Владимир Беляев - The Town By The Sea

I also wanted to spot Lika's ivy-covered window in the house next door. Now I was sure that she would carry out her promise. At dinner today, Maria Trofimovna, our landlady, had unwittingly confirmed my conviction.

"There's been a terrible crying to-do next door," she had said. "The lady's sobbing her heart out and the engineer's black as thunder. Their daughter wants to go to Leningrad and they've been trying to talk her out of it. Her mother says she'll give her anything. 'You don't need that .. . what d'ye call it ... "conservatoire," ' she says. 'We'll teach you at home. I'll hire two teachers and the choir-master from the Liski church will come round too. You'll die of consumption in Leningrad. But their daughter won't give in. Dead set on the idea, she is. She's a stubborn little miss."

Maria Trofimovna was a reliable source of information about next door and as I listened to her I felt glad Lika was going away, yet sorry that she would go without my being there to see her off. I had wanted to talk to her frankly about everything and say good-bye to her and wish her success in her new life of independence.

Children of workers and sailors, we march

With hearts that are strong and loyal.

No fear have we oftempest or storm,

Nor of long hard days of toll. . .

sang the boys.

The ship was pitching hard. Now it would plunge down from a billowing, foam-capped wave, so that your heart rose to your throat and your legs suddenly felt as if they had been filled with air, now it would rear up on a mountain of angry water and-the paddles would lash the long broken ridges of the waves. The rising wind howled at us from the pitch blackness of the open sea which was broken only by the flashing beam of the beacon on the headland.

One by one, the shore lights disappeared and the light of 'the beacon showed us that we were leaving the bay.

But we sang in spite of the storm:

Let the storm winds rage and the tempest blow, The tide of the workers is high.

Forward, young sailors and Communists all, Forward to conquer or die!...

"Your singing's fine, but do you mind clearing your stuff away from the boats. We might have to lower them if things get worse." Again I heard that familiar voice, this time at my elbow.

I turned. For an instant the beam from the lighthouse showed up the face of a young navigating officer and I recognized my old friend.

"Weasel!"

I gave such a shout that all our delegates turned round.

The sailor fell back a pace and his quick gypsy eyes widened. Obviously it was a long time since anyone had called him by his childhood nickname. For a moment he rubbed his forehead in a puzzled fashion, as if trying to remember something, and only when the beam from the lighthouse swept again over the heaving deck did he run towards me with outstretched arms.

"Mandzhura!. . . Where did you spring from?" ... Something caught in Yuzik's throat. He glanced round helplessly, then mastering his excitement, he spoke more quietly.

"Fancy meeting you here? Well, I'm darned! Vasya!. . ." I could hardly believe it myself. On a ship's deck, in a storm like this! But he it was, my old friend Weasel!

Half an hour later, the Felix Dzerzhinsky rounded the harbour bar and set course across the open sea for Mariupol. Yuzik was relieved from his watch and invited me to the officers' saloon. Golovatsky and several of the other delegates went with me.

With great difficulty, clutching hand-rails and banging our elbows on the bulkheads, we made our way to the saloon.

"I've found a friend, Nikolai Ivanovich!" Yuzik said joyfully to an old waiter in a white apron. "Haven't seen each other for years!. . . How long is it since we met, Vasil?"

"Over five years."

Weasel put his arm round my shoulders and said reproachfully: "You couldn't even write to me!

You're a fine pal!"

"But we did write to you! Petka and I, both of us! You answered once, then dried up. We we're a bit sore about it, thought your naval training had made you stuck-up."

"Me stuck-up!" Yuzik laughed. "I kept on writing and the letters came back to me all the time."

"What address did you write to, I wonder?"

"To 37, Zarechye."

"So that's what it was!" I said with relief. "We had moved to a flat in the Party School."

"Now I understand," Weasel said, also with a kind of relief in his voice, and again his face brightened with joy.

The ship was pitching and rolling. Any moment, it seemed, the huge waves would smash one of the glass portholes and pour into the saloon.

"You've grown up," Weasel said eyeing me closely. "Not the same Vasya that ransacked the birds' nests, eh! Remember how we found that hawk's nest on the cliff near the cemetery?"

"You bet I do!" I said smiling. "We found a yellow egg there with red spots on it."

"Yes, a very rare egg. And Dad chucked it away with all the rest of my collection." There was a genuine note of regret in Weasel's voice.

"That was when you took two icons out of their frames and put eggs in them instead, wasn't it?"

"That's right," he exclaimed. "What a memory you've got!"

"You made us so jealous with your gilded boxes. None of us had anything like them."

"No, they didn't," Weasel agreed and his face broke into a broad smile.

The waiter came over to us, wiping his tray and balancing with the agility of a tight-rope walker.

"What's this, friends meeting at an empty table!" he said with a smile. "What can I do for you?"

Golovatsky winked at me, then cleared his throat pompously and asked: "Any lobsters?"

"What do you mean, sir!" The waiter stared at Golovatsky as if he had dropped from the moon.

It cost us a great effort not to burst out laughing.

Weasel also looked at Tolya in surprise. How was he to know that it was a favourite joke of our secretary's to amuse us with the knowledge of aristocratic manners that he had gleaned from old novels?

"What else has this unsavoury establishment to offer then?" Golovatsky drawled in his best aristocratic manner.

The old waiter brightened up visibly.

"Olives, if you wish, sir! Caviare, fresh or salted! Very nice with fresh cucumbers! Butter. Smoked mullet. Mackerel. Sturgeon. Herrings and mustard sauce. Cold veal and horse-radish..."

"Listen, old chap," Tolya said, suddenly changing his tone, "give us a good plateful of olives and about ten pounds of bread. We've got terrific appetites. Is your bread fresh?"

"Baked in Kerch," said the waiter.

"That's fine!" Golovatsky said. "Nice and crusty?"

"Very crusty, sir!"

"Let's go on then. Butter. Cucumbers. Mackerel, or mullet, if it's good. And tea with lemon in it, of course... "

"Nothing to drink?"

"How do you mean, 'nothing'?" Tolya exclaimed. "What about the tea?"

"Nothing stimulating?" The waiter eyed our secretary meaningfully.

"Don't go in for such things," Tolya snapped. "We'll have some mineral water though, if you've got it."

"The passengers drank it all this afternoon!" And the waiter spread his arms despairingly.

"Just a sec', chaps!" Yuzik jumped to his feet and walked quickly to the companion way with as much ease as if the ship had not been rolling at all.

My old friend had been nimble enough as a boy. He had Ukrainian, Polish, and perhaps even gypsy blood in his veins. There wasn't a cranny in the Old Fortress that he hadn't climbed into, and that was why we had called him Weasel. But at sea Yuzik's movements had become amazingly sure and supple. He swayed effortlessly with the roll of the ship. Just the man to dance a hornpipe at one of our shows!

"Fine chap, isn't he?" I said to Tolya.

"Looks as if he's a smart sailor," Tolya agreed. There was a clatter from the companion way as Weasel ran down it carrying two bottles of mineral water. A third was peeping out of his side pocket.