Arkady Strugatsky: Definitely Maybe

“Of course, Dmitri,” Snegovoi replied, and slapped Malianov on the back. “Of course, my dear friend, of course.”

“And this is Lidochka,” Malianov announced, pointing in her direction. “My wife’s best friend from school. From Odessa.”

Snegovoi forced himself to turn toward Lidochka and asked: “Will you be in Leningrad long?”

She answered rather politely, and he asked another question, something about the White Nights.

In short, they began their luxurious contact, and Malianov could rest easy. No, no, I can’t drink. What shame! I’m completely knocked out. Without hearing or understanding a single word, he watched Snegovoi’s horrible face, eaten away by the fires of hell, and suffered pangs of conscience. When the suffering became unbearable, he got up quietly; clutching the walls, he made his way to the bathroom and locked himself in. He sat on the edge of the tub in gloomy despair for a while, then turned on the cold water full force and stuck his head under it.

When he got back, refreshed and with a wet collar, Snegovoi was in the middle of a tense rendition of the joke about the two roosters. Lidochka was laughing loudly, throwing her head back and exposing her made-for-kissing neck. Malianov took this as a good sign, even though he was not well disposed toward people who raised politeness to an art. However, the luxury of contact, like any other luxury, demanded certain expenditures. He waited while Lidochka laughed, picked up the falling banner and launched into a series of astronomical jokes that neither of the others could possibly have heard. When he ran out of jokes, Lidochka brightened the occasion with beach jokes. To tell the truth, the jokes were rather middling, and she didn’t know how to tell them, either, but she did know how to laugh, and her teeth were sparkling sugar-white. Then the conversation somehow moved on to foretelling the future. Lidochka informed them that a gypsy woman told her that she would have three husbands and no children. What would we do without gypsies? muttered Malianov, and he bragged that a gypsy had told him that he would make a major discovery in the interrelation of stars with diffusion matter in the galaxy. They had some more iced Bull’s Blood and then Snegovoi suddenly unburdened himself of a strange story.

It seems that he had been told that he would die at the age of eighty-three in Greenland. (“In the Socialist Republic of Greenland,” Malianov joked, but Snegovoi replied calmly, “No, just in Greenland.”) He believed in it fatally, and his conviction irritated everyone around him. Once, during the war, though not at the front, one of his friends, soused, or as they used to say in those days, blotto, was so maddened by it all that he pulled out his gun, stuck the barrel into Snegovoi’s temple, and said, “Now we’ll see,” and cocked the gun.

“And?” Lidochka asked.

“Killed him dead,” Malianov joked.

“It misfired,” Snegovoi explained.

“You have some strange friends,” Lidochka said doubtfully.

She hit it right on the barrelhead. Arnold Snegovoi rarely talked about himself, but when he did, it was memorable. And if one could judge by his stories, he had very strange friends indeed.

Then Malianov and Lidochka argued hotly for some time over how Arnold might end up in Greenland. Malianov leaned toward the airplane crash theory. Lidochka subscribed to the simple tourist vacation. As for Arnold himself, he sat, his purple lips pulled into a smile, smoking cigarette after cigarette.

Then Malianov thought about it and tried to pour some more wine into their glasses, but discovered that the bottle was already empty. He was about to rush over for another one, but Arnold stopped him. It was time for him to go, he had just stopped by for a minute. Lidochka, on the other hand, was ready to go on. She wasn’t even tipsy, the only sign of the wine was her flushed cheeks.

“No, no, friends,” said Snegovoi. “I have to go.” He stood up heavily and filled the kitchen with his bulk. “I’m off. Why don’t you see me out, Dmitri. Good night, Lidochka, it was nice meeting you.”

They walked through the foyer. Malianov was still trying to talk him into staying for another bottle, but Snegovoi kept shaking his gray head resolutely and muttering negatively. In the doorway he said loudly:

“Oh yes! Dmitri! I had promised you that book. Come on over, I’ll give it to you.”

“What book?” Malianov was about to ask, but Snegovoi put his fat finger to his lips and pulled Malianov across the landing. The fat finger on the lips stunned Malianov, and he followed Snegovoi like a moth after a flame. Silently, still holding Malianov by the arm, Snegovoi found his key in his pocket and unlocked the door. The lights were on in the apartment—in the foyer, in both rooms, in the kitchen, and even in the bathroom. It smelled of stale tobacco and strong cologne, and Malianov suddenly realized that in the five years they had known each other, he had never been in here. The room that Snegovoi led him into was clean and neat; all the lamps were on—the three-bulb chandelier, the floor lamp in the corner by the couch, and the small table lamp. On the back of a chair hung a tunic with silver buttons and epaulets, with a whole slew of medals, bars, and decorations. It turned out that Arnold Snegovoi was a colonel. How about that?

“What book?” Malianov finally asked.

“Any book,” Snegovoi said impatiently. “Here, take this one, and hold on to it or you’ll forget it. Let’s sit down for a minute.”

Completely confused, Malianov took a thick tome from the table. Holding it tight under his arm, he sank onto the couch under the lamp. Arnold sat down next to him and lit a cigarette. He did not look at Malianov.

“So, it’s like this… well…” he began. “First of all, who is that woman?”

“Lidochka? I told you. My wife’s friend. Why?”

“Do you know her well?”

“No. I just met her today. She arrived with a letter.” Malianov stopped short and asked in fright, “Why, do you think she’s—”

“I’ll ask the questions. We don’t have the time. What are you working on now, Dmitri?”

Malianov remembered Val Weingarten and broke out in a cold sweat. He said with a wry grin:

“Everybody seems to be interested in my work today.”

“Who else?” Snegovoi demanded, his little blue eyes boring into him. “Her?”

Malianov shook his head.

“No. Weingarten. A friend of mine.”

“Weingarten. Weingarten.” Snegovoi repeated.

“No, no!” Malianov said. “I know him well, we were in grammar school together, and we’re still friends.”

“Does the name Gubar mean anything to you?”

“Gubar? No. What’s wrong, Arnold?”

Snegovoi put out his cigarette and lit another one.

“Who else made inquiries about your work?”

“No one else.”

“So what are you working on?”

Malianov got angry. He always got angry when he was frightened.

“Listen, Arnold. I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I! And I want to know, very much. Tell me! Wait a minute. Is your work classified?”

“What do you mean classified?” Malianov said in irritation. “It’s plain ordinary astrophysics and stellar dynamics. The interrelation of stars and interstellar matter. Nothing secret here, it’s just that I don’t like talking about my work until I’ve finished!”

“Stars and interstellar matter.” Snegovoi repeated it slowly and shrugged. “There’s the estate, and there’s the water. And it’s not classified? Any part of it?”

“Not a letter of it.”

“And you’re sure you don’t know Gubar?”

“I don’t know any Gubar.”

Snegovoi smoked in silence next to him, huge, hunched over, frightening. Then he spoke.