Vladimir Orlov - Danilov the Violist

"Where is Buranova?" asked Danilov.

She had been sent home in a car.

"Well, then, shall we go to my place?" Muravlyov asked, rubbing his hands. "My wife has prepared a few things..."

"How about to Volodya's? There's something to eat there, too..." Natasha offered meekly.

"Really, let's go to my place!" Danilov said.

So as not to hurt Muravlyov's wife's feelings, they compromised. Muravlyov was sent home to get the food. "Use the backpack, the backpack!" Tamara, his wife, begged, and the rest of the group took a streetcar to Danilov's. They stayed till after midnight. Danilov was excited, would jump up, run to the kitchen, carry in glasses, salads on platters, talk to people, and listen to all kinds of things. Several expressed serious opinions about the music, his playing, and even though all the members of the group were not professional musicians, Danilov found their ideas apt. And then in one instant, Danilov's nervous state vanished and he felt as if he were going to fall asleep. Through a dream Danilov heard people arguing, laughing, the glass and metal clink of dishes and tableware, the buzz of women's conversation, Natasha's sweet voice. Ah, how good he felt! Danilov opened his eyes. Ekaterina Ivanovna was dancing with Eremchenko. Snow was falling outside. Muravlyov was waving his arms to make a point with Kostyurina. And next to them was Rostovtsov. "How did he get here?" Danilov thought. "What is he doing here?" And Danilov fell back asleep. As he slept, he saw himself coming onstage at the House of Culture of Medical Workers. And he heard his viola.

30

In the morning, the snow had melted.

Yawning, Danilov stood by the window and stretched.

His apartment was clean; the table was back in its place, the dishes washed. Only the flowerpot on the windowsill had cigarette ashes in its soil. Apparently Muravlyov had poked his cigarette at the cactus while he was arguing.

Natasha wasn't there. Danilov called her, but she had left for work.

Had he really played at the House of Culture of Medical Workers yesterday? Here were the flowers: narcissus and lilies in crystal. He had held roses yesterday, too, but he gave them away to the ladies.

Danilov took the elevator down to the mailboxes and got the newspapers. Mercenaries were fighting in Angola; Karpov was torturing Polugayevsky; Maltsev, using his "goal plus pass" system, had made twenty-seven points and moved up to fourth place. Looking through the papers, Danilov felt depressed. He hadn't really expected any reviews, but actually ... Well, not from Sports, perhaps; they didn't even give the Maltsev story a lot of play. But at least Culture or Moscow Pravda could have given Pereslegin's symphony and its performers a paragraph. Or at least a line in "Cultural Notes." But they didn't.

"What am I doing?" Danilov was furious with himself. "The papers don't review even celebrities right away, and here I am looking for an article about me, and on the next day at that!" Admit it: What kind of event was last night's at the House of Culture of Medical Workers really? Third rate, if Klavdia did not deem it essential to appear. Danilov recalled how eager she had been to see the blue bull...

Below on the street cars drove past, people hurried by carrying bags and briefcases. The wind blew the yellow coop sand down the slippery sidewalks, and pushed the careworn citizens -- to their jobs, their classes, their worries. How had Danilov's music changed their lives? What could it change? Apparently nothing ... Danilov was exhausted and empty. Music seemed repulsive to him.

Danilov sat on the couch in his quilted robe and rested his chilled soul. He didn't need music, and he didn't need himself. He didn't need anyone.

The phone rang.

"Hello, Volodya," Zemsky said. "I was there, I was at your performance!"

"Why did you bother, Nikolai Borisovich, since Pereslegin's music stands in direct contradiction to your own?"

"I'm a curious man. And I'm tolerant of other artistic ideas. Let them be heard. You played with authority."

"Thank you, Nikolai Borisovich."

"And boldly. As if you were arguing with someone. Was it with me?"

"No, Nikolai Borisovich, I wasn't arguing with you. I was just playing, that's all. As best I could ..."

"Now you must learn to play as best you can't. Then, at the very least, you'll play as best you can. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Nikolai Borisovich."

"Play, play, go farther ... you'll be a great artist," Zemsky said. "And then you'll reach the limit. You'll ask yourself: 'And now where?' But there'll be no farther to go. You'll step into the impossible, the void, and you'll reach silencism... That's how it is... I'm not trying to scare you or upset you, I'm speaking without malice... By the way, was there any harmony in yesterday's music? You played brilliantly, but was there harmony?"

"I was striving for harmony."

"And?" Zemsky said.

"Your theories and dreams, Nikolai Borisovich -- are they a search for harmony, too, however unique it may be?"

"Volodya," Zemsky said with a sigh, "you're still young and raw ... you have a lot of suffering to do..."

And with this Nikolai Borisovich ended the conversation.

Zemsky's call had perked up Danilov. He thought, "You played with authority -- and Zemsky is a harsh critic!" Danilov even got up and paced the room. Now he dreamed of more calls, especially from Pereslegin and Chudetsky. "No," Danilov said to himself, "I was okay! So what if it didn't change the world. Nothing could. I played as I never have before. And on an ordinary viola. Why shouldn't I be pleased with myself today?"

"Why didn't Natasha leave me a note?" Danilov thought. Now he was sorry that Natasha had left with the other guests. Danilov understood that it probably was for the best that Natasha intended to live her own life, even though she was now involved with him. But still, Danilov felt almost insulted.

The phone rang.

"Hello, this is Valentin Sergeyevich."

"Which Valentin Sergeyevich?" Danilov asked as his confusion gave way to wariness.

"One guess."

"Well," Danilov said, "to what do I owe the pleasure of this call?"

"Nothing ... Well, perhaps a trifle ... Why bother to talk about it?... I'm not calling on business... our business lies ahead ... and it's important!... I was just calling... for my own peace of mind and to clear up a certain vile misapprehension on your part... I shouldn't even be calling -- this conversation is so private. I may get chewed out for this, but I couldn't wait..."

"Well?" Danilov said.

"You're triumphant now..."

"Why?"

"The way you played! And also because you think that you played that way yesterday as an ordinary mortal. Without using any demonic abilities. It's true, you didn't touch your bracelet. So what? You yourself must realize that you were completely engrossed in your music yesterday! All of you! Including the part that's a demon on contract. Your entire being sounded yesterday with its entire history. How could any mortal compete?"

"Are you through?" Danilov asked.

"Of course, I'm a petty creature," Valentin Sergeyevich said with a giggle, "and it's not my place to get involved with music ... but I couldn't control myself... You can call my words empty, inspired by hostility or envy... Please, go right ahead!"

"Why don't you just return my instrument?" Danilov said.

"Which instrument?"

"The stolen one. The Albani."

"What Albani? We don't have any Albani!" Valentin Sergeyevich screeched. "Talk to the police! The police! What Albani?"

Valentin Sergeyevich's unexpected, almost fishmongering scream was interrepted by the dial tone.

Everything was clear now: He had been left alone for a brief period, for reasons unknown, and now they were reminding him who he was and what awaited him. Despair engulfed Danilov. "What bad timing," he said with a moan. But then when would have been good timing? Now it seemed to Danilov that he could have handled Time X better two months ago. Why worry about it? ...