Part 15 (1/2)

THE accursed day when Anton Petrovich made the acquaintance of Berg existed only in theory, for his memory had not affixed to it a date label at the time, and now it was impossible to identify that day. Broadly speaking, it happened last winter around Christmas, 1926. Berg arose out of nonbeing, bowed in greeting, and settled down again-into an armchair instead of his previous nonbeing. It was at the Kurdyumovs', who lived on St. Mark Stra.s.se, way off in the sticks, in the Moabit section of Berlin, I believe. The Kurdyumovs remained the paupers they had become after the Revolution, while Anton Petrovich and Berg, although also expatriates, had since grown somewhat richer. Now, when a dozen similar ties of a smoky, luminous shade-say that of a sunset cloud-appeared in a haberdasher's window, together with a dozen handkerchiefs in exactly the same tints, Anton Petrovich would buy both the fas.h.i.+onable tie and fas.h.i.+onable handkerchief, and every morning, on his way to the bank, would have the pleasure of encountering the same tie and the same handkerchief, worn by two or three gentlemen who were also hurrying to their offices. At one time he had business relations with Berg; Berg was indispensable, would call up five times a day, began frequenting their house, and would crack endless jokes-G.o.d, how he loved to crack jokes. The first time he came, Tanya, Anton Petrovich's wife, found that he resembled an Englishman and was very amusing. ”h.e.l.lo, Anton!” Berg would roar, swooping down on Anton's hand with outspread fingers (the way Russians do), and then shaking it vigorously. Berg was broad-shouldered, well-built, clean-shaven, and liked to compare himself to an athletic angel. He once showed Anton Petrovich a little old black notebook. The pages were all covered with crosses, exactly five hundred twenty-three in number. ”Civil war in the Crimea-a souvenir,” said Berg with a slight smile, and coolly added, ”Of course, I counted only those Reds I killed outright.” The fact that Berg was an ex-cavalry man and had fought under General Denikin aroused Anton Petrovich's envy, and he hated when Berg would tell, in front of Tanya, of reconnaissance forays and midnight attacks. Anton Petrovich himself was short-legged, rather plump, and wore a monocle, which, in its free time, when not screwed into his eye socket, dangled on a narrow black ribbon and, when Anton Petrovich sprawled in an easy chair, would gleam like a foolish eye on his belly. A boil excised two years before had left a scar on his left cheek. This scar, as well as his coa.r.s.e, cropped mustache and fat Russian nose, would twitch tensely when Anton Petrovich screwed the monocle home. ”Stop making faces,” Berg would say, ”you won't find an uglier one.”

In their gla.s.ses a light vapor floated over the tea; a half-squashed chocolate eclair on a plate released its creamy inside; Tanya, her bare elbows resting on the table and her chin leaning on her interlaced fingers, gazed upward at the drifting smoke of her cigarette, and Berg was trying to convince her that she must wear her hair short, that all women, from time immemorial, had done so, that the Venus de Milo had short hair, while Anton Petrovich heatedly and circ.u.mstantially objected, and Tanya only shrugged her shoulder, knocking the ash off her cigarette with a tap of her nail.

And then it all came to an end. One Wednesday at the end of July Anton Petrovich left for Ka.s.sel on business, and from there sent his wife a telegram that he would return on Friday. On Friday he found that he had to remain at least another week, and sent another telegram. On the following day, however, the deal fell through, and without bothering to wire a third time Anton Petrovich headed back to Berlin. He arrived about ten, tired and dissatisfied with his trip. From the street he saw that the bedroom windows of his flat were aglow, conveying the soothing news that his wife was at home. He went up to the fifth floor, with three twirls of the key unlocked the thrice-locked door, and entered. As he pa.s.sed through the front hall, he heard the steady noise of running water from the bathroom. Pink and moist, Anton Petrovich thought with fond antic.i.p.ation, and carried his bag on into the bedroom. In the bedroom, Berg was standing before the wardrobe mirror, putting on his tie.

Anton Petrovich mechanically lowered his little suitcase to the floor, without taking his eyes off Berg, who tilted up his impa.s.sive face, flipped back a bright length of tie, and pa.s.sed it through the knot. ”Above all, don't get excited,” said Berg, carefully tightening the knot. ”Please don't get excited. Stay perfectly calm.”

Must do something, Anton Petrovich thought, but what? He felt a tremor in his legs, an absence of legs-only that cold, aching tremor. Do something quick.... He started pulling a glove off one hand. The glove was new and fit snugly. Anton Petrovich kept jerking his head and muttering mechanically, ”Go away immediately. This is dreadful. Go away....”

”I'm going, I'm going, Anton,” said Berg, squaring his broad shoulders as he leisurely got into his jacket.

If I hit him, he'll hit me too, Anton Petrovich thought in a flash. He pulled off the glove with a final yank and threw it awkwardly at Berg. The glove slapped against the wall and dropped into the wash-stand pitcher.

