The Librarian Page 10

  The mechanic frisked the bodies while the false dacha lady Tanya gazed at me with tenderness in her eyes, then suddenly said:

  “Alexander Vladimirovich, you behaved quite splendidly, and you are very, very much like Maxim Danilovich…”

  “Very true,” said the driver, turning round for a moment. “I noticed that too. The same face.”

  “I can hardly believe it,” said the navigator. “A dead ringer for his uncle…”

  “Alexei Vladimirovich,” said Margarita Tikhonovna, touching my knee cautiously, “I realize that you are perturbed and shocked. If you wish to collect your thoughts, please, do not speak. Rest and recover your equilibrium.”

  In fact I had a lot of questions. What did they kill Uncle Maxim for? Who are these people who supposedly killed him? And finally, most important of all: what’s going to happen to me? However, complying with Margarita Tikhonovna’s categorical proposition, I spent the rest of the journey looking out through the black window at the agitated cardiogram of roadside lights.

  Along the way they discussed where to take me. Margarita Tikhonovna urged me to come to her place, but bald Igor Valeryevich insisted that his place was better, since Margarita Tikhonovna’s address might be known to the foe. This argument proved decisive and the RAF swerved off the lit street and wound its way between faceless buildings of precast concrete panels—it turned out that Igor Valeryevich lived somewhere around here.

  At the entrance to the building the company divided. The driver and his navigator, having been instructed to guard Kolesov, immediately drove off with their dead cargo.

  THE FIRST NIGHT. THE FIRST DAY

  I CAN’T SAY NOW that it was the most terrifying night of my life. Rather, it was one of a series of terrifying nights.

  We went upstairs, and in the doorway of the apartment Igor Valeryevich told me to make myself at home. The others didn’t need any special invitation. Tanya went off to the kitchen to play housewife. Sukharev whistled as he locked himself in the toilet. Margarita Tikhonovna showed me into the sitting room and Igor Valeryevich pointed to the adjoining room: “Alexei, the bedroom’s all yours for the night.”

  I politely declined tea—what if they slipped something into my cup? My fear had subsided slightly and my legs no longer felt rubbery, although my stomach was still on fire with adrenaline intoxication. I tried to behave with dignity, but my voice betrayed my condition and I preferred to keep silent and restrict myself to a nod for “yes” or a brief shake of my head for “no”.

  Margarita Tikhonovna did not forget to repeat: “Alexei Vladimirovich, the important thing is not to forget that you are among friends and perfectly safe.” But I didn’t really believe it.

  Still smiling, Margarita Tikhonovna sat down to speak on the phone. The words she heard in the receiver jerked her clean out of her previous state of calm.

  “What do you mean ‘got away’? When?” Margarita Tikhonovna exclaimed plaintively. “Now calm yourself, Timofei Stepanovich, no one is accusing you of anything! What about the others? Oh, you kill the very heart in me… I’m speechless… All right, let them search… Yes, come immediately. We’re at Igor Valeryevich’s place!”

  She put the phone down and, struggling to conceal her own agitation, announced:

  “Comrades, stay calm now. We have an enormous problem. Shapiro has escaped. Vadik Provotorov is wounded…”

  A tense silence enveloped the room. Then Igor Valeryevich’s fist crashed down onto the table. Cups rattled and hopped up in the air. Tanya gasped. Sukharev started dashing around the room, swearing.

  “Stop all this emotion!” Margarita Tikhonovna ordered. “What way is that to behave? At least show some dignity in Alexei Vladimirovich’s presence!”

  Sukharev immediately fell silent and slumped down into an armchair, breathing noisily through his nose.

  Igor Valeryevich exclaimed bitterly:

  “Well, there you have it, never count your chickens before they’re hatched…”

  “Perhaps they’ll still manage to catch him?” Tanya suggested timidly.

  “I doubt it,” Margarita Tikhonovna sighed. “Shapiro’s already gone to ground, and the most ghastly thing of all is that he has warned Marchenko.”

  Igor Valeryevich picked up a saucer that had flown off the table.

