Now, keeping it secret from Lenochka, he wanted to be the son of Maria Maximovna. Hadn’t she had a son who burned to death in some distant, nameless railroad station? The burning of objects not intended for burning?… The cozy room beyond the kitchen, snow beyond the window, the yellow lamp shade, the old wallpaper with maple leaves, the old house—if he could only remember… Didn’t it seem as if he had lived here, as if he were recognizing something?…
Nonsense; Maria Maximovna never had a lost boy, the only thing she lost was the fur coat, a good fur coat with a silk lining embroidered with purple lilies of the valley Pavel Antonovich, a big man with a lot of stars on his uniform, took that luxurious item from a hook on a wall in a German house—he liked it and he didn’t waste time. He took it and sent it back home.
What a fur coat it had been. What a shame, Seryozha. You must know the vile feeling of being robbed. I didn’t even have time to turn around, even to gasp—they switched them. Stuck me with the cheap squirrel coat, and not even new, as I learned later: it fell apart at the seams. I think it must have been stolen. Just imagine the situation—Pavel Antonovich’s wife robbed, and wearing a stolen coat… The worst part was having to confess that I had gone to the flea market: I had done it on the sly…. Oh, it was terrible just to look at him: a geyser of anger. Robbed… He couldn’t stand things like that. He, a military doctor, an honored man who had given his whole life to science—and to people—and then something like this. People were in great awe of him then, it was later that they calumnied him, insulted him, forced him into retirement—him, such a respected specialist in infectious diseases. They forgot all his achievements, his bravery and courage, forgot how he had battled the plague in the twenties and thirties—and how he conquered it, Seryozha. Risking his life every minute. He had no patience for cowards.
It’s a horrible thing, the plague. You don’t hear too much about it nowadays, just the rare case here or there—which, incidentally, is thanks to Pavel Antonovich—but back then it was an epidemic. Infected steppes, villages, whole regions… Pavel Antonovich and his colleagues set up experiments: who is spreading the plague? All right, rats; but which kind? Just imagine; it turned out that all kinds of rats were responsible. Domestic, attic, ship, sewer, migrant rats. Moreover, all those innocent-looking bunnies, gophers, even little mice… Gerbils, hamsters, moles. Look, I couldn’t believe my ears when Pavel Antonovich told me, but he insisted: camels. Understand? You can’t trust anyone. Who would have thought? Yes, yes, camels get the plague too. And can you imagine what it’s like doing experiments on camels? Camels are huge. They had to catch one, infect it, take samples from it; and all by themselves, with their own hands. They kept it penned up, fed it, shoveled its manure. And it didn’t want to give samples, and it spat at them, too—plague-ridden spit. And it tried to hit them in the face.
I tell you, doctors are saints, I always say that. And then…? And then, when they are sure an animal is infected, they put it to sleep, of course. What else could they do? It would infect the others, wouldn’t it?
Then the war began and Pavel Antonovich was reassigned. Yes, it meant even more work. The war, the war… Why am I telling you about it, you went through all that yourself?
It was during the war that they met, his mother-in-law and Pavel Antonovich. They married and saw each other sporadically. He liked that she was so young and lively… He wanted to dress her nicely, that’s why he sent the fur… And he was pleased with it too: why don’t you wear the fur, Mashenka—
He worried about it, got mothballs for the summer. And then a blow like that…
A gentle, marvelous, understanding woman, that Maria Maximovna. Just one quirk—can’t forget that fur coat. She’s a woman, those things are important to them. We all have our own memories. She tells him about her fur coat, Sergei tells her about the fur hat. She sympathized. Lenochka smiled at both, soaring in her vague thoughts. Lenochka is steady and passionless, a sister instead of a wife. Mother and sister—what more could a lost boy want?
Sergei put up shelves in his cubbyhole and placed favorite books on them. If only he could put a cot in there, too. But he went to sleep in the bedroom with Lenochka. At night he lay sleepless, looking at her quiet face with pink shadows near the eyes, and wondered: who is she? What does she think about, what does she dream? If you ask, she shrugs and says nothing. Never raises her voice, if he tracks snow into the house she doesn’t notice, if he smokes in the bedroom she doesn’t care—
She reads whatever comes her way. If it’s Camus, fine; if it’s Sergeyev-Tsensky, that’s fine, too. She gave off a chill. The daughter of mustachioed, bespectacled Pavel Antonovich… Strange.
Pavel Antonovich… He hangs on the wall in the living room, in a frame, and night shadows cross his face. An oak grew and collapsed. Collapsed a long time ago, Lenochka doesn’t even remember him. But he’s still here—wandering up and down the hallway, making the floorboards creak, touching the doorknob. He runs his finger along the wallpaper, the maple leaves, along the bookshelves—he left his daughter a good inheritance. Listens for the squeak of a rat. Domestic, attic, field, ship, migrant… You animal, you, tell me your name: are you the death of me? will you eat me? I’m not your death, I won’t eat you: I’m just a bunny, a gray bunny…. Rabbits also carry plague. A particularly dangerous infection… The prognosis is extremely poor—In case of suspected infection with the plague send an urgent report—The patients and everyone who has been in contact with them will be quarantined. Was he afraid? Such an important man. Terrible in his wrath and honest in his work. But why that fur coat?
And what if Pavel Antonovich were Sergei’s father? What if he had had another wife before Maria Maximovna? Surface out of nonexistence, take on a sturdy chain of ancestors—Pavel Antonovich, Anton Felixovich, Felix Kazimirovich… Why not? It’s a realistic possibility….
He took the fur coat from the hook, turned it inside out— fur inside, lilies of the valley outside—and the tissue paper rustled. Twine! Bitte. He rested his knee on the package, pulled right, knotted the twine with his clean medical fingers. One more knot. Tugged—it’ll hold. He took it, he stooped to that. Tor the tangled tracks, the explosion, his son’s singed head, the mother who went up in flames, the hat that knocked out the child’s memory. The face with the closed eyes floated up again, shaking its head: don’t, don’t take it. Father, don’t take it! Three years later, it was stolen at the market. How he shouted! Panya, the maid, was in on it, naturally. Think about it—to disappear like that, in the twinkling of an eye… Naturally, it was a gang.
Maria Maximovna would have let it go, but Pavel Antonovich, with his character, simply could not bear it. Panya had to be arrested. Yes, yes! To whom did you pass the fur coat? Who are your co-conspirators? When did you enter into a criminal conspiracy? How much were you supposed to get for fingering the job? Panya was a stupid woman, uneducated, and she babbled some nonsense, gave conflicting testimony; it was disgusting to hear. In short—they convicted her. But the coat was never found. Gone. Warm, curly, with the silky, slippery lining.
“I’m hearing this for the fifth time,” Sergei said, angrily pulling the blanket over himself.