”Good shot,” said Berg.

He took his hat and cane, and headed past Anton Petrovich toward the door. ”All the same, you'll have to let me out,” he said. ”The downstairs door is locked.”

Scarcely aware of what he was doing, Anton Petrovich followed him out. As they started to go down the stairs, Berg, who was in front, suddenly began to laugh. ”Sorry,” he said without turning his head, ”but this is awfully funny-being kicked out with such complications.” At the next landing he chuckled again and accelerated his step. Anton Petrovich also quickened his pace. That dreadful rush was unseemly.... Berg was deliberately making him go down in leaps and bounds. What torture ... Third floor ... second ... When will these stairs end? Berg flew down the remaining steps and stood waiting for Anton Petrovich, lightly tapping the floor with his cane. Anton Petrovich was breathing heavily, and had trouble getting the dancing key into the trembling lock. At last it opened.

”Try not to hate me,” said Berg from the sidewalk. ”Put yourself in my place....”

Anton Petrovich slammed the door. From the very beginning he had had a ripening urge to slam some door or other. The noise made his ears ring. Only now, as he climbed the stairs, did he realize that his face was wet with tears. As he pa.s.sed through the front hall, he heard again the noise of running water. Hopefully waiting for the tepid to grow hot. But now above that noise he could also hear Tanya's voice. She was singing loudly in the bathroom.

With an odd sense of relief, Anton Petrovich returned to the bedroom. He now saw what he had not noticed before-that both beds were tumbled and that a pink nightgown lay on his wife's. Her new evening dress and a pair of silk stockings were laid out on the sofa: evidently, she was getting ready to go dancing with Berg. Anton Petrovich took his expensive fountain pen out of his breast pocket. ”I cannot bear to see you. I cannot trust myself if I see you.” He wrote standing up, bending awkwardly over the dressing table. His monocle was blurred by a large tear ... the letters swam.... ”Please go away. I am leaving you some cash. I'll talk it over with Natasha tomorrow. Sleep at her house or at a hotel tonight-only please do not stay here.” He finished writing and placed the paper against the mirror, in a spot where she would be sure to see it. Beside it he put a hundred-mark note. And, pa.s.sing through the front hall, he again heard his wife singing in the bathroom. She had a Gypsy kind of voice, a bewitching voice ... happiness, a summer night, a guitar ... she sang that night seated on a cus.h.i.+on in the middle of the floor, and slitted her smiling eyes as she sang.... He had just proposed to her ... yes, happiness, a summer night, a moth b.u.mping against the ceiling, ”My soul I surrender to you, I love you with infinite pa.s.sion....” ”How dreadful! How dreadful!” he kept repeating as he walked down the street. The night was very mild, with a swarm of stars. It did not matter which way he went. By now she had probably come out of the bathroom and found the note. Anton Petrovich winced as he remembered the glove. A brand-new glove afloat in a br.i.m.m.i.n.g pitcher. The vision of this brown wretched thing caused him to utter a cry that made a pa.s.serby start. He saw the dark shapes of huge poplars around a square and thought, Mityus.h.i.+n lives here someplace. Anton Petrovich called him up from a bar, which arose before him as in a dream and then receded into the distance like the taillight of a train. Mityus.h.i.+n let him in but he was drunk, and at first paid no attention to Anton Petrovich's livid face. A person unknown to Anton Petrovich sat in the small dim room, and a black-haired lady in a red dress lay on the couch with her back to the table, apparently asleep. Bottles gleamed on the table. Anton Petrovich had arrived in the middle of a birthday celebration, but he never understood whether it was being held for Mityus.h.i.+n, the fair sleeper, or the unknown man (who turned out to be a Russified German with the strange name of Gnushke). Mityus.h.i.+n, his rosy face beaming, introduced him to Gnushke and, indicating with a nod the generous back of the sleeping lady, remarked casually, ”Adelaida Albertovna, I want you to meet a great friend of mine.” The lady did not stir; Mityus.h.i.+n, however, did not show the least surprise, as if he had never expected her to wake up. All of this was a little bizarre and nightmarish-that empty vodka bottle with a rose stuck into its neck, that chessboard on which a higgledy-piggledy game was in progress, the sleeping lady, the drunken but quite peaceful Gnushke....

”Have a drink,” said Mityus.h.i.+n, and then suddenly raised his eyebrows. ”What's the matter with you, Anton Petrovich? You look very ill.”

”Yes, by all means, have a drink,” with idiotic earnestness said Gnushke, a very long-faced man in a very tall collar, who resembled a dachshund.

Anton Petrovich gulped down half a cup of vodka and sat down.

”Now tell us what's happened,” said Mityus.h.i.+n. ”Don't be embarra.s.sed in front of Henry-he is the most honest man on earth. My move, Henry, and I warn you, if after this you grab my bishop, I'll mate you in three moves. Well, out with it, Anton Petrovich.”

