Vladimir Orlov - Danilov the Violist

"All right," Danilov said.

"Danilov, another thing ... this is very important to me. Something's been happening to Rostovtsov in the past few days. He's involved in something. I'm asking you to ... sort of casually ... find out what's up. Maybe he'll open up to you. He's been going to the racetrack for some reason..."

"So," thought Danilov later, "she's setting me up with Rostovtsov for an ulterior motive. He must be getting out of hand and she needs information on him..."

A little after four, Danilov was on the corner of the Art Theater passageway. He stood there for a minute or two and saw Rostovtsov on horseback. Rostovtsov was riding down the sidewalk toward him. He looked rather ordinary today, no parrot on his shoulder, no staff, no hookah. The other people on Gorky Street were not at all surprised by the horse and rider, except for, perhaps, Rostovstov's unseasonal dress -- jockey silks. Rostovtsov jumped down from the horse, tied it to a linden, and strode toward Danilov. They said hello and shook hands. Danilov said that in all probability Rostovtsov knew with whom he was dealing even if they had never been formally introduced. Yes, Rostovtsov agreed, that was so. They went into the ice cream parlor, went up to the balcony, and ordered sundaes and a bottle of Tvishi wine.

"From what Klavdia Petrovna told me, I understand that you, Vladimir Alekseyevich, wish to get into the line for the futecons?"

"Yes," Danilov said.

"Excuse me, but why do you want to?"

"I ..." Danilov muttered and thought: "Is this a preliminary examination or something? What if he wants the entrance fee right now? I don't even know if I'll be able to pay for the ice cream..." Then he said, "I don't think Klavdia quite understood me. It's not that I'm desperate to get in. If helping me is in any way a burden to you, let's forget the whole thing right now..."

"No," Rostovtsov said sternly. "It's not a burden. But why do you need to?"

"Books! I don't have time to keep track of what's in the bookstores nor the money to pay black-market prices."

"You need books?"

"Yes," Danilov said. "I collect them. And read them ... on music, art, history. The Louvre just came out in a large format, but how do I get it? I can't live without books."

Danilov wasn't lying here.

"I understand you," Rostovtsov said. "People are investing in books. Like carpets and precious stones ... I'm a bibliophile myself. I'm trying to collect everything on horses now...."

"You have a marvelous horse there," Danilov interjected flatteringly.

"That's just an old mare," Rostovtsov said negligently. "I took whichever horse was available. But I have a truly fine stallion."

Once he mentioned the stallion, Rostovtsov was a different man.

"You enjoy horseback riding?" Danilov asked.

"Yes, I adore it."

And Rostovtsov, without any prompting from Danilov, and without even caring whether Danilov was interested, began telling about his obsession: He started because it was fashionable, and went riding with the club at Sokolniki Park. ("Like Muravlyov," noted Danilov.) At first he fell off his horses, broke his ribs, spent two months in the hospital. But he didn't give up. And now he was riding through the paths of Sokolniki Park with the others. Really riding! It fired his passion. His nostrils flared! His ancestors, maybe Scythians, came alive in him. He felt like a real man on horseback. His love of beauty was satisfied -- is there a more beautiful animal than a horse, especially one in motion? He went to the racetrack, he read tons of books and articles in obscure journals.

"I'm too heavy and too tall to be a jockey, you can see that, but I'd like to ride in the trotters -- weight isn't as important there. They use little carts."

"You're dreaming about trotting now?"

"I'm not dreaming, I'm training for it... What I'm dreaming about... I dream of being one with the horse, mastering it without bridle or bit, to achieve that freedom and perfection! ... Anyone can do it with a bridle and bit. But once upon a time the Numidians and Greeks merely held a stick in their hands and the horses obeyed. Why shouldn't I be able to do that?"

"You probably will," Danilov said politely.

Rostovtsov was lost in his dreams of unsaddled stallions. Then he came to his senses. He gave Danilov a meek, guilty smile. Danilov liked him this way, simple and shy. But Rostovtsov quickly turned serious again.

"Excuse me... So why do you need the futecons?"

"What? I just told you..."

"I understand about the books," Rostovtsov said. "But if you could get the books without the futecons? I know a few things about you. I like you. Why get involved with their baloney?"

"What baloney?"

"The line for the futecons! The confutes!"

"I don't understand you."

"But you should understand them. It's a mirage."

"Meaning what?"

"Mirage, vision, phony, fake! I really do like you and I feel obligated to open your eyes. The futecons are my invention."

Danilov tensed up. He did not want the whole futecon thing to be a mirage.

"I'm like that," Rostovtsov said. "I'm a mischief-maker. I like practical jokes. Many have suffered because of them. I've suffered. But, alas, I'm incorrigible... and it's the same with the futecons. About three years ago I was with some people. I met the sociologist Oblakov and two economists. They were the big men at the party; they spoke loudly and well. So, just to keep up my end of the social chitchat, I told them about an initiative group concerned about the future. I was just fooling around, using unfamiliar terminology, parodying it, but they didn't see the joke at all. On the contrary, they were all ears. 'We should try it,' they said.

"I should have dropped the 'idea' right there, but my juvenile side came into play. And the line formed. And now it operates on its own steam, quite apart from me."

"So you turned to horses?"

"Yes," Rostovtsov said with a nod. "As soon as the line took on a life of its own, I lost interest in it."

"But the time will come when you'll ride on a stallion with-out saddle and bridle, and then you'll get sick of horses."

"That's true," Rostovtsov agreed readily.

"Have you been like this all your life?"

"Yes. It's my nature."

"You work somewhere, don't you?"

"I do."

"You have a sign on your door: Graduate of Two Institutes (One of them a University)."

"Yes. The Institute of Physical Culture. I majored in swimming, but I don't swim or teach swimming anymore. I just take baths. Then the university. I majored in mechanical mathematics."

"Is your work connected with space?"

"Yes." Rostovstov made flying motions with his fingers. But now I just play jokes and ride mares."

"And are you having fun, at least?"

"It's not a question of fun ... and there's something else. The more discoveries in science, at least in the area where I worked, the more mysteries. The thought occurs to you: 'Is someone playing a joke on us? Is my life just somebody else's joke?' That's why / play jokes, to comfort myself, to seek some balance."

"You've just been reading too much foreign science fiction," Danilov said.

"Maybe," Rostovtsov said musingly.

"But what's going on? You said it was a mirage. But it's not. There is a line. And I'll get the books, I hope. And the others will obtain even more valuable items! I have no doubt about it. New connections, new influences, new information, new jobs, and new things. And all thanks to you! In some degree. And you wash your hands of it and go riding."

"What are you getting at?" Rostovtsov looked up.

"Well..." Danilov looked embarrassed. But he continued, "That you really are irresponsible. You yourself gave those wheeler-dealers the means for success, and then you run off. No, that won't do. They'll succeed thanks to you ... Is that right? ..."