Vladimir Orlov - Danilov the Violist

The information he obtained soothed him a bit. Valentin Sergeyevich and his commanders had not bothered Natasha yet -- either they had taken pity on her or they didn't know about her. The causes of Natasha's state today were internal, human, and Danilov did not try to delve into them.

Knowing this, Danilov berated himself in hindsight: How could he have violated the terms of the agreement while awaiting Time X?! Actually, he often berated himself in hindsight. Danilov sighed: Why regret it now? He had ascertained that for the moment there was no danger to Natasha from Valentin Sergeyevich. His enemies apparently did not set much store by his feelings for her (as opposed to those for his viola) and thought him fickle. Or they were waiting for him to become completely entrapped in those feelings and get himself in deeper. That meant that he and Natasha had time and they should use it. Danilov determined, "I'll come up with something, I'll get out of it somehow, and I won't let Natasha get hurt!" After the dispatch about Karmadon, Danilov had become a little cocky once more and walked around as if he were a kid with a balloon on a spring day. He hoped that his friendship with Karmadon would revoke Time X completely. And even without Karmadon, Danilov decided, he would certainly come up with a way out of this horrible blind alley. Soon he would sit down and think about it.

But time was passing and he would be late for the theater if he tried human means to get a taxi. "So what! If I'm breaking the contract, I might as well break it!" Danilov said cavalierly, with a surge of bravado. A taxi driver rang his doorbell immediately and asked if he had ordered a car from garage number three.

"Yes, I did," Danilov said dryly.

When he got home, Danilov was in the mood to call Natasha, despite the late hour. But as he sat down by the telephone, he got nervous and could not pick up the receiver. There was a knock. A metal object was being used to bang on the door. Danilov opened the door, but left it on the chain. He saw a fellow in a crumpled quilted jacket with a small case in his right hand and a wrench in his left.

"Who do you want?" Danilov asked.

"Moscow Gas," the fellow said in a voice that sounded as if he had a cold.

9

"Why so late?" Danilov asked. "And why my apartment?"

"We're doing all of them," the guy from MOSGAS said. "We have to do preventive maintenance."

Danilov took the chain off the door and opened it. He was curious to see what the man would do. And then again, he really might be from the gas company. He might have started out in the morning and finally arrived here. Danilov had learned the hard way when it came to dealing with municipal services, and so he was cordial.

"This way," Danilov said, showing the man into the kitchen. "I've been meaning to call you for a long time. Two of the switches are hard to turn and the gas hardly comes out."

Once in the kitchen, the gas man did not approach the stove but sank wearily onto a Yugoslav stool and yawned.

"Here, take a look," said Danilov, twisting the switches. "Look how hard it is. And then -- could you change this orange stove switch to an ordinary white one, it's really ugly ... I'll pay you..."

"What am I going to replace it with -- a wrench?"

"You must have spare parts in your case?"

"Can't you even take a joke!" the gas man said with no more symptoms of a cold in his voice. "You don't even recognize your own!"

Danilov took a closer look at the man.

"Karmadon!"

Danilov threw himself at Karmadon and they embraced. Back at the lyceum, Danilov and Karmadon had not been particularly good friends -- Danilov had come from an unimpressive background, while Karmadon and his brother, on the contrary, were brilliantly connected. But Danilov had a reputation among the demonic Golden Youth as being far more popular -- in fact, a remarkable wastrel -- and both Karmadon and his brother, New Margarit, regarded him as Saturn's rings might regard Saturn. At every exam at school they copied his horoscopes with adoring eyes. Anyone else in Danilov's place would have regarded Karmadon as an errand boy in his retinue, but Danilov had treated everyone equally and generously, not lording it over anyone. Except maybe the squealers. Now Danilov was sincerely pleased to see his lyceum buddy, even though he had lived the past twenty years without any particular need to do so.

Karmadon took off his filthy hat and greasy jacket, straightened up and seemed to grow taller. His face changed, and he looked more like himself. Danilov took a good look at him and no matter how hard he tried, he could not restrain a smile.

"What's the matter?" Karmadon asked. "I'm not dressed right?"

"You'd stand out in the street, I'd say..."

"That's the last thing I need," Karmadon said.

The last time Karmadon had been on Earth and in Moscow was 1954, and now he reminded Danilov of the customers of that cocktail hall of blessed memory on Gorky Street, long ago turned into an ice cream parlor: Karmadon had a brilliantined and sprayed pompadour, a speckled jacket with padded shoulders, a tie with a decadent pink monkey, skin-tight slacks, and shoes with a bizarre, homemade sole -- orange, wim heavy treads. But Kardamon's face was no longer young.

"Now people dress differently," Danilov explained. "I'm no fashion plate, but you can use my clothes."

"Show me what they're wearing," Karmadon said.

Danilov went to his room to look for magazines. He checked the bar and found the cognac bottle was almost empty. He was upset until he remembered that he had the right to switch into demon state and use his expense account for entertainment! Karmadon sluggishly leafed through some magazines and immediately reappeared with a mustache and thick shoulder-length curls, a suede jacket, and velvet pants with a remarkable belt. But he did not seem to be pleased with his new look. He yawned again.

"What are we doing in my kitchen?" Danilov cried. "Let's go into the living room. Or wherever you want. I'll get you anything you want to eat or drink. You name it! Are you interested in our exotica?"

"I don't need much," Karmadon said. "And let's not go anywhere. Let's stay here."

Karmadon's frame of mind surprised and disappointed Danilov. Danilov wouldn't have minded a good meal, with some Armenian cognac; however, he said nothing to his guest as the kitchen table was covered with a botde of Northern Lights Liqueur -- merely colored glycerin water and sugar, Danilov suspected; a burned, dried-up brisket from some railroad station snack bar; and two portions of sprats on saucers painted with locomotives, apparently from the same snack bar. The only thing that pleased Danilov were the bottles of Karmadon mineral water. His guest's father had taken back to the Nine Layers wonderful memories of that temperate resort Karmadon, in Ossetia, in the mountains. Perhaps the father used to fly over, enjoying the views of the Caucasus, or perhaps he had bathed in the playful bubbles of warm springs, where he washed off earthly diseases, or perhaps he had frolicked with some mountain beauty; anyway, in memory of those snows and mineral waters he had named his infant son Karmadon.

"I'm not hungry or thirsty," said Karmadon. "I don't even remember your delicacies very well. The only thing I've consumed in the past few years is molybdenum. Please have whatever you want. Don't mind me..."

Danilov became aware of a glass of cognac in his hand and on the table in front of him was a plate of chicken tabaka from the Aragvi Restaurant.

"I'm tired," Karmadon said. "I don't have the strength for a talk with you. I've been sitting in offices, writing reports on my work, then waiting for my leave papers. I just grit my teeth -- you know our bureaucrats."

"What don't you take a bath?" Danilov suggested.