Seeing that he was silent, Smurov stepped in and suddenly became more talkative than ever before.The conversation was mainly directed at Vanya, about his escape from death. "It happened in Yalta," said Smurov, "by that time the White Guards had withdrawn. I planned to form a partisan unit to continue fighting the Red Army, so I refused to withdraw with others. At first we hid in the mountains. During a firefight I was wounded. The bullet went through my chest just enough to miss my left lung. When I awoke I was lying on my back with stars swimming in the sky. What would I do? I was lying alone in the valley, Bleeding to death. I decided to find a way to get to Yalta - the risks were high, but I couldn't think of any other way. It would take incredible effort. I walked all night, mainly on hands and feet. Finally, at dawn, I Arrived in Yalta. The streets are still asleep. Only gunshots are heard from the direction of the train station. There is no doubt that people are being shot there.

"I had a good friend, a dentist. I went to his place and clapped my hands under the window. He looked out, recognized me, and let me in right away. I hid in his house and healed. .He had a young daughter who took good care of me—but that was another matter. Obviously, my presence put my savior in great danger, so I was anxious to get away. But where? I After much deliberation, I decided to go north, because there were rumors that there was renewed fighting there. So one night, I hugged and said goodbye to my kind friend, who gave me some money, which, God willing, I will pay back sooner or later , so I walked the familiar streets of Yalta again. I had a beard, glasses, and a battered field jacket. I went straight to the train station. A Red Army soldier stood at the entrance of the platform, checking documents. I There was a passport with the name: Sokolov, position: military doctor. The Red Army guard took a look at it and returned it to me. Everything was fine, but something bad happened. I suddenly heard a woman's voice The voice said very calmly, "He's a white bandit, I know him." I was calm-headed, not looking around, as if I was about to get on the platform. But I had just walked three steps, and there was a voice, this time It was a man, shouting: 'Stop!' I stopped. I was surrounded by two soldiers and a vulgar-looking red-faced woman in a leather cap. 'Yes, that's him,' said the woman, 'take the Him.' I recognized it, this communist was a maid who used to work for some of my friends. People often joked that she was in love with me, but I always found her fat and two fleshy lips Disgusting. Here come three more soldiers and a commissar-like figure in half-military, half-civilian clothing. 'Go,' he said. I shrugged my shoulders, and calmly said that the wrong man must have been arrested. 'We will then I figured it out.' said the political commissar.

"I thought they were going to take me for questioning, but I quickly realized it was more serious than that. After we walked to the warehouse near the station, they ordered me to take off my clothes and stand against the wall. I put my hands in the field In the coat, I pretended to unbutton it, saying it was too late, so soon, my Browning pistol slammed twice, two soldiers fell to the ground in response, and I ran for my life immediately. Of course, the rest of the people turned towards me Shot. A bullet knocked my hat off. I ran through the warehouse, jumped over the fence, shot a man charging with a shovel, and ran up the embankment before a train came, one lunge Rushing to the side of the track, the long train blocked the way of my pursuers, and I took the opportunity to escape."

Smurov went on to tell how he went to the sea under the cover of night, slept among the barrels and sacks in the port, stole a can of dry bread and a keg of Crimean wine, at dawn, misty, He rowed a fishing boat out to sea alone, and after drifting with a lone sail for five days, he was rescued by a Greek sloop.He spoke in a calm, matter-of-fact, even monotonous voice, as if he were talking about trivial matters.Yevgenia was full of sympathy, and she clicked her tongue; Mu Xin listened intently, and she really understood, and cleared her throat gently from time to time, as if he couldn't help himself, his heart was already excited by the story, and he was not afraid of a People who take death as their own are awed and even envious—a good, healthy kind of envy.As for Vanya—there was no longer any doubt, she would definitely fall for Smurov after that.How charmingly her eyelashes punctuated his speech, and how charmingly they fluttered to complete Smurov's story once Smurov's story was over, what kind of glance she gave her sister— A wet, slanting flash—perhaps to make sure she didn't notice her excitement.

silence.Mu Xin opened his gunmetal-colored cigarette case.Eugenia remembered with great fuss that it was time to call her husband to tea.She turned at the door and said something about the cake that was not heard.Vanya jumped up from the sofa and ran out too.Mu Xin picked up her handkerchief from the floor and carefully placed it on the table. "May I have a cigarette for you?" asked Smurov. "Of course." Mu Xin said. "Oh, you only have one left," said Smurov. "Take it and smoke it," Mu Xin said, "I still have it in my coat." "English smokes always have a smell of candied dried plums," said Smurov.

"Or molasses," Muxin said. "Unfortunately," he added in the same tone, "Yalta doesn't have a train station." This is simply throwing cold water on the head.That magical soap bubble, bluish, with rainbow halos, the bright side reflecting the curved image of the window, all of a sudden bigger, bulging, then suddenly gone, all that's left is to burst into your face The itchy crispy moisture on the skin. "Before the revolution," said Mukhin, breaking the unbearable silence, "I believe there were plans to build a railway line between Yalta and Simferopol. I know Yalta well—the number of trips there That's too much. Tell me, why do you want to make up such a bunch of nonsense?"

