Chapter 6 chapter Five

"I'm going, my dear Fyodor Robertovitch, to talk briefly about the rascal back then. I'm afraid I'll upset you by doing so, but in the words of the Weimar swan—I mean the famous Goethe—(followed by a sentence in German). So allow me to say something about Mr. Smurov, and I invite you to have a few bites of psychoanalysis..." I paused and looked up at an ad for milk chocolate with a picture of a lilac alpine meadow.This is my last chance to formally relinquish my knowledge of Smurov's immortality.If this letter does pass through the Wanliguan Mountains into the next century, and its title—a year with two or three zeros—is so fantastically wonderful, then what do I care?What the hell is it to me that a long-dead author "treats" his obscure descendants, in his own disgusting terms, with what kind of portrait?Whatever happens, isn't this the right time: I should give up my career, call off the frenzied efforts to search, spy, and drive Smurov to the brink?Hey, this is a high-pitched heart: I know very well that no power in the world can stop me from reading this letter.

"I have the impression, my dear friend, that I have already written to you. Smurov belongs to what I once called the 'sexual leftist'. The whole appearance of Smurov, his fragility , his despondency, his mannerisms, his fondness for cologne, and above all the furtive, passionate look he always cast on humble servants—all these things had long since confirmed my opinion. Speculation. Strikingly, these sexually unfortunate individuals, despite their physical desire to be a paragon of male reproductive maturity, often choose a woman—one whom they know well, know or don’t know—as the Their (entirely platonic) love interest. So Smurov, despite his sexual perversion, chose Varvara as his ideal object. This pretty but rather stupid girl is already engaged to a certain M. was one of the youngest colonels in the White Guards, so Smurov was sure he wouldn't be forced to do anything with any woman he couldn't and didn't want to do, even if she was that Cleopatra herself. Besides, the 'sexual left ’—I confess I find this expression particularly apt—often develops a tendency to transgression, which in him is carried forward, because transgression of law or of nature already exists. On this point, our friend Smurov was by no means an exception. Come to think of it, one day recently Filip Khrushchev revealed to me that Smurov was a thief, in the ugliest sense of the word. It turns out Well, the man I was talking to handed him a silver snuffbox with esoteric symbols on it—an ancient object—to take it to an expert for appraisal. Smurov took the beautiful Antique, and the next day he declared to Khrushchev that he had lost his stuff, with a morose face. I listened to Khrushchev's story and explained to him that sometimes the urge to steal is a pure pathology The phenomenon even has a scientific name - kleptomania. Khrushchev, like many likable but limited people, began to naively deny that we were dealing with 'kleptomania' and not criminals in this matter. I did not present some arguments that would undoubtedly convince him. Everything was clear to me. Far from labeling Smurov a disgraceful "thief" I genuinely felt sorry for him, even though it seemed Contradictory.

"The weather is getting worse, or better, because isn't this slush and wind the harbinger of spring, dear little spring? Spring always arouses a vague longing, even in the hearts of old people." The adage comes to mind, and it will no doubt—" I quickly scan to the end of the letter.There is nothing more interesting to me.I cleared my throat and folded the letter neatly without shaking my hands. "The terminus is here, sir," said a brusque voice over my head. Night, rain, suburbs... Smurov sat on the steps of the stairs in a striking fur coat with a lady's collar.Suddenly Khrushchev, also in a fur coat, came down and sat down beside him.Smurov couldn't speak, but he didn't have much time, so he had to put all his eggs in one basket.He released a slender hand wearing several shiny rings—rubies, rubies—from a wide fur sleeve, wiped his hair, and said, “There is something I want to remind you , Philip Inokentyevich. Please listen carefully."

Khrushchev nodded.He blew his nose (had a bad cold from sitting on the stairs).He nodded again and twitched his swollen nose twice. Smurov went on: "I'm going to tell you about a little incident that happened recently. Please listen carefully." "All ears," Khrushchev replied. "I don't know what to say," said Smurov, "I may have misunderstood what I meant by being abrupt. Listen carefully. Please listen to me. You must understand that I have nothing on my mind when I bring this up again." Extraordinary thoughts. It wouldn't even occur to me that you think I'm a thief. You yourself must agree with me: I can't possibly know you think so—after all, I don't read other people's letters. I want you to understand , the appearance of this question is purely accidental... Are you listening?"

