Michael Pearce - Dmitri and the Milk-Drinkers

He showed it to Novikov.

‘You’re the Chief of Police. Where would you suggest I made a start? I’m looking especially for a political connection.’

‘Political?’ said Novikov doubtfully. He looked at the list. ‘I don’t think you’ll find that any of these are what you might call political. They’re all quite respectable.’

And that was basically the problem with Larissa Philipovna. She would have been so much happier talking about ponies than about politics. She seemed to Dmitri to be unbelievably young. How she could be an intimate of someone as poised and elegant as Anna Semeonova (who was improving all the time in his recollection), Dmitri could not think. If the image that Anna Semeonova had left with him was that of an ice-cool nordic heroine, the picture that her friend presented was that of a puppy in pigtails.

She received him, perched anxiously on the edge of her chair, in what her mother irritatingly referred to as ‘the salon’. Oh, yes, (wide-eyed) she was Anna Semeonova’s friend, her very closest friend. They saw each other all the time. They visited each other’s houses almost every other day. Or used to. They wrote verses in each other’s albums. Would Dmitri Alexandrovich care to …?

Dmitri winced and handed the book back.

Used to?

Well, yes. Just the last week or two, or perhaps it wasn’t even weeks but months, they hadn’t seen quite as much of each other. Anna Semeonova was studying.

Studying? What?

Books. Larissa Philipovna lowered her voice. This was serious; indeed, possibly more than serious: grave. Terribly difficult ones. She had shown some to her once and Larissa Philipovna had not been able to understand a word. Even Anna Semeonova herself had found them difficult. She had said so.

Then why had she taken to reading them?

Oh, it was because she was so very clever. She wanted to know about things. And why things were the way they were.

Politics?

Politics! Larissa Philipovna was aghast. No, no, definitely not! Anna Semeonova wasn’t that kind of girl, not that kind of girl at all! Larissa Philipovna was sure –

‘All right, all right,’ said Dmitri. ‘I just wondered. Now, tell me, was there anyone she liked to talk to about all the reading? Any new friends, perhaps?’

Well, there was that new doctor, Vera Samsonova –

‘Ah, Vera Samsonova?’ said Dmitri, pricking up his ears.

She had gone to her once to ask her about something in a book she had been reading.

‘Something medical?’

‘It was to do with numbers,’ said Larissa Philipovna hesitantly.

Ah!

‘The Health Question?’ Larissa Philipovna put forward, emboldened.

‘I see. And Anna Semeonova called on her, did she?’

‘Yes. And she was very nice. She told her everything she wanted to know and a lot more besides. And she said she could come again if she wanted. And I think she did go again. Only …’

‘Only what?’

‘Only I don’t think that makes Vera Samsonova a friend , does it, Dmitri Alexandrovich? Not a real friend, the way Anna and I are friends? I mean, she’s so much older . She couldn’t be, could she?’

Blue eyes looked up trustingly at Dmitri.

‘Not a real friend,’ said Dmitri, and immediately kicked himself. Why had he let her wheedle that out of him?

‘I know,’ breathed Larissa Philipovna.

‘There are different kinds of friendship,’ he said sternly.

‘Oh, yes!’ said Larissa Philipovna.

This examination was not going the way he had intended.

‘Tell me about her friends,’ he said firmly. ‘Did she have a boyfriend, for instance?’

‘Oh, Dmitri Alexandrovich!’ she cried, and collapsed in a fit of giggles.

The door at the end of the room opened slightly. It was that bitch of a mother, he was sure.

Nettled, he moved closer to Larissa Philipovna. She was not altogether unattractive. Or, at least, she wouldn’t be in about ten years’ time. Physically, that was. Mentally, of course …

‘Dmitri Alexandrovich!’

‘Would you care for some tea, Dmitri Alexandrovich?’ said the bitch of a mother, coming definitely into the room.

Vera Samsonova, tracked down at last to the small room she used as a dispensary, regarded him unwelcomingly.

‘Yes?’

Dmitri declared himself.

‘I’m sorry I missed you last night,’ he said.

‘You didn’t miss me. I didn’t go.’

‘I thought that Sonya – ’

‘She asked me. I wasn’t free.’

‘Oh.’

‘In any case, I probably wouldn’t have gone.’

‘Oh, that’s a pity. Why not, may I ask?’

‘I think such gatherings are a bit beside the point,’ said Vera Samsonova. ‘Don’t you?’

‘Beside what point?’ asked Dmitri cautiously.

‘If you’re looking for intellectual involvement you’re not going to find it there.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. The people are very agreeable – ’

‘Agreeable,’ said Vera Samsonova, ‘but not very interesting.’

‘Considering that we live in Kursk – ’ Dmitri began.

‘It’s not where they live,’ said Vera Samsonova, ‘it’s the kind of people they are. Dilettante. And naturally they want to talk about dilettante-ish things.’

‘Art?’ said Dmitri, annoyed. ‘Culture? Where Russia is going?’

‘Perhaps the subjects are not dilettante,’ Vera conceded. ‘It’s just the way they are talked about.’

‘Ah, well, there I agree with you – ’

‘In terms of generalities. You ask where Russia is going; not what it ought to be doing about sewage.’

‘Sewage!’

‘Yes, sewage. And farming and engineering and taxation – ’

‘Taxation!’

‘Taxation.’

‘Boring!’ said Dmitri, rallying.

‘Real!’ said Vera Samsonova defiantly.

‘Absolute nonsense!’

‘You see?’ said Vera. ‘Prejudiced!’

‘Not prejudiced at all,’ said Dmitri: ‘rational. And surely these things can be discussed rationally. That’s the point of our gatherings.’

‘You’ve got the wrong people there,’ said Vera. ‘You ought to have surveyors and agronomists – ’

‘Sewage experts?’

‘Certainly.’

‘You’ll be saying doctors next!’

Vera considered. Then, unexpectedly, her face dimpled and broke into a smile. Up till now, Dmitri had attributed to her all the charm of a pair of scissors.

‘Well, perhaps not doctors. At least, not the kind of doctors we have in Kursk!’

‘There you are! Come and give us a chance to argue your points.’

‘Maybe. It would certainly be better than arguing them here. Now, look, I’ve got work to do. Haven’t you?’

‘I’m doing it,’ said Dmitri, injured. ‘I’m here on business.’

‘You are? Well, it’s a pretty relaxed kind of business compared with mine, I can tell you. Or perhaps it’s just that our approaches are different. You prefer a more general one. What was it exactly that you came for?’

‘I came to ask about Anna Semeonova.’

Vera Samsonova put down the burette she had been holding and turned to give him her full attention.

‘Has she been found?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Well, I suppose that’s good news in a way. I was afraid – ’ she gave a slight shake of her shoulders – ‘that the next time I might see her was when she was brought here.’

‘Do you have any particular reason for fearing that?’

‘No.’

‘She might just have run away.’

‘She might.’

‘If she had, would that surprise you?’

‘Would it surprise me?’ Vera Samsonova considered. ‘No, to the extent that she is an independent girl and capable of independent action. Yes, to the extent that she would have had to have had a reason.’