Vladimir Orlov - Danilov the Violist

Danilov said nothing, even though any other time he would have found the right, soothing words to make them both feel better. He merely walked along in silence with Natasha. Now they headed for her house. After her story, something had come between them; they even walked apart from each other. And Misha Korenev was not the cause of this quiet remoteness, this estrangement -- no, something else separated them for an instant, forever. Each had his or her own fate and life, and these were as far apart now as they had been a month ago, when Danilov did not even suspect Natasha's existence. "Why I am going with her? Why? I'll walk her to her doorstep," Danilov thought, "and take a taxi home. I might get some sleep for a change."

But once they were at the house, Natasha asked Danilov to come up, and Danilov, after mentioning the late hour out of politeness, accepted her invitation, for it was issued with such simplicity and complete trust in him.

The house was asleep. Danilov left his viola with his coat in the entry hall. Natasha's room was warm and clean. As he always did in a new place, Danilov went over to the bookshelves first. Natasha did not have many books, but Danilov knew and liked them all. Two of them he'd been trying to get for over a year. A sewing machine stood on the table.

"I do a lot of sewing," Natasha said. "There are good designers, and even artists, from fashion houses, with names, but they need to make some money on the side. So they create and cut out designs for their customers. They need a seamstress to sew the things, and I love to do it. My things turn out beautifully... Funny -- they call me an expert... I'll put on some tea... Or would you prefer coffee?"

"Tea, I think," Danilov said.

The black emptiness of estrangement was gone now. There was only Natasha, and she had always been there. He watched her. Every graceful, easy movement of her slender, musical body excited Danilov. And when Natasha came back in from the kitchen with the tea, Danilov took her hands and did not let them go.

12

In the morning Danilov realized he hadn't had Karmadon in view for over fourteen hours! Danilov moved his bracelet link and saw Madrid. Miguel the blue bull was not in the city.

There was lots of excitement in Madrid, but no bull. Danilov located Burnabito in his countryside villa on the shores of the Mansanares. Burnabito sat in a marble pool and pummeled the water with his fists. Every few moments his secretary came over to the pool's side and tactfully reminded him that time was passing and the ransom had to be paid.

With an effort of will, Danilov went back into yesterday. He saw the arena and the crowds in it. The crowd roared as Miguel was brought out of a tunnel on an artillery cart.

This was not even the season for bullfights. Moreover, Burnabito had given instructions for several innovations. Thus Miguel was driven out on a cart, in violation of long-standing tradition. The escamillos, celebrated for their heroics, stood in colorful costumes on the field. For the full effect, all the fighting bulls had been brought out, too. The matadors -- among them the lovely Angelita, who by rights was equal to a woman torero -- stood as they were at the sight of Miguel the Bull, as if to imply that they already saw the bull in his grave. The fighting animals brought out on parade grew very nervous, practically enraged. But Miguel, as he was driven around on the trailer, did not even get up, let alone bow to the crowd, thereby earning its special respect.

Miguel was driven away, and the corrida began. First the weaker and cheaper bulls were pushed out, then the more worthy ones, and Miguel was naturally left for last. What a scene! The dance of capes and muletas, the flash of horns, the dust raised by hoofs. Danilov could not watch without pain as these people so cruelly enjoyed the suffering of innocent animals. However, he was fascinated by the beauty of the costumes and the extraordinary balletic flow of the barbarous spectacle. Many bulls were killed before they got to Miguel. The crowd roared again and again and tore up the smoke pots, though you'd think by rights they'd be worn out emotionally by this time. "Miguel! Miguel!" Everyone knew that Miguel's time had come. The famous matadors Gonzalez, Rodriguez, and Resnikviez displayed their slim legs and ornamented shoulders from the tunnel. But there was a hitch; it was clear that there was an argument under the stands. Whistles came from the crowd. And then -- in violation of all rules and etiquettes -- Miguel the Bull did not walk out but was once again driven. The assistants, who were also festively dressed, tried to chase Miguel from the trailer, but they had to unload him.

"Well, now Karmadon will show you," thought Danilov, "he'll teach you not to pick on poor animals." The picadors attacked, but it had no effect on Miguel. They jabbed him with their lances, and danced in front of him, and teased him, and kicked him, and called on his machismo, and his conscience, and pointed to the crowd: It's not their fault, the picadors implied, they're throwing flowers and transistor radios, they paid their money -- for what? And they tried to lead him away, but he would not get up. Others tried -- nothing! Confusion reigned. Then from behind the barrier came the great Gonzalez, Rodriguez, and Reznikoviez. Together for the first time! And behind them the beauty An-gelita! But the great ones were confounded, too. Miguel remained indifferent to their actions. The kings of the arena and their retinue worked for an hour and a half, to no avail. The crowds in the stands began to express their doubts in the bull. "Is he for real?" they shouted. "Hey, bull," they shouted, "stop cockteasing!" Naturally, in their own language. And then, giving in to a peculiarly southern impulse, the whole furious crowd of corrida fighters attacked Miguel the Principe bull.

The crowd leaped up rapturously. Finally Miguel reacted; he twitched his nostril -- and everyone on him or near him flew back so fast that some landed in the stands. Miguel stood up. The crowd gasped when they saw how magnificent he was. Miguel lazily turned his back on the most expensive section, and with dignity he lay down again.

And here entered the desperately brave Phil Kilius.

Everyone thought he had gone back to America. But he had not.

He appeared right by the barrier, shoving aside the police, and brandishing his fists. It was clear that he was fighting his way toward the bull. The crowd forgot the bull. They watched Phil Kilius. They believed in him as the savior of their own honor. However, the agitated Burnabito rushed from his seat with a cry: "Stop him! Don't let him through!" Many people immediately came to the conclusion that Burnabito was not doing this out of concern for the health and happiness of Miguel the Bull, but rather because of unsettled financial terms with Phil. The police grabbed Phil Kilius.

"Let me go! I'll take him for free!" howled Phil, either in the heat of the struggle or because he was so young. The policemen looked over at Burnabito, who was taken aback. Then, weakening, he gave the police the signal to let the volunteer go. Phil threw back his head desperately and danced his way toward the victim. It grew quiet. Phil ran right up to the bull and punched him right between the horns! Miguel should have been lying feet up, but he didn't stir. Phil gave him a left hook. He hit him again and again. And then his arms hung loose, like two lashes; he must have hurt them. Phil swayed and fell next to the bull. The assistants got him up with difficulty and led him away to the stands.

The crowd was in a frenzy. No order was given, probably, but all on its own from the bowels of the arena a heavy tank with a machine gun rolled onto the field and moved on Miguel the Bull as an expression of pure hostility. Danilov held his breath. The treads of the tanks, progressing with such vigor, at last aroused the bull, and he jumped up. Dazed, he stared at the tank for a second or two, then twitched his tail, dug his chin into his chest, and hooked the tank with his horns. It turned over and began rolling as if it were a tum-bleweed. The machine gun fell off, the cannon barrel twisted, and no one knew what the crew felt like because everyone was jumping from their seats and running for the exits. However, at the barrier Miguel calmed down, stretched, and quietly went into the tunnel. Danilov realized that he had not actually been awake but just sleepwalking, and his feet were taking him back to where he had felt good.