  “Then get in touch straight away with Tereshnikov, or whoever it is that’s in charge of things now, and…”

  “Igor Valeryevich…”

  “Otherwise Marchenko will do it first. If he hasn’t already.” Seeing Margarita Tikhonovna hesitate, he added: “Marchenko knew all about Shapiro’s plans anyway, and the raiding party was acting with his knowledge too. He would have sounded the alarm himself in a day.”

  Margarita Tikhonovna gave me a compassionate look.

  “How I wish, Alexei Vladimirovich, that I could tell you everything, so that you would calm down at last… But it’s a long, complicated story. It’s better if we put it off for later. You must have realized that we have run into unexpected difficulties…”

  Margarita Tikhonovna spent the next fifteen minutes or so calling essential people, while I clutched at every word in the hope of investing it with meaning and clarifying my own fate.

  “Good evening, Comrade Tereshnikov. I’m sorry to trouble you, this is Selivanova here, from the Shironin reading room. We have an emergency situation… A meeting is required, tomorrow… Twenty hundred hours, as usual. Please understand, this is a matter of extreme urgency! If they go to the station today, then by tomorrow evening they could… We really shouldn’t drag this out… I can hint that we have something that could spoil… Yes, in triplicate. The fourth is alive and willing to talk about the Gorelov reading room… I am astounded by your perspicacity… Yes, by all means, inform Lagudov and Shulga… And don’t try to intimidate me with the Council of Libraries… All to the way to the Supreme Soviet if you wish! And don’t you dare address me in such a tone of voice! I’m not some young girl! Thanks be to God, I’m sixty-three years old! Yes!… Good night to you!”

  “What a scoundrel!” she concluded, after the receiver clattered into its cradle.

  Mind you, Margarita Tikhonovna spoke to the others far more cordially.

  “Comrade Burkin, how do you do… I was just talking to Tereshnikov. We’ve arranged a meeting for Saturday. What do you think, will you support us? Well, thank you so much… Vasily Andreyevich, it really requires more than just a couple of words… In general terms, we’re going to expose the Gorelovites’ true colours… Caught in the act… Yes… Three-quarters were liquidated, one-quarter with a battered face is bound and under guard… Nothing good about it. Shapiro has got away from us… We’re clarifying that… I’m far from delighted myself… Yes, thank you…”

  “Zhannochka Grigoryevna… Good evening… How is your health?… We really need you very badly tomorrow… A meeting… The Gorelovites have blundered… Today… We liquidated three of them. But it’s still too early to congratulate us on our good fortune— the key witness, who is also the accused, has escaped… Yes, Shapiro, the very same… What do I think? I think that Sunday is going to be a very hot day… Yes… Zhannochka Grigoryevna, I have always counted on you… Thank you for those kind words, my dear…”

  “Comrade Latokhin, good evening. This is Selivanova. There’s a meeting on Saturday… Dear man, I realize this is a bolt out of the blue… I called Tereshnikov… We’ll dot all the i’s and cross all the t’s tomorrow… Our own initiative… We had a little fox hunt here… With mixed results… We let the most important one get away. He escaped just as we had things… Pilipchuk was in charge, Timofei Stepanovich… Well, he blames himself, he’s in a desperate state… A heart attack is just what we need at the moment… And how am I doing? Comrade Latokhin, I’m like that speckled hen in the fairy tale; I calm everyone down: ‘Don’t cry, Granddad. Don’t cry, Grandma…’ Yes… Tereshnikov? His usual self, trying to intimidate me with the Council of Libraries… Thank you, Comrade Latokhin, we never d
oubted you…”

  I caught the gist of what had happened. The escape of a certain Shapiro had totally confounded my abductors’ plans, so that the murderous attack on Kolesov and his comrades had spawned serious problems. Margarita Tikhonovna used the words “library”, “reading room” and “council” rather often, but it seemed to me that in this context they had a somewhat different meaning.

  “I’ve done everything I can do. Burkin, Simonyan and Latokhin are on our side, I never expected any different,” Margarita Tikhonovna summed up.

  The doorbell trilled abruptly and insistently. Then someone knocked.

