Vladimir Orlov - Danilov the Violist

Danilov almost flew after him, but the old man had not indicated in any way that he wished him to do this, so Danilov remained on the cliff. The old man traveled so far into the distance that he appeared as small as a dust mote.

"How handsome he is," thought Danilov, "and how horrible. He does not look like me at all... He is out of some tragedy ... But his eyes, those eyes ... He understood who it was before him, I felt that in an instant... However, he looked so strange afterward..." The old man hadn't looked merely strange. His gaze had seemed mad.

It had been hinted to Danilov more than once that his father probably had lost his mind. They said that was why he had been spared and allowed to go to a distant planet as a voluntary settler. There were other opinions. But now the old man's eyes horrified him.

"I'm in the way here," Danilov thought. "He's seen me, I've seen him, and that's enough. He's a stranger to me and I'm a stranger to him. What could he say?"

It was just after these considerations that the old man reappeared. He rushed past the cliff, turned back, and made an imperious gesture with his arm (or wing?) to follow. Danilov flew after. The old man did not turn around again, assuming that his one gesture had been enough for the visitor. He was handsome and majestic in his flowing chiton. Danilov considered his own outfit (pigskin jacket and jeans) inappropriate now, too casual, and he was embarrassed. They flew a long time, but with the same yellow plain always below them, they seemed to stay in one place. Finally some dreary hills appeared. The old man stopped, raised his hand to his eyes, and looked in the distance, as if to check that everything was all right. Circling, circling, like a heavy bird, he began descending to the hills. Danilov saw a black slit... a cave ... That must be his shelter ... They flew into the cave. The old man did not turn around.

Danilov grew accustomed to the dark immediately. There were two stones in the cave. The bigger one was flat on top and served as a table; the other was smaller, a stool.

A heart-constricting feeling of filial guilt assaulted Danilov. He wanted to do something for the old man. But what? How? "Poor old man," Danilov kept repeating to himself. "Poor lonely old man."

The old man waved his arm-wings, his bushy white eyebrows met in consternation, and Danilov and his host found themselves in a marble palace hall where at least a hundred gladiators could do battle. The room was lit from above, where the hot midday sun beat into wide openings that had never known glass. Water splashed in a marble pool, bronze and ivory glistened. The old man sat in an armchair with a high back and armrests -- as majestic as a throne. The palace was clearly Roman, in the time of the Empire. The assembled people were important -- they mostly wore togas and some had armor.

They were expecting someone, probably the emperor. The emperor arrived. Danilov did not recognize him. (Caesar? Augustus? How could he expect to recognize him?) He figured that it probably was Caesar.

Everything proceeded with pomp, and Danilov saw that the most important man here was not Caesar, but the old man in the white cotton. The old man waved an arm, and the Romans disappeared. ("Was Cicero among them?" Danilov wondered belatedly.)

Danilov was in the marvelous Hall of Mirrors by Hardouin-Mansart. On the right through the windows were the main allйe, the pools with Chinese goldfish, the water parterre, and to the left, in the mirrors, the guests and the trees of the park. Above was the red, green, and light blue sky by the painter Lebrun. On the intricate parquetry ladies in convoluted hairdos and gendemen in feathers -- puppets by Watteau -- danced in the candlelight of thousands of silver chandeliers to the soft, gallant sounds of the orchestra. They brought joy to Danilov with their movements, costumes, and scents. Among the dancers was the Sun King. ("Fine cuffs!" Danilov noted.)

The old man beckoned to Louis with a dry finger. The king made apologies to his lady and quickly, though not forgetting he was the king, came over to the old man. The old man whispered something to him. Louis was taken aback, but thanked the old man and bowed. A young lady was immediately summoned to Louis, who began a courdy conversation with her. From the way his eyes were sparkling Louis had obviously been pleased by the old man's suggestions. (The Hall of Mirrors was two steps away from the king's bedroom: Hardouin-Mansart had thought of everything.) "Who is she?" Danilov wondered. "Could it be Mademoiselle de La Valliиre? She really is pretty ... How could I have missed her? ..." Danilov reached toward the girl.

But the Hall of Mirrors disappeared, and Danilov found himself near the Belgian village of Waterloo. It was chilly and his jeans were not warm enough. Toward the middle of the battle, when things started to look bad for Wellington, Danilov stopped feeling cold.

Danilov could not say for sure whether the old man was putting on a show for him or whether the old man himself was interested in these events. And suddenly the limits of the old man's world came apart, and people from all ages and nations appeared. The old man sat on his throne, huge now, and spread his arms, embracing his entire world, as if to declare: "It's all mine!"

"And if you want, it will be yours!" Danilov heard and shuddered. No, the old man's lips had not moved. "It was my imagination," Danilov decided. "And he should have had a bass voice, and that was a tenor..." Here the old man flew down from his throne, and leveled his eyes with Danilov's. Danilov was stunned, frightened, and he noticed again that for an instant the old man's gaze was sharp and wise. But immediately after it became mad. The old man flung up his arms, as he had at the cliff, and shook his head bitterly.

The light dimmed, and Danilov was in the cave once more, alone.

Danilov made his way out of the cave. "Is that it?" he thought. "Did he say good-bye to me? ... But I didn't to him..."

For some reason Danilov was certain that he would find the old man near the cliff where he had first appeared. No, the old man wasn't there. Danilov went down to the crevasse and found the old man. He was lying on the rocks, his face to the sky. "Did he crash?" Danilov worried. He did not have the nerve to walk up to him. The old man was breathing. His eyes were shut. Saliva dribbled from the corner of his mouth. Danilov took a step toward the old man. But a transformation took place. Now a tanned, naked youth lay before Danilov. His body could have been a model for Praxiteles. The young man looked at Danilov and in his eyes Danilov saw madness. The youth rose, looked up, raised his hand, and the sky turned blue. The mountains came alive, and turned green. White and pink temples sprang up on them, mountain streams began to gurgle, and creatures from the Hellenic Golden Age surrounded the youth. He looked at Danilov questioningly, as if expecting important words from him. Danilov was silent. Nymphs moved toward him in a slow deep-purple dance, accompanied by Pan's divine pipes. Danilov was silent. The youth trembled, and once more turned into an old man. The white and pink temples vanished, as did the nymphs and satyrs. Everything was now covered with luxurious orchid growths. Danilov was silent. The old man flew up to him again, looked into his eyes again, and once again seemed to recoil from him. Then with his wild eyes he indicated a point in the sky. He pointed in that direction, then hunched over and flew off.

"Now that's it," thought Danilov. "And we didn't exchange a single word. Maybe the truth exists beyond words..."

41

Danilov opened the crystal door into the Nine Layers without difficulty. They hadn't locked the door, they had not set any traps. Why would they set traps?