Chapter 5 Chapter Four

No more words.They sat for a long time; they jingled something; the nutcrackers clicked and slammed back on the tablecloth; yet no one spoke.Then the chair moved again. "Oh, just leave it there." Yevgenia said lazily, and then the magic seam I was looking forward to suddenly disappeared.A door slammed somewhere, Vanya's distant voice said something, inaudible now, and then there was silence and darkness.I lay on the sofa for a while longer when I suddenly noticed that it was daylight.So I walked cautiously up the stairs to my room. I vividly imagined Vanya pushing the tip of her tongue to the side of her mouth and cutting off the unwanted Smurov with a snap of her little scissors.But maybe not at all: Sometimes things are cut out just to fit in a separate frame.To confirm the latter speculation, Uncle Pasha arrived unexpectedly from Munich a few days later.He was going to London to see his brother, and was only in Berlin for two or three days.The old goat hadn't seen his two nieces for so long that he liked to remember how he used to put sobbing Vanya on his lap and spank her ass.At first glance, Uncle Pasha seemed to be only three times her age, but on closer inspection he was aging right before your very eyes.In fact, he was not fifty, but eighty, and there is nothing more terrifying in the human imagination than this combination of youth and old age.A happy corpse in a blue suit, with dandruff on his shoulders, a clean-shaven face, bushy eyebrows, and two tufts of long hair protruding from his nostrils. Uncle Pasha kept asking questions in a loud voice all the time.As soon as he appeared, he spit everywhere, asked Yevgenia in whispers about each of the guests, pointed openly, pointing now and then at the person with his forefinger with a strange yellow nail on top. that person.A coincidence happened the next day in connection with the unexpected visitor, and somehow there was always a succession of such people, as if there was always some dull, rambunctious star not unlike Weinstock's Abum , on the day you come home from a trip, let you run into the person who happened to sit across from you on the train.For several days I had felt an inexplicable discomfort in my chest where the bullet had pierced, a feeling like a cool breeze in a dark room.I went to see a Russian doctor, and it was Uncle Pasha sitting in the waiting room.Just as I was torn about whether to strike up a conversation with him (assuming he'd had enough time since last night to forget my face and my name), this old-timey talker, refusing to hide himself A grain of millet in the granary of experience, he strikes up conversation with an elderly lady who, though she doesn't know him, clearly likes outspoken strangers.At first I didn't pay attention to their conversation, but suddenly Smurov's name struck me.The clichés I heard from Uncle Pasha were so important that when he finally disappeared through the door of the consulting room, I left without waiting for my turn—and of my own accord, as if I had come to the consulting room Just listening to Uncle Pasha's conversation: now the play is over, I can go. "Just think," said Uncle Pasha, "that the little girl has blossomed into a real rose. I'm a rose expert, so I decided right away that there must be something to do with a young fellow. Then her sister said to me:' It's a big secret, uncle, so don't tell anyone, but she's been in love with this Smurov for a long time.' Of course, it's none of my business. A Smurov isn't much better than Another bad. But to think that there was a time when I used to spank this girl's little bare bottom, and it's nice to see her now, like a bride. She adores him. Well, it's just So, my dear lady, we have had our fun, now let others have their fun..."

And so it happened.Smurov was in love.Evidently, Vanya, the shortsighted but sensitive Vanya, had sensed something in Smurov's ordinaryness, understood something about him, and his quietness had not fooled her.On the same night at Khrushchev's house, Smurov was particularly quiet and humble.However, now when people know that Hong Fu is calling him face to face—yes, he is calling him face to face (because Fu Fu is coming so violently, with the roar of a hurricane, it is like a flood of beasts)—now he can find a certain kind of anxiety in his tranquility, The pink joy was revealed from his enigmatic paleness.Goodness, how lovingly he gazed at Vanya!Her eyelashes drooped, her nostrils quivered, and she even bit her lip lightly to avoid her violent emotions.It seemed as if something had to come to light that night.

Poor Muxin is away: he went to London a few days ago.Khrushchev was also absent.In compensation, however, Roman Bogodanovich (he was collecting material for himself. Every week he sent the diary to a friend in Tallinn like a spinster) was louder than ever. Voice, nonsense.The sisters, as always, sat on the sofa.Smurov stood with one elbow on the piano, looking enthusiastically at Vanya's bald parting and dark red cheeks... Several times Yevgenia jumped up and stuck her head out of the window— Uncle Pasha was coming to say goodbye, and she wanted to open the elevator for him as soon as he arrived. "I adore him," she laughs. "He's not an easy guy. I bet he wouldn't send us off at the station."

