They’re selling ice cream on the corner. He’d really like some ice cream. Men and Women—but especially Women—stick money into the square window and get a frosty, crunchy goblet. They laugh; they throw the round, sticky papers on the ground or stick them on the wall, they open their mouths wide, lick the sweet, needlelike cold with red tongues.
“Mamochka, ice cream!”
“You’re not allowed. You have a sore throat.”
If he mustn’t, he mustn’t. But he really, really wants some. It’s awful how much he wants some. If he had one of those monies, like other Men and Women have, one of the silvery, shiny ones; or a little yellow piece of paper that smells like bread—they also take those at the square windows. Ooh, ooh, ooh, how he wants ice cream, they’re all allowed, they all get ice cream.
“Alexei, don’t twist your head around!”
Mamochka knows best. I’m going to listen to Mamochka. Only she knows the safe path through the thickets of the world. But if Mamochka turned away… Pushkin Square.
“Mamochka, Pushkin—is he a writer?”
“A writer.”
“I’m going to be a writer too.”
“Of course you will. If you want to—you will.”
And why not? He wants to, so he will be. He’ll get some paper, a pencil, and he’ll be a writer. There, that’s decided. He’ll be a writer. That’s fine.
In the evenings Mamochka sits in a spacious armchair, pushes her glasses down on her nose, and reads thickly:
Alexei Petrovich really loves this. He laughs heartily, baring his yellow teeth; happy, he stamps his foot.
The words get to the end—and turn around, get to the end again—and turn around again.
Very good. This is how she’ll howclass="underline" oo-oooooo!
Shhh, sshhh, Alexei, calm down!
The sky is all sprinkled with stars. Alexei Petrovich knows them: little shining beads, hanging all by themselves in the black emptiness. When Alexei Petrovich lies in bed and wants to go to sleep, his legs start growing on their own, down, down, and his head grows up, up, to the black dome, up, and sways like the top of a tree in a storm, while the stars scrape his skull like sand. And the second Alexei Petrovich, inside, keeps shrinking and shrinking, compressing, he disappears in a poppy seed, in a sharp needle tip, in a microbe, in nothingness, and if he’s not stopped, he’ll vanish there completely. But the outside, giant Alexei Petrovich sways like a pine log mast, grows, scratches his bald spot against the night dome, doesn’t allow the little one to disappear into a dot. And these two Alexei Petroviches are one and the same. And this makes sense, this is right.
At home Mamochka undresses, demolishes her daytime corpus, puts on a red robe, becomes simpler, warmer, more comprehensible. Alexei Petrovich wants Mamochka to pick him up. What nonsense! Mamochka goes out into the kitchen. It seems like she’s been gone an awful long time. Alexei Petrovich checked whether the boxes were still there, sniffed the oilcloth, took a chance, and went out into the hall. The corner door, where the guests of the Sea Girl giggle at night, was cracked open. A white bed was visible. Where’s Mamochka? Maybe she’s in there? Alexei Petrovich peeped in the crack cautiously. No one. Maybe Mamochka hid in the closet? Should he go in? The room is empty. On the Sea Girl’s table—an open tin can, bread, a nibbled pickle. And—a little piece of yellow paper and silver circles. Money! Take the money, run downstairs along the dark staircase, into the labyrinth of streets, look for the square window, and they’ll give him a sweet cold cup.
Alexei Petrovich grabs, jingles, knocks things over, runs, slams the door, breathes loud and fast, trips. The street. It’s dark. Which way? That way? Or this way? What’s in his fist? Money! Someone else’s money! The money shows through his hairy fist. Stick his hand in his pocket. No, it’ll show through anyway. Someone else’s money! He took someone else’s money! Passersby turn around, whisper to one another: “He took someone else’s money!” People press to the windows, shoving each other: Let me look. Where is he? There he is! He has money! Aha! You took it, did you? Alexei Petrovich runs in the dark. Clink clink clink clink—the coins in his pocket. The whole city has spilled out onto the street. The shutters are thrown open. Hands point from every window, eyes shine, long red tongues stick out: “He took the money!” Let out the dogs. The fire engines blare, the hoses uncoiclass="underline" Where is he? Over there! After him! Crazed, Alexei Petrovich rushes about. Throw it away, tear it from his hands, away, away, there it is, there it is! With his foot! Stamp on it with his foot! Traaaammmpple it!
That’s it…. There…. It’s not breathing. It’s quiet. It’s died out.
He wiped his face. There. Now where? Night. There’s a smell. Where’s Mamochka? Night. In the entryways wolves stand in black columns: they’re waiting. I’ll walk backward. I’ll trick them. Good. It’s stifling. I’ll unbutton. I’ll unbutton everything. Good. Now? Women with Legs walked by. They turned around. Snorted. So that’s the way it is? Whaaaat? Me? I’m a wolf! I walk backward!!! Aha, scared are you? I’ll catch up with you, I’ll pounce, we’ll see just what these Legs of yours are! He rushed at them. A cry. A-a-a-a! A blow. Don’t hit! A blow. Men smell of Tobacco, they hit you in the stomach, the teeth! Don’t! Forget it, leave him alone—don’t you see?… Let’s go.
Alexei Petrovich leans against a drainpipe, spits something black, whines. Little one, so little, alone, you got lost on the street, you came into this world by mistake. Get out of here, it’s not for you! Alexei Petrovich cries with a loud howl, raising his disfigured face to the stars.
Mamochka, Mamochka, where are you? Mamochka, the road is black, the voices are silent, the paths lead into a deep swamp. Mamochka, your child is crying, dying, your only one, beloved, long-awaited, long-suffered….
Mamochka is running, Mamochka is gasping, she stretches out her hands, shouts, grabs, presses him to her breast, feels him all over, kisses him. Mamochka is sobbing—she’s found him, found him!
Mamochka leads Alexei Petrovich by the reins into a warm den, into a soft nest, under a white wing.
The swollen face is washed. Alexei Petrovich snuffles at the table, a napkin tied round him.
“Do you want a soft-boiled egg? Soft-boiled, a runny one?”
Alexei Petrovich nods his head: Yes, I want one. The grandfather clock ticks. It’s peaceful. Delicious hot milk, soft, like the letter TV. Something clears inside his head. That’s right, he wanted to be…
“Mamochka, give me paper and a pencil! Quick! I’m going to be a writer!”
“Lord almighty! My poor baby! Why on earth… Well, now, don’t cry, calm down, I’ll give you some; just wait, you have to blow your nose.”
White paper, a sharp pencil. Quickly, quickly, while he hasn’t forgotten! He knows everything, he has understood the world, understood the Rules, grasped the laws of connection of millions of snatches and of odd bits and pieces! Lightning strikes Alexei Petrovich’s brain! He frets, he grumbles, grabs a piece of paper, pushes the glasses aside with his elbow, and, surprised at his own joyful renewal, hurriedly writes the newly acquired truth in big letters: “Night. Night. Night. Night. Night. Night. Night. Night. Night. Night…”