‘Shit,’ said Temriukovich with a sigh as he put the book back. ‘Premium quality shit.’
The water had begun boiling noisily in the glass and Temriukovich peered around the bookcase. He saw the pale Murat there.
‘I heard what you were saying about my book,’ whispered Murat.
‘I didn’t say anything,’ said the unruffled Temriukovich, ‘all I did was think about it.’
That calmed Murat slightly.
The academician’s oddities continued, though. At first, he still showed consideration for his coworkers and only ventured to make sharp remarks when he believed he was alone. Later, he did not exactly stop noticing those around him but, as Pavel Grebeshkov, the institute’s deputy director of scholarly affairs expressed it, he had crossed the line between internal and external speech. When addressing listeners, Temriukovich spoke expressively and intelligibly. He addressed himself in soft, rapid speech, just as theater actors utter texts with the stage direction ‘aside.’
That was the format in which he accused administrative manager Vladlen Maslo of dishonesty in carrying out multi-year renovations on the institute’s building. When he tripped over some scaffolding one day, the academician assumed, in an undertone, that Maslo was a thief, which was allegedly why the renovations were so grueling and unsuccessful. This occurred in the presence of witnesses. Unlike Murat, Maslo appealed to the director immediately, demanding that Temriukovich be fired from the institute due to his, Temriukovich’s, mental incompetence. The thought that Maslo could appropriate government funds seemed insane to the director, too. To the latter’s credit, he did not fire Temriukovich.
‘Temriukovich is a full member of the Russian Academy of Sciences,’ said the director, ‘and under formal reasoning, I have no grounds for doubting his mental competence.’
And so membership in the Academy of Sciences helped Temriukovich avoid being fired. He continued coming to the institute only on required days, as he had been doing for the last forty years.
After entering the building, Temriukovich headed for the coat check. The man at the coat check bent across the counter to take the academician’s raincoat.
‘Where’d you lean against something, Mikhail Sergeevich?’ the attendant asked.
Temriukovich looked at the smudged sleeve and did not answer. Addressing himself on the stairs, he said, ‘Can’t a person ever hear anything nice?’
After Temriukovich had disappeared around a corner, Solovyov went up to the second floor. He went to the director to inform him that he was back from his trip. Strictly speaking, there was no real necessity to do so; a written report would have sufficed. But the fact that the trip had taken place in August and in Yalta gave Solovyov no peace. He remembered the director’s look in parting and he thought the gaze was ironic. Solovyov wanted to tell the director personally about his findings, and, first and foremost, the text he had found. The plastic folder with the general’s memoirs was melting in his hands and growing slippery; it had nearly fallen on the floor twice. Solovyov wanted rehabilitation. Maybe even encouragement.
The director’s office door was ajar. The director himself was not visible but his voice was audible. He was telling someone off: ‘Of all possible feelings, the only thing you have is a grasping reflex.’
After thinking, the director repeated it, syllable by syllable, ‘A gras-ping re-flex.’
A listless objection was heard in response. The words were indiscernible (what could they be in a case like this?) and all that remained was intonation. Simultaneously ingratiating and tedious. A woman was speaking. She calmed the director a little.
‘You can’t live on reflexes alone,’ he said conciliatorily. ‘Forgive me, but you can’t be such a reptile.’
This turned out to be an inopportune moment to visit. Solovyov had wearied instantaneously. He realized he was not even interested in finding out who, exactly, the director was addressing. Solovyov walked slowly toward the Twentieth-Century History Department, his department. Who could be called a reptile? At the end of the corridor, he turned to look back anyway. Tina Zhuk, a graduate student, was coming out of the director’s office. She had a very loud voice and Solovyov was surprised she had just been speaking so softly. It turned out that Tina could do so when she tried. Temriukovich was her research advisor. The academician did not like his graduate student and everyone at the institute knew it. Nobody liked her.
In the Twentieth-Century History Department, Solovyov donated one hundred rubles for a gift for a coworker, Baksheeva. Baksheeva, a candidate of historical sciences, had just had a baby and they were giving her an electric teakettle. The trade union committee chair decided to show Solovyov the electric teakettle after she’d accepted his money. She placed a finger to her lips, opened the cardboard box, and took out the gift. She, Novoseltseva, had invested her own personal money, at least temporarily, until she had recovered the sum for the teakettle. She showed Solovyov the list of donors: it was always a big risk to collect money for an item that had already been purchased. Solovyov flicked the teakettle with his fingernail. The sound turned out to be unexpectedly low and muted. The department office was empty. Lots of people were still on vacation.
Solovyov saw Temriukovich again on the second floor: he was headed toward the administrative offices. Tina Zhuk was walking slightly behind him. When she saw Solovyov, she pointed at Temriukovich and touched her temple with her finger.
‘He called me a snake in the grass,’ she whispered to Solovyov. ‘Can you imagine? He’s already completely lost it.’
Solovyov observed as Zhuk’s nose began moving in time with her lips. He had not noticed this before. It was possible this could be explained by her anxiety. Administrative manager Maslo popped out of the closest door.
‘Solovyov,’ he said, without a hello. ‘We’re going to start taking down the scaffolding in an hour. We’ll need your help.’
Solovyov nodded to Tina. Temriukovich turned around as if he had remembered something and began walking in the opposite direction. Maslo disappeared behind the door as soon as he saw that.
‘Stole a pile and now hides,’ Temriukovich mumbled, looking at the floor. ‘Vacations on Majorca. And I, a full member of the Academy of Sciences, vacation in the city of Zelenogorsk. One might ask why!’
‘Because he’s greedy,’ Tina Zhuk answered after the academician had moved further away. ‘He’s just a glutton. And senile.’
Solovyov went outside and headed off toward the University, the famous Twelve Colleges, a long red building that stood perpendicular to the Neva River. Solovyov hoped to find out something about Leeza in that building. Based on what Yegorovna had said, Leeza had left more than a year ago. If Leeza left to go to college, she should be in her second year now. Solovyov realized he did not know what department Leeza might have entered. Furthermore, there was no evidence she had entered a university in Petersburg. Strictly speaking, there was not even any certainty that Leeza had entered a university anywhere at all.
He was greeted with surprise at the administrative office. They had no obligation to provide student information to him.
‘This is very important to me,’ said Solovyov.
When all was said and done, Solovyov was a recent student himself, so they accommodated him. There turned out to be three Larionovas at the university. Not one of them was Yelizaveta. One was studying in the geography department, the second was in Solovyov’s very own history department, and the third was in journalism. Solovyov decided to meet all three just in case there was an error in the rolls.