"Do you play the piano?" Roman Bogodanovitch politely asked Smurov, looking meaningfully at the piano. "Played a lot at one time," said Smurov calmly.He lifted the cover of the piano, Mengyou glanced at the exposed teeth on the keyboard, and then closed the cover again. "I like music," said Roman Bogodanovich confidingly, "and it reminds me that in my schooldays—" "Music," said Smurov, in a higher tone, "at least good music can express what words cannot express. That is the meaning and mystery of music." "Here he is," Yevgenia called, and left the room.

"What about you, Varvara?" Roman Bogodanovich asked in his hoarse, thick voice, "you—'with fingers lighter than a dream'—eh? Come on, play whatever you want. Something . . . a little intermezzo." Vanya shook her head as though about to frown, but chuckled and lowered her face.No doubt it amused her greatly that this meathead should sit her down and play while her soul was beating its own melodies.At this moment, one can notice the strongest desire on Smurov's face, one is that the elevator carrying Yevgenia and Uncle Pasha will be stuck forever, and the other is that Roman Poe Godanovich plunged headlong into the jaws of the blue Persian lion woven into the carpet, and, above all, made me—the indefatigable cold eye—disappear.

At this very moment Uncle Pasha was already blowing his nose and giggling in the hall; now he came in and stood in the doorway, rubbing his hands with a smirk. "Evgenia," he said, "I'm afraid I don't know any of you here. Come here and introduce me." "My God!" said Eugenia, "that's your own niece!" "So that's the way it is, so it's the way it is." Uncle Pasha said, adding more embellishments and talking about slapping buttocks and eating peaches. "Maybe he doesn't know anyone else either." Yevgenia sighed and began to introduce us one by one loudly.

"Smurov!" exclaimed Uncle Pasha, raising his eyebrows. "Oh, Smurov and I are old friends. Blessed, blessed man," he went on playfully, touching Smurov's arms and shoulders, "You think we don't know... we know all... I say one thing - take good care of her! She's a gift from God. I wish you happiness, my children... ..." He turned to Vanya, but she put a wrinkled handkerchief to her mouth and ran out of the house.Yevgenia made a strange noise and hurriedly chased her out.However, Uncle Pasha did not notice his nonsense, which was too much for sensitive people, and already drove Vanya to tears.The bulging eyes of Roman Bogodanovich stared at Smurov with extreme curiosity—and the gentleman, whatever his inner feelings, remained calm and impeccable.

"Love is a great thing," said Uncle Pasha, and Smurov smiled politely. "The girl is a treasure. And you, you're a young engineer, aren't you? Your work is going well?" Without going into specifics, Smurov said he was doing a good job.Roman Bogodanovich suddenly slapped his knee and turned blue. "I'll put in a good word for you in London," said Uncle Pasha. "I'm very connected. Yes, I'm going, I'm going. In fact, right away." So the stunned old man glanced at his watch and held out his hands to us.Smurov, overwhelmed with love's happiness, embraced him unexpectedly.

"What do you think? . . . There's always a weirdo in your eyes!" said Roman Bogodanovich, after Uncle Pasha had closed the door behind him. Yevgenia returned to the living room. "Where's the man?" she asked in surprise: his disappearance was a bit magical. She hurried up to Smurov. "Forgive my uncle," she began, "I was a fool for telling him about Vanya and Muxin. He must have got the names mixed up. I didn't realize at first that he was a lunatic— —” "I listened and thought I was going crazy," Roman Bogodanovich interposed, spreading his hands.

"Oh, come, come, Smurov," continued Yevgenia, "what's the matter with you? Don't take it to heart. After all, it's not insulting you." "I'm all right, I just don't know," Smurov whispered. "You don't know what that means? Everyone knows...things have been going on for a long time. Of course, they love and respect each other. Nearly two years. Listen, I'll tell you something about Uncle Pasha Funny thing: one time when he was relatively young - no, don't be rude, it's a very interesting story - one day, when he was relatively young, he happened to be walking on the Nevsky Prospect... ..."

