Vladimir Orlov - Danilov the Violist

The appearance of the viola at the steam bath had put everything in its place. They would strike at whatever Danilov cherished. For now they were satisfied with the viola, but if they discovered a person he cared for, they would crush that person just for the fun of it. He did not have the right to risk Natasha's future, not to mention her life. He had already been informed of Time X: It had not occurred yet, but somewhere it had been calculated precisely down to the microsecond and could be announced to him at any moment. His fate had been decided. Why should he bother Natasha now and pierce her soul, since tomorrow he would become no one, lose his essence -- he might not even be transformed into other matter! So be it, that was his life. The important thing was to keep Natasha from suffering because he was in love with her; his earthly love must not destroy her.

In the streetcar Danilov tore up the paper with Natasha's phone number and stuffed the pieces into the ticket box. But this brought no relief -- he had memorized the number.

Usually after Swan Lake Danilov felt so calm and radiant that he fell asleep quickly. But tonight he kept tossing and turned. It was not Natasha who worried him; he had settled that. Danilov took a sleeping pill, but it didn't help. Something outside him was counteracting the effects of the barbiturates. And then the link with the letter S on his bracelet moved forward on its own, pushing Danilov into the demon state. "That's it! They're summoning me! Now they're going to announce Time X!" thought Danilov, even though he knew that Time X was not announced in this way. Danilov became aware of a delicate signal: "Accept a dispatch!" The dispatch was brief. Danilov deciphered it immediately and learned that Karmadon, a classmate of Danilov's from the lyceum, was coming to Earth for a two-week holiday on a bonus trip from the Chancery of Pleasures. Danilov learned from the dispatch that during the past few years Karmadon had led a brilliant operation in the constellation Bootes and was now being rewarded with a vacation on Earth. Danilov was required to arrange his accommodations and amusements. "Don't they know that I've been given Time X?" thought Danilov. "Well, if they don't know, let them worry about it!"

Danilov returned himself to human state and quickly fell asleep. As he nodded off, he recalled Misha Korenev's words, "Remember! He who is afraid is imperfect in love!"

7

At half past five in the morning the ringing telephone awoke Danilov. "Could it be Natasha?!" Danilov leapt out of bed. It was his ex-wife, Klavdia Petrovna.

"Listen, Danilov," she said, "I'm going to marry Professor Voinov..."

"So I heard," Danilov said, suppressing a yawn. "The specialist in Turkish economics ... Congratulations ..."

"Today's a very important day for me; my trial period with the professor is beginning. You've got to help me get rid of my anxiety," Klavdia said with determination.

"What anxiety?" Danilov asked.

"Listen, you've got to relieve me of my mundane duties, both domestic and official. My hands cannot be tied, you know yourself how difficult it will be for me at first with a man as serious as Voinov."

"What does that have to do with me?" Danilov howled in a tenor voice. "We're legally divorced!"

"Really, Danilov, darling, you're intolerable. You promised to be my friend... Pretty please! Come on, Danilov!"

"I beg you -- " Danilov began, but Klavdia interrupted in a voice that called to mind the pathetic, fluttering wings of the dying swan in the Saint-Saлns-Plisetskaya version:

"If you don't help me, I'll hang myself, you know me -- "

"All right," Danilov said with a sigh. "But only for a week."

Klavdia promptly dictated a list of her anxieties to Danilov. There were sixteen points. Danilov wrote them down and thought how once again he wouldn't be able to get his blue trousers from the cleaners. In addition he had to be constantly on the alert for some special jolts from external forces, a movement of the demonic link on his bracelet, or, at the very least, some totally extraordinary, scandalous sign announcing the arrival of Karmadon. But no, Karmadon did not appear. "Too bad," thought Danilov. Karmadon would definitely have spared him Klavdia Petrovna's anxieties. Maybe Karmadon would have even zapped her to ashes in a fit of anger. But apparently Kardamon's holidays were being delayed, even though they were a reward.

Danilov had no desire to enter into negotiations with unearthly powers -- that is, to remind them of his existence -- but he did. In connection with Karmadon's arrival, he demanded from the Chancery of Pleasures a Geiger-counter-like indicator to monitor instantly the presence of demonic forces in the immediate vicinity. "In order to more efficiently accompany Karmadon in space," Danilov explained. "That's one I'll never see!" he thought, screwing up his eyes. But they sent the indicator immediately. "Then they really don't know a thing about Time X?" Danilov was astonished. The indicator resembled a ball-point pen, and the presence of demonic forces made the tip glow, revealing a Rubensian nude in red boots. Danilov said to himself: "All right, Valentin Sergeyevich, now you better watch out!"

The next morning, following Klavdia Petrovna's list, Danilov was supposed to go to Nastasyinsky Alley, house number 8. On a piece of paper redolent of nail polish was written in a graceful and lazy hand: "Drop by and get a number in line. Futecons. Confutes." Danilov easily found the imposing house, which had once upon a time been a rental building. Even though he took the stairs two at a time, it still was a long climb to the second floor; he had forgotten about old staircases -- in his new co-op he would have been on the roof by now. According to the instructions on the paper, Danilov rang the bell in apartment three. A brass plate on the door said: Yuri Rostovtsov, Graduate of Two Institutes and below in tiny print: (One of Them a University). The door was ajar, and a tall man who was around thirty-five and wearing glasses, looked out. He had the face of a happy, well-fed child, and regarded Danilov with curiosity, and also with doubt, as if he expected something. Or some word, like a password.

"Futecons," Danilov said just in case.

"Confutes," Rostovtsov (it was in fact he) said and nodded. He flung the door open and smiled.

No matter how intent Danilov was on the business at hand, he could not help but note the amazing charm of the ruddy apartment owner. "You'd never have to worry with someone like him," thought Danilov. "No adventure is too scary with someone like him, you won't get beaten up in a beer line, and if he asks for a clean tablecloth in a restaurant, the waitress won't throw the salad bowl at someone like him..." Actually, Danilov was no less charming. But was Danilov always so full of self-confidence? Alas, not always.

"I'm here to get a place in line," Danilov said.

"This way, please," Rostovtsov beckoned, shutting the door, and then vanishing into a side room. In his hand Danilov had caught a glimpse of an authentic Fedorov pipe.

The entry hall of the apartment was enormous -- in Danilov's building they would have turned it into a bowling alley, or simply fenced it in on all sides with boards and plywood.

At the moment the room -- which incidentally held a baby carriage, a coat rack, bicycles, and a nickel-plated tub hanging from a sturdy nail -- was crowded with dozens of people. The lights were on and Danilov could see that the group was exemplary. Everyone was exceptionally proper, did not smoke -- which was to be expected in a line -- and spoke in low voices. There were almost no young people, especially long-haired ones; most of the people waiting were middle-aged. Here were people in their thirties and forties, in their prime. Yuri Rostovtsov, the host, and graduate of two institutions, was probably the poorest and least respectable of the lot, even though he did own a Fedorov pipe. The women were magnificent -- colorful and expensively dressed -- and Danilov realized that his ex-wife, Klavdia Petrovna, would not have fit in badly here either. Danilov recalled that on the way to the house, in the alley and on Chekhov Street, he had seen many private cars, primarily Volgas and even a few astonishing Opels and Peugeots with Moscow plates. These people had come in those cars.