Vladimir Orlov - Danilov the Violist

Who had noticed, Danilov didn't know, but for the past twelve years the only way to go to the Nine Layers on a special summons was through this door. Danilov used to regard such directives with cynicism; there was something so theatrical and artificial about them, something that could impress only a child. But now the cynicism was gone. House 67 was a horrible sight at night, pathetic and evil. During the daytime you didn't notice it. Ordinary people lived in it. But now it was depressing. Nearby, house 71 was huge and grim; its heavy gray columns seemed like the stone legs of some urban monster.

The entranceway was gloomy and reeked of cats and rotten cabbage. Danilov observed that those summoned had to spend their last moments on Earth feeling demeaned by this clichйed spot, had to remember Earth as a lousy place, and sense their own helplessness. This was a boundary, the preparation for a switch to a state even more dismal, and perhaps into nothingness. Danilov stepped on something slippery and smelly and almost fell. He cursed, and scraped his foot on the asphalt, trying to clean his shoe. Then he stepped up on the stoop. Pulled the door handle. The door did not give. Danilov bent over. Three nails, apparently hammered in by the janitor, held the door fast. The house committee must have noticed that the orphaned door was flapping in the wind. Danilov didn't have any tools for removing nails; he took off his gloves and tried to loosen the nails but managed only to cut up his fingers. He was upset and worried that he might be late. Then he remembered his bracelet. "What's the matter with me?" thought Danilov. "How was I planning to travel, anyway?" He switched the bracelet; the nails flew out of the boards and disappeared. Danilov opened the door. Immediately, without giving himself a second to hesitate, he stepped in.

34

Something spun him, squeezed him, hit him, something crunched, perhaps inside him, threads were tearing, chains rattling, whirlwinds whipped around him, mountains fell on him or he fell into boiling craters. Danilov was hurt and afraid.

But Danilov arrived where he was supposed to -- not far from Nine Layers, in the Well of Anticipation, known to him from hearsay. It was dark. Not just dark -- pitch black. He felt as if he were surrounded on all four sides by walls -- actually there weren't any, but you couldn't go beyond those nonexistent walls. He knew that the Well extended infinitely up and down; there was no floor or ceiling. But Danilov could not fly or swim in it. At first Danilov thought he was not allowed to change positions, but unable to take the suspense of not knowing, he straightened his legs slightly and lowered his arms. He expected swift retribution, but none followed. That meant he could! This freedom, however tiny, made him happy.

In the blackness of the Well, nothing happened. And, in all probability, nothing was supposed to happen. The blackness and forced inactivity, the sensation of his own impotence, the anticipation of the horrors to come were meant to exhaust him.

He did not feel time, the time that could be flowing, exploding, stopping, or spiraling in the Nine Layers. This demoralized Danilov, undermined his spirit and readiness to meet the unexpected. Consequently he was incapable of resisting the unexpected. Danilov realized that if he created within himself a way of keeping Earth time, he would feel stronger. So he did. Now, if only in a trifling matter, he was master of his own state. He established the time in the Well to which he was accustomed. He counted hour after hour, and after each he said to himself: "Well, I survived this hour, too..." Days passed (in terms of Earth measurement, though on Earth, Danilov supposed, not even a second had gone by.) Danilov kept counting...

At last a vision appeared: the hardworking messenger Valentin Sergeyevich, wearing a shabby worn sheepskin jacket and felt boots, and carrying a broom in his hand. He was also wearing a dark, patched apron and a janitor's insignia no longer used in Moscow. Valentin Sergeyevich lowered the broom and began sweeping up the smelly, rotten objects that had depressed Danilov in his last minutes on Earth. Valentin Sergeyevich did not do a very good job, and in effect he did not sweep up anything at all. He stayed in one spot, and his broom repeated the same movement. Danilov could hear sounds, too: Valentin Sergeyevich's snuffling, his sighs, something rustling on the pavement. Valentin Sergeyevich, who had not noticed Danilov before, suddenly gave him a reproachful look and shook his finger at him. He made a face at Danilov, too: Well, you got yours, you bastard! But then they must have said something to him, and Valentin Sergeyevich hunched over and quietly went away, his janitor's badge clearly visible, his whole image seeming to say: Yes, of course, I remember, I remember, I'm nothing, I've done my job, and that's it...

There was no sound for a long time. Danilov hummed the viola part of Pereslegin's symphony to himself. Then he stopped. Either he was too weak or too depressed. He now felt like a small child who looked at the adults with tears in his eyes: "Why are you punishing me? What have I ever done bad to you?" Danilov really did want to become small and defenseless (actually, he was defenseless already) and to have someone strong cuddle him or at least take pity on him and forgive his mischief and naughtiness. Danilov would probably have shaved off his beard. If they had asked. But no sign of sympathy was forthcoming.

He still heard nothing. The scraping of Valentin Sergeye-vich's broom, his sighs and snuffling now seemed like an unintentional but priceless gift. What if Time X had already started? And what if it consisted of eternal silence? "That's not fair!" Danilov got upset. "They can't do that! They have to explain what they're doing and why to me!" But he immediately sensed that his indignation, just like his readiness to shave his beard, was in itself meaningless and only showed him up as a weak character.

He shut his eyes, but through the closed lids he saw a movement nearby -- either shadows were slipping past, or the bandages removed from someone's unhealed wounds were fluttering. Danilov opened his eyes wearily and reluctantly.

Immediately whirlwinds of light streamed past Danilov and violent blisters burst inside them. The whirlwinds gained strength and depth -- the depth of billions of Earth kilometers. But the black walls remained. If he reached out he could probably touch them, though naturally, without feeling anything.

Here he remembered that some time back -- he had stopped keeping track! -- he had made Pereslegin's music sound inside himself. But the music had stopped. Had he such a weak will? Was he not his own master? Was he too busy watching visions? No! Danilov decided that the normal course of life would be restored immediately to himself. Through willpower he forced himself to keep time, and a Handel's passacaglia played inside him in a classical sextet.

The visions attacked him again.

The violet bubbles were expanding and bursting, vicious whirlwinds swirled around and sometimes attacked them, and the resulting explosions blinded Danilov. Fiery tongues and fragments from the explosions flew off for billions of kilometers. The explosions went on and on, but then finally diminished in frequency, as if their element were quieting down. Finally it was calm, and an ordered system of forms and lines appeared in hot, nervous streams at first. Now a slightly distorted, shimmering disk hung before Danilov and spun on an invisible axis, and inside, glowing spirals maintained a quiet motion and shimmered at their tops. Danilov saw this in all directions, in distances measured not in billions of kilometers but in centuries and millennia. There hung and twirled, floated and moved other disks, spirals, constellations of glowing and black dust particles -- planets and stars. Danilov felt like a giant who could walk over them, as if they were the knolls of the wet peat bogs around Shatura or Egoryvsk. Step on them and maybe master them. There was just one little thing missing: permission to step out of the Well of Anticipation.