Of course, Smurov could still salvage the defeat, still pull out some new trick to get out of the shell, or, as a last resort, use a kind of good-natured joke to prop up a situation that was collapsing at disgusting speed.Not only did Smurov lose his composure, but he did the impossible.He lowered his voice and said in a hoarse voice: "Please, let this matter be known only to you and me, and it must not be spread." Mu Xin was obviously ashamed of this absurd wretch; he straightened his pince-nez and opened his mouth, but stopped immediately.Because at this moment, the sisters came back again.During tea, Smurov took great pains to look happy.His black suit, however, looked shabby and shabby and stained, and the cheap tie, which usually tries to hide the scuffs when knotted, showed tonight that poor opening, a tiny rash poking through his chin. The lavender remnants of the talcum powder on the top are glowing, which is unpleasant.That's the way it is... Is it true that there is no mystery about Smurov, that he's just an ordinary talker stripped of his paint?This is the case...

No, the mystery remains.One evening, in another house, Smurov's figure took on a new and extraordinary aspect, which had only hinted at it before.The room was quiet and dark.A small lamp in the corner had a newspaper shade, which gave the ordinary newspaper a magical translucent beauty.In this semi-darkness the conversation suddenly turned to Smurov. The conversation starts with trifles.It begins with fragmented, vague ramblings, then riffs on political assassinations of the past, and then the disconcerting name of a famous double agent in old Russia, and phrases like "Blood... a lot of trouble." ...that's enough..." and so on.Gradually this autobiographical introduction became clear, and after a brief account of the peaceful end of a fatal illness, of the strange end of an impudent life, the following was plainly uttered:

"This is a warning. There is one man to watch out for. He is following me. He is spying, he is beguiling, he is betraying. He is already responsible for many deaths. A group of young exiles are crossing the border to work underground in Russian organizations .but a net will be cast and the crowd will disappear, he spies, tricks, betrays. Be on your guard. Watch out for a little man in black. Don't call his modest appearance deceiving. I'm telling the truth ..." "But who is this man?" Weinstock asked. The answer was delayed. "Azef, please tell us who this man is?"

The plate held under Weinstock's limp fingers fumbled again on the sheet of paper with the alphabet, dashing left and right, pointing the markings on the edge of the plate to this or that letter.It stopped six times and finally froze like a frightened tortoise.Weinstock wrote down a familiar name and said it aloud. "Did you hear that?" he said to someone in the darkest corner of the room, "well done! Of course I don't have to tell you, I don't believe it at all. I hope you don't Angry. Why are you angry? It's common for elves to talk nonsense at seances." After saying that, Weinstock pretended to laugh.

