Vladimir Orlov - Danilov the Violist

Danilov quickly convinced himself not to whine, or give up, but to live for the moment. Thoughts of Time X dissipated. He probably shouldn't have mentioned his Albam to Valentin Sergeyevich. Demanding his stolen instrument from a crook was pointless and pathetic.

Suddenly it all did not matter. He wanted to get away from everything. From music most of all. The hell with it! It all seemed vanity to Danilov. Really, getting up onstage as a soloist at his age, thirty-five. He might have played well, but so what? Now what? What?

On the other hand, why think about the future, if Valentin Sergeyevich had called?

Danilov was crushed. It was torture to think of ever picking up the viola again. But he picked it up and went to the theater. He did the matinee and the evening show. As he played, he no longer remembered his morning musings.

Danilov's colleagues did not talk about the previous night's concert. How could they know about the cultural life of medical workers! However, the cellist Turukanov asked in the last intermission if the doctors had paid him well, and was upset to learn that Danilov, like the other orchestra members, had played for free.

"Really, Danilov," Turukanov said, shaking his head, "You're not a kid anymore..."

"No, I'm not," Danilov agreed.

"Well, then," Turukanov added, "those doctors, and especially the dentists, rake in the dough..."

After the performance Danilov locked up the viola in the fireproof locker. He didn't need it at home.

31

Danilov finally saw Pereslegin and Chudetsky. Pereslegin did not want to write anything else ever again and called himself talentless. "How can you say that?" Chudetsky countered. "The audience liked your work and Konstantinov and Vegener praised you." "Was it me they praised?" Pereslegin said animatedly. "What did I have to do with it? You and Danilov turned my notes into music. Chudetsky joked and said that in a month's time Pereslegin would be back, writing more for the viola. From Chudetsky Danilov also learned that great musicians had praised his playing. Danilov had astounded them. Showed new possibilities for the viola. Had reminded them of something they'd forgotten. Klavdia Petrovna even demanded to know why he hadn't invited her to the House of Culture of Medical Workers. "What was there to be invited to?" Danilov said with a certain degree of feigned surprise. "I'm mad at you," Klavdia said. "People are talking, and I wasn't there."

Chudetsky said that probably they would be able to repeat the program -- if not at the House of Culture of Medical Workers, then at the Palace of Flour Millers.

Then the critic Zabyvalov manifested himself. Writing in a certain newspaper -- not the most interesting or important, but still one they paste on windows -- Zabyvalov's "reply" was small. Its size was a reflection of the insignificance of the concert at the House of Culture of Medical Workers. The title was a rebuke: "Who's Been Given the Stage?" Zabyvalov called on the carpet in strong, sarcastic language the club's administration for an irresponsible attitude toward a public treasure -- that is, the stage and auditorium. The administration should be providing a forum for national talent instead of giving space and time to certain enterprising musicians who had nothing in their souls. In passing it mentioned a dubious and pretentious composition by one Pereslegin. Danilov was not even named.

Pereslegin grew depressed. Chudetsky smiled and said "This was to be expected," and insisted that the orchestra repeat the entire program.

Danilov was disappointed by the absence of his name in the reply. Even being criticized was better than not being mentioned. This made him a zero. The next morning Danilov got a call from the futecons' skewbald secretary.

"Vladimir Alexeyevich," the secretary said, "have you changed your mind?"

Danilov wanted to insult the secretary and do something nasty to the futecons, but he controlled himself.

"In the past few days," Danilov said, "I haven't had time to even think about it."

"I hope you appreciated Zabyvalov's tact -- your name is not in the article."

"I'm very grateful."

"We haven't done anything bad to you yet, but we're letting you know...."

"I understood you the first time."

"But it might have been all different. Your name might have been on everybody's lips."

"Everybody?"

"Why not? At least in musical circles ... And now it seems to me that Chudetsky's idea to repeat the program is rather naпve...."

"You're certain of that?"

"Vladimir Alexeyevich, you might note that today we are not threatening or harassing you. We are simply reminding you of our existence."

The skewbald man was actually speaking politely, not brazenly.

"We haven't really messed anything up for you yet, just trifles. We've decided to wait," the skewbald man added, almost with affection for Danilov.

"All right," Danilov said. "I'll think about it."

"When should I call you?"

"In two days," Danilov said and hung up.

He decided to wait, too, and not to begin a campaign against the futecons now. The confutes! They spared him. Hah! But they vented their spleen on -- or showed their strength against -- the innocent Chudetsky and Pereslegin. That was brave of them!

It had snowed again. The temperature was eight below, and Danilov decided to go skiing. The snow was better than it had been all winter. And yet it would soon be spring. It was a pleasure stepping on this snow; it crunched.

Danilov covered some fifteen kilometers in Ostankino Park before he got tired. If he had had more time, he would have gone to his beloved Sokolniki Park. This park was crowded, and senior citizens were walking on the ski trails. But the snow was fine. It hadn't crunched like that for the past three winters. Once, when he was young and carefree, Danilov had made a good snowfall in Moscow. With drifts and a frost. He continued to be embarrassed by the excesses of his youth. Maybe that was a mistake, maybe he should still use his demonic capabilities in winter. Muscovites missed the snow and the frost; they would have been happy to have it. While the Chancery from the Other World probably would give him points for making tilings colder. Maybe Valentin Sergeyevich would have to grit his teeth as he put those points in his ledger.

Danilov thought about Valentin Sergeyevich, and it upset him so that he removed his skis and tied them up.

Danilov was thirsty. He went into a beer hall on Korolyov Street, and quickly had a mug of beer, and a second, and realized that he shouldn't have. At the next table teenagers were being rowdy -- Danilov figured they were about seventeen. They were all drunk. Five boys and two girls. Skinny and made-up, the girls were frisky and playful and kept kissing the boys. Perhaps the boys they were trying to kiss weren't their dates. One had curly hair showing beneath his shaggy fox hat and was wearing bell-bottoms. Like the other boys, he was over six feet tall. Suddenly he tugged his pink girlfriend by the arm and slapped her face hard. Danilov almost spilled his beer. But apparently, despite any misunderstandings, the group was having a good time. The young ladies squealed with delight at the boys' jokes. They even squealed cutely. They had nice faces. Their companions hugged them, and pinched and caressed them, and didn't waste time trying to figure out chivalrous words either; thev settled for the words they knew best. After a while two of the boys and one of the girls came over to Danilov. Two of them stopped a litde distance from Danilov, but the fellow in the fox hat whispered confidentially right into Danilov's face:

"Listen, mister, give me three rubles. We don't have enough for wine. Or else buy two bottles of vermouth and join us. Our girls will be good to you."