None of those boys are left in this world now. Some perished in the war, some died of disease, and others disappeared without a trace. And some, though alive, have turned into other people. And if these other people were to meet, by some magical means, those who vanished in their cotton shirts, in canvas shoes with rubber soles, they wouldn’t know what to talk to them about. I fear they wouldn’t even guess that they had met their former selves. Well, to hell with the slow-witted ones! They don’t have time; they fly, swim, rush in the current, paddling with their hands, further and further, faster and faster, day after day, year after year. The banks change, the mountains recede, the forests thin and lose their leaves, the sky darkens, the cold advances; they must hurry, hurry—and there is no strength to look back at what has stopped and frozen, like a cloud on the edge of the sky.
On one unbearably hot August day in 1972—Moscow was suffocating from the heat and smoky haze that summer, and, as luck would have it, Glebov had to spend many days in the city because they were waiting to move into their cooperative apartment—Glebov drove to a furniture store in a new district, in the middle of nowhere, near Koptievo Market, and a strange thing happened there. He met a friend from antediluvian times. And forgot his name. He had actually come there for a table. He was told he could get a table, though it was unclear where exactly—that was a secret—but he was pointed to the sources: an antique table with medallions, just right for the mahogany chairs Marina had bought a year ago for the new apartment. They said that a certain Yefim worked at the furniture store near Koptievo Market and knew where the table was. Glebov arrived after lunch, in the fierce heat, parked his car in the shade, and headed for the store. On the sidewalk in front of the entrance, where cabinets, couches, and other polished junk that had just been unloaded or were waiting to be loaded stood among shreds of trash and packing paper, where disgruntled customers, taxi drivers, and shabbily dressed men ready to do anything for three rubles were loitering, Glebov asked how to find Yefim. He was told: in the back courtyard. Glebov walked through the store, where the heat and the smell of alcohol-based lacquer made it impossible to breathe, and went out through a narrow door into the courtyard, which was completely deserted. Some worker was dozing in the shade by the wall, squatting. Glebov approached him: “Are you Yefim?”
The worker raised a dull gaze, looked sternly, and slightly pressed a contemptuous dimple into his chin, which was meant to mean: no. By that pressed dimple and by something else, something elusive, Glebov suddenly realized that this unhappy furniture “carrier,” deadened by the heat and the thirst for a hangover cure, was a friend from long ago. He understood not with his eyes, but with something else, some kind of internal thump. But the terrible thing was this: though he knew perfectly well who it was, he had completely forgotten the name! So he stood silently, swaying in his squeaky sandals, and stared at the worker, trying with all his might to remember. A whole life suddenly rushed at him. But the name? Something tricky, amusing. And at the same time, childlike. One of a kind. The nameless friend was getting ready to doze again: he pulled his cap over his nose, tilted his head back, and let his mouth fall open.
Glebov, agitated, moved aside, poked around, looking for Yefim, then entered the store through the back door, asked around—Yefim was gone, they advised him to wait, but waiting was impossible, and, mentally swearing and cursing unreliable people, Glebov went back out into the sun-drenched courtyard, where Shulepa had so amazed and puzzled him. Of course: Shulepa! Lyovka Shulepnikov! He had heard something once about Shulepa disappearing, hitting rock bottom, but to end up even here? At a furniture store? He wanted to talk to him amiably, like a comrade, ask how things were and, at the same time, ask about Yefim.
“Lev…” Glebov said, not very confidently, approaching the man who was sitting in the shade in the same squatting position, but was no longer dozing; he was watching some movement in the back of the courtyard, chewing on a cigarette butt with his lips. More loudly and boldly he added: “Shulepa!”
The man again looked at Glebov dully and turned away. Of course, it was Lyovka Shulepnikov, only very old, battered, tormented by life, with grizzled, alcoholic-looking whiskers, unlike his former self, yet in some ways, it seemed, remaining unshaken, just as brazen and foolishly arrogant as before. Should he give him some money for a hangover cure? Glebov moved his fingers in his trousers pocket, feeling for money. He could give four rubles painlessly. If the other man asked. But the worker paid no attention to Glebov, and Glebov was confused and thought that maybe he had made a mistake and this fellow wasn’t Shulepnikov at all. But in the same second, getting angry, he asked rather rudely and familiarly, as he was used to talking to service personnel:
“Don’t you recognize me, or what? Lyovk!”
