Vladimir Orlov - Danilov the Violist

"I could never permit that -- " Danilov began.

"Silence!" Karmadon demanded.

"Well, all right -- "

"I know who you are now!" Karmadon said and poked Danilov in the ribs. "I looked in at your theater, I sat in your pit at the drums and cymbals. I was interested in a few other things, too ... I made inquiries about you at the Chanceries and got replies... And now I know who you are..."

Karmadon was smiling almost genially, but Danilov sensed something metallic, perhaps molybdic, in his geniality. "That means he checked everything... "

"Well, and who am I?" Danilov asked.

"How can I put it? You're like that ... Sterlitz... You belong here ... you blend in. You even think like a local."

Karmadon stopped here, wanting to keep Danilov in suspense: Was he about to approve him, or expose him? He approved and slapped Danilov on the back.

"That's how it should be!"

Karmadon tuned in all three stations at once on the Aurora radio in the kitchen, and turned on the taps in the sink full blast. He moved closer to Danilov and whispered:

"We need demons like you! I'll get you transferred to our Chancery for Moral Transformations. Our chancery will accept you and get you out of yours ... and then they'll never get you with Time X... but you'll have to sign on our terms... Will you agree?"

"What if the radio and the water running aren't enough and they can hear Karmadon?" thought Danilov. "We should have flushed the toilet, too!"

"Tomorrow," whispered Danilov. "We'll decide everything tomorrow."

"Fine," said Karmadon with a nod.

"Andrei Ivanovich, where are you?" came the call from the living room.

"Let's go in," Karmadon said. "You'll still have to sign my vacation papers. And help me get souvenirs."

"Why didn't you remind me about souvenirs earlier?" Danilov grew agitated. "The stores will all be closed tomorrow!"

"What an idiot!" he thought immediately. "I really do think in local terms! What do stores have to do with it?" But Karmadon, it seemed, did not notice his gaffe.

"Of course, there's nothing but crap in the stores," Danilov said. "We'll think of something..."

He was ready to put himself out for Karmadon. Because of the way things were going. And also, just out of the kindness of his heart. He even knew just what kind of souvenirs would be appreciated in each of the Nine Layers.

"Andrei Ivanovich!" Zemsky's basso boomed.

"Andrei Ivanovich is me," Karmadon explained. "Andrei Ivanovich Somov. From Irkutsk. Your guest. Come on."

"Hi, Danilov," Zemsky said, greeting his host, but then suddenly looked abashed.

"Hello, Volodya!" said the plumber Kolya. Even when he was sober, Kolya always gave Danilov a smile, because he respected him -- Danilov had never stopped up his toilet and always let out the air from his radiators when they sent up the steam.

"Nikolai Borisovich," Danilov said to Zemsky. "How are you feeling?"

"Thanks, better. I applied birch boughs to the afflicted area. But I didn't forget my music. Just today I performed my new compositions for Andrei Ivanovich..."

"What did you think, Andrei Ivanovich?"

"Amusing," Karmadon said. "Nikolai Borisovich, what do you call your movement?"

"Silencism," Zemsky said. "Silencism."

"Those faucets sure are running," Kolya interjected.

"Really!" said Zemsky with a laugh.

"Just a minute," Karmadon said.

He went to the kitchen and came back with three perspiring bottles of vodka and two of Northern Lights. To the chunks of fried fish were added sardines on black bread, a jar of spiced sprats, and -- Danilov noted this -- the can of Kuriles fish in its own juice from his refrigerator. "What's the matter with him?" thought Danilov. "Is he really worn out?" Danilov wanted to add to the refreshments: Chicken tabaka and a saddle of lamb arose immediately in his imagination. But then Danilov thought that this would not be tactful vis-а-vis Karmadon. And he returned the hot dishes to the restaurants, one local and one Balkan, and only the aroma of roast lamb lingered over the fish table.

Kolya opened the bottles and poured. And they were off. And running.

Danilov did not want to drink. But he had to.

Grabbing a moment in the noisy, meaningless conversation, Karmadon called Danilov into the entry hall, where he opened the built-in cupboard, took out fur earmuffs and inquired if they would make good souvenirs.

"Where did you get them?" Danilov asked.

It turned out that in broad daylight, when Karmadon, Zemsky, and Kolya were coming from the baths, a juvenile delinquent tore Karmadon's hat from his head and ran off. Karmadon wanted to catch him, but Zemsky and Kolya said no, he should go to the police. Karmadon went, but Zemsky and Kolya suddenly remembered pressing business when they got to the station house. Karmadon told the police about his hat, showed them his Irkutsk papers, wrote a statement, and started to wait. They were surprised and asked: "Why are you sitting here, citizen?" Karmadon explained that he was waiting for his hat -- it would be silly to go out in the cold with a bare head. All the workers at the station house came to have a look at Karmadon. Some said that he must be drunk and had probably lost or given away the hat; another, more polite policeman told Karmadon to go home. "I won't," Karmadon said. Where could he go? When he got back from vacation he would have to report and explain the loss of the hat -- after all, it appeared on his head courtesy of government funds. So Karmadon was offered a choice of eleven hats. Among them were, as Danilov now saw, two deerskin, one muskrat (Olympic-style), four rabbit, one fox, one boar, one karakul, and one of camel's hair. Karmadon had told them he couldn't tell exactly which was his hat and which wasn't. So they suggested he take all of them home for his wife or friends to identify, and then, when he had the chance, to return the others. And so Karmadon hesitated and then took them all and was now trying to decide whether they would make good souvenirs.

"They're wonderful souvenirs!" Danilov said. "But you promised to return ten of them..."

"I don't have time," Karmadon said.

"Then the rightful owners will be left without hats. Or the relatives of the people who helped you out Or someone else.."

"So what? Somebody stole my hat!" Karmadon gave Danilov a cold look. "You're saying some very strange things... What's the matter with you, Danilov?"

"Really," thought Danilov, "what is the matter with me?"

"I have my role to play," Danilov said significantly.

"Ah, yes, of course," Karmadon recalled. "But don't worry, I didn't leave any ways to trace me. They don't know with whom I'm staying or to whom I took the hats to be identified."

"Great," Danilov said. "Tomorrow we'll look for other souvenirs."

The doorbell rang.

The visitor was Kudasov. Danilov let Kudasov in, but his arrival was a surprise. Kudasov himself felt embarrassed. He muttered something about Danilov often having invited him, and his never being able to come, and this time he was in the neighborhood, and thought, "Why don't I drop in?"

"And you did right," Danilov said. Even though he would have gladly sent Kudasov packing.

"What's he doing here?" thought Danilov. And then he understood. Kudasov lived forty minutes away from Danilov's apartment. Forty minutes ago Danilov's imagination was filled with chicken tabaka and saddle of lamb from the Balkan Peninsula. The aromas had permeated his bachelor digs. Kudasov had evidently caught that sweet moment. It was understandable: Danilov had not been dining at the Muravlyovs', and for the last three weeks Kudasov had been twitching his moustache in vain.

Danilov had no objection to eating a solid meal himself. He whispered to Karmadon:

"I've got a budget for this..."