  “That’s Timofei Stepanovich,” Margarita Tikhonovna said with a start. “At least, I hope it is…”

  Grabbing his blade, Igor Valeryevich went to answer the door. A few seconds later the new arrival’s rasping voice could be heard in the hallway.

  “We let him get away! He tricked us! He’s scum, the bastard! Forgive me, comrades!”

  There was a clatter of iron-shod boots as an old man with shaggy hair and broad shoulders came running into the room. He was dressed like a collective-farm chairman, but he looked as if he’d been fighting with the partisans for at least a year: his baggy-kneed, mud-smeared trousers were tucked into his boots, and here and there patches of pine needles and wood resin were clinging to his jacket.

  “It’s my fault!” the old man exclaimed, wrenching a grey strand out of his tousled thatch. “I let Shapiro get away! I’m prepared to accept the severe consequences of my failure!”

  “Timofei Stepanovich, please calm down at once!” Margarita Tikhonovna declared quietly but imperiously. “How is Provotorov? Alive?”

  “They took Vadka off to hospital…” said the old man, examining the strand of hair clutched in his fist. “The doctors said it’s nothing serious… Shapiro stunned him and hopped out through the window…” He unclenched his fingers and the wrenched-out tuft dropped onto the carpet.

  “Timofei Stepanovich, my dear, how could you have?” Tanya asked dejectedly. “Where were you?”

  “In the privy…” said Timofei Stepanovich, almost crying. “Provotorov and Lutsis were left with Shapiro… You told me just a while back, ‘Shapiro’s a traitor.’ But it was Maxim Danilovich himself who brought him into the reading room! I just couldn’t believe that he… I thought we were wrong to suspect the man, one of our own comrades, that we’d be ashamed afterwards and have to apologize for it!” Timofei Stepanovich suddenly hesitated with a strange air. “And who’s this?” he asked, gawping wild-eyed at me.

  “Maxim Danilovich’s nephew,” said Margarita Tikhonovna. “Alexei Vladimirovich Vyazintsev. I told you…”

  “Take my word…” Timofei Stepanovich wheezed, darting towards me.

  I hid ingloriously behind Margarita Tikhonovna.

  “Alexei Vladimirovich, take my word for it, I will make amends…” said Timofei Stepanovich, thumping himself on the chest with a resounding thud. “I’ll gnaw that Shapiro’s heart out…”

  “Timofei Stepanovich, my dear,” Margarita Tikhonovna implored him wearily, “curb your heroic temperament for now. Alexei Vladimirovich has suffered enough as it is. He has had more than enough new impressions to cope with today. Why don’t you just tell me where Ogloblin and Larionov are?”

  “They’re guarding that one you captured,” said Timofei Stepanovich, reluctantly backing away from me, “in the Vozglyakovs’ shed.”

  “And the others?”

  “Searching for Shapiro…” said the old man with a dismissive gesture. “They divided into two groups. Dezhnev and Ievlev are in charge.”

  “I’ll tell you what I’m afraid of…” Igor Valeryevich put in. “If Kolesov finds out that we haven’t got Shapiro, he’ll refute all his testimony. We have to hand him over to the observers tomorrow in any case. He’ll have time to talk to Marchenko…”

  “Boys and girls,” said Tanya, pointing at me, “we have Alexei Vladimirovich! He’s a witness too!”

  A sudden foreboding brought me out in a sweat.

  “And why not,” said Sukharev, perking up feebly. “He was there, wasn’t he? He saw the whole thing. Right, Alexei?”

  “I’m against it,” Margarita Tikhonovna said after pondering briefly. “I wouldn’t like to get Alexei Vladimirovich involved…”

  “Maybe just as a back-up option?” Igor Valeryevich put in cautiously. He sat down beside me. “Of course you’re not in the mood for all this right now… But what did happen at Maxim Danilovich’s place, I mean at your place, when Kolesov showed up? Only in detail, now.”

  As far as I was able, I recited the sequence of events: the note in the door, the strange visitors and the book that was found on the shelves, which Kolesov cadged from me.

  “In principle, Tereshnikov is obliged to take this into account,” said Margarita Tikhonovna. “Even if Kolesov tries to squirm out of his testimony, we have the letter, which is evidence of a kind… By the way, where is it, Alexei Vladimirovich?”