"Go on." Khrushchev said, rubbing his body under the leather jacket. "Okay. Let's go back, Philip Inokentyevich. Let's go back to the silver bauble. You want me to show Weinstock. Listen carefully. When I left you I pinched In hand. No, no, please don't memorize the alphabet. I can communicate with you just fine without the alphabet. I swear, I swear by Vanya, I swear by all the women I've ever loved, I swear I can't name every word of the man--because otherwise, you'd think I could read other people's letters, and that could be a thief, too--I swear every word he said was a lie: I really I lost it. I went home and it was gone, and it wasn't my fault. It was just that I was too distracted and loved her too much."

But Khrushchev just didn't believe Smurov; he just shook his head.It was useless for Smurov to swear, it was useless for him to twist his glistening white hands—it was useless, there was no word that could convince Khrushchev. (At this point, the original logic of my dream is exhausted: now, the stairs on which people talk stand alone in the wilderness, and below are terraced gardens and fireworks misty trees; the terraces stretch into the distance, and the sky At the end it seems that the waterfall and the meadow on the hillside can be vaguely distinguished.) "Yes, yes," Khrushchev said first in a blunt and fierce voice, "there is something in that box, so it is irreplaceable. Inside is everything. Nia—yes, yes, that happens to girls sometimes... a very rare phenomenon, but it happens, it happens..."

I woke up.early in the morning.A truck drove by, shaking the window panes.The windowpanes have not shed a thin lavender frost for a long time, because spring is coming.I no longer think about how much has happened lately, how many people I have met, how fascinating and hopeless this door-to-door search, my quest for the real Smurov has been. .What's the use of disguising—none of these people I met was a living thing, but just a mirror of Smurov; one side, which I thought was the most important and brightest, still wouldn't give me Shows the image of Smurov.The host and guest of No. 5 Peacock Street moved before my eyes, from light to dark, effortless, without danger, created only to make me happy.Mu Xin bowed slightly from the sofa again, and stretched his hand over the coffee table to reach the ashtray, but I saw neither his face nor the hand holding the cigarette; I only saw his other hand , it (already unconsciously!) rests on Vanya's lap at every turn.The bearded Roman Bogodanovich, with a face like a red apple, lowered his bloodshot face once more to cool the tea, and Mariana sat down again, crossing her legs, her thin legs in apricot yellow stockings.And as a joke—it was Christmas Eve, I think—Khrushchev put on his wife's fur coat, posed as a fashion model in front of the mirror, and swaggered around the room, making everyone laugh, laugh The voice gradually began to strain, because Khrushchev always took the joke too far.Eugenia's lovely little hand, with fingernails as smooth as wet, picked up a ping-pong paddle, and the celluloid ball bounced heartily back and forth on the green net; again in the half-light Weinstock floated over and sat at his triangular plank table as if at the steering wheel; once again the maid—Hilda or Gretchen—dreamed from one door to the other. Walking through another door, he suddenly muttered something, and twisted his body to take off his dress.If I wanted to, I could speed up the movement of these people, or slow them down to ridiculous slowness, and I could divide them into groups, or form them into different formations, now from below, now from the side. They illuminate... their whole existence is but a gleam on the silver screen for me.

But wait, life did make one last attempt to prove to me that it was true—compelling and tender, provocative excitement and torture, with dazzling possibilities of happiness, and tears, with fumigation. That day, I climbed into their suite at noon.I found the doors unlocked, every room empty and the windows open.Somewhere a vacuum cleaner is whirring with all its heart and enthusiasm.Suddenly, through the glass door leading to the balcony in the living room, I saw Vanya's bowed head.She was sitting on the balcony with a book—strange—and it was the first time I found her home alone.I've been trying to suppress my love for a long time, by telling myself: Vanya, like everyone else, only lives in my imagination, is only a moon in the water, a flower in the mirror, and I've grown into the habit of pretending I treated her so lightly that now, without embarrassment, I say hello to her "like a princess welcoming spring from a tower".The balcony is quite small, and there are several empty green flower boxes, and a broken earthenware pot in one corner, I compare it to my heart in my mind, because it often happens that one person loves another. A person's speaking style affects the way that person thinks in his presence.It was warm, though not too sunny, with a hint of mist and dampness--diluted sunlight, and a faint drunken, timid breeze blowing from a recent visit to some park where the dark loam of grass The buds are already fluffy and green.I took a breath of this air while realizing that Vanya's wedding was only a week away.The thought aroused all the longing and pain, and again I forgot about Smurov, and forgot that I had to speak in a nonchalant manner.I turned around and started looking down the street.We're so tall, and it's just the two of us. "He's got half a day to wait," Vanya said. "They keep people waiting in those offices for hours."