Then there was a brief period when I ceased to pay attention to Smurov: during this time I sank and fell back into the gnawing gravity, and the old skin wrapped around me like the world around me. All this life is not a drama of my imagination, but real, and I am a part of it, all of it.If you are not in love and you don't know for sure whether a potential rival is in love with her, and if there are several rivals and you don't know which one is luckier than you; if you rely on hopeful ignorance Live your life: it will help you in surmising an otherwise unbearable annoyance, and then everything will be all right, and you will be able to live.But when the name is finally announced, and it's not your name, it's a disaster!For she was haunting, even tearful, and the mere thought of her filled me with a night of groaning, terror, and salt.Her shaggy face, her short-sighted eyes, her delicate lips, chapped and swollen with cold, its color seemed to linger on the lip line and dissolve in a wild pink; Butterfly kisses are needed as balm to moisturize; her short bright dress: playing cards with us, when her black hair is on the cards, her big knees squeeze together and are uncomfortable; her hands , with puberty stickiness and a little roughness, making people want to touch and kiss—yes, her whole body, everything, is tormented, the wounds caused are incurable, and only In the dream, when my face was washed with tears, I finally held her in my arms, feeling her neck and the dimple around her collarbone under my lips.But she always pulls away, and I wake up with a start, my heart still pounding.Was she stupid or clever, what was her childhood like, what books did she read, what did she think about the universe?I really don't know anything about her, my eyes are blackened by the blazing beauty that replaces everything else and justifies everything, and that beauty is different from a person's soul (soul can often be approached and possessed), so I can't Stealing is like a man who cannot contain in his belongings the colors of the tangled sunset over a dark house, nor the scent of a flower. Extract cleanly. Once, at Christmas, before a dance to which they were all going except me, I saw her sister powdering Vanya's bare shoulder-blades in a narrow strip of mirror through a cracked door. ; Another time, I saw a sheer bra in the bathroom.For me these were all draining events, which had a deliciously draining effect on my dreams, though in none of them did I go further than a hopeless kiss (I myself I don't know why when we meet in our dreams, I always cry).What I demand from Vanya I can never take forever to use, to possess, any more than one can possess the color of a cloud or the scent of a flower.It was only when I finally realized that my cravings were doomed and that Vanya was entirely my creation that I calmed down and slowly got used to the excitement from which I wrung All the sweetness a man can possibly get from love. Gradually, my attention returned to Smurov.By the way, it turned out that Smurov, despite his undiminished interest in Vanya, secretly had a crush on Khrushchev's maid, an eighteen-year-old girl whose special charm was her sleepy eyes.She didn't feel sleepy at all.With the door locked, a naked lightbulb hanging from a long rope illuminating a picture of her fiancé (a burly guy in a Tyrolean top hat) and an apple from the master's table, this plain-looking girl— - I can't remember if it was Gretchen or Hilda - it's always amusing to think about some depraved love-making trick.Smurov told all these stories to Weinstock, not without pride, but the latter just had a deep aversion to dirty stories, and whenever he heard something obscene, he always said "pooh!" Last one.Because of this, people especially want to tell him such things. Smurov used to enter her room by the back stairs and would sit there for a long time.Apparently Eugenia noticed something at one point - the quick escape at the end of the corridor or the snickering behind the door - because she grumbled that Hilda (or Gretchen) was hooking up with some fireman on.As she vented, Smurov cleared his throat several times triumphantly.The maid used to walk across the dining room with her charming blindfolded eyes downcast; slowly and carefully place a bowl of fruit and her pair of breasts on the sideboard; and then sleepwalking back to the kitchen; Smurov often rubbed his hands, as if about to make a speech, or smiled where he shouldn't in the midst of general conversation.Smurov looked at the well-behaved servant at work, and just now he was holding the girl with the silky bottom and doing a foxtrot in her small room to the distant music of the phonograph from the master's residence. And bare feet slapping the floor: Misty Muhin has brought some really sweet luau records from London.Smurov would go on and on about the fun, and Weinstock would grimace and poo in disgust. "You are an adventurer," Weinstock used to say, "a Don Juan, a Casanova..." However, in his heart, he undoubtedly called Smurov a double or triple agent, and counted on A. The little table where Zev's ghost fidgets in has a major new reveal.The image of Smurov, interesting as it was to me, is now dull: it is doomed to gradually fade because it has no solid evidence.The mystery of Smurov's personality, of course, remained, and