Anatoly Rybakov: The Dirk

"Well, here's how!" he said, and emptied his glass.

He wrinkled his face, sniffed at the bread, and cleared his throat noisily.

"Ah, that was good!" he said with a wink at Misha.

They ate the meal slowly: sliced the pork into neat pieces, chewed and sucked the skin. Before going off each drank a ladle of water.

Grandmother, however, remained in the yard. She stood a large brass pan with a long wooden handle on a tripod, heaped kindlings under it, and made a wind-break of bricks. That meant she was going to cook jam and stay there for some time. Misha saw it was no use trying to return the dirk to its hiding place, so he put it in his sleeve and went into the house.

"Don't make a noise. Grandfather's sleeping," Grandmother said grumpily when Misha passed her.

"I'll go quietly," he answered.

He hid the dirk in his room under the bed, intending to put it back where he had found it as soon as Grandmother left the yard. At the worst, he thought, he could take it back in the evening under cover of darkness.

It was so still in the house that Misha could hear the clock ticking on the wall and a fly buzzing against a window-pane. Time hung heavily on his hands.

He stopped at Uncle Senya's room and put his ear to the door. Uncle Senya was coughing and rustling some papers.

"Uncle Senya, why do sailors carry dirks?" Misha asked as he walked in.

Uncle Senya was lying on a disarranged narrow bed and reading a book. He looked at Misha over his pince-nez.

"What sailors? What dirks?" he said with a puzzled expression.

"Don't you know? Only sailors carry dirks. And I want to know why they do." Misha sat on a chair firmly resolved not to get up until dinner.

"I don't know," Uncle Senya replied impatiently. "Part of their uniform, I suppose. Is that all?"

That meant Misha had to leave the room right away. "Let me stay here a little. I'll be very quiet," he pleaded. "Only don't disturb me," Uncle Senya said, taking up his book again.

Misha sat with his hands under his thighs. Uncle Senya's small room contained a bed, a bookcase, and a writing-desk with a pistol-shaped inkpot on it. To open the inkpot you had to press the trigger. Misha wished it was his; all the boys at school would envy him then.

Pictures and portraits covered the walls. One of them was a portrait of Nekrasov Shura Bolshoi always recited from Nekrasov at school parties. " 'Who Can Be Happy and Free in Russia,' by Nekrasov," he would announce before every recital as though everyone did not know the poem had been written by Nekrasov.

The painting by Repin that hung next to Nekrasov's portrait had the words "They did not expect him." It showed a political prisoner returning home unexpectedly from exile and taking the whole family by surprise. The eyes of his daughter, who had probably forgotten him, expressed surprise and wonder, as she turned her head towards him. Misha thought of his own father who would never return. He had died in a tsarist hard-labour camp, and Misha did not remember him.

Uncle Senya had an astounding number of books; he kept them in the bookcase, on top of it, under the bed, on the table... But he never gave Misha anything to read; as if Misha did not know how to handle books. Why, in Moscow he had a library of his own; the World of Adventure magazine was worth practically everything Uncle Senya had!

Uncle Senya went on reading without paying the slightest attention to Misha. When he left the room Uncle did not even look up.

What a bore! He wished dinner-time would come round faster or that the jam would be ready. Grandmother would be sure to let him have what she had skimmed off... Misha went to the window. A huge green fly with grey wings was crawling up and down the window-pane, and every time it went down it filled the room with a loud buzzing as it beat its wings and body against the glass. At last here was something he could do! He could train his will-power a little by looking at the fly and forcing himself not to catch it.

Misha watched it. What a noise its buzzing made! If he let it go on it might awaken Grandfather. The buzzing had to be stopped, Misha decided, but to do so he had to catch the fly. No, he would not kill it; but would let it out into the street.

There was nothing easier than catching a fly. In a trice it was in his fist. He opened his hand carefully and drew the fly out by one of its wings. It beat its free wing frantically in an effort to escape, but Misha held it firmly.

He opened the window and stopped short. It would be a pity to let it go, he thought. Just wasting the time he'd spent catching it. And when you came to think of it, flies were disease-carriers. While hesitating whether to let it out or to kill it, he suddenly felt someone watching him. He looked up and saw Genka standing under the window.

"Hello, Misha!" he smirked.

"Hello," Misha replied guardedly.

"Caught many flies to-day?"

"As many as I need."

"Why aren't you coming out?"

"Don't want to."

"You're lying: you're not allowed to, that's why."

"Fat lot you know! I'll come out if I want to."

"Well, start wanting!"

"But I don't."

"You don't!" Genka laughed. "Better say you can't."

"I can't?"

"You can't!"

"If that's what you think!'" Misha climbed on the sill and jumped out into the street next to Genka.

"What d'you say to this?"

But Grandmother put her head out of the window before Genka could reply.

"Misha, come home at once!" she called. "Run!" Misha whispered.

They sped down the street, darted into a side alley, climbed over the fence into Genka's garden, and hid in a tree hut.

Genka's hut was made of boards, branches, and leaves and it stood about ten feet from the ground balanced between three trees that hid it with their foliage. From it there was a view of the entire town, the railway station, the River Desna, and the road leading to the village of Nosovka. It was cool in the hut, it smelt of pine, and the leaves quivered slightly in the dying rays of the July sun.

"How will you go home now?" Genka asked. "You'll get it from your Grandmother, you know."

"I shan't go home at all," Misha announced.

"What d'you mean?"

"I shan't go, that's all. Why should I? To-morrow Polevoy is going to take his detachment out against Nikitsky's gang, and he'll take me with him. The job's got to be done."

"What'll you do in the detachment? Be drummer to a retired goat?" Genka burst out laughing.

"You can laugh as much as you like," Misha replied imperturbably. "Polevoy's taking me as scout. In a war all scouts are boys. Polevoy also told me to choose some other fellows, but-" he looked regretfully at Genka, "we haven't got the right fellows." Misha sighed. "Looks as though I'll have to go alone."

Genka looked appealingly into Misha's eyes.

"Well, all right," Misha breathed condescendingly, "bring me something to eat and we'll think it over. Only mind you don't say a word to anyone, it's a big secret."

"Hooray!" Genka shouted. "We're going to be scouts!"

"There you go!" Misha said angrily, "You're already yelling and giving the secret away! I shan't take you."

"All right, all right!" Genka said lowering his voice to a whisper; he slid down the tree and disappeared into the garden.

While he waited for Genka, Misha stretched himself out on the plank floor and rested his chin on his fists. This was a fix! He could not sleep in the street, but he was ashamed of returning home, especially of facing Grandfather. Then he remembered about the dirk-someone might find it, and that would be a pretty kettle of fish!

Misha looked at the garden through the foliage. It was planted with low apple-trees, luxuriant pears, raspberry-canes and gooseberry bushes. Why, he asked himself, did different fruit grow on different trees when they all grew on the same ground next to each other?