Vladimir Orlov - Danilov the Violist

"Are you sure of that?" Danilov asked.

"If you were summoned that way ..."

Danilov wanted to disagree, to tell Karmadon that he had been summoned, yes, but was not being kept in a cell, rather in a nice room with a wardrobe and cuckoo clock. He was allowed to walk around, and maybe everything would come out in unprecedented fashion... Then he recalled that Karmadon had promised to get him a position at his Chancery and thereby save him from investigation and retribution. But what was the point of bringing that up now?

"Do you know anything new about my case?"

"I do. I doubt that I could help you."

"I wouldn't think of troubling you."

"It's your problem ... yours."

Karmadon raised his goblet, but now he had almost to force himself. Then he said:

"Well, that's it. Farewell. Don't be too frank with Ugrael. They're thinking of replacing you with him. That's it. Go now. Farewell."

"Farewell," Danilov said.

He got up, stood for a few seconds indecisively, not knowing where to go. Should he take a candle and go up the stairs?

"Danilov," Karmadon suddenly said, "do you want to have children?"

"Children?" Danilov was surprised. "Yes."

"I don't."

"Why not?"

"I can't pass on any moral values to them!"

"Who'd have thought?" thought Danilov.

"And it looks like I won't have any children," Karmadon said bitterly. Then he remembered himself and said threateningly: "That's it! Farewell!"

It was as if a barrel of gunpowder had exploded. The Gothic vaults vanished in fire and smoke, and Danilov saw that he was two paces away from the entrance to the diner.

38

A few more days passed, according to the cuckoo clock. Danilov was not disturbed. They were mocking him. Or else Danilov was at the end of the line and those who had summoned him had no pressing reasons for rushing the inevitable. He grew tired of riding the elevator from layer to layer. He had satisfied his memories of the past; he didn't run into many acquaintances, and the conversations he had were oblique and cautious. Danilov spent hours lying on the hotel bed, staring into space and thinking about nothing. Danilov never kept his impassioned and determined promise to cogitate on the meaning of his own existence and decide whether that existence was worth defending.

Once in a while he would remember some vision from the Well of Anticipation and try to understand it. The shoemaker's apron still puzzled him... Sometimes Danilov thought about his conversation with Karmadon. Karmadon had said things that Danilov now wished to refute. "Why didn't you refute them then?" he asked himself. But really, why bother? Karmadon had been speaking with a listener tantamount to a void.

The most important conversation lay ahead, and there Danilov would have to be extremely careful not to make things worse for himself.

Danilov no longer went to the Seventh Layer of Pleasures, even though they had probably finished the cleanup. Nor had Danilov shown up on the Fifth Scholarly Layer, either. Before, he had not gone there much, anyway. It was hard for him to keep up his end in scholarly conversations with educated demons. Right now, though, with nothing else to do, he wouldn't have minded dropping by the Fifth Layer. Quite a few of his acquaintances worked there. Danilov hadn't seen one of them in a long time -- New Margarit, Karmadon's brother. Back in Ostankino, Karmadon had told Danilov that New Margarit was blazing a brilliant career. Then Danilov had learned how New Margarit had reacted to his brother's duel and downfall. So he was unlikely to turn up his nose at Danilov now. But who knew? ... Danilov could not figure out why he needed to see New Margarit. Or did not want to figure it out. That is, he knew down deep that, aside from natural curiosity, a certain mercenary motive was pushing him to the meeting.

Danilov took the elevator and went to the Fifth Layer.

The wind blew and lightning flashed there. These were not lightning bolts for bathing, even if Danilov had been able to enjoy bathing at that point. They were doing experiments.

In a green meadow Danilov saw a peasant girl in wooden clogs. She was slender and black-browed, but with cold, glassy eyes. The girl ran over to a brook and began throwing bits of fine-chopped hard-boiled egg into the water. She chanted: "Abracadabra, there's seventy-seven of you -- here's payment for each one of you." Danilov could not believe his ears and eyes. It was the Middle Ages (in Earth terms). There were seventy-seven fevers then, and to get rid of an ailment, you had to throw seventy-seven grains of millet or an egg chopped into seventy-seven parts into the water. In all probability, the fever laboratory was testing antidotes to this cure. The young girl was a lab worker, incarnated for some reason not as a patient, as the circumstances would warrant, but as a spring fever (the winter fever would be a greedy, trembling old woman).

Danilov pitied the lab -- there was a multitude of treatments for fevers. A patient could eat dog or mouse excrement or drink the blood of cattle. Or (more pleasantly) drink manure dissolved in vodka. The patient could find an ash tree with a crack and climb through it three times, thereby leaving the disease in the crack. He could carry a thread with twelve knots in it. He could avoid a fever by being absent, nailing up his door and leaving a sign on it: "He's not home, he's gone." His relatives could place the patient in a wagon and drive him at wild speeds along ravines, rocky roads, and hills. thereby shaking the fever out of him. They could also chase after him with stakes in their hands, and when the patient fell down exhausted, they could hammer the stake in next to him to nail the disease to the ground. Or at least scare it. So there were enough treatments, and they were all dependable. Naturally, specialists in fevers had not been sitting on their hands before, they knew about stakes and rocking wagons and came up with something even stronger than stakes. But that was a long time ago. Even in Danilov's youth all their efforts and discoveries were considered old-fashioned and unscientific. Why were they still fighting hard-boiled eggs?

Danilov did not wait for the end of the experiment (it probably would have been a long wait). He continued on. He now wanted to put off his meeting with New Margarit. He was embarrassed. "Am I going to ask him for something?" Danilov tormented himself. He wandered around the Fifth Layer, peeking into its various nooks and crannies.

The Fifth Layer was divided between natural testing ranges -- forests, black crevasses, rocky ocean floors where monsters swam over Danilov's head -- and buildings with metal armatures, knots of tubing, broken transparent spheres, gigantic flasks and test tubes. There were also corridors and tunnels leading to nowhere. Here and there were nameplates identifying various departments.

Carts rolled down the corridors and tunnels, dirigibles and aerostats floated above, and scientist demons walked and flew, hurrying along in their work. Sometimes one would nod to Danilov en route, and Danilov would recognize the nodder, but no conversations arose. This was work time.

Some names stood out in fiery letters: "Drying Out Laboratory," "Academy of the Evil Eye," "Warehouse of Artificial Intellects," "Room for Subtle Reasoning," "Institute of the Inside-Out Stocking," "Range for Historical Personalities." Most of the department names did not surprise Danilov. One did stop him, however: "Commission on the Use of Drowned Musicians." Danilov had always known that drowned musicians were used, but this commission was news to him. He wanted to drop in. But how could he do that? What would he say? I've brought you new information on an issue that concerns the commission? But what did concern it? That's what Danilov wanted to learn... He stood in front of the door for a while but then moved on.