Vladimir Orlov - Danilov the Violist

Danilov handed Kudasov the towel-wrapped knife, and Kudasov accepted it without thinking.

"What knife?" Kudasov asked.

"This one. For carving."

"I'll walk you," Kudasov said.

"No," Danilov said. "There's no need. I'm going to a house where the refrigerator is empty."

Danilov was not being honest; he had hopes that the refrigerator at his house would have a tiny bit of something, however meager. At least a can of liver pate, if only with a smidgen left on the bottom. Or a piece of sausage. They ate a lot yesterday, but by nightfall Danilov was hungry again. Perhaps some of the calories from his organism had flown down the black hole.

He took the streetcar to the Pokrovsky gates. He was just about to turn into Khokhlovsky Alley when he sensed that someone was slinking around behind him. "Kudasov!" Danilov thought sadly. But when he stopped and studied the silhouette in the dark he realized that it wasn't Kudasov but the ruddy-cheeked Rostovtsov from the futecons. Danilov took out his indicator. The naked Rubensian female did not start glowing in Rostovtsov's presence; therefore it must be the real Rostovtsov and not Valentin Sergeyevich in disguise or one of his agents. "What does he want from me? Why is he following me?" Danilov wanted to approach Rostovtsov and ask him straight out why he was playing detective. However, it was late, and Danilov was in a hurry.

25

It was eight o'clock in the morning. Danilov knew that Zemsky was an early riser and called him.

"Hello, Nikolai Borisovich," Danilov said. "Forgive me for disturbing you, but you invited me yesterday..."

"Of course, Volodya," Zemsky said. "I'm expecting you in fifteen minutes."

Fifteen minutes later, Nikolai Borisovich Zemsky opened the door to Danilov. Zemsky bowed, as if inviting Danilov to dance a minuet, and led him into a large room. Danilov glanced down at his own jeans and worn loafers and blushed. Nikolai Borisovich had put on formal concert tails; his shirt and the black bow under his Adam's apple were fresh and festive, as if they had been made just for today.

"Sit down, Volodya," Nikolai Borisovich boomed. "Here's a chair!"

Zemsky's basso, as usual, was gigantic, rolling. But today it sounded serious, severe.

"Will you have some cognac, Volodya?" Zemsky asked.

"No, no! Please. We have to go to work!"

"I don't usually drink cognac, you know that. I prefer vodka. Or ... but now ... I'm so ... How about a shot for morning cheer and acuity of perception?"

"Well, if it's for acuity of perception," Danilov said and downed a shot glass of cognac.

He was seated in an enormous, soft armchair with a tall, comfortable back upholstered in black velvet.

"We really don't have much time, Volodya," Zemsky said. "Therefore I will perform my compositions immediately. I compose in traditional forms, those you know. I have symphonies, a ballet, and oratorios. I have instrumental works, not only for the violin but also for the organ, piano, piccolo, and so on. There are other pieces... You may not understand them at first or even grow angry... I'll start with two simple pieces for the violin. Incidentally, when I played them for your friend Andrei Ivanovich, he liked the second one better..."

"I'm all ears," Danilov said.

Zemsky probably did not hear his guest; he was already immersed in his music. It agitated and tormented him, Danilov could see that. Danilov felt awkward. In ten minutes or so he would have to say something to Zemsky about all this, and there was the possiblity that his compositions would be lousy.

Zemsky picked up the violin, and stood by the upright piano. He seemed majestic, and he frightened Danilov somehow.

Nikolai Borisovich picked up his bow.

"The first piece is called 'Farewell to a Hotel Room in Tambov,' " announced Nikolai Borisovich as if he were talking not only to Danilov but also to an invisible audience listening quietly nearby. The second is 'Morning Suffering in the Environs of Corinth.' "

He started to play, but Danilov heard no sounds. The farewell to the hotel room apparently was elegiac; something had obviously happened to Zemsky in Tambov. The bow floated above the strings at a slight distance in meditation and sadness. At first Danilov watched the bow with curiosity, trying like a lip-reader to guess about the music composed by Nikolai Borisovich. He could not guess. The music, probably, was new and inaccessible to Danilov. Danilov's attention wandered. He began observing the room from the corner of his eye, but in a way so that Nikolai Borisovich would not notice. But what was Nikolai Borisovich capable of noticing now? He was inspiration itself. He was creating. He was grieving over the outcome of his life in Tambov...

Nikolai Borisovich finished the first piece, lowered the bow, and inclined his head for an instant. Then he shook himself, raised the bow, and turned his thoughts and emotions to morning suffering. The sufferings -- of whom? perhaps a centaur? -- near Corinth were serious ones. The bow's flights were nervous and headlong. Danilov enjoyed the artistic movements of Nikolai Borisovich's hands and eyebrows.

Zemsky stopped.

Danilov was silent.

Nikolai Borisovich put his violin on the table, glanced nervously at Danilov, poured the cognac and offered it to his guest, then quickly drank his own, and sat down.

"Well?" Zemsky asked.

"A bit unusual," Danilov said.

"Just as I thought," Zemsky said disappointedly. "I knew that at first you would react that way. Even though I hoped ... hmm ... Now your friend from Irkutsk, he felt a lot right away... So did Misha Korenev ... the late -- "

"Nikolai Borisovich," Danilov asked carefully, "what is your direction in art called?"

"Silencism," Zemsky said with a heavy nod.

Nikolai Borisovich stood and paced the room.

"Actually, Volodya, I had thought about explaining its essence beforehand. But I decided to take the risk. What if you felt it all right off? ..."

"I did feel some of it," Danilov said meekly.

"Well, as long as you're here," Zemsky said, disregarding Danilov's words, "you'll have to hear a lecture. I hope it will be a short one. And then I'll perform another piece for you. It's more complex than the first two..."

Nikolai Borisovich began his explanations from afar. From the very origins of traditional music, the very music that Danilov now served and that he, Zemsky, had served for over thirty years.

"That music arose because, as the ancients surmised, our hearing, compared to the other senses, is endowed with far fewer natural pleasures. Eyes see much that is ugly. But there is much that is beautiful before them.

"But what do the ears hear? Nothing but ugliness! Shouts, crows cawing, the whine of buzz saws, the clash of swords, the hiss of kitchen stoves and the quarrels of the cooks, the rumbling of stomachs, the whistle of flying bombs, the howling of dogs, not to mention the scolding of mothers. Noises and sounds irritate man more and more, they are more harmful than air pollution. People hear so little that is pleasant: bird songs, the rustle of the forest, the gentle splash of water, the laughter of infants.

"And so, in consolation, man created music. He arranged sounds with the help of tones, modes, rhythms, and so on into pleasant combinations and for dozens of centuries has been trying to replace Nature's miserliness with music. And a special world of music arose, a world that is boundless and omnipotent. At least that's what people think.

"All the old music is in some way the reflection of harmony, no matter what you call it. But is the world harmonious? Is life harmonious? Ah, Volodya, don't make a face. Where is there harmony? The lion tears apart the deer, golden grains grow on mass graves, a woman sells her body, a drunken hand mutilates a baby, the violist Chekhonin licks the chief conductor's tails so that he, and not you, Danilov, gets to go on the tour of Italy! Harmony!"