Shulepnikov spat out the cigarette butt and, without looking at Glebov, stood up and lumbered off into the depth of the courtyard, where a container was being unloaded. Glebov, unpleasantly struck, drifted toward the street. He was struck not by the appearance of Lyovka Shulepa or the pathetic nature of his current condition, but by the fact that Lyovka did not want to recognize him. Of all people, Lyovka had no reason to be offended at Glebov. It wasn’t Glebov’s fault, and it wasn’t people’s fault—it was the times. Let him not greet the times, then. Suddenly again: the very early, poor, and foolish times, the house on the embankment, the snowy courtyards, the streetlights on wires, fights in the snowdrifts by the brick wall. Shulepa consisted of layers, falling apart in strata, and each layer was unlike the other, but that moment—in the snow, in the drifts by the brick wall, when they fought until they bled, until the hoarse cry of “I give up,” and then, in the warm, enormous house, blissfully drank tea from thin cups—that, probably, was the real thing. Although, who knows. In different times, the real thing looks different.
If he was honest, Glebov hated those times, because they were his childhood.
And in the evening, telling Marina, he was upset and nervous not because he had met a friend who didn’t want to recognize him, but because he had to deal with such irresponsible people as Yefim, who would promise the world and then forget or ignore it, and the antique table with medallions would float into strangers’ hands. They drove to the dacha to sleep. Alarm reigned there; his father-in-law and mother-in-law were awake despite the late hour: it turned out that Margo had left in the morning on a motorcycle with Tolmachev, hadn’t called all day, and only reported around nine o’clock that she was on Vernadsky Prospect at some artist’s studio. She asked them not to worry; Tolmachev would bring her back no later than midnight. Glebov was furious: “On a motorcycle? At night? Why didn’t you tell the idiot not to go crazy, to come back this minute, immediately?…” The father-in-law and mother-in-law, like two comical old people from a play, mumbled something absurd and out of place.
“I was just watering, Vadim Leksanych, and the water was shut off… So we need to raise the issue at the board meeting…”
Glebov waved his hand and went into the study on the second floor. The stuffiness hadn’t subsided even late in the evening. The smell of leafy, warm dryness came from the dark garden. Glebov took his medication and lay down on the couch, dressed, thinking that today, finally, if all went well and his daughter returned alive, he should talk to her about Tolmachev. To open her eyes to that nobody. Around half past midnight, there was the sound of a motorcycle, then voices downstairs. Glebov heard his daughter’s high, chattering voice with relief. He immediately and miraculously calmed down, the desire to talk to his daughter disappeared, and he began to make his bed on the couch, knowing that his wife would now certainly chat with Margo until late at night.
But they both burst into the study loudly and unceremoniously, while the light was still on and Glebov was standing in white knit briefs, with one foot on the rug in front of the couch and the other on the couch itself, trimming his toenails with small scissors.
His wife’s face was bloodless, and she said plaintively:
“You know, she’s marrying Tolmachev.”
“What are you saying!” Glebov feigned alarm, though he wasn’t actually scared, but Marina’s expression was just so miserable. “When is this?”
“In twelve days, when he gets back from his business trip,” Margo rattled off, emphasizing the finality and inevitability of what was about to happen with the speed of her speech. She was smiling; her small, childlike face with slightly puffy cheeks, her nose, her glasses, her mother’s black button eyes—all of it was glowing, sparkling, blind, and happy. Margo threw herself at her father and kissed him. Glebov smelled wine. He hastily slipped under the sheet. It was unpleasant that his adult daughter saw him in his underwear, and even more unpleasant because she was not embarrassed by it and didn’t even seem to notice her father’s indecent appearance; however, she wasn’t seeing anything right now. Astonishing infantilism in everything. And this little fool wanted to start an independent life with a man. More accurately, with scum. Glebov asked:
“What business trip? Does Tolmachev even work somewhere?”
“Of course, he works. As a salesman in a bookstore.”
