Vladimir Orlov - Danilov the Violist

But here was "the" streetcar. Danilov put his fare in the box, turned the handle, and didn't get a ticket again. Once again, as if seeking support, he turned toward the drunk and said something about the ticket. But the drunkard did not respond. (The last time he had muttered "Ah!" and had waved his hand.) "Why bother him?" Danilov scolded himself.

At home he regretted that he had left his viola at the theater. He was dying to play. He probably wouldn't feel that he was really back until he held the viola and bow in his hands.

The apartment wasn't hot and it didn't smell. The porcelain saucer that had held the lacquered summons with the crimson signs was back in the hutch.

"Should I call Natasha, or is it too late?" He dialed her number. Natasha picked up the phone immediately.

"Everything's all right," Danilov said. "I'll see you tomorrow. Forgive me if I caused you any anxiety. Go to sleep."

And he hung up.

The phone rang immediately. "No, Natasha, not now," Danilov almost said, but he heard the voice of co-op shareholder Podkovyrov.

"Vladimir Alekseyevich, excuse me," Podkovyrov spoke urgently. "I know it's late, but I was walking my dog and saw your light, and I decided to call. I respect your sense of humor, and I'd like to try this out on you. Are you listening?"

"I'm listening," Danilov said.

"Here. A brief thought: If your spirits drop, remember which side they're buttered on. Hm? How about it? Is it funny?"

"It's funny," Danilov said and sighed like a doomed man.

"What do you think? Should I explain about the butter?"

"No."

He wanted to unplug the phone, but then he thought, what if Natasha calls? However, no one called.

He fell asleep quickly, even though he had thought he wouldn't be able to fall asleep. When he woke up he felt that something was about to happen to him or had just happened. He lifted his head and saw, on one of the chairs, his Albani viola.

45

Danilov did not take the Albani to the theater, because he foresaw the questions and wisecracks in the pit.

He took the streetcar to the theater. He thought that he should let the police and the insurance company know about the recovery of the Albani. The insurance company was easy. But the police probably would demand an explanation concerning how the lost instrument had reappeared. Or why had he bothered them when he had stuck it in some obscure closet and forgotten all about it. "They dropped it off!" Danilov practiced telling the police. And that was no lie.

The orchestra played in the rehearsal hall. During the breaks, Danilov did not relax. He and Varentsova looked over plans for special concerts. Danilov had to play with a sextet at a brake factory and in a printing shop.

Danilov was also the business manager of the sextet. He asked which vocalists would be with them, and Varentsova told him the baritone Silchenko and the mezzo Paletskaya. But Paletskaya had to be talked into it. Danilov rushed off to find Paletskaya.

Then Danilov hurried over to the string workshop. An-drianov had long ago promised Danilov an article for Tuning Fork, their newsletter, and then had forgotten about it. "The issue has to be out soon," Danilov began, but Andrianov stopped him and pulled two sheets of paper from his pocket. "If I can just get two other articles out of Sobakin and Pan-yushkin, I'll have an issue." When he got back to the pit, the violist Gorokhov, always in the know, whispered: "They say that Mosolov is finally going to put on Oedipus Rex. They don't just say it, it's for sure." Gorokhov knew that the news would please Danilov. Danilov had long felt that they didn't play enough Stravinsky in their theater. "Will we be able to handle it?" Danilov suddenly doubted.

And then he thought: "If only we could do The Flaming Angel as well..." Danilov held the Prokofiev work in awe and had been waiting years for them to decide to do it. "We should have an article about The Flaming Angel in the newsletter!" The idea struck Danilov. "But who'll write it? Pan-yushkin? Or should I do it myself?"

Danilov put Andrianov's article next to his sheet music. When he wasn't playing, Danilov turned Andrianov's pages over and read die tide: "The Great Chandelier." Andrianov loved the theater's history and spent a lot of time in the archives. In his article he was merely sharing his information on the chandelier in the main hall. But, even as he played now, Danilov sneaked looks at Andrianov's pages. He read about the artisans of bronze and crystal, read about the brackets, hooks, and lamp fixtures. "The great chandelier consists of over thirteen thousand parts," Andrianov concluded.

That evening, when they played Futile Precautions, Danilov could not keep himself from looking up at the chandelier. It was a lot better than the ballerinas' legs. Previously Danilov had liked the chandelier -- he couldn't have imagined the theater without it. But now he felt something close to revulsion toward it. Danilov ducked his head from time to time, imagining the threat of the thirteen thousand bronze, crystal, iron, glass, and other parts falling on him. The fall would probably be spectacular, the play of facets and reflections gorgeous -- but it all depended on your vantage point.

"What's the matter with me? I'm shaking! There's no reason yet..." That's what Danilov told himself, but he fled the pit during the intermissions.

On the way home, he calmed down. The chandelier was back in the theater, even though it floated over him as a shadow with dimmed lights all the way to Ostankino. Natasha was at home in Ostankino. She opened the door, let him in, and hugged him. Danilov said nothing. He simply caressed her hair. He was grateful to Natasha. He loved her and knew that she would never refuse to shoulder any burden. She had joined her life with his, and she could handle anything. "What will be, will be," thought Danilov. "And for now, she is with me.

"Well, you're back," Natasha said. "Take off your coat, wash your hands, and let's go into the kitchen..."

In the morning when Natasha left for work, Danilov phoned Klavdia Petrovna.

"What do you want from me?" Klavdia asked.

"From you?" Danilov was stunned. Then he realized that truly, this time, he did want something from her. "I wouldn't have ... but you yourself gave me advice ... about the fu-tecons ..."

"You want me to set up a meeting for you?"

"I'd be very grateful..."

"What do you need with the futecons?"

"Well, if only to get the books I need. And then you said I could be of use to you there."

Klavdia was silent. She was probably thinking.

"Well, all right," she said. "I'll try to set up a meeting with Rostovtsov for you. But bear in mind that it's hard to get in the line."

"I understand," Danilov said with a sigh.

When he hung up, he practically slammed his fist on the receiver. Why had he called? What did he need with Klavdia? Why was he worrying? Had the chandelier scared him that much? Wasn't the secretary of the futecons planning to call in two days -- that is, tomorrow? And who cared about the secretary? All Danilov had to do was use his bracelet and settle the matter in half a second. And instead -- he couldn't believe it -- he had made this pathetic entreaty to Klavdia! Why? He was about to call her back and tell her he had changed his mind, but she called first.

"It's settled!" Klavdia announced. "You can kiss my feet!

You'll be in my debt to the end of your days."

"All right, to the end of my days," Danilov agreed.

"I've convinced Rostovtsov to meet with you today."

"I have a rough day today."

"You do! Big deal! I took pity on you as it is. You have a break between four and six. At four-fifteen be at the ice cream parlor on Gorky Street."