Vladimir Orlov - Danilov the Violist

"Hello," Pereslegin said. "Excuse me for not getting back to you. I was on a business trip in Saratov."

This was the time to talk about important things, but they were silent. Danilov even began to look busy, as if to let Pereslegin know that he did not have much time.

"I won't stay long," Pereslegin said.

"No, no, it's all right..." Danilov said with embarrassment.

"Did you look at it?" Pereslegin asked.

"Yes," Danilov said with a nod.

"And?"

"I liked it... I wrote and told you that..."

"Oh, yes, yes," Pereslegin agreed.

He grew silent, staring at Danilov. Apparently he expected more comments about his composition. But Danilov seemed to have forgotten everything he had felt about Pereslegin's music.

"I'd like to perform your symphony," Danilov said.

"So do it!" Pereslegin was pleased.

"How? Where?"

"That can all be arranged!" Pereslegin waved it off. "The important thing is that you liked the score!"

Danilov looked at Pereslegin with surprise. How energetic this man was. He had gotten a completely different impression of the composer's personality during their last meeting.

"Why did you give the lead part in your symphony to the viola?"

"I don't know why," Pereslegin said. "When you start creating -- forgive the fancy word -- when you start composing music, do you do it with cold reason? Later, you might explain to yourself where that sound, that melody, came from... That's the way it is with me, maybe other composers are different... I don't know... I started writing the music, and I heard the viola ... that's all..."

"Berlioz wrote Harold for Paganini's viola!" Danilov exclaimed.

"So what?"

"What do you mean, so what? Who's going to play your symphony now?"

"You will," Pereslegin said. "I heard you play at the institute. That's why П came to you. I know many violists, but I came to you..."

"He seemed like such a milquetoast last time," thought Danilov. "But he has strength, he's stubborn, and he knows what he wants. And if he knows what he wants and still believes in himself, he's brave, too..."

"Did you like the way I played?" Danilov asked.

"Yes," said Pereslegin. "And I'm happy that you understood my music. I would like to show you my other works..."

"Bring them to me," Danilov said. "I'm not so sure of myself to dream of getting solo engagements. And not so young as to get them. But I will get pleasure out of looking over your works."

"You ask where and with what orchestra?" Pereslegin said. "There's a youth orchestra I know. And I know a conductor. I'll bring you together, if you don't mind..."

Pereslegin left. After seeing him to the elevator, Danilov felt disappointed. He had looked forward to the conversation with Pereslegin, had prepared for it, even. God only knew what he hoped to get from it, but it had all passed as if they had been talking business.

Probably Pereslegin had left disappointed as well. Danilov's whole life was like that! You never get to talk, really talk with someone, open your soul, warm his soul.

These thoughts came to Danilov as he dressed hurriedly for work. He was interrupted by the arrival of the plumber Kolya, who said hello in the doorway and then, stretching his neck, looked around the apartment for something.

"Kolya, I'm in a rush," Danilov said.

"Volodya, you haven't got my tools in here by any chance, do you?"

"No," Danilov said. "You never brought them here."

"Was I here yesterday?" Kolya asked meekly.

"You were. Briefly .. "

"Where else was I?"

"I don't know."

"At the station?"

"Yes, you were with us at the station. The Paveletsky."

"Not the Kursk?"

"I don't remember," Danilov said. "You may have been at the Kursk. Ask Zemsky. You were together all the time..."

"What did I eat? Why is there smoke coming out of my mouth?"

"Tobacco?"

"No, it looks like smoke from a steam engine!"

Kolya breathed, and heavy anthracite smoke poured out of his mouth.

"I don't know," Danilov said. "They don't even have steam engines anymore... Take an antacid, Kolya, and you'll be fine..."

"I already took some."

Kolya's eyes took on a shifty look.

"You know, Volodya," Kolya said, "you give me four rubles times two -- and I'll keep quiet."

"I don't have the money, Kolya. And what are you going to keep quiet about?"

"About your pal Andrei Ivanovich from Irkutsk."

"You can talk about him all you want!"

"Don't say I didn't warn you," Kolya said meaningfully. "He promised to send me a squirrel fur hat. Will he send it?"

"If he promised -- just wait for it. I'm off!"

With these words, Danilov pushed Kolya in front of him out into the hall, locked the door, and headed for the elevator. Kolya started to cough, and the landing was enveloped in smoke.

24

No sooner had Danilov given his coat and hat to the coat check at the theater than his elbow was carefully grabbed by the violinist Nikolai Borisovich Zemsky. Zemsky quietly beckoned Danilov to the snack bar. Danilov ordered a bottle of Baikal soda; Zemsky, three bottles of Zhiguli beer.

"Well, how's your lumbago, Nikolai Borisovich?" Danilov asked. "I see you're off the sick list."

"My lumbago disappeared yesterday! Must have been the steam bath ... but... my body is in terrible shape...."

"What's wrong?"

"I don't know..."

Nikolai Borisovich looked at Danilov with a certain anxiety. His eyes seemed to plead, as if he wanted absolution from Danilov.

"Did I misbehave yesterday?" Zemsky asked.

"You drank a lot, that's all..."

"Didn't I eat?"

"You ate," Danilov said, "but not a lot."

"It's so strange," Zemsky said, shaking his head. "Strange ... bad dreams ... visions ..." Zemsky stopped and gave Danilov a frightened look. "And here's a receipt -- a fine... Seems I was going to Minsk without a ticket..."

Danilov shrugged.

"Are you missing anything?" Zemsky suddenly asked.

"From where?"

"Your kitchen?"

"I haven't noticed..."

"Is this yours?"

Zemsky pulled out a long object wrapped in a towel from beneath his coat. He placed it on his lap so that no one in the snack bar could see it and then undiapered it. A carving knife was revealed. Danilov examined the knife and saw tiny words inked on the wooden handle: "Restaurant of station Morshansk-II. Tonya Solontsova. Whoever swipes it will knife himself to death!" Danilov felt sorry for Zemsky and said: "Yes, it's my knife. Muravlyov brought it back for me once."

"I've never been a kleptomaniac before," Zemsky said. "And now, just before retirement, can you believe it?"

"Permit me to give it to you," Danilov said.

"No, no! Are you crazy?" Zemsky moved away from the knife in fear.

He finished the beer wanly. He was worried that Danilov would hit him with some unexpected reminiscence. But curiosity flared up in his eyes.

"Your friend Andrei Ivanovich," Zemsky began at last. "He's -- "

He looked around in fright. Danilov had never seen the boistrous, loudmouthed Zemsky so bewildered and so quiet.

"It's time for us to go into the pit," Danilov said.

"You promised to come visit me, Volodya. To listen to my compositions. Why don't you drop by .. how about first thing tomorrow morning? And I'll tell you about Misha Korenev, too..."

"I'll call you," Danilov said.

"All I need is Kudasov showing up with explanations," thought Danilov. "Oh, Karmadon ..."

After the performance he bumped into Kudasov at the stage door. Danilov gave Kudasov a stern look and said: "I don't remember anything, I was not sober. Nothing is missing from my house. You did not kick up a row, you did not break any laws. Oh, yes, I almost forgot. Zemsky asked me to give you this knife. Here it is."