“In a bookstore? A salesman?” Glebov threw both hands out from under the sheet in surprise. There was something new here, some trick. “Why am I only hearing about this now? You assured me he was an artist, showed me pictures, some candle holders, irons…”
“No, she did say where he worked. She said it, she said it,” confirmed Marina, who loved fairness. “But that’s not the point…”
“Oh, Mommy, how I love you all!” exclaimed Margo, kissing her mother, and laughed. “Daddy, you look pale today! How are you feeling?”
“And where is the groom at this very minute?”
“Daddy, I beg you, don’t think about anything, don’t get upset!”
“Margo, answer me: where are you planning to live?”
A salesman in a bookstore. Nothing could be more preposterous. It had been a long time since he’d seen such detached, happy eyes or heard such meaningless laughter. Margo, laughing, said:
“Is that really so important?”
“But your father and I want to know…”
“Oh, you want to know? You’re curious?” More laughter. “Well, if, say, here… Is that bad? You don’t agree?”
“Will you be taking the bus? Waking up at five in the morning?”
“Mommy, all that is trivial and nonsense…”
Suddenly they both vanished. Glebov listened to the floating female voices downstairs; the muffled chatter of his father-in-law and mother-in-law was added to them. Glebov’s heart ached with the premonition of change, and he decided to take a sleeping pill to fall asleep quickly. A fleeting thought came to him: “Maybe nothing terrible will happen? Let everything take its course. As always. Well, they’ll break up in a year, and to hell with them.” And he started thinking about something else.
Around one in the morning, the phone rang. Glebov felt a wave of anger wash over him through his semi-sleep; his heart rate accelerated, and he quickly, youthfully leaped off the couch and almost dashed to the phone on the desk: to grab the receiver before Margo could grab the downstairs phone and give the arrogant fellow a dressing down! He was sure it was Tolmachev calling.
But the voice was unfamiliar, some kind of loose, hooligan voice.
“Hello, Dunya, happy New Year… Don’t recognize me? Huh?” the hooligan rasped. “Sometimes he recognizes, sometimes he doesn’t. What an ass. And what time is it anyway? Oh, two o’clock, what’s the big deal, childish times. The intelligentsia isn’t asleep yet… Solving issues. I’m sitting here with some guy… Do you remember what kind of Finnish knives I had?”
“I remember,” Glebov said, and he actually remembered: there were about five knives, all different sizes. The smallest was the size of a cigarette. Lyovka would bring them to school and show off. And also a sparkling steel pistol with a bone handle, just like a real one.
Marina walked into the study, asking with a scared look: “Who is it?” Glebov winked, waving his hand: nothing, nonsense. For some reason, he was happy that Shulepnikov had called.
“All right, be well, sleep tight, dear comrade… Sorry to bother you… I was hammering your number out of directory assistance for three hours. Hear that? When you approached today, I didn’t want to recognize you. Why, I thought, do I need him? You were terribly repulsive to me. No, did you get that, Vadka, by God! I mean it: terribly repulsive.”
“Why so?” Glebov asked, yawning.
“Hell if I know. You didn’t do anything bad to me, seemed like. Well, you’re a doctor, a director, the fifth and tenth thing, a piece of shit pie, I’m not interested in any of that. Doesn’t bother me. I’m with a different department. And then I came home from work, got busy with my own things, and I figure: why did I offend Vadka Glebych? Maybe he came for some junk he needed? And next time he comes—I won’t be here… They’re sending me off to some country for about three years…”
“Oh, God!” Glebov thought. “He’ll be doing this until he dies…”
“Lev, call me tomorrow, please.”
“No, I won’t tomorrow. Only today. Are you a minister or something? Call tomorrow! Look at the princess. No tomorrow. Are you out of your mind, Glebov, how are you talking to me! How dare you? I was hammering your number out for three hours, here we are with a guy… He’s from the diplomatic corps, a great guy… Through the Ministry of Foreign Affairs information… Vadka, do you remember my mom?”
Glebov said he remembered and wanted to add that he remembered Lyovka’s father too, or rather, his stepfather. Or rather, both his stepfathers. But the receiver clinked, and there were short beeps.
Marina still looked scared.
“Just some nonsense. It’s that guy I met at the furniture store today…” Glebov stood barefoot by the desk, thoughtfully examining the telephone apparatus. “Still an absolute jerk… Seriously, why did he call?”
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