Except for Belov’s sighs and the usual rumble of superheated steam in the reactor, it was quiet in the cabin. Quiet, cramped, and dark. Occasionally shrimp knocked against the spectrolite [unreadable: Sirw-riv:] porthole and rushed off in fright in a cloud of luminous slime. It was like small, soundless pink explosions. As if someone were shooting tiny bullets. During the flashes you could catch glimpses of Akiko’s flashing eyes and serious face.
Akiko watched the screen. She had squeezed sideways to the wall and started looking from the very beginning, although she knew that they would have to search a long time, perhaps all night. The screen was under the porthole, in the center of the control board, and in order to see it she had to crane her neck. But she watched it fixedly and silently, It was her first deep-water search.
She was a free-style swimming champion. She had narrow hips and broad muscular shoulders. Kondratev liked to look at her, and he felt like finding some pretext to turn on the light. In order to inspect the hatch fastener one last time before descent, for instance. But Kondratev did not turn on the light. He simply remembered Akiko: slender and angular like a teenager, with broad muscular shoulders, wearing loose shorts and a linen jacket with rolled-up sleeves.
A fat, bright blip appeared on the screen. Akiko’s shoulder squeezed up to Kondratev’s. He sensed that she was craning her neck in order to see better what was happening on the screen. He could tell this by the odor of perfume-and in addition, he smelled the barely noticeable odor of salt water. Akiko always smelled of salt water: she spent two-thirds of her time in it.
Kondratev said, “Sharks. At four hundred meters.”
The blip trembled, broke into tiny spots, and disappeared. Akiko moved away. She did not yet know how to read the sonar signals. Belov did, since he had already spent a year’s apprenticeship on the Kunashir, but he sat in back and could not see the screen. He said, “Sharks are nasty customers.” Then he made a clumsy movement and said, “Beg your pardon, Akiko-san.”
There was no need to speak English, since Akiko had studied in Khabarovsk for five years and understood Russian perfectly well.
“You didn’t have to eat so much,” Kondratev said angrily. “You didn’t have to drink. You know what happens.”
“All we had was roast duck for two,” said Belov. “And two glasses of wine apiece, I couldn’t say no. We hadn’t seen each other in ages, and his flight leaves this evening. Has already left, probably. Just two glasses… Does it really smell?”
“It smells.”
This is rotten, thought Belov. He stuck out his lower lip, blew out softly, and sucked in through his nose. “All I smell is perfume,” he said.
Idiot, thought Kondratev.
Akiko said guiltily, “I didn’t know it would be so strong, or I wouldn’t have used it.”
“There’s nothing wrong with perfume,” Belov said. “It’s nice.”
Taking him along was a bad move, thought Kondratev.
Belov banged the top of his head against the hatch fastener and hissed in pain.
“What?” asked Kondratev.
Belov sighed, sat down tailor-fashion, and raised an arm, feeling the hatch fastener over his head. The fastener was cold, with sharp, rough corners. It fastened the heavy hatch cover to the hatchway. Over the hatch cover was water. A hundred meters of water to the surface.
“Kondratev,” said Belov.
“Yes?”
“Listen, Kondratev, why are we running submerged? Let’s surface and open the hatch: fresh air and all that.”
“It’s wind force five up there,” Kondratev answered.
Yes, thought Belov, a wind force of five, choppy water, so an open hatch would flood. But still, a hundred meters of water over your head is uncomfortable. Fifty-five fathoms. Three hundred thirty feet. Soon the dive will begin, and it’ll be two hundred meters, three, five. Maybe down to a kilometer or even two. Pushing my way in here was a bad move, Belov thought. I should have stayed on the Kunashir and written an article.
Still another shrimp knocked against the porthole. Like a tiny pink explosion. Belov stared into the darkness, where for an instant the silhouette of Kondratev’s close-cropped head had appeared.
Such things, of course, never came into Kondratev’s mind. Kondratev was quite different, not like your average person. In the first place, he was from the last century. In the second place, he had nerves of iron. As much iron as in the damned hatch fastener. In the third place, he did not give a damn for the unknown mysteries of the deep. He was immersed in methods of precise calculation of head of livestock, and in the variation of protein content per hectare of plankton field. He was worried about the predator that had been killing young whales. Sixteen young whales in the quarter, and all the very best, as if by choice. The pride of the Pacific whale-herders.
“Kondratev!”
“Yes?”
“Don’t be angry.”
“I’m not angry,” Kondratev said angrily. “Where did you get that idea?”
“I thought you were angry. When do we start the dive?”
“Soon.”
Thunk… thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk… A whole school of shrimp. Just like the fireworks at New Year’s. Belov yawned convulsively and hurriedly slammed his mouth shut. That was what he would do—keep his mouth shut tight the whole mission. “Akiko-san,” he said in English, “how do you feel?”
“Fine, thank you,” Akiko answered politely in Russian. From her voice it was clear that she had not turned around. She’s angry too, Belov decided. That’s because she’s in love with Kondratev. Kondratev’s angry, so she is too. She looks up at Kondratev and never calls him anything but “Comrade Captain. She respects him very highly, she practically worships him. Yes, she’s in love with him up to her ears, that’s clear to everyone. Probably even to Kondratev. Only so far it isn’t clear to her herself. Poor thing, she’s really had rotten luck. A man with nerves of iron, muscles of steel, and a face of bronze. That Kondratev is a monumental man. Literally. A Buddha-man. A living monument to himself. And to his century. And to the whole heroic past.
At 2:00 a.m., Kondratev turned on the cabin light and got out the chart. The submarine hung over the center of a depression eight nautical miles southwest of the drifting Kunashir. Kondratev tapped his fingernails absentmindedly on the chart and announced, “We’re beginning the dive.”
“At last,” muttered Belov.
“Will we descend vertically, Comrade Captain?” asked Akiko.
“We’re not in a bathyscaphe,” Kondratev said dryly. “We’ll go down in a spiral.”
He did not himself know why he said it dryly. Perhaps because he had glimpsed Akiko again. He thought he had remembered her well, but it turned out that in the few hours of darkness he had endowed her with the features of other women who were not like her at all. Women whom he had liked before. Colleagues at work, actresses from various films. In the light these features disappeared, and she seemed more slender, more angular, darker than he had imagined. She was like a small teenage boy. She sat peacefully beside him, with a lowered glance, her hands resting on her bare knees. Strange, he thought. She never used perfume before, so far as I noticed.