Vladimir Orlov - Danilov the Violist

"That is beyond my powers now," Karmadon said.

"Whose power is it within?" Danilov wouldn't stop.

"I don't know. But, I think, not yours, either."

Danilov suddenly felt that he had nothing to say. Why bother with a scene, why make some statement? He was pathetic, standing by Karmadon's table, and with every passing second he seemed more ridiculous, his audacity turning to farce. Karmadon's friends were still looking at him, expecting something. But nothing happened. Karmadon, though disfigured, was still haughty and calm.

"Well," Danilov said, "I'll have to try to get Bek Leonovich back."

And he bowed.

Now he really should have left, but he couldn't. He went back to his table and sat with his back to Karmadon. "What a fool I am!" thought Danilov. "Now I am disgraced. Serves me right!" It had been senseless and rude to mention publicly to Karmadon the Ostankino house spirit. It should have been whispered into Karmadon's ear. How could he have stooped so low, behaving like a pickle seller in a marketplace, screeching that his pickles had been stolen from his barrel! And no pickles had been taken at all... He was embarrassed and disgusted.

Danilov sipped his beer. He worried. So this is what happened to his lyceum friend! But Karmadon was holding up. He was wounded, demoted, and had a crooked face, but he was holding up! And how! "No," thought Danilov, "he's still a bird of prey, still an ace with a special assignment."

37

He should be going home. "Home." Danilov laughed. "What's to do there? Sit by the wardrobe in the gloom and reflect? Yes, sit there!" Danilov told himself. "And think about what you are and why you exist. And if there is any meaning to your continued existence."

"Danilov!" Someone put his hand on Danilov's shoulder.

Danilov looked around. Karmadon stood before him. The diner was quiet and empty.

"Yes." Danilov frowned.

"I need to talk to you."

"I'm listening."

"Not here," Karmadon said.

"Where, then?"

"I know a place. If you agree to go, I will be deeply grateful."

"All right."

He got up. Karmadon turned and walked quickly, without showing the slightest interest in whether Danilov followed. He wore a blue cloak, which billowed out to reveal a sword on his left side. Danilov followed Karmadon anxiously; they turned down a dark alley, and Danilov couldn't figure out what century they were in or what kind of architectural style was represented in the buildings, but there they were. Kar-madon was in charge.

A door creaked. Karmadon pushed it open with his shoulder and invited Danilov to come in. Karmadon held a thin taper in his hand. The pale, flickering light illuminated a narrow, winding staircase -- stairs like this were built in fortress towers or walls of castles or stone houses. Danilov had gone up such a staircase in an old house belonging to a voyevoda* in Solikamsk.

He followed Karmadon down the stairs. The steps were stone, but so worn, they seemed to be tilted. The shadows were alive and vicious; bats with canine faces were hidden in them. "What do I care about bats?" thought Danilov. But he was afraid. At last it grew a bit lighter. They were in a cellar of some sort. Karmadon indicated a bench, standing near a long oak table. Danilov hesitated and sat down, reluctantly, on the edge of the bench. Karmadon undid the silver clasp of his cloak, which he then tossed aside, and he sat down next to Danilov.

"Danilov," Karmadon said and put his hand on Danilov's shoulder. "Danilov...."

He started to cry.

Before Karmadon had started crying, Danilov had wanted to push away his hand from his shoulder. But now he froze in embarrassment. He looked around -- was anyone watching? The cellar seemed empty.

Karmadon put his hands on the oak plank of the table and then lowered his head onto his arms. "Why is he crying?" thought Danilov. "Is he play-acting? Or is this for real?" Just in case, he examined their secluded spot. Three fat candles, in an Augsburg candleholder, shone with a bright flame on the table. Two columns held up the vaulted ceiling. The cellar was early Gothic, a modest country affair. The walls, vaults, and columns were whitewashed, and the brick surface was visible only in the even seams of the ribs. In the corner behind the far column, Danilov could make out barrels. Who knew whether they held wine, gunpowder, or pirate booty?

Karmadon lifted his head. His eyes were dry.

"Danilov," said Karmadon, "play for me."

"What?"

"Play something sad."

"I don't have an instrument."

"Take the one over there."

He pointed to the barrels; there was something on the floor near them. Danilov felt a chill: Could it be the Albani? He hurried to the barrels and saw a lute. It was a familiar lute. Danilov had played it in his youth, and later in the Seventh Layer of Pleasures. He held the lute tenderly, feeling a warm affection for the eternal instrument.

"I'll try," Danilov said, "but I'm used to earthly tunes. You Want one of those pieces from our youth?"

"Yes, one of those," Karmadon said with a nod.

Karmadon wanted something more than just music, so Danilov started to play. In their youth they had shared moments that were lofty and sad; elegies had sounded then. Danilov sincerely wanted to ease the lot of his old friend, sitting so quietly next to him. He pitied him and he pitied himself...

"Thank you, Danilov," Karmadon said.

"For what?"

"Let's have a drink."

"Let's," Danilov said uncertainly. He did not want to drink. He placed the lute on the bench reluctantly, with sadness -- he had missed music.

Danilov looked warily at the goblets that appeared on the table. He expected the imminent appearance of Northern Lights liqueur, and zakuski from a railroad buffet, on indestructible plates of corrugated foil. But his fears were groundless. Karmadon drank grimly and with panache, and Danilov was impressed -- the strong liquor was so good and so noble. "Why did Karmadon torment us with Northern Lights on Earth, and why are they sticking me with railroad food here?" Danilov thought, almost insulted.

Karmadon drained his goblet. Danilov took one sip.

"I'm sick, Danilov!" Karmadon said. "Sick and tired!"

"Of what?" Danilov asked, primarily out of politeness.

Karmadon must have sensed the mockery in his words, or simple lack of sympathy -- and that was enough. He glanced at Danilov viciously, and even though the weakness of a wounded animal shone in Karmadon's eyes, Danilov felt frightened. Karmadon was embarrassed. He had not brought Danilov here to argue with him. Danilov did not know how to behave at this moment.

"I really do not know the reasons for your present condition," Danilov said drily.

Karmadon looked at him again.

"Haven't you heard anything?"

"I heard," Danilov said. "Accidentally and very recently. But that was vague information and perhaps it was merely gossip..."

"I'm demoted, broken, and exiled," Karmadon said.

Danilov had expected Karmadon to launch into a lengthy explanation, dramatizing the details, seeking sympathy, but Karmadon spoke only the five words and then slammed his fist on the table as punctuation, and drained his goblet once more.

"But even a microcosmos," Danilov said, "has its own life."

"Yes," Karmadon agreed. "Even a microcosmos."

"Why despair then?" Danilov said. "We're not kids anymore. At our age, you know that the point isn't in getting to the top -- "

"Danilov, don't," Karmadon said. "You play the lute well, but you're not a thinker."

"You're probably right."

"And that's not the point. That they've sent me to an elementary particle!" Karmadon was practically shouting. "That's not it! My weakness -- that's what's driving me to despair."

Danilov said nothing.