"Your romantic watchman..." I began, forcing myself to maintain that life-saving frivolity, trying to convince myself that Spring Breeze was kind of tacky too, and that I was enjoying myself. I haven't had a good look at Vanya yet, and it takes me a while to get used to seeing her.Now I saw her wearing a black silk skirt and a white pullover sweater with a low V-neck, and her hair was combed very smooth.She continued to use her lorgnette to look at the open book—a novella about the persecution of Jews in Tsarist Russia, written by a Russian lady living in Belgrade or Harbin.We were high, high above the street, plunging into the gentle, chaotic sky...the vacuum cleaner inside had stopped humming. "Uncle Pasha is dead," she said, looking up. "That's right, we got the telegram this morning."

What does it matter to me if that happy, confused old man lives to the end?But thinking that with him died the happiest and shortest-lived image of Smurov, the image of the bridegroom Smurov, and I felt that I could no longer suppress the long-running surge in my heart. trouble.I don't know how it started - there must have been some warming up - but I remember unknowingly hanging on to the wide rattan arm of Vanya's chair and already gripping her wrist —that long-dreamed-for-forbidden contact.Her face turned red, and her eyes suddenly began to glisten with tears—how clearly I could see her dark lower eyelids were wet and flickering.At the same time she was smiling—as if, with an unexpected generosity, she wished to bestow on me her beauty in all its forms. "What a funny old man he is," she said, to explain the gleam on her lips, but I cut her off:

