Arkady Strugatsky: Definitely Maybe

“Maybe accidentally. In the street or at a dance.”

“A dance?” Malianov countered. “I’ve forgotten how to do it.”

And they both stopped talking. So profound was the silence that Malianov’s toes curled up in discomfort. It was that horrible situation when you don’t know where to look and your brain is full of sentences that roll around like rocks in a barrel and are of absolutely no use in changing the subject or starting a new conversation. Like: “Our Kaliam goes right in the toilet bowl.” Or “There just aren’t any tomatoes in the stores this year.” Or “How about another cup of tea?” Or, say, “Well, and how do you like our fair city?”

Malianov inquired in an unbearably false voice:

“Well, and what plans do you have for our fair city, Lidochka?”

She did not reply. She regarded him in silence, her eyes round in extreme surprise. Then she looked away, wrinkled her brow. Bit her lip. Malianov always considered himself a poor psychologist and usually had no inkling of anyone else’s feelings. But it was perfectly clear to him that the question was beyond the beautiful Lida’s ken.

“Plans?” she finally muttered. “Well, of course. Naturally!” She seemed to remember. “Well, the Hermitage, of course… the Impressionists… Nevsky Prospect… and, you know, I’ve never seen the White Nights.”

“A modest tourist itinerary,” Malianov said quickly, helping her out. He couldn’t watch a person trying to lie. “Let me pour you some tea.”

And she laughed again, as cool as anything.

“Dimochka,” she said, pouting her lips prettily. “Why are you pestering me with your tea? If you must know, I never drink the stuff. And especially in this heat!”

“Coffee?” Malianov offered readily.

She was categorically opposed to coffee. In the heat, and especially at bedtime, you shouldn’t drink coffee. Malianov told her how the only thing that helped him in Cuba was drinking coffee—and the heat there was tropical. He explained about coffee’s effect on the autonomic nervous system. And then he also told her, while he was at it, that in Cuba panties have to show under miniskirts, and if panties aren’t visible, then it’s not a miniskirt, and a woman whose panties are not visible, she is considered a nun and an old maid. For all that, the morality is, strangely, very strict. Uh-nuh! Revolution.

“What cocktails do they drink there?” she asked.

“Highballs,” Malianov replied proudly. “Rum, sweet soda, and ice.”

“Ice,” she said dreamily…

Excerpt 4…. then he poured her another glass of wine. The decision to toast the use of the informal Russian personal pronoun for “you” came up. Without the kissing. Why should there be kissing between two intelligent people? The important thing was spiritual rapport. They drank to using the informal “you” and spoke of spiritual closeness, new methods of birth deliveries, and about the differences among courage, bravery, and valor. The Riesling was finished, and Malianov put the empty bottle out on the balcony and went over to the bar for some cabernet. They decided to drink the cabernet out of Irina’s favorite smoked crystal glasses, which they chilled first. The conversation on femininity, which came up after the one on manliness and bravery, went very well with the icy red wine. They wondered what asses had decreed that red wine should never be chilled. They discussed the question. Isn’t it true that iced red wine is particularly good? Yes, absolutely. By the way, women who drink icy red wine become particularly beautiful. They resemble witches somewhere. Where precisely? Somewhere. A marvelous word— somewhere . “You are a pig somewhere.” I love that expression. By the way, speaking of witches—what do you think marriage is? A real marriage. An intelligent marriage. Marriage is a contract. Malianov refilled the glasses and developed the thought. In the aspect that a man and wife are first of all friends, for whom friendship is the most important thing. Honesty and friendship. Marriage is a friendship. A contract on friendship, understand? He had his hand on Lidochka’s bare knee and was shaking it for emphasis. Take Irina and me. You know Irina—

The doorbell rang.

“Who could that be?” Malianov asked, looking at his watch. “Seems to me we’re all home.”

It was a little before ten. Repeating, “Seems to me we’re all here,” he went to open the door and naturally stepped on Kaliam in the foyer. Kaliam meowed.

“Ah, damn you, you devil!” Malianov said to him, and opened the door.

It turned out to be his neighbor, the highly mysterious Arnold Pavlovich Snegovoi.

“Is it too late?” he roared from under the ceiling. A huge man, built like a mountain. A gray-haired demon.

“Arnold!” Malianov said with glee. “What’s the meaning of ‘late’ between friends? C’mon in!”

Snegovoi hesitated, sensing the cause of the glee, but Malianov grabbed his sleeve and dragged him into the foyer.

“You’re just in time,” he said, pulling Snegovoi on a tow-line. “You’ll meet a marvelous woman!” he promised as he maneuvered Snegovoi around the corner into the kitchen. “Lidochka, this is Arnold!” he announced. “I’ll just get another glass, and another bottle.”

Things were beginning to swim before his eyes. And not just a little, if the truth be told. He shouldn’t have anything else to drink. He knew himself. But he really wanted things to go well, for everyone to like everyone else. I hope they hit it off, he thought generously, swaying in front of the opened bar and peering into the yellow dusk. It’s all right for him, he’s a bachelor. I have Irina. He shook his finger into space and dived into the bar.

Thank God, he didn’t break anything. When he came back with a bottle of Bull’s Blood and a clean glass, the situation in the kitchen did not please him. They were both smoking in silence without looking at each other. And for some reason Malianov thought their faces were vicious: Lidochka’s face was viciously beautiful and Snegovoi’s face, scarred by old burns, was viciously stern.

“Who hushed the voice of joy?” Malianov asked. “Everything is nonsense! There is only one luxury in the world. The luxury of human contact! I don’t remember who said that.” He unscrewed the cork. “Let’s enjoy the contact—the luxury…”

The wine flowed abundantly and all over the table. Snegovoi jumped up to protect his white pants. He was abnormally large, he really was. People shouldn’t be that big in our compact times. Developing his thought, Malianov wiped the table. Snegovoi sat back down on the stool. The stool crunched.

Up to that moment the luxury of human contact was being expressed in garbled exclamations. Damn that shyness of the intelligentsia! Two absolutely beautiful people cannot simply immediately open up to each other, take each other into their hearts and minds, become friends from the very first second. Malianov stood up and, holding his glass at ear level, expounded the theme out loud. It didn’t help. They drank. That didn’t help either. Lidochka looked out the window in boredom. Snegovoi rolled his glass back and forth on the table between his huge brown hands. Malianov noticed for the first time that Arnold’s arms were burned—all the way to the elbow, and even higher. This inspired him to ask:

“Well, Arnold, when will you disappear next?”

Snegovoi shuddered noticeably and looked up at him, then pulled his neck in and hunched his shoulders. Malianov got the impression that he was getting ready to get up, and he suddenly realized that his question, to put it mildly, may have appeared to have another meaning.

“Arnold!” he yelled, flinging his arms up toward the ceiling. “God, that’s not at all what I meant! Lidochka, you must realize that this man is totally mysterious. He disappears from time to time. He drops by with the key to his place and melts into thin air. He’ll be gone a month or two. And then the doorbell rings, and he’s back.” He felt that he was babbling, that it was enough, that it was time to change the subject. “Arnold, you know perfectly well that I really like you, and I’m always happy to see you. So there can’t be any talk of your leaving before two in the morning.”