Vladimir Orlov - Danilov the Violist

"Don't be upset. It's a very complicated work. You'll get used to it and it'll go well... believe me..."

In the intermission Danilov rushed to the snack bar for a bracing drink of Baikal water to stop his yawning. The flutist Sadovnikov and the violinist Nikolai Borisovich Zemsky joined him. They got beer.

"That was a pretty lady you were with last night, Volodya," Sadovnikov said.

"Pretty," Danilov agreed.

"Danilov, you're a demon!" the violinist Zemsky said with a laugh.

"What do you mean?" Danilov said.

"With women!" Zemsky leaned close to Danilov's ear, but laughed so hard that the whole snack bar could hear -- and the snack bar was full of foreigners and schoolgirls! "You're a demon with women!"

Nikolai Borisovich Zemsky was fleshy, with a bass voice. He was bald with bushy eyebrows, and among his group was known as a wild and rowdy fellow. Conductors feared his mischief-making. With his build, Nikolai Borisovich should have been a fat man in a circus, and in an orchestra he should have used his mighty chest to blow into a gigantic brass tuba for "um-pas" in scary places. But he was a violinist, and an exquisite one, with a delicate touch.

Actually, though, he hadn't played in the past six months. That is, he played, but in the manner of Danilov's neighbor Chesnokov -- he merely imitated the bow movements. He did it much more artistically than Chesnokov. And the reason he did not touch the strings was not fear of making a mistake but artistic principle. If someone wanted to test him and asked him to play any score, he could do it no worse than the first violin. But no one ever asked him to; with thirty-six violins in the orchestra, the silence of one of them, even the sweetest one, passed unnoticed. The violinists nearest Zemsky were meek and knew that he could outshout them in the end. Or perhaps, they admired his principles, which did not allow Zemsky to create sound. He had converted to a new religion in art, according to which the sounds he created should appear only inside his presumed audience. He would have dropped the old music completely, but he had only two years before retirement, and Nikolai Borisovich intended to get his pension. In everyday life he did not stand on ceremony, but he treated Danilov with respect. First of all, because he saw the musician in him, even if of the old school. And second, he was a resident in a co-op where Danilov was on the board. It was from Danilov that Nikolai Borisovich learned all the building news.

"Were you at Misha Korenev's funeral?" Zemsky asked.

"I was," Danilov said with a nod.

"I couldn't make it... Yes ... you know, he almost accepted my philosophy of music," Zemsky said. "But he was afraid of it."

"What philosophy is this, Nikolai Borisovich?" the flutist Sadovnikov asked.

"That's not for discussion over beer," Zemsky said. "Misha and I had long conversations. But he was gripped with fear. I wonder if that's why he jumped out the window."

"I don't think so," Danilov said.

"Who knows? ... Someday I'll tell you about our conversations, Volodya... That was ... yes ..."

The first bell rang.

Danilov finished playing Nastasya Filippovna. His eyelids did not close, but he was exhausted. "So Misha Korenev used to visit Zemsky," thought Danilov. "I'll have to ask Zemsky ... his theories aren't important, even though they are interesting ... the important thing is to find out about Misha..."

At home Danilov collapsed on the couch without undressing. But he found the strength to get up and make coffee And then he remembered: "How's Karmadon doing?"

He switched to the demon state, but did not plunge into Madrid life right away. As he was leaving he remembered that he still hadn't looked over the music by the composer Pereslegin. "What an irresponsible oaf am I!" Danilov scolded himself. But to switch the bracelet back and grab Pereslegin's music would have been impolite. It was like being in a moving train and pushing apart the doors to stand between cars.

But before Danilov's senses reached Madrid, a familiar airquake took place in his apartment. Everything swirled and leaped, the furniture, the dishes, the books, including the philosophy tomes, and the insurance forms relating to the Albani -- everything was sucked into a wild vortex with a crescendo of whistling sounds and an orange glow. Then something crashed and reverberated, everything returned to its place, and on Danilov's desk there appeared the demon woman Anastasiya, her beautiful bare feet tearing holes in the orchestra rehearsal schedules.

"Hello, Danilov!" said Anastasiya, hopping down to the floor. "My sweet darling Danilov, why are you avoiding me? Have you fallen in love with someone else?" She was laughing, but Danilov saw reproach in her orange eyes.

"Just all this work," muttered Danilov. "Now it's Karma-don."

"Forget it! Work!" Anastasiya waved a hand, and the sparkling stones on her fingers, some of them from other planets, created a one-second firework display in the air. "Come to me, Danilov," said Anastasiya. "I see you so rarely, come quickly..."

She moved toward Danilov without waiting for him and put her arms around him. Her enticing orange eyes were close to his. Danilov felt her voluptuous body and realized that everything could go to hell, but somehow nothing did. "What's going on?" Anastasiya pushed away from him. "You're not happy to see me? You have no desire for me at all! Then you really do have another woman! I had my fortune told, but I didn't believe it..." She stopped talking, obviously expecting Danilov to say something. He didn't. "Good-bye, Danilov!" Anastasiya said angrily. "Good-bye, darling. You won't live down this betrayal!"

Fierce and gorgeous, she stamped her foot -- it was a lucky thing that the floor didn't break -- and disappeared in a huff of pride. The air shook and a door seemed to slam.

"Why was I cold to her?" thought Danilov. "Because of Karmadon ... I have so much to do with Karmadon, and I couldn't allow myself to ..." He tried to convince himself, but he saw that the explanation was naпve and false. "No, it's because of Natasha," Danilov realized.

15

"Oh, no!" Danilov said with a gasp. "I forgot about Karmadon!"

And he flew off to Madrid.

Danilov learned that Burnabito had taken one hundred thousand dollars from Cynthia Kewcomb.

A meeting with Cynthia would hardly be likely to be beneficial for Miguel the Bull, Burnabito announced, but he could not refuse a beautiful woman. "What nerve that man has!" thought Danilov.

Burnabito smiled, but inside he was bewildered. Nothing seemed to awaken the corrida warrior in Miguel! Dozens of prime cows, dewy, passionate, and responsive, had tried to seduce the Principe bull, but not one managed to become his girlfriend. In his wrath, cruel Burnabito had those innocent bovines slaughtered for Knight-Errant Luncheon Meat. The bull was fed hormones, shown porno films that would make a blind man horny, but nothing helped.

Burnabito saw his last chance in Cynthia. Madrid believed in Cynthia. Tens of thousands of anxious people came to the town house where Miguel the Bull resided.

Holding bags of sandwiches and soft drinks, people surrounded the wrought-iron gates, hung from the walls, took seats on neighboring roofs.

"Has she come into his room yet?" the latecomers asked. "She has, she has..." came the reply with quiet joy. The Rolex company set up a digital clock billboard to mark off the seconds. The closer it got to the important time, the quieter it grew on the square.

When zeroes came up on the Rolex billboard, the door of the house flew open and glorious Cynthia came out. She did not give Burnabito the time of day, but looked over the crowd and said wearily and angrily:

"The bull is impotent!"