”We'll see about that in a minute,” said Gnushke, revealing a big starched cuff as he stretched out his arm. ”You forgot about the p.a.w.n at h-five.”

”H-five yourself,” said Mityus.h.i.+n. ”Anton Petrovich is going to tell us his story.”

Anton Petrovich had some more vodka and the room went into a spin. The gliding chessboard seemed on the point of colliding with the bottles; the bottles, together with the table, set off toward the couch; the couch with mysterious Adelaida Albertovna headed for the window; and the window also started to move. This accursed motion was somehow connected with Berg, and had to be stopped-stopped at once, trampled upon, torn, destroyed....

”I want you to be my second,” began Anton Petrovich, and was dimly aware that the phrase sounded oddly truncated but could not correct that flaw.

”Second what?” said Mityus.h.i.+n absently, glancing askance at the chessboard, over which Gnushke's hand hung, its fingers wriggling.

”No, you listen to me,” Anton Petrovich exclaimed with anguish in his voice. ”You just listen! Let us not drink any more. This is serious, very serious.”

Mityus.h.i.+n fixed him with his s.h.i.+ny blue eyes. ”The game is canceled, Henry,” he said, without looking at Gnushke. ”This sounds serious.”

”I intend to fight a duel,” whispered Anton Petrovich, trying by mere optical force to hold back the table that kept floating away. ”I wish to kill a certain person. His name is Berg-you may have met him at my place. I prefer not to explain my reasons....”

”You can explain everything to your second,” said Mityus.h.i.+n smugly.

”Excuse me for interfering,” said Gnushke suddenly, and raised his index finger. ”Remember, it has been said: 'Thou shalt not kill!' ”

”The man's name is Berg,” said Anton Petrovich. ”I think you know him. And I need two seconds.” The ambiguity could not be ignored.

”A duel,” said Gnushke.

Mityus.h.i.+n nudged him with his elbow. ”Don't interrupt, Henry.”

”And that is all,” Anton Petrovich concluded in a whisper and, lowering his eyes, feebly fingered the ribbon of his totally useless monocle.

Silence. The lady on the couch snored comfortably. A car pa.s.sed in the street, its horn blaring.

”I'm drunk, and Henry's drunk,” muttered Mityus.h.i.+n, ”but apparently something very serious has happened.” He chewed on his knuckles and looked at Gnushke. ”What do you think, Henry?” Gnushke sighed.

”Tomorrow you two will call on him,” said Anton Petrovich. ”Select the spot, and so on. He did not leave me his card. According to the rules he should have given me his card. I threw my glove at him.”

”You are acting like a n.o.ble and courageous man,” said Gnushke with growing animation. ”By a strange coincidence, I am not unfamiliar with these matters. A cousin of mine was also killed in a duel.”

Why ”also”? Anton Petrovich wondered in anguish. Can this be a portent?

Mityus.h.i.+n took a swallow from his cup and said jauntily: ”As a friend, I cannot refuse. We'll go see Mr. Berg in the morning.”

”As far as the German laws are concerned,” said Gnushke, ”if you kill him, they'll put you in jail for several years; if, on the other hand, you are killed, they won't bother you.”

”I have taken all that into consideration,” Anton Petrovich said solemnly.

Then there appeared again that beautiful expensive implement, that s.h.i.+ny black pen with its delicate gold nib, which in normal times would glide like a wand of velvet across the paper; now, however, Anton Petrovich's hand shook, and the table heaved like the deck of a storm-tossed s.h.i.+p.... On a sheet of foolscap that Mityus.h.i.+n produced, Anton Petrovich wrote a cartel of defiance to Berg, three times calling him a scoundrel and concluding with the lame sentence: ”One of us must perish.”

Having done, he burst into tears, and Gnushke, clucking his tongue, wiped the poor fellow's face with a large red-checked handkerchief, while Mityus.h.i.+n kept pointing at the chessboard, repeating ponderously, ”You finish him off like that king there-mate in three moves and no questions asked.” Anton Petrovich sobbed, and tried to brush away Gnushke's friendly hands, repeating with childish intonations, ”I loved her so much, so much!”

And a new sad day was dawning.

”So at nine you will be at his house,” said Anton Petrovich, lurching out of his chair.

”At nine we'll be at his house,” Gnushke replied like an echo.

”We'll get in five hours of sleep,” said Mityus.h.i.+n.

Anton Petrovich smoothed his hat into shape (he had been sitting on it all the while), caught Mityus.h.i.+n's hand, held it for a moment, lifted it, and pressed it to his cheek.

”Come, come, you shouldn't,” mumbled Mityus.h.i.+n and, as before, addressed the sleeping lady, ”Our friend is leaving, Adelaida Albertovna.”

This time she stirred, awakened with a start, and turned over heavily. Her face was full and creased by sleep, with slanting, excessively made-up eyes. ”You fellows better stop drinking,” she said calmly, and turned back toward the wall.