"I can't go on like this, I can't take it any longer," I muttered, grabbing her wrist, tensing up as soon as I grabbed it, and flipping the tame pages of the book that lay on her lap, " I have to tell you... now it's all the same - I'm leaving and I'll never see you again. I have to tell you. After all, you don't know me... but the fact is I'm wearing a Masks—I'm always hiding behind a mask..." "Come on, come on," said Vanya, "I know you really well, I see everything, I see everything like a mirror. You're kind, you're smart. Hold on, I'm going to take mine Handkerchief. You sat on it. No, it fell. Thank you. Please let go of my hand—you mustn't touch me like this. Please don't." She laughed again, raising her eyebrows frequently and funny, as if inviting me to smile too, but I completely lost self-control, and some impossible hope floated around me; The wicker chair under her was creaking, and a few times the parting of Vanya's hair came right under my lips, but she carefully moved her head away. "Larger than life," I said quickly, "larger than life, and has been for a long time, since the beginning. And you're the first to tell me I'm kind..." "Please don't," begged Vanya, "you're only hurting yourself, and me. Hey, why don't you let me tell you how Roman Bogodanovich made a declaration of love to me. Very interesting..." "Say it!" I yelled. "Who cares about that clown? I know, I know you're happy to be with me. If there's anything you don't like about me, I'll change it—whatever you want, I will change." "I like everything about you," said Vanya, "even your poetic vision. Even your exaggerated qualities sometimes. But what I like most is your kindness—for you are very kind, very Love everyone, so you are always ridiculous and charming. But please don't grab my hand, otherwise, I will simply stand up and walk away." "So there's hope?" I asked. "Absolutely not," said Vanya. "You know that very well. Besides, he could be here any minute." "You can't love him," I cried. "You're lying to yourself. He doesn't deserve you. I could tell you terrible things about him." "That's enough," said Vanya, appearing to get up.However, at this moment, because I wanted to stop her movement, I couldn't help holding her in my arms, and her pullover gave off a warm, fluffy, and translucent feeling, so a chaotic and annoying joy began to flow through me. It's bubbling inside me; I'm ready to go through all hell, but I've got to kiss her at least once. "What are you struggling with?" I murmured. "What can you suffer? For you, it's just a small act of kindness—for me, it's everything." I believed that if I could hold her for a few more seconds, I might have accomplished a shudder of dreamy ecstasy; yet she managed to get away and stand up.She walked to the balcony railing, cleared her throat, and squinted her eyes to look at me. Somewhere in the sky, there was a melodious harp-like vibrato—the ultimate note.I have nothing more to lose.I told the truth, I shouted that Mu Xin didn't love her, and couldn't love her, I used endless clichés to describe her sure happiness after marrying me, and at the end of the story, I felt like I was about to cry, Then she dropped her book, which she happened to be clutching somehow, and turned away, leaving Vanya forever on her balcony to bask in the wind, look at the misty spring sky, and listen to an invisible plane Mysterious bass sounds. In the living room, not far from the door, Mu Xin was sitting and smoking.He followed me and said calmly, "I never thought you were such a big bastard." I nodded perfunctorily as a greeting to him, and left. I went downstairs to my room, took my hat, and hurried out into the street.Seeing a flower shop, I walked in, my heels knocked on the floor, and I whistled, as if no one was there.The fresh fragrance of the surrounding flowers is so enchanting that it stimulates my flesh and blood to be restless.The street protrudes into the side mirrors adjoining the window, but this is only an illusory stretch: a car passing from left to right disappears abruptly, even though the street calmly waits for it; going in the same direction as the car, and disappearing—one of them was nothing more than a reflection.Finally the sales lady appeared.I chose a large bouquet of lily-of-the-valleys, cold gems dripping from their springy bell-shaped crowns, and the ring finger of the saleswoman was bandaged—must have pricked herself.She went behind the counter and spent a long time scratching a lot of torn paper.The tightly packed flower stalks form a thick, tough sausage; I never expected a lily of the valley to be so heavy.As soon as I opened the door, I noticed the reflection in the side mirror: a young man in a bowler hat was rushing towards me with a bouquet of flowers.The image merged with me.I went out into the street. I was hurrying on my way, my gait was swaying, surrounded by a wet cloud of flowers, I tried my best not to think about anything, I tried my best to believe in the miraculous healing of the place I was going to.Going there was the only way out of trouble: to live, troubled and heavy, full of the usual torments that would crush me and prove brutally that I wasn't a ghost.It was horrifying when real life turned out to be a dream, but it was all the more terrifying when a life that was supposed to be a dream—adrift, irresponsible—suddenly solidified into reality!I have to end this situation and I know how to do it. As soon as I arrived at my destination, without even taking a breath, I began to ring the doorbell; I pressed it desperately, as if I was suppressing an unbearable hunger and thirst—for a long time, greedily, to the point where I forgot everything. "All right, all right, all right," she murmured, opening the door.I rushed across the threshold and thrust the bouquet into her hands. "Oh, how beautiful!" she said, and then, a little bewildered, stared at me with her old gray-blue eyes. "Don't thank me," I yelled, throwing up my hands manically, "but do me a favor: show me the room I was in. I beg you." "The room?" said the old lady, "I'm sorry, unfortunately, it's not available. But what a beauty, how nice you are—" "You don't quite understand me," I said, shivering impatiently. "I just want to see it. Nothing else. That's all. For the sake of the flowers I gave you. Please." .I believe the tenant went to work...” I sneaked past her cleverly, running down the hallway, and she chased after me. "My God, this room is rented," she repeated over and over again. "Dr. Gogan doesn't want to leave. I can't let you occupy it." I jerked open the door.The arrangement of the furniture had changed a little; a new jug had been placed on the washstand; in the wall behind the shelf I found the hole, carefully plastered it--yes, when I found it, I thought Just get down to it.I put my hand on my heart and gazed at the dark mark my bullet had made: this was the proof that I was indeed dead; the world immediately returned to its reassuring insignificance—I was strong and strong again. No, nothing can hurt me.At every turn, by a play of imagination, I could recall the most frightening apparitions of my former life. I bowed solemnly to the old lady, and left the room where, once upon a time, a man stooped and let go of that deadly spring.As I passed the hall, I noticed the flowers lying flat on the table, and pretending to be absent-minded, I took them into my arms, thinking that the silly old lady did not deserve such a precious gift.Actually, I could have sent it to Vanya with a note that was both sad and humorous.The moistness and freshness of the flowers make people feel more comfortable in the heart; the tissue paper has been opened, and when I pinch a cluster of cool green flower stalks with my fingers, the gurgling and ticking that accompanied me into the emptiness arose in my heart.I was walking lazily on the edge of the sidewalk, squinting my eyes, imagining that I was walking on the edge of a cliff, and suddenly a voice greeted me from behind my ear. "Gospokin Smurov," said the voice in a loud but hesitant tone.Hearing my name being called, I turned around and one foot involuntarily slipped off the sidewalk.It was Cashmarin, Matilda's husband, who was taking off a yellow glove, and was eager to hold out his hand to me.He didn't have the famous cane--something has changed in him--maybe he's put on weight.There was an awkward expression on his face, and he grinned at me while biting the rebellious glove with his big dull teeth.In the end, he stretched out a handful of fingers and rushed towards me.I felt a strange weakness; I was so deeply moved that my eyes even began to prick. "Smurov," he said, "you can't imagine how glad I am to meet you. I've been looking for you like crazy, but no one knows your address."