one could imagine Weinstock, years later, in another city, mentioning, in passing, an eccentric who had once been his clerk and now God knows where. "Yeah, a very queer character," Weinstock would muses, "a man made of bits and pieces of hints, a man with secrets in his belly. He could ruin a girl... …Who sent him, who he was following, it’s hard to say. Although I heard from a reliable source…I didn’t want to say anything after that.” Even more interesting is what Gretchen (or Hilda) thinks of Smurov.One day in January, a new pair of silk stockings disappeared from Vanya's closet, and everyone remembered that many other small things were missing: the seventy pfennig change on the table, which was used as a chessboard Chess pieces that were cheated but not jumped were removed; a crystal powder box was "off the bounds of the vulgar", Khrushchev joked in a homonym; a piece of silk handkerchief that was cherished for some reason disappeared (I Where can I put it?).Then, one day, when Smurov came wearing a bright blue tie with a peacock sheen, Khrushchev said with a wink that he used to have a tie exactly like this one; Embarrassing, never wore that tie again.But, of course, who hasn't had the idea that this little fool stole the tie (yes, she used to say: "A tie is a man's prettiest accessory"), and then, out of sheer mechanical inertia, Gave it to her boyfriend at the time—as Smurov bitterly told Weinstock.Just as she was going out, Eugenia came into her room and found in the dressing table a pile of familiar objects that had disappeared and reappeared, and she gave her away.So Gretchen (or Hilda) left, her whereabouts unknown; Smurov tried everything possible to find out her whereabouts, but soon failed, so he confessed to Weinstock that enough was enough.That night Eugenia said she had heard some startling news from the caretaker's wife. "That's not a fireman, not a fireman at all," Eugenia said with a smile, "but a foreign poet, isn't that interesting? ... The foreign poet had a tragic love affair, and the German It's funny that he's not allowed to go home on such a big family estate, isn't it? It's a pity the caretaker's wife didn't ask his name - I'm sure he's Russian, if it's someone who visits us often , I wouldn't make a big fuss... Like, that guy from last year, you know who I'm talking about—that black boy with a killer charm, what's his name?" "I know who you have in mind," Vanya put in. "The baron or something." "Or maybe someone else," went on Eugenia, "oh, that's very interesting! A gentleman with an air of spirit, a 'spiritual gentleman,' said the caretaker's wife. Laughing dead..." "I've decided to write it all down," said Roman Bogodanovich in a charming voice. "My friend from Tallinn is going to have a very interesting letter." "You're never bored?" Vanya asked. "I've started a diary several times, but I've always left it halfway. I read it from cover to cover every time, and I'm always ashamed of what I've written." "Oh, no," said Roman Bogodanovich, "if you write conscientiously and regularly, you have a good feeling, a sense of self-preservation, so to speak—you put I kept it all my life, and when you reread it later in life, you will find it fascinating. For example, I have described you that would make any professional writer envious. A bit here, a bit there Pen, get—a complete portrait..." "Oh, let me see it, please!" said Vanya. "That won't work," replied Roman Bogodanovic with a smile. "Then show Eugenia," said Vanya. "No. I'd like to, but I can't. My Tallinn friend puts away my weekly papers as soon as they arrive, and I'm careful not to keep copies, so that kills the idea of ​​changing after the fact--don't even think about it." Drop what, fill in. One day, when Roman Bogodanovic was old and useless, Roman Bogodanovic sat down at the table and started to relive his life. I am for this man Written—for the old man with the Santa beard in the future. If I find my life colorful and worthwhile, then I will leave this memoir for posterity." "What if it's all nonsense?" asked Vanya. "Some people think it's nonsense, and some people think it's quite interesting." Roman Bogodanovich replied sourly. The intent of this epistolary diary has long fascinated me, and somewhat distressed me.Gradually, wanting to read it, or at least an excerpt, became an intense torture, a haunting affair.I have no doubt that there is a description of Smurov in these hastily scribbled things.I know that the miscellaneous notes tend to be conversations, walks in the country, tulips or parrots in the neighbourhood, and, say, the cloudy day the king was beheaded, what he had for lunch—I know such trivial things Notes are often handed down through the ages, and people read them with gusto, looking for the charm of the ancient style, looking for the name of a dish, and looking for the joyful openness of the place where there are now tall buildings.Also, it often happens that the diary writer was either unknown or ridiculed by unknown people, but two hundred years later he suddenly became a first-class writer, because this kind of person already knew how to scratch with a bald pen. , to immortalize an ethereal landscape, the smell of a post-coach, or the eccentricity of an acquaintance.The idea that the image of Smurov might be preserved for eternity with such