Nozdrin responded with a volley of curses. For a moment Viktor wasn't sure who they were aimed at.
Towards the end of the afternoon Sokolov came up to Viktor.
'Viktor Pavlovich, I admire you. You've been working all day as though nothing had happened. You're a real Socrates.'
'If a man's born blond, his hair won't turn brown just because he's been abused on a wall-newspaper,' said Viktor.
He was by now so accustomed to his feeling of resentment towards Sokolov as to be almost unconscious of it. He no longer reproached him for his excessive caution. Sometimes he said to himself, 'He does have many good qualities – and, besides, we all have our failings.'
'Yes,' said Sokolov, 'but there are articles and articles. Anna Stepanovna felt quite ill after reading it. First she went to the first-aid post and then she was sent home.'
'What on earth have they written?' thought Viktor. He preferred not to ask Sokolov, and no one else mentioned it to him. He might just as well have had terminal cancer.
That evening Viktor was the last to leave the laboratory. Alexey Mikhailovich, the old caretaker now working as a cloakroom attendant, said:
'That's how it is, Viktor Pavlovich. There's no peace in this world for an honest man.'
Viktor put on his coat, went back up the stairs and stopped in front of the board.
When he had read the article, he looked round in confusion. For a moment he thought he was going to be arrested then and there – but the hall was quiet and empty.
He could feel quite tangibly the difference in weight between the fragile human body and the colossus of the State. He could feel the State's bright eyes gazing into his face; any moment now the State would crash down on him; there would be a crack, a squeal – and he would be gone.
The street was full of people, but there seemed to be a strip of no man's land between them and Viktor.
In the trolleybus a man in a soldier's winter cap turned excitedly to his companion. 'Have you heard the latest news?'
' Stalingrad!' someone else shouted from one of the front seats. 'The enemy's been crushed.'
A middle-aged woman stared at Viktor. She seemed to be reproaching him for his silence.
Viktor thought about Sokolov almost tenderly now. 'Yes, we all of us have our failings.'
But no one ever sincerely believes his own failings to be equal to those of other people. Soon Viktor was thinking: 'Yes, but his views depend on his success, on the love shown him by the State. Now the tide's turning, now it looks like victory, he won't utter a word of criticism. But I'm not like that: whether the State's strong or weak, whether it beats me or caresses me, my convictions remain the same.'
When he got home, he would tell Lyudmila all about the article. Yes, they really did have it in for him now. 'So much for the Stalin Prize, Lyudochka', he would say. 'An article like that means you're going to be arrested.'
'We share one destiny,' he thought. 'She'd accompany me if I was invited to lecture at the Sorbonne – and she'll accompany me to a camp in Kolyma.'
'Well, you can't say you haven't brought it on yourself,' Lyudmila would say.
He would reply coolly: 'I don't need criticism. I've had enough of that at the Institute. I need understanding and affection.'
Nadya opened the door. She flung her arms round him and buried her face in his breast.
'What's the matter? Let me take my coat off. I'm cold and wet.'
'Haven't you heard yet? Stalingrad! There's been a tremendous victory! The Germans have been surrounded! Come on, come on!'
She helped him off with his coat, took him by the hand and dragged him down the corridor.
'This way. Mama's in Tolya's room.'
She opened the door. Lyudmila was sitting at Tolya's desk. Slowly she turned her head and gave Viktor a sad, solemn smile.
He couldn't bring himself to talk about what had happened at the Institute. Instead, they all sat down at Tolya's desk; Lyudmila drew a diagram showing how the Germans had been encircled and explained her plan of operations to Nadya.
That night, when Viktor was alone in his room, he thought:
'Oh God! Why don't I write a letter of repentance? That's what everyone else does in a situation like this.'
21
It was several days since the article had first appeared. Work in the laboratory was going on as usual. Sometimes Viktor sank into depression; sometimes his spirits revived and he paced animatedly up and down the laboratory, tapping out his favourite tunes on the windowsill and the metal pipes.
He said jokingly that an epidemic of shortsightedness had broken out in the Institute; people he knew looked straight through him and passed by without so much as a word. Once, on the street, Gurevich caught sight of Viktor in the distance; he looked thoughtful, crossed to the other side and started reading a notice. Viktor had seen all this; he and Gurevich then looked round at the same moment and their eyes met. Gurevich waved at him, pretending to look pleased and surprised. All this was far from amusing.
Svechin said hello when they met. He even made an effort to walk more slowly. But from the look on his face he might have been greeting the ambassador of a hostile power. Viktor kept count of who turned away, who just nodded and who shook hands with him.
As soon as he got home, he would ask his wife: 'Has anyone rung?'
And Lyudmila would nearly always answer: 'Only Marya Ivanovna.'
Knowing what he usually asked next, she would add: 'And there's still no letter from Madyarov.'
'Do you see?' said Viktor. 'The people who used to ring up every day now only ring occasionally – and the people who used to ring occasionally have stopped altogether.'
He even thought he was being treated differently at home. On one occasion he was drinking tea and Nadya walked past without saying anything.
'You might say hello,' he called out. 'Do you think I'm an inanimate object?'
He looked quite pathetic. Instead of coming out with some harsh retort, Nadya said hurriedly: 'Dear Papa, I'm very sorry!'
That same day he asked: 'Listen, Nadya, are you still seeing your great strategist?'
She simply shrugged her shoulders.
'I just wanted to warn you. Please don't talk politics with him. All I need is to be criticized on that count too.'
Again, instead of replying sarcastically, Nadya said: 'You don't need to worry, Papa.'
On his way to the Institute in the morning, Viktor tried to avoid meeting people; he would look round to assess the situation, then walk either more quickly or more slowly. When he arrived he would make sure the corridor was empty and then rush down it as quickly as he could, his head bowed. If one of the doors opened, his heart almost stopped beating. As he reached the laboratory, he would heave a sigh of relief – like a soldier regaining his trench under enemy fire.
One day Savostyanov came into Viktor's office and pleaded with him.
'Viktor Pavlovich, I entreat you, we all of us entreat you: write a letter, say you repent! I can assure you that will help. Just think: you're throwing away everything – and at a time when an important – no, a truly great – work lies before you, a time when all that is genuine in our science looks to you with hope. Write a letter, admit your errors.'
'What errors? What do you want me to repent of?'
'Who cares? It's what everyone does – writers, scientists, political leaders, even your beloved Shostakovich. He admits his errors, writes letters of repentance – and then returns to work. It's like water off a duck's back.'
'But what do you want me to repent of? And who to?'
'The director, the Central Committee… It doesn't matter – as long as you repent! Something like this: "I have committed errors and I admit my guilt. I am now conscious of this and I promise to mend my ways." That sort of thing – you know what's expected. That's bound to help; it always helps.'