Vladimir Orlov - Danilov the Violist

Danilov tossed off his jacket and lay down on the bed. So much for his flight. Danilov had been offered a different way of organizing his life. But the old man had understood Dan-ilov's attitude toward the world. And having understood it, he pointed a bony finger ... but where? Danilov asked for a star atlas, then determined which stars could be seen from the yellow planet. It looked as if the old man had been pointing at the solar system. At Earth. If only he were in charge of things ...

Danilov's knowledge of his father's past was murky. He never could determine exactly what his father's free-thinking had involved, why he had been called a Voltairean. Back in those days, just having an affair with a human (if they considered the affair serious) was enough to get punished. But was he really mad? Danilov recalled the briefly sharp and wise gaze of the old man. Maybe that was just his way, or maybe...

"But he's probably happy with his world," thought Danilov. He doesn't merely look at amusing pictures, he creates. It's interesting, but not for me. It's not life, it's a game, it's secondhand... Why play at life when you can simply live?"

Danilov felt warmth and compassion for the old man, but that was one thing; he felt no family tie to him. Danilov blamed himself, called himself callous. However, he could not kindle filial feelings in himself... But his visit to the yellow planet had not been in vain, not at all.

"Really, why not play the old man's game?" Danilov began daydreaming. He would have liked, say, to appear in 1732 near the Leipzig Thomaskirche, to see the cantor there. Still vigorous at age forty-seven, he had just written the Coffee Cantata. He would stride over to Danilov, pull out a sheaf of papers from his camisole, and say: "Here, Danilov, I've dedicated a viola concerto to you. I'd be honored if you'd perform it..."

"That's impossible!" Danilov cut off his daydream. He got up. He was angry. When were they going to call him at last? Think of all the money they were wasting on him. Danilov was incensed... He was also hungry, and so he decided to go to the restaurant and eat and drink so much that the financial services would report on the great expense of keeping Danilov in the Fourth Layer of Hospitality for extended periods.

Just as Danilov sat down at the table, Ugrael came up. "Him again," thought Danilov angrily.

Ugrael's ears were wandering around his face, passing by his nose and eyes.

"Have a seat," Danilov suggested.

"What have you ordered?" Ugrael asked.

"Grouse on a spit, I think," Danilov said.

"I'll have the oysters."

"Why not?" thought Danilov, getting into the swing of things. "The grouse is good! As long as it's crusty and covered with marinated mushrooms." At that instant Danilov was grabbed by the scruff of his neck -- his collar dug into his throat like a noose -- and dragged off.

Danilov dangled in the air, choking, and making clumsy movements with his arms and legs. He was conked on the head and lost consciousness for a minute. When he came to, he saw that he was sitting on a hard chair, strapped to the back. "Why the straps?" thought Danilov indignantly.

He faced a black wall. Written in fiery letters on it was: Time X! Time X! Time X! The words danced and bounced and leaped at Danilov, growing larger for an instant and bursting into white flames. Then came a persistent, whining sound, and when it died away, the fiery words also died away. Danilov saw that his chair was in a high-ceilinged room that resembled the lyceum auditorium. He was high up, in the balcony. The room was empty, but very soon a tiny figure appeared where the lectern should loom. "Valentin Sergey-evich!"

Valentin Sergeyevich had on the same pince-nez in which Danilov first saw him at the meeting of house spirits on Argunovskaya Street. But back then he wore a jacket, and now he wore a Tolstoyan peasant shirt with a silk cord around his waist. He held a wastebasket, a broom, and dustpan. Danilov was astonished by this. The fiery letters had announced Time X, but there seemed to be an error. The floor hadn't been swept, and the judges, investigators, and executioners had not arrived. They had sent out Valentin Sergeyevich to sweep up. He was trying very hard. Only on earth and only with Danilov had he dared to be insolent, because he knew that Danilov's position was shaky. Here his every gesture, his every feature, gave evidence (to whom?) that he was a miserable creature and knew his place. Danilov even felt sorry for him. "Look how rough it is on the worker," thought Danilov. "How is his lot any better than mine?"

Then there was an explosion. As if Valentin Sergeyevich had stepped on a mine. The smoke cleared gradually, and there was revealed Valentin Sergeyevich. But not quite the same Valentin Sergeyevich. He was changing before Danilov's eyes. His face was turning imperious, the pince-nez melted away. The peasant shirt turned into a suit with gold trim. He grew taller and heavier, and now he was the severe and mighty chief of the Chancery of the Other World Danilov's eyes smarted. So this was the real Valentin Sergeyevich! The Chief of the Chancery himself had taken an interest in Danilov and his errors. He must have taken satisfaction hiding in the skin of an insignificant creature, a miserable wretch, an old man running messages and knowing full well that the moment would come when he would drop his bombshell.

Valentin Sergeyevich -- Danilov could not call the Chief of the Chancery anything but Valentin Sergeyevich -- gazed sternly at Danilov. Yet he had already created the desired effect. Feeling that the time had come, Valentin Sergeyevich seemed to press a button, and it began for Danilov.

The light in the room turned electric blue, due to a lamp like the ones used in the 1940s to cure colds. The light grew thicker and darker, making Danilov feel depressed. His chair began shaking, then was swept up and carried down, then back up to the right. The chair was like one of those horrid rides at a fair that should not be ridden by people with bad hearts or inner-ear troubles. He spun faster and faster. Danilov clutched the straps -- he was glad to have them now. Now they were the only things that could save him, he thought.

Danilov was so disgusted that he really did want to vanish for good.

But now the chair was bouncing harder, as if it were on a cobblestone road, or in the middle of a logjam. But then the speed was reduced and the light was not as thick and weird. Faces flashed past Danilov -- he recognized some of them.

Valentin Sergeyevich's Deputy of Rules and Regulations flew into the blue light, along with coworkers of Valentin Sergeyevich from the Chancery of the Other World, high officials from the Chancery of Order, and learned gentlemen, including New Margarit. Their eyes were stern and ready to punish.

Danilov had the feeling that his judges in their chairs (or perhaps on divans) were also flying. He had heard that hearings on the fate of demons who had particularly displeased the chanceries took place in the most varied circumstances: simply in the dark, with nothing but voices; in rooms that looked like courtrooms on Earth; in official offices, with shouts and fists banging on desks; in historical dress, with the rack and wheel, hot irons, and guillotines, which, incidentally, were not used but were simply there for atmosphere. Danilov had obviously gotten something that was not quite a carousel but had a lot of carousel in it.

A flash of light illuminated Valentin Sergeyevich's face and he intoned:

"The fate is being decided of demon by contract, Danilov, Vladimir Alekseyevich."

42

A new flash of light revealed the Deputy of Rules and Regulations in the darkness of nonbeing. The deputy intoned slowly, majestically, and reproachfully.

He spoke for a long time, going into detail, naming Dan-ilov's errors, dubious thoughts, manner of behavior, and pretensions in seventy-three instances. To be fair he noted that Danilov did not waste money; on the contrary, Danilov saved official funds. But that had no bearing on the issues at hand. He had violated many of the terms of the agreement, which upon signing in blood from his blue vertical vein had made him a demon on contract. He violated some even now, after being summoned to the Nine Layers with the announcement of Time X. The violations of the terms of the agreement in themselves were nothing terrible; these violations could have been handled through normal official channels. But the point was not in the violation of the contract.