Vladimir Orlov - Danilov the Violist

However, events moved on after the corrida. At eleven-thirty that night Miguel the Principe bull was kidnapped by five terrorists, who loaded him into a stolen plane, and flew off to parts unknown. An hour and a half later, Burnabito received a telegram from Nouakchott, which is in Mauritania. The terrorists, or whoever they were, gave Burnabito their ultimatum. Either Burnabito pay five million cash at eleven in the morning and return to his family the left-wing soccer player Chumpinas, who was bought from Santa Fe, or at 11:05 Miguel would explode in midair.

Danilov didn't even bother looking in at Nouakchott. The Sahara was nearby, with its dust and heat, and Miguel was certainly asleep anyway. Danilov did not want to bring the plane with Miguel back to Madrid. He didn't like Burnabito, and then he didn't know what Karmadon's intentions were! Danilov began to feel sorry for the terrorists. He moved the bracelet link back and returned to human beings.

13

Klavdia Petrovna was on the lookout for Danilov on the corner of Chekhov and Nastasinsky.

"Come on," she said energetically. "Please try to look guilty. And stupid. Just agree with whatever I say... Just look at you today! I swear you didn't sleep at home last night. Hm? I can tell! Another woman would give you hell! All right, I won't say a word... Have you read about the blue bull?"

"What?" Danilov said.

"I said, did you read about the blue bull in Labor today? I'll tell you about it later..."

Everything went smoothly. The door was opened once again by the charming rogue Rostovtsov, graduate of two institutes. He kissed Klavdia's hand, after taking the Fedorov pipe from his mouth for an instant. There weren't too many people in the entry hall; today wasn't a day for registration but for settling problems. This time Danilov did not put his nutria hat on the tub but carried it to the conference table -- all the supplicants seemed to come hat in hand. Danilov saw that the futecons -- including Oblakov -- were not exactly afraid of Klavdia Petrovna, but they did respect her. It was obvious that she was one of them. Her place in line was reinstated.

The futecons parted cordially with Danilov. At the door, Rostovtsov now had a hamster perched on his shoulder along with the parrot. Danilov tried to give Rostovtsov a wide berth.

"That's it," Danilov said. "I'm through with them."

"Oh, no," Klavdia countered. "I don't think so. They liked you."

"And if they hadn't, what's it to me?"

"Don't show off! They're serious people, unemotional, scientific.... If you go against them, they'll grind you to dust...."

"You've scared me. I'll keep far away from them."

"No, Danilov," Klavdia said. "You're going to be part of the wild idea."

Danilov wanted to argue, but thought it better to sabotage the plan with silence.

"When will you tell me what the idea is?" he asked.

"Quiet! Shush! I'll tell you in the next few days." Then Klavdia Petrovna thought of something: "Listen, do you know what holographs are?"

"I read something about them, but I don't remember. Why?"

"You see," Klavdia Petrovna said sadly, "collateral prognoses suggest that ten years from now I won't need Voinov as much as I will a holograph..."

"Well, suit yourself... And Voinov gets dumped?"

"No. Why?" Along with the sadness in Klavdia Petrovna's voice there was a note of tenderness, clearly brought on by the thought of Voinov. "Voinov and I have time... But, of course, I'll have to read up on holography, to know how to comport myself. But these are merely details!"

"Details." Danilov nodded.

An hour had passed in Moscow. And consequently, in Madrid as well.

As Danilov had expected, Burnabito gave in. He forked over five million cash, and released from his contract the left-wing Chumpinas to return to his family in Sante Fe. Burnabito held a press conference in his villa. He looked tired but happy.

In the meantime, the Principe bull Miguel flew into Madrid. No matter how much the locals had disliked him yesterday, after his night of adventures and sojourn in Nouakchott, he was greeted as one of the family. With guitars and castanets. The bull was still lying down, raising his head occasionally, and regarding the crowd with a murky eye, but there was something regal in his pose. He was carried out of the plane on a special litter by twenty top athletes. Miguel was loaded onto a gun carrier and headed through the city's squares and avenues with a motorcycle escort to the residence set aside for him.

Right at the airport, Dr. Burnabito held a press conference. The best females of the bovine persuasion, luscious and passionate, had been selected and awaited Miguel. The choice was up to him. By the way, Burnabito noted and smiled meaningfully, he had just received a telegram from superstar Cynthia Kewcomb. Cynthia was flying to Madrid and was prepared to pay one hundred thousand dollars to spend an hour in the company of the Principe bull. Well, Burnabito and the learned consultants would discuss Cynthia's request.

That's all Danilov needed, Cynthia Kewcomb! Cynthia had made the world forget Marilyn and Brigitte and Elizabeth. The jewelry alone she wore was sometimes worth more than a million dollars. Cynthia on the screen managed to be not only a sex bomb but a sex fog as well. In her more lyric scenes Cynthia did not act, she lived. Her movies, particularly Sentimental Tango, played underground even in the Scandinavian countries, where it was cut up by the hypocritical Scandinavian censors. And now Cynthia Kewcomb was flying to see the Principe bull. Not only Madrid but Danilov was excited, too!

He looked at Miguel. The bull was sleeping in his residence on a lion skin. Danilov yawned.

He yawned in Madrid, but shut his mouth near Pushkin, back in human state. "I could use some sleep now!" Danilov said wistfully.

But how was he to sleep?

14

He tried to convince himself that he had simply caught the yawning from Karmadon, but that was a lie. Danilov wasn't getting enough sleep, either.

"I hope I don't fall asleep in the pit!" Danilov worried. Once he did and knocked over the music stand, but even then his bow never left the strings. Now Danilov fervently drank coffee at the snack bar and roused himself with hockey talk.

That evening they were doing Bogdan Berezovsky's Nas tasya Filippovna. After Sleeping Beauty Danilov could lift weights, while after Nastasya he had to shove his head under a cold shower. He loved Nastasya! It was agitated, lofty music, like a dialogue out of Dostoevsky, with a penetrating mix of voices. But here in the pit, he was not a creator but a performer, a worker, and besides everything else, he had to count the beat accurately. And in Nastasya -- modern music! -- counting was a complicated job. It gave Danilov no breaks. This time even coffee didn't help, Danilov's eyes were gummy, there were passages he played when half asleep, only to awaken with a start, while the count went on inside him by some mysterious apparatus that did not make mistakes. "If I could just last to the end, and then get out into the cold air!" dreamed Danilov.

Seated next to him was Chesnokov, a young, moustachioed violist brought into Nastasya after five rehearsals. Chesnokov did everything right, turned the pages, and, of course, used the bow to create the same movements as Danilov, but Danilov did not hear any sound coming from his instrument. Apparently Chesnokov was gunshy, afraid of losing the count and eliciting the conductor's angry or sarcastic words with a mistake. Therefore his bow flew without touching the strings. Chesnokov realized that Danilov had to be aware of this trick and was so embarrassed that he had to keep looking away. Danilov found a moment and -- naturally, without losing mental count -- whispered to him: