Arkady Strugatsky: Definitely Maybe

“Val, is something wrong?”

“What do you mean?” Weingarten asked, stalling.

“What do I mean? With you, of course! You sound a little funny. Can’t you talk right now?”

“No, no, pal. That’s nonsense. I’m all right. It’s just the heat. Do you know the one about the two roosters?”

“No. Well?”

Weingarten told him the joke about two roosters—it was extremely dumb but rather funny. But not a Weingarten joke at all. Malianov, naturally, listened to it and laughed at the appropriate place, but the joke only intensified the vague feeling that all was not right with Weingarten. Maybe he’d had another round with Sveta, he thought uncertainly. Maybe they ruined his epithelium again. And then Weingarten asked:

“Listen, Dmitri. Does the name Snegovoi mean anything to you?”

“Snegovoi? Arnold Pavlovich Snegovoi? I have a neighbor by that name, lives across the hall. Why?”

Weingarten said nothing. He even stopped breathing through his mouth. There was only the sound of jingling and jangling—he must have been playing with his coins. “And what does he do, your Snegovoi?”

“A physicist, I think. Works in some bunker. Top secret. Where do you know him from?”

“I don’t,” Weingarten said with an inexplicable sadness. The doorbell rang.

“They’re all champing at the bit!” Malianov said. “Hold on, Val. There’s someone breaking down my door.”

Weingarten said something, or even shouted, but Malianov had tossed the phone on the sofa and was running out into the foyer. Kaliam was underfoot already, and Malianov almost tripped over him.

He stepped back as soon as he opened the door. On his doorstep stood a young woman in a short white jumper, very tanned, with short sun-bleached hair. Beautiful. A stranger. (Malianov was acutely aware of wearing only his undershorts and having a sweaty belly.) There was a suitcase at her feet and a jacket over her arm.

“Dmitri Malianov?” she asked embarrassedly.

“Y-yes,” Malianov answered. A relative? Third cousin Zina from Omsk?

“Please forgive me, Dmitri. I’m sure this isn’t a good time for you. Here.”

She handed him an envelope. Malianov silently took the envelope and removed a piece of paper from it. Horrible, wrathful feelings toward all the relatives in the world and specifically toward this Zina or Zoya raged in his chest.

But it turned out that this was no third cousin. In large hurried letters, the lines going this way and that, Irina had written: “Dimochka! This is Lida Ponomareva, my best friend from school. I told you about her. Be nice to her, don’t growl. Won’t stay long. Everything’s fine. She’ll tell you all about it. Kisses, I.”

Malianov howled a long silent howl, closed his eyes, and opened them again. However, his lips were making an automatic, friendly smile.

“How nice,” he said in a friendly, casual tone. “Come on in, Lida, please. Forgive my appearance. The heat, you know.”

There must have been something wrong with his welcome, because Lida’s pretty face took on a lost look, and for some reason she looked back out at the sunlit landing, as though suddenly questioning whether she had come to the right place.

“Here, let me take your suitcase,” Malianov said quickly. “Come in, come in, don’t be shy. You can hang your jacket here. This is our main room, I work in there, and this is Bobchik’s. It will be yours. You probably want to take a shower?”

He heard a nasal quacking coming from the sofa.

“Sorry,” he said. “Make yourself at home, I’ll be right with you.”

He grabbed the phone and heard Weingarten repeating in a strange monotone:

“Dmitri, Dmitri, oh, Dmitri, come to the phone, Dmitri.”

“Hello! Val, listen—”

“Dmitri!” Weingarten shouted. “Is that you?”

Malianov was frightened.

“What are you shouting about? I’ve just had a visitor, forgive me. I’ll call you later.”

“Who? Who’s the visitor?” Weingarten demanded in an inhuman voice.

Malianov felt a shiver. Val’s gone mad. What a day.

“Val,” he said very calmly. “What’s the matter? A woman just arrived. A friend of Irina’s.”

“Son of a bitch!” said Weingarten and hung up.

Excerpt 3…. and she changed from her minijumper into a miniskirt and a miniblouse. It must be said that she was a very attractive girl—and Malianov came to the conclusion she had no use for bras at all. She didn’t need a bra; she was in perfect shape without one. He forgot all about the Malianov cavities.

But everything was very proper, the way it is in the best of homes. They sat and chatted and had tea, and sweated. He was Dimochka by then, and she was Lidochka for him. After the third glass Dimochka told her the joke about the two roosters—it just seemed appropriate—and Lidochka laughed merrily and waved her naked arm at Dimochka. He remembered (the roosters reminded him) that he was supposed to call Weingarten, but he didn’t, instead he said to Lidochka:

“What a marvelous tan you have!”

“And you’re as white as a slug,” said Lidochka.

“Work, work, work.”

“In the Pioneer camp where I work…”

And Lidochka told him in minute detail, but with great charm, how it was in their Pioneer camp with regard to getting a tan. In return, Malianov told her how the fellows tan themselves on the Great Antenna. What was the Great Antenna? Hers was just to ask, and he told her about the Great Antenna. She stretched out her long brown legs, crossed them at the ankle, and put them on Bobchik’s chair. Her legs were mirror-smooth. Malianov had the impression that they even reflected something. To get his mind off them, he got up and took the boiling teakettle off the stove. He managed to burn his fingers with the steam and was reminded of some monk who stuck an extremity into either fire or steam to escape the evil brewing as a result of his direct contact with a beautiful woman. A decisive fellow.

“How about another glass?” he asked.

Lidochka did not reply, and he turned around. She was looking at him with her wide-open, light eyes. There was a strange expression on her shiny tan face—not quite confusion and not quite fear—and her mouth was agape.

“Shall I pour some?” Malianov asked uncertainly, giving the kettle a wave.

Lidochka sat up, blinked rapidly, and brushed her forehead with her fingers.

“What?”

“I said: Would you like some more tea?”

“No, no, thanks.” She laughed as if nothing had happened. “I have to watch my figure.”

“Oh yes,” Malianov said with extreme gallantry. “A figure like that has to be watched. Insured even.”

She smiled briefly and, turning her head, looked out into the courtyard over her shoulder. She had a long, smooth neck, maybe just a bit too thin. Malianov had another impression. Namely, that the neck was created to be kissed. Just like her shoulders. Not to mention the rest. Circe, he thought. And immediately added: But I love my Irina and I will never be untrue to her in my whole life.

“That’s strange,” Circe said. “I have the feeling that I’ve seen all this before: this kitchen, this yard—only there was a big tree in the yard. Has that ever happened to you?”

“Of course.” Malianov spoke readily. “I think it happens to everyone. I read somewhere that it’s called déjà vu .”

“Probably,” she said doubtfully.

Malianov, trying not to make too much noise, sipped his tea carefully. There seemed to be a break in the banter. Something was worrying her.

“Perhaps you and I have already met somewhere?” she asked suddenly.

“Where? I would have remembered.”