Vladimir Orlov - Danilov the Violist

Danilov headed farther on, where the more important personalities were allowed to settle. Now retired. Or demoted. Or disillusioned. Or made impotent by knowledge. These retirees had lots of space, pastures and castles, mountain chains and waterfalls, coral islands and geyser fields. The disillusioned ones simply sat, bored, like Manfred, on basalt plateaus that even surefooted mountain goats had trouble reaching. Or in damp caves, where stalactites dripped hollowly. The weary veterans and cripples, reliving their youth, sometimes arranged earthquakes or cholera epidemics. Sometimes they dropped in on their neighbors to play poker and drink Arabian wine. Some simply dozed in barrels and glass vessels. Without trespassing on anyone's property -- and who would have let him? -- Danilov determined that Karmadon had not received a plot in the Second Layer.

Just in case, Danilov dashed past the home of Karmadon's great-uncle -- Mephistopheles. The uncle had a hermit's hut -- three stories tall, however, and of totally modern architecture. Now the uncle was standing near his porch in farmer's overalls. He tossed feed from an aluminum tub to his California roosters. Neat beds of thistles and toadstools indicated that Karmadon's uncle had taken up gardening. That was touching. But Danilov had not peeked in to see vegetable beds, but to see if Karmadon was staying with his uncle. He wasn't.

Danilov sighed and flew back to the elevator door.

In the elevator Danilov pushed the button for the Seventh Layer.

He pressed it without thinking. The Seventh Layer was the Layer of Pleasure. Was it appropriate for Danilov to appear at balls and banquets now? Was he dressed well enough for Seven? Too late. He had pressed the button. So be it. It wasn't that Danilov was feeling courageous, but he was obvioush trying to look like he was -- it was almost as if he were throwing out a challenge to someone. Or simply to his situation. Danilov was nervous as he rode up. He remembered how he used to appear in the Seventh Layer when he was young.

Back then he was a happy-go-lucky playboy, and much was forgiven. The ladies gave him such looks! Some of them were well on in years. Their blood was at a boil and so was his. But Danilov did not seek their patronage. He was proud and independent. He worked in the Seventh Layer, organizing fireworks, playing sensual pieces on the lute, dancing at balls. If he had stayed working there, would there have ever been a reason to call him in for Time X? But then Danilov would never have gone to Earth.

It was incredibly quiet in the Seventh Layer. The light was dim. Strange sounds came from afar. They had no relation to music, but more to wood and rags. As if someone were moving furniture and washing the floor with a wet mop. The parties, sprees, balls, and fireworks were supposed to take place here in the evenings. Perhaps the hands of the cuckoo clock were not at all where they were supposed to be? According to Danilov's lights, it was getting on to dinnertime, while here it looked like morning. "I have to readjust," Danilov decided.

But it didn't matter. So it was morning. So the orchestra didn't boom, and dresses didn't rustle on the parquet floor.

Danilov was rather glad that the Seventh Layer was deserted. Now he realized that he was not prepared to appear here at the height of the festivities.

"Say, pal," Danilov heard a hoarse voice say, "where's the you-know?"

Danilov turned. A shaggy demon, barely able to open his eyes, stood before him.

"What's a you-know?" Danilov asked, and immediately realized that it was a stupid question. Of course, the fellow was asking about the toilet. But it had been easier to assume that some other need was tormenting him.

"Over there," Danilov said and pointed in the direction where boisterous hangover parties used to take place in the mornings.

The demon flew off. Danilov had wanted to follow, but the demon returned instantly. He was angry. Either at Danilov or at what he had seen. Screaming, waving his arms and wings, he threw an ugly cardboard sign at Danilov, spat on the ground, and vanished with an angry electrical crackle. The sign said in eighteen different senses: "Closed for cleanup." "Aha," thought Danilov, "nothing strange then, just a new regime." Just in case, Danilov went over to the hangover spot. The clean-up signs were all over the place. "When did they start this?" Then he thought how out of touch he was now, even down to minor details -- the air conditioner in the elevator and this clean-up time. "They've become so cleanliness-conscious ..." And he noticed that he called the local inhabitants "they," as if to separate himself from life on the Nine Layers.

36

Danilov returned to the Fourth Layer. Nothing had changed. Tormented by thirst, Danilov decided to do something audacious.

He went into a diner. And immediately saw Karmadon.

Karmadon was sitting right next to the counter at a heavy, rough-hewn table. He was with three demons unknown to Danilov.

Danilov almost ducked out, but stopped in time to think: "What's the matter with me?" He gravely sat down at a free table, albeit at a good distance from Karmadon. But why was he still feeling confused? Why, even though he had forced himself to sit down, was he still ready to run out of there? Just recently he had been looking for Karmadon, and now here he was. "Sit!" Danilov said to himself. "Sit, since you're in here." And he sat.

Karmadon might not even notice him. That made Danilov feel uncomfortable. "What's happening to him now?" he thought. He was led to make certain conjectures by the fact that Karmadon, an ace with special assignments, who used to be entitled to luxurious spots for rest and relaxation, was now in a crummy diner. "But what," thought Danilov, "if they serve railroad cuisine here now? And that's why Karmadon is here!" This upset Danilov. He ordered from the kitchen. Before, the buffet had served not only meat but also fish, so Danilov ordered cheap caviar. The caviar appeared. It came in a hard flat brick on the plate -- apparently it was pressed. Danilov bit off a piece and then asked for Heineken and Radeberger. The mugs arrived chilled and foamy. The Dutch beer was the real thing. But they had substituted a Pilsener from the Apolda brewery for the Radeberger. "Oh, well," thought Danilov, "they may be out of Radeberger. And Radeberger is a type of Pilsener, after all." Danilov recalled that Apolda was near Weimar. Once Goethe leapt from his horse and took charge of putting out a fire there. "This is great! They wouldn't give a prisoner, a condemned man, beer and caviar!"

He even seemed to forget about Karmadon. Although, of course, he always had him in sight. Sideways to Danilov, Karmadon sat quiet and grim, chewing something.

"May I join you?"

"Please," Danilov said with a nod.

"Bah, but it's Danilov!" the demon who joined him said. "Hello! What brings you here?"

"The usual..." Danilov muttered.

He was trying to remember who this was. He looked familiar. He was dressed in a European wool suit but had the hood of a Bedouin robe on his head. The hood practically hid his entire face, but you could see that the parts of his face existed independently and could move from place to place. "Who is this?" thought Danilov. "Could it be someone from the lyceum?" Obviously not from his class, but ahead of him? Or behind?

"No, I'm not from the lyceum," the demon said. "That's out of my league... We met taking courses for self-improvement... We shared our impressions... I'm also from Earth... I work in the Arabian deserts..."

"Ah, yes, yes," Danilov said. "I remember you now."

He really had. He almost had his name, too, something like Urael, or Urail...

"Ugrael," the demon said.

"Yes, yes, Ugreal..."

"Are you here to report or to receive instructions?"