Arkady Strugatsky - Definitely Maybe

“Go to hell,” Malianov said.

And that prompted a second tirade—a prose one this time.

“When I feel bad, I work,” Vecherovsky said. “When I have problems, when I’m depressed, when I’m bored with life, I sit down to my work. There are probably other prescriptions, but I don’t know them. Or they don’t work for me. You want my advice—here it is: Go and work. Thank God that people like you and me need only paper and pencil to work.”

Say that Malianov knew all that without him. From books. But it wasn’t that simple for Malianov. He could work only when he felt lighthearted and there was nothing hanging over him.

“Some help you are,” he said. “Let me call Weingarten. I’m still puzzled why he asked about Snegovoi.”

“Sure,” said Vecherovsky. “But if you don’t mind, move the phone into the other room.”

Malianov took the phone and dragged the wire into the next room.

“If you want, stay here,” Vecherovsky called after him. “I have paper and I’ll give you a pencil.”

“All right, we’ll see.”

Now Weingarten didn’t answer. Malianov let it ring ten times, then dialed again and let it ring ten more. What should he do now? Of course, he could stay here. It was cool and quiet. All the rooms were air-conditioned. He couldn’t hear the trucks and squealing brakes because the apartment faced the courtyard. And then he realized that that wasn’t the issue. He was simply afraid to go back to his own apartment. That does it! I love my home more than anything else in the world, and now I’m afraid to go back there? Oh, no. You won’t get me to do that. Sorry, but no way.

Malianov picked up the phone firmly and brought it back. Vecherovsky was sitting staring into the one piece of paper, quietly drumming on it with his expensive pen. The page was half covered with symbols that Malianov couldn’t understand.

“I’m going, Phil,” Malianov said.

Vecherovsky looked up at him.

“Of course. I have to administer an exam tomorrow, but I’ll be home all day today. Call me or drop by.”

“All right.”

He went downstairs slowly; there was no rush. I’ll brew up a cup of strong tea, sit in the kitchen; Kaliam will climb up into my lap; I’ll pet him, sip my tea, and try to sort this out calmly and soberly. Too bad we don’t have a TV; it would be nice to spend the evening in front of the box watching something mindless, like a comedy or some soccer. I’ll play solitaire; I haven’t done that in ages.

He came down to his landing, found his keys, turned the corner, and stopped. His heart had sunk somewhere into the vicinity of his stomach and was beating slowly and rhythmically, like a pile driver. The door to his apartment was open.

He tiptoed up to the door and listened. There was someone in the apartment. He could hear an unfamiliar man’s voice and a response in an unfamiliar child’s voice…

Excerpt 10…. strange man was crouching on the floor and picking up the pieces of a broken glass. There was also a boy of five or so in the kitchen. He was sitting on the stool, his hands under his thighs, swinging his legs and watching the man pick up the pieces.

“Listen, buddy,” Weingarten shouted when he saw Malianov, “where did you disappear to?”

His huge cheeks were ablaze with a purple glow, his olive-black eyes were shining, and his thick tar-black hair was disheveled. It was apparent that he had had quite a few already. A half-empty bottle of export Stolichnaya stood on the table amid all kinds of goodies from the delivery crate.

“Relax and take it easy,” Weingarten continued. “We didn’t touch the caviar. We were waiting for you.”

The man picking up the pieces stood. He was a tall, handsome man with a Viking beard and the beginnings of a potbelly. He smiled in embarrassment.

“Well, well, well!” Malianov said, entering the kitchen and feeling his heart rise from his stomach and return to its proper place. “I believe the expression is ‘my home is my castle’?”

“Taken by storm, old buddy, taken by storm!” Weingarten shouted. “Listen, where did you get such good vodka? And those eats?”

Malianov extended his hand to the handsome stranger, and he extended his, but it was full of broken glass. There was a small, pleasant moment of discomfort.

“We’ve been helping ourselves here,” he said with embarrassment. “I’m afraid it’s all my fault.”

“Nonsense, here, throw that in the garbage.”

“Mister is a coward,” the boy said clearly.

Malianov shuddered. And it looked as if the others did too.

“Sh, sh,” the handsome man said, and waved his finger at the boy in warning.

“Child!” Weingarten said. “You were given some chocolate, I believe. Well, sit there quietly and chomp on it. And do not add your two cents’ worth.”

“Why do you say I’m a coward?” said Malianov, sitting down. “Why do you insult me?”

“I’m not insulting you,” the boy said, observing him as though he were a rare specimen in the wild. “I was just describing you.”

Meanwhile the stranger got rid of the glass, wiped his hand with his handkerchief, and extended his hand.

“Zakhar,” he introduced himself.

They shook hands ceremoniously.

“To business!” Weingarten bustled, rubbing his hands together. “Get two more glasses.”

“Listen, fellows, I’m not drinking any vodka,” Malianov said.

“Then we’ll drink some wine,” Weingarten concurred. “You still have two bottles of white left.”

“No, I think I’ll have some cognac. Zakhar, would you be so kind as to get the caviar and butter from the refrigerator… and everything else. I’m starving.”

Malianov went over to the bar, got the cognac and glasses, stuck his tongue out at the chair that had been occupied by the Tonton Macoute, and came back to the table. The table was groaning under the spread. I’ll eat my fill and get drunk, thought Malianov. I’m glad the guys came over.

But nothing went the way he had planned. No sooner had he finished his drink and settled down to eating a piece of bread spread thick with caviar than Weingarten said in a completely sober voice:

“And now, buddy, tell us what happened to you.”

Malianov choked.

“What are you talking about?”

“Look,” Weingarten said. “There are three of us here, and each of us has had a run-in. So don’t be embarrassed. What did the red-haired guy say to you?”

“Vecherovsky?”

“No, no, what does Vecherovsky have to do with it? You were visited by a tiny man with flaming red hair, wearing a deathly black outfit. What did he tell you?”

Malianov bit off a piece that filled up his whole mouth and chewed without tasting it. All three stared at him. Zakhar looked at him in embarrassment, smiling meekly, even glancing away from time to time. Weingarten’s eyes were bulging and he looked ready to start shouting at the drop of a pin. And the boy, hanging on to his melting chocolate, was staring intently at Malianov.

“Fellows,” Malianov finally said. “What red-haired man are you talking about? Nobody like that came to visit me. My visitors were a lot worse.”

“Well, tell us,” Weingarten said impatiently.

“Why should I tell you?” Malianov was incensed. “I’m not making a secret out of it, but what are you trying to pull here? Tell me first! And by the way, I’d like to know how you found out that anything had happened to me in the first place!”

“You tell me and then I’ll tell you,” Weingarten insisted stubbornly. “And Zakhar will tell his.”

“You both tell first,” Malianov said nervously, making himself another sandwich. “There’s two of you against one of me.”