infallibility filled me with a holy dread, and I was so impatient that I was going mad, and I felt that I would, at any rate, linger in Roman Poe. Godanovic and his friends in Tallinn.Of course experience warns me that the concrete image of Smurov, perhaps destined to last forever (scholars will be overjoyed), may shock me; yet to possess this secret is to see Smurov's momentum through the eyes of centuries to come , was so dizzying that even the potential for disappointment didn't scare me off.I'm only afraid of one thing - a long and careful search, because it's hard to imagine that in the first letter I intercepted, Roman Bogodanovich would immediately (like just turning on the radio (like the voice filling his ears) began to write smoothly, reporting on Smurov's situation. I recall a dark street on a stormy night in March.Clouds were billowing and grotesque, like stumbling, flying clowns at a hideous carnival, and I stood beside the house where Roman Bogodanovich lived, bowing my back against the wind and holding My bowler hat, felt like the hat would explode like a bomb once the brim was loosened.The only witnesses to my watch at night were a street lamp, which seemed to be constantly blinking in the wind, and a piece of wrapping paper, which alternately sprinted down the sidewalk, alternately bouncing obnoxiously to wrap around my skin. Leg, no matter how hard I try to kick it away.I've never been through such a wind before, and never seen such a drunken, messy day.This troubled me immensely.I've come to spy on a ritual - Roman Bogodanovic drops a letter in a mailbox at midnight on Friday and Saturday - and the fundamental problem is before I start working out the vague plans I've conceived , I want to see for myself.I hope that as soon as I see Roman Bogodanovich walking towards the letter box against the wind, my half-formed plan will immediately become vivid and clear (I want to make an impromptu open bag, so that the means can hold It fits in the letterbox and holds it so that letters thrown in the slot fall into my net).But the wind—now howling under my hat, now blowing my trousers, or blowing them so close to my legs that they looked like skeletons—was always in the way, and kept me from Focus on getting things done.Midnight will soon close the sharp angle of time completely; I know Roman Bogodanovic is punctual.I looked at the house and tried to guess at which of the three or four lighted windows, at this very moment, a man was sitting, bent over a piece of paper, creating a painting of Smurov's perhaps immortal image of.Then I moved my gaze to that dark cube fastened to the cast-iron grating, to that dark letterbox into which soon an unimaginable letter will fall, as in eternity.I dodged the street lamps; the shadows thus afforded me a protection from the haste.Suddenly, a cloud of yellow light appeared on the glass of the front door, and I let go of the brim of my hat in excitement.Immediately afterwards, I raised my hands and spun around on the spot, as if the hat I had just taken off my head was still spinning on my head.With a soft thump, the bowler hat fell and rolled away on the pavement.I ran after it, trying to step on it—nearly running into Roman Bogodanovic, who reached out and picked up my hat with one hand, and with the other held my hat. A sealed envelope looks white and big.I think my presence in the vicinity of his house at this late hour confuses him.For a moment the wind enveloped us in its might; I shouted hello, trying to overwhelm the tumult of the mad night, and with two clean fingers I handed the letter from Romain Bogodin Norwich pinched it out. "I'm going to send a letter, I'm going to send a letter," I shouted, "just on the way, just on the way..." I had time to catch a look at the look of panic and hesitation on his face, but I ran away, twenty yards Going to the letter box, pretending to insert something into it, he stuffed the letter into the inside breast pocket of his coat.That's when he caught up with me.I noticed he was wearing felt slippers. "What's up with you," he said sullenly, "I might not want to post it. Here, put on your hat... Ever seen such a wind? . . . " "I'm in a hurry," I said breathlessly (the starry night smothered me), "goodbye, goodbye!" My shadow leaped into the halo of the street lamp, spread out, passed me, Then drown in darkness.As soon as I left the street, the wind died down; the silence was startling, and in the silence a tram groaned and turned a corner. I jumped in without even glancing at either car, because the alluring thing was the beaming, bright sight inside, because I had to see the lights right away.I found a comfortable corner seat and angrily tore open the envelope.Someone came towards me at this moment, I was startled, and I covered the letter with my hat.It turned out to be the conductor.I feigned a yawn, and calmly paid for the ticket, but kept the letter hidden in case anyone might testify in court—there is nothing more convincing than these humble witnesses, conductors, cabbies. Car driver, watchman.He walked away and I opened the letter again.The letter consisted of ten pages, in round script, without any alteration.Letterheads don't mean much.I skimmed through several pages at a glance, and suddenly, like a familiar face in a vast crowd, Smurov's name appeared.What a joy!