a lot of it and all so good that my heart began to quiver, and I realised
that I was terribly excited. The only thing I couldn't understand was
this: I had never "kept asking" my sister and had never written to her
that "I could not live without Katya".
"Sanya made that up, that's what it is," I said to myself. "She was
fibbing. Yet it was all true."
Nina Kapitonovna was still speaking, but I was no longer listening. I
had forgotten myself to such an extent that I began to walk up and down
my "bookcase" and only recollected myself when I heard Korablev's
warning cough.
And there I sat in the "bookcase" until Nina Kapitonovna went away. I
don't know why she had come-maybe it was just to unburden her heart,
Korablev kissed her hand at parting and she kissed him on the brow, the
way they had always done when taking leave of each other.
I was lost in thought and did not hear him come back into the room
until suddenly I saw his nose and moustache above me between the
curtains.
"Still breathing?"
"Still breathing, Ivan Pavlovich."
"What have you to say?"
"That I'm a hopeless, drivelling idiot," I answered, clutching my head.
"The way I spoke to her! My God! I did not understand a thing. Not a
thing! And she was waiting for me to say something. What must her
feelings have been, Ivan Pavlovich! What does she think of me!"
"Never mind, she'll change her mind."
"Never! Do you know what I told her? " I said to her: 'I'll keep you
informed.'
Korablev laughed.
"Ivan Pavlovich!"
"But didn't you write that you couldn't live without her?"
"I didn't!" I cried despairingly. "Sanya made that all up. But it's true,
Ivan Pavlovich! It's the absolute truth. I can't live without her, and the
quarrel between us is really over nothing, because I thought she didn't
love me any more. But what's to be done now? What's to be done?"
"Look here, Sanya, I have a business appointment at nine o'clock. At a
theatre. So if you-"
"All right. I'm going. May I call on Katya now?"
"She'll show you the door, and she'll be quite right."
"I don't care if she does, Ivan Pavlovich!" I said, and suddenly
embraced him. "Damn и all, I just don't know what to do now. What do
you say?"
"I have to change just now," Korablev said, going into the "bookcase".
"As for you, I suggest you pull yourself together."
I saw him take off his jacket, turn up the collar of his soft shirt and
start tying his tie.
"Ivan Pavlovich!" I suddenly yelled. "Wait a minute. I quite forgot!
You said I was right when we argued about whom the Captain's letter
referred to."
"I did."
"Ivan Pavlovich!"
196
Korablev came out of the "bookcase" brushed and combed, in a new
grey suit, looking young and presentable.
"Now, we're going to the theatre," he said gravely, "and you'll learn
everything. Your job will be to sit and say nothing. Sit and listen. Is that
clear?"
"I'm all in the dark. But let's go."
CHAPTER FIVE
AT THE THEATRE
The Moscow Drama Theatre! To judge from Grisha Faber's
description, it was a big, real playhouse in which all the actors wore
smart white spats like he did and spoke just as loudly and well.
Something like the Moscow Art Theatre. But it turned out to be a little
place in Sretenka up some side street.
The play that evening, as the illuminated showcase at the entrance
announced, was Wolf's Trail, and we immediately found Grisha's name
in the cast. He was playing the doctor. His name stood last in the list.
Grisha met us in the foyer, looking as resplendent as ever, and invited
us at once to his dressing-room.
"I'll call him in as soon as the second act starts," he said mysteriously
to Korablev.
I glanced questioningly at Korablev, but he was busy fitting a cigarette
into his long holder and pretended not to have noticed my look.
There were three other actors in Grisha's dressing-room, who looked
as if they belonged there. But when Grisha proffered us chairs there they
tactfully went out, and he apologised for the place. "My private
dressing-room is undergoing repairs," he said. We began talking about
our school theatre, recalled the tragedy The Hour Has Struck, in which
Grisha had played the part of a Jewish foster-child, and I said I thought
him simply wonderful in that role. Grisha laughed, and suddenly the air
of self-importance fell away from him.
"I don't understand what happened, Sanya. You used to draw well, I
remember," he said. "What made you suddenly take to the sky? Hell,
come and join our theatre. We'll make a scenic artist out 'of you. Not
bad, eh?"
I said I had no objection. Then Grisha excused himself again—he had
to go on very shortly and the make-up man was waiting for him— and
went out. We were left alone.
"For God's sake, Ivan Pavlovich, what is it all about? What have you
brought me here for? Who is 'he'? Who is it you want me to
meet?"
"You won't do anything silly, will you?"
"Ivan Pavlovich!"
"You've done one silly thing already," Korablev said. "Two, as a matter
of fact. First, you didn't come and stay with me. Second, you told Katya:
'I'll keep you informed.' "
"But Ivan Pavlovich, how was I to know? You simply wrote to me that
I should come to you. I never suspected it was so important. Now tell
197
me, who are we waiting for here? Who's this person, and why do you
want me to meet him?"
"All right," said Korablev. "Only don't forget—you've got to sit still and
say nothing. The man is von Vyshimirsky."
We were sitting, you will remember, in Grisha's dressing-room in the
Moscow Drama Theatre. But at that moment it seemed to me that all
this was taking place, not in the dressing-room, but on the stage,
because Korablev had hardly finished the sentence than into the room,
ducking not to knock his head on the low lintel of the doorway, stepped
von Vyshimirsky himself.
I guessed at once that it was he, though until that moment it had
never occurred to me that the man ever existed. I had always thought
that Nikolai Antonich had invented him in order to heap on him all my
accusations. He had been no more than a name, and now here he was,
suddenly materialising as a tall, weedy old man with a bent back and
yellow-grey moustache. Nowadays, of course, he was simply
Vyshimirsky, with no "von" handle to his name. He wore a uniform
jacket with brass buttons—that of a cloakroom attendant.
Korablev said "good evening" to him. He responded easily, even
patronisingly, with an extended hand.
"So this is who is waiting for me—Comrade Korablev," he said. "And
not alone, but with his son. He is your son?" he added quickly, glancing
swiftly from me to Korablev and back again.
"No he's not my son, he's a former pupil of mine. But he's an airman
now and he wants to meet you."
"An airman and wants to meet me?" Vyshimirsky said with an
unpleasant smile. "Why should an airman be interested in my poor
person?"
"Your poor person interests him," said Korablev, "because he happens