Vladimir Orlov - Danilov the Violist

"Vladimir Alekseyevich," the young man said, "I won't take more than a minute of your time. My name is Pereslegin, but that doesn't matter. I write music. I mean, I don't know what it is I write, but I would like to write music... I mean, it's all in vain... Understand me... you don't know me ... I graduated from the conservatory about ten years after you... I have an idea, I mean, not an idea, but a hope, a proposition for you ... I need to talk to you... I was at your concert at the research institute, I was there by chance...

I couldn't sleep for two nights afterward ... but I wouldn't dare speak to you until you've looked at this..."

From under his arm Pereslegin pulled out a folder that Danilov hadn't noticed before. It was brown, with brown ties, which untied by themselves, and Pereslegin proffered to Danilov a pile of sheet music.

"All right," Danilov said in bewilderment, "I'll look at it."

"Please be so kind," Pereslegin said. "If you find anything of the least bit of interest to you, send me a postcard. I've put one in, it's addressed. I don't have a telephone. If, however, when you've read the music, you hate it, just tear it up and throw it in the wastebasket..."

"If you have something to say to me," Danilov said, "why all these preliminary conditions?"

"No, no ... Just look at it first!"

And the door shut behind Pereslegin.

"He's not just suspicious," Polina Terentyevna, the doorkeeper said. "He's worse..."

"You think so?" Danilov asked.

"I don't think, I see," Polina Terentyevna said.

In the elevator Danilov took a look at the music. The title page said: "Pereslegin. Symphony Number 1." Danilov thought, "I won't look now, on the run, there'll be time later, when I can do it justice." He was pleased by the thought that at least one musician had liked his playing at the institute that night. Liked it? Probably. If he hadn't, Danilov thought, why would he have bothered finding out his address and risking his dignity and whatever else, knowing Polina Terentyevna? Danilov decided to wait a few days before looking at the music -- what if it was junk?! That would spoil Danilov's pleasure. So this is the kind of person who likes his playing!

"What a mess I'm in with that Klavdia!" thought Danilov as he entered his apartment. "Now she's opening her soul to me... She doubtless has me in mind for some role in her 'wild enough' idea ... a very minor role -- messenger or stooge -- but she has one for me... I have to get rid of her!"

And still Danilov was curious. "What could this marvelous idea be?" Klavdia trembled all over when she talked about it. She obviously would move the skyscrapers from the New Arbat if they got in the way of her idea. The woman was inexorable!

With his spare viola in hand, Danilov was heading for the door when the phone rang. Danilov picked up the receiver and heard Ekaterina Ivanovna.

"Volodya, you probably don't recognize me?" she said.

"Of course I do, Katenka," Danilov said happily. "How could I not recognize you?"

He was late already and now he would have to take a taxi. But he was truly happy to hear from Ekaterina Ivanovna.

Ekaterina Ivanovna was always fun to talk to, and besides, Danilov sensed immediately why she was calling. First they talked about this and that: about the Muravlyovs; about Ekaterina Ivanovna's son, Sasha, the martyr of art school -- yesterday he poured all the shampoo in the house plus the deodorant down the toilet to protest his heavy homework load; about Mikhail Antalyevich, Ekaterina Ivanovna's husband, being away on business, about how little time there was -- the exhibit of Zilberstein's collection was over and they had missed it. And then Ekaterina Ivanovna said, in a teasing tone:

"You were terrific at our institute, Volodenka, really terrific. Everyone asked me later how I came to know you..."

"No, really?" Danilov was embarrassed.

"And one of my friends was completely... you made quite an impression on her."

"Katya, I know whom you're talking about... And Natasha made quite an impression on me..."

Now Danilov did not know how to continue the conversation -- in the former bantering tone, or seriously. Just in case, he put the indicator by the phone. While talking to Ekaterina Ivanovna this seemed like a sleazy thing to do, but he had no right to risk Natasha's fate -- that messenger boy Valentin Sergeyevich and his mentors were capable of almost anything! But the Rubensian woman did not come alive.

"You know, Volodya," Ekaterina Ivanovna said, "perhaps I shouldn't be doing this, and maybe you'll think badly of me, but I decided to call you and tell you that things are not so good for Natasha now."

Ekaterina Ivanovna stopped talking, but Danilov said nothing.

"She's not ill," Ekaterina Ivanovna went on. "But I feel that it's a bad time for her. And I don't know how to help. Volodya, I realize this is stupid of me. And probably tactless. I don't have the right to get involved in anything like this ... but I couldn't control myself and here I am calling...."

"I understand, Katya," Danilov said. "What's the matter with Natasha?"

"She's just miserable," Ekaterina Ivanovna said. "And I have no idea why... She's proud, so she wouldn't say anything to me or to you. It's as if she's afraid of something, is in some danger..."

"My whole problem, Katya, is that I'm free only either early in the morning or after eleven at night..."

Ekaterina Ivanovna didn't have a reply. And Danilov was already cursing himself desperately: Right now, he should be forgetting about everything, the theater, his viola, music, forgetting about his own life and his own doom, forgetting, forgetting, forgetting -- he should be rushing to Natasha's side, and instead he was mumbling pathetic words into the phone. "What a bastard I am!" Danilov said to himself. But on the other hand, what could he say to Ekaterina Ivanovna at this point? No matter how miserable Natasha was today, Danilov would bring her much greater misery, disaster even, tomorrow. So what was he supposed to do? Reject Natasha, break off relations with her once and for all, tell Ekaterina Ivanovna firmly that it had nothing to do with him, he had lots of friends in the same boat? Was that it? He quickly tried to convince himself that his feelings for Natasha were a passing fancy, arising on the spur of the moment.

"Katya, I'll think of something," Danilov said.

He hung up and sat by the telephone. He ran his fingers through his beard. "No," thought Danilov, "I'm just fooling myself." His feelings for Natasha had not disappeared. On the contrary, they were even more apparent. His entire being yearned for Natasha. Now he knew that he would violate the rules of the agreement and that it would be noted. "Let it!" Danilov said with a shrug. He had no other options. He switched himself into the demon state and tuned himself onto Natasha's spiritual wavelength. He did not wish to enter Natasha's life as an invisible presence or even as a dust mote. That is, it did not even occur to him, for that would have been vile, like being a Peeping Tom. He longed to see her. But he could not. He stayed home by the telephone and turned on his cognition apparatus. Thus he could have viewed Natasha's entire life through and through, but that, too, would have been foul. He had no right to know Natasha's secrets unless she wanted him to. And he was terrified of learning Natasha's future. So Danilov plugged into the system only at selective points, in hopes of getting accurate information solely on his current concern. And he got it, not immediately, as he was supposed to, but some two minutes later. Danilov used the cognition apparatus rarely, and so while it hadn't exactly rusted, it needed a good lube job. And Danilov had even forgotten what oil to use in Earth conditions -- castor or rapeseed.