Anatoly Rybakov - The Dirk

Grandmother was moving large baskets of cherries that stood on a bench. She was wearing a greasy dressing-gown, the pockets weighed down with keys. Her plump face was careworn and furrowed with wrinkles, and near-sightedness made her blink her small, slightly squinting eyes.

"Take your hands off!" she exclaimed when Misha put his hand into a basket. "The idea... with dirty paws!"

"Stingy!" Misha grumbled.

"You can have some later. Go and wash yourself first."

Misha went to the sink; he wetted his palms under the tap, touched the tip of his nose, slid his hands across the towel, and went to the dining-room.

Grandfather was already there, sitting in his customary seat "at the head of the long table covered with a brown oilcloth with a flowered pattern. He was a grey-haired old man with a thin beard and a reddish moustache, and when Misha came in he was using his thumb to carry a pinch of tobacco to his nostrils and sneezing into a yellow handkerchief. There was laughter in his lively eyes, set in kindly beaming wrinkles, and from his jacket came a mild, pleasant smell, that was exclusively his own.

Breakfast had not yet been served, and to while away the time Misha pushed his plate into the middle of a rose in the pattern of the oilcloth and with his fork traced a ring round it.

A deep scratch appeared on the oilcloth.

"My respects to Mikhail Grigoryevich!" Polevoy's merry voice boomed behind Misha.

Polevoy came out of his room with a towel tied round his waist.

"Good morning, Sergei Ivanovich," Misha replied with a sly look at Polevoy: he would never guess that Misha knew about the dirk!

Misha covered the scratch with his elbows when Grandmother carried the samovar into the room.

"Where's Senya?" Grandfather asked.

"In the store-room," Grandmother replied. "Took it into his head to repair his bicycle at this unearthly hour!"

Misha started at these words and took his elbows off the table, forgetting all about the scratch. Went to repair the bike?! Just his luck! Uncle Senya had not gone near the bicycle all summer and of all days he had to do the repairing to-day. He was bound to see the tube now and make a tiresome fuss.

Uncle Senya certainly was a nuisance! If Misha got into a scrape with Grandmother she would simply give him a scolding and let it go at that. But not Uncle Senya. Not him! His style was to curl his lips and begin a long lecture. Whenever that happened he would look past Misha, fidget with his pince-nez, endlessly putting it on and taking it off, pull at the gilt buttons on his student uniform. Misha could not see why he still wore that uniform: he had been expelled from the university a long time ago for "stirring up disturbances." It would be interesting to know what disturbances such a well-mannered person as Uncle Senya could stir up. His face was pale and grave, and he wore a short moustache. At dinner he usually squinted over a book and ate his food absent-mindedly.

The clatter of the bicycle in the store-room made Misha start again.

And when Uncle Senya appeared in the doorway with the slashed tube in his hand Misha sprang out of his chair, overturning it as he dashed out of the house.

He dashed across the garden, scrambled over the fence and landed in the neighbouring street-Ogorodnaya. Only a hundred yards separated this street from his own-the Alekseyevskaya; but the Ogorodnaya boys, sworn enemies of the boys from the Alekseyevskaya, noticed Misha and charged upon him from all sides, gleefully whooping and whistling at the prospect of beating up a boy from the Alekseyevskaya, and a Moscovite to boot.

Misha quickly climbed back on to the fence and straddled his legs over it.

"What, caught me?" he shouted at them. "You miserable Ogorodnaya (Ogorodnaya-from the Russian ogorod, meaning vegetable garden. -Tr). scarecrows!"

He could not have picked on a deadlier insult. A hail of stones showered down on him. Misha slid off the fence, feeling a lump swelling on his forehead, but the stones continued to fly, landing near the house from which Grandmother made a sudden appearance. She peered near-sightedly and, turning to the house, called to someone. Uncle Senya, most likely. Misha pressed himself against the fence.

"Hey, fellows," he called out, "wait a sec! I want to tell you something."

"What?" demanded a voice from the other side of the fence.

"First stop throwing!" Misha climbed back to the fence, cautiously watching the boys' hands, and said: "Why did you all team up against one fellow? Play fair-one against one."

"Come on then!" cried Petka Petukh (Petukh-from the Russian meaning cock.-Tr.), a sturdy boy of about fifteen throwing off his torn jacket and pugnaciously rolling up his sleeves.

"Let's agree that while we're fighting you fellows won't interfere," Misha warned.

"All right, all right, come down!"

Uncle Senya was already standing beside Grandmother on the porch. Misha jumped off the fence and Petukh immediately stepped up to him. He was almost twice Misha's size.

"Hey, what's that?" Misha said, poking at the steel buckle on Petka's belt.

The rules forbade any metal objects on the clothes of the opponents. Petukh took off the belt, and his trousers almost dropped. He caught them with one hand and while he was tying them up with a bit of string someone had given him, Misha pushed the boys to make a wider ring.

"Give us more room!" he was saying; then, seeing a chance of getting away, he shoved one of the boys aside and took to his heels.

The Ogorodnaya boys started off in pursuit, shouting and whistling; Petukh brought up the rear, holding on to his trousers and almost crying with disappointment.

Misha ran as fast as his legs could carry him, his bare heels flashing in the sun. Behind him he heard the patter of his pursuers' feet, their heavy breathing and cries. He made a sharp turn, dashed down a short alley, and reached his own street. The Alekseyevskaya boys came running to his rescue, but the others turned back without going into battle.

"Where've you come from?" red-haired Genka asked.

Misha drew a sharp breath and looked round at his friends.

"Ogorodnaya Street," he said nonchalantly. "Fought fair and square with Petukh, and when I was getting the better of it, they all jumped on me."

"You fought Petukh?" Genka asked dubiously.

"Who else? You? A tough chap he is; look at the bump he gave me!" Misha said, touching his forehead.

His friends gazed on this blue mark of his valour with great respect.

"I gave him something to remember me by, too," Misha continued. "And I took away his catapult."

He pulled a catapult with long red rubber bands out of his shirt.

"Better'n yours by a long shot!"

He hid the catapult and gave a contemptuous look at the girls making mud-pies.

"Well, and what are you doing?" he jeered at Genka. "Playing hide-and-seek, catchers? 'Who's afraid of the big bad wolf, big bad wolf, big bad wolf-"

"What d'you take me for!" Genka exclaimed with a shake of his red forelock, but for some reason he flushed and said quickly "Let's play knives."

"For five hot ones with grease."

"Right."

They sat on the wooden pavement and began throwing a penknife into the ground in turns: a plain throw, from the palm, a long throw, over the shoulder, a straight throw...

Misha finished the ten throws first and Genka stretched his hand out to him. Then Misha made a fierce face and raised two spit-wetted fingers. The few seconds that these preliminaries took seemed eternal to Genka, but Misha did not hit him.

"The grease's dried up," he said, lowering his hand.

He started wetting his fingers all over again. This was repeated before every blow, until Misha finally paid off all the five hot ones. Genka tried to hold back the tears welling up in his eyes as he blew on his smarting hand; it had turned blue.