Things got weird.I can already count three versions of Smurov, and the original is still unknown.This situation is not uncommon in scientific classification.Long ago Linnaeus described a common species of butterfly, adding a concise note "in pratis Westmanniae".Time passed, and in a process of commendable refinement new investigators named the various southern and Alpine subspecies of the common species, and soon there was not a single species left in Europe where one could find a nominal subspecies that was not a regional subspecies. planting place.Where are the type specimens, models, and original type specimens?Finally, a no-nonsense entomologist, in an exhaustive treatise with a complete discussion of the clade associations of the named populations, identified Linnaeus' nearly two-hundred-year-old, faded Scandinavian specimen as the only representative of the type specimen; this confirmation played a role in clearing the source. I made up my mind to dig out the real Smurov in the same way, for I have realized that his image is affected by the climatic conditions prevailing in different souls—in the cold ones he takes a look. , but in the fiery soul, it is refurbished.I'm starting to like this game.Personally, I watched Smurov with indifference.A certain preference for him that had been at first had given way to a mere curiosity.However, I experienced a kind of excitement that I had never experienced before.Just as a scientist does not care whether the color of a wing is beautiful or not, or whether its spots are light or intense (interested only in its taxonomic features), so I look at Smurov without any aesthetic excitement; Smurov's masks were sorted and found a poignant stimulus in them. The task is by no means easy.For example, I know that Mariana, who has no sense of humor at all, sees in Smurov a cruel, brilliant White Guard officer, "a scum who hangs people for nothing", and this is a confession. The top secret that Yevgenia told me during the conversation.However, in order to determine this image precisely, I had to be acquainted with the whole of Mariana's life, with the secondary associations that were active in her observation of Smurov—other memories, other accidental impressions, and all these caused by the soul. different lighting effects.My conversation with Yevgenia took place shortly after Mariana Nikolaevna had left; she was said to be going to Warsaw, but there were indications that she would go further east—possibly back home; So Mariana took with her a very peculiar idea about Smurov, which she would keep for life if left uncorrected. "And you," I asked Eugenia, "what do you think?" "Oh, it's hard to tell right away," she replied, with a smile that made her look more like a smart bulldog and deepened her velvety eyeshadow. "Please speak out." I said reluctantly. "First of all, he's very shy," she said quickly, "yes, yes, extremely shy. I have a cousin, a very quiet and lovely boy, but whenever he has to be in a fashionable drawing-room To a group of strangers, he'd come in whistling in, to project a sort of independence—big and rough and domineering." "Yes, what else?" "Let me see, what else... sensitive, yes, extremely sensitive, of course, young; inexperienced in dealing with people..." No more words could come out of her mouth, and it turned out that the image was rather pale and not very attractive.However, it is Vanya's version of Smurov that interests me the most.I think about it all the time.I remember that one night, chance seemed to give me an answer.I climbed from my dark room to their apartment on the sixth floor, only to find that the sisters, Khrushchev, and Mu Xin were going out to the theater.With nothing better to do, I went out to accompany them to the taxi stand.Suddenly, I noticed that I had forgotten my downstairs key. "Oh, don't worry, we have two strings," Eugenia said. "You're lucky, we live in the same building. Here, just come back tomorrow. Good night." I was walking all the way home when a wonderful idea occurred to me on the way.I picture a slick villain from a movie reading a document he finds in someone else's desk.Admittedly, my plans were pretty sketchy.Smurov once gave Vanya a yellow orchid with dark spots, which looked a bit like a frog; hidden in a dark drawer.Once he had given her a pocket volume of the vigorous poet Gumilev's poems; perhaps it was worth checking to see if the pages had been cut and the book was on her bedside table.There was another photograph, taken with the spotlight on, of Smurov looking very imposing—half profile, very pale, with one eyebrow raised—and next to him stood Vanya, while Mukhin hid behind.Generally speaking, there is still a lot to discover.I made up my mind that in case I bumped into the maid (a very pretty girl, by the way), I explained that I had come to return the keys, and I cautiously opened the door of Khrushchev's apartment and walked in on tiptoe living room. It's fun to break into someone's room when they're not looking.I turned on the light and the furniture was blindsided.Someone had left a letter on the table; the empty envelope lay there like a useless old mother.The little note seemed to be sitting upright, like a happy little baby.The eagerness, the throbbing of excitement, the jerk of my hand all proved unnecessary.The letter was written by an uncle Pasha whom I did not know.Not a single word about Smurov is mentioned throughout!If it's written in cipher, I don't know the trick to decode it.I walked into the restaurant lightly.There are raisins and nuts in a bowl, and next to it is a French novel, "Adventures of the Russian Maiden Ariane", lying prone like an eagle with wings spread.I then went into Vanya's bedroom, the window was open and it was freezing.I found it strange to look at the lace bedspread and the altar-like dressing-table, with its cut glass gleaming mysteriously.The orchid was missing, but to compensate, the photo leaned against the bedside lamp.It was taken by Roman Bogodanovich.In the photograph, Vanya is sitting with her bright legs crossed, behind her is Mukhin's narrow face, and to Vanya's left, only a segment of a darkened elbow can be discerned—the only part of the amputated Smurov. save part.The evidence is overwhelming!A star-shaped indentation suddenly appeared on Vanya's lace-covered pillow-the mark of my fist blow, and in a blink of an eye I was in the dining room, eating raisins and still shaking.At this moment, I remembered the writing desk in the living room, and quietly and hurriedly walked up to it.However, at this moment, the metallic sound of keys being played came from the direction of the front door.I retreated hastily, turning off the lights as I went, and at last I found myself in a little boudoir adjoining the dining room, richly furnished.I groped in the dark, crashed into a sofa, and stretched out on it, as if I had come to take a nap. At the same time, human voices came from the hall—the voices of the two sisters, and Khrushchev's voice.They were saying goodbye to Mu Xin.He won't come in for a while, will he?No, it's getting late, he won't come in.It's late?Did it really take three hours for my unshelled ghost to wander from room to room?Somebody in a theater somewhere has the time to do a silly play that I've seen so many times, and here a guy just walks through three rooms.Three Rooms: A Play in Three Acts.Did I really spend a full hour pondering a letter in the living room, a full hour in the dining room a book, and an hour in the unnaturally cold bedroom a snapshot? ...my time has nothing in common with theirs. Khrushchev probably went to bed immediately; only the sister and son entered the dining room.The door of my dark, flowery den was left open.I believe I will now have everything I want about Smurov. "...that's exhausting," Vanya said, with a soft ahhh and a yawn to me, "get me some root beer. I don't want any tea." A slight scrape With a rubbing sound, a chair was moved to the table. There was a long silence.And then Eugenia's voice - so close that I cast a horrified glance at Ryosuke: "...the main problem is getting him to explain the terms to them. That's the main problem. He speaks English, after all. , but those Germans don't. I don't seem to like this fruit jelly." Again there was silence. "Well, I'll tell him to do it," said Vanya.Something dropped with a clink—a small spoon, perhaps—and there was another long pause. "Look at this!" said Vanya with a laugh. "What is it made of, wood?" asked the sister. "I don't know," said Vanya, laughing again. After a while, Yevgenia yawned, playing more enjoyable than Vanya. "...the clock has stopped," she said.