  “I’ll go for it,” Sukharev piped up. “If Alexei just tells me where…”

  “Here it is,” I said, taking the creased sheet of paper out of my pocket in the feeble hope that it might somehow serve as my ransom.

  “Alexei Vladimirovich! My ray of sunshine!” Margarita Tikhonovna exclaimed. “How excellent that you brought it with you!”

  She tucked the letter into her handbag and spoke words that transformed the floor into a lurching deck.

  “Alexei Vladimirovich, I really am most reluctant to impose on you, but I think that tomorrow we shall require your help after all. Could you repeat to the meeting everything that you have told us?”

  I didn’t dare to risk saying “no”, recalling the manner in which problems of “cooperation” were dealt with in this company. Sukharev had the confiscated awl, tempered in sealing wax, tucked into his belt, and bald Igor Valeryevich hadn’t put his fearsome blade away yet.

  Margarita Tikhonovna thanked me, old Timofei Stepanovich rushed to shake me by the hand, Tanya smiled, Sukharev patted me on the shoulder, Igor Valeryevich said that my agreeing to help was a tribute to the memory of Uncle Maxim. And I realized in horror what an inescapable quagmire today’s events had turned into.

  In conclusion Margarita Tikhonovna said:

  “Igor Valeryevich, we leave our guest in your keeping. Let him rest. We’ll come for you early tomorrow evening.”

  *

  They left. I meekly withdrew into the other room, but of course I had no intention of sleeping. And, to all appearances, neither did my guard. I heard the sound of ponderous steps, and then the springs of an armchair sighed under his weight. A strip of light came in under the door. I heard the rustle of a newspaper and the jingle of a circling teaspoon.

  About halfway through the night the light went out and, after waiting for the sound of regular snoring, I tried to get out into the sitting room without making any noise. The treacherous door didn’t merely creak, it whinnied like a horse. The snoring immediately broke off, Igor Valeryevich lifted his head up off the cushion, sleeked down round his bald patch the hair that had straggled across his temples and the back of his head, and turned on the standard lamp with his other hand.

  “Alexei, the toilet’s right beside the front door, only the tank’s acting up,” he said, screwing his eyes up drowsily against the bright light. “That’s Sanya’s fault, the pest, he broke the handle again last night. There’s a green bucket in there, fill it with water and pour that in, and I’ll fix the tank in the morning…” Igor Valeryevich was wearing tracksuit trousers and a singlet that emphasized his bovine fleshiness. The knife was lying beside him on a nightstand. “Finding it hard to sleep in a strange place?”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “It’s no big deal, I was only half dozing anyway… If you need anything, don’t stand on ceremony, just go ahead and get me up…”

  As I came out of the toilet, I noticed an oval plaque on the door, with a bas-relief image o
f a little urchin peeing into a chamber pot. One exactly like it used to hang in our home about twenty years earlier, but then it had got lost somewhere. Strangely enough, the sight of this tranquil urination that had been going on for decades in apartments of the most various kinds suddenly relieved my anxiety. Or perhaps the fear had simply drained out of me spontaneously and I had flushed it away with water out of the green bucket.

  I suddenly felt terribly tired. And the back of my neck hurt, as if someone had been stubbing out fag ends on it with his boot. I closed my eyes and dreamed of a headache.

  In the morning Igor Valeryevich buzzed annoyingly with his electric shaver and worked away noisily in the kitchen—dishes clattered in the sink while the frying pan hissed.

  “How did you sleep, Alexei?” he shouted, hearing that I was up, and glanced out, holding a fork with a slice of bread stuck on it. “Have a wash, we’re going to have breakfast in a minute. Do you like toast? With ham and cheese?…”

  Igor Valeryevich’s surname was Kruchina, a word signifying “grief” in Russian, but nothing could possibly have been more inappropriate to his bright, sunny temperament. He acted as if we were old friends and spoke in the cheerful manner of the presenter of Morning Exercise on the radio. I tried to avoid meeting his glance, but every time he ambushed me with a broad smile.

  “Don’t be shy now, Alexei, pile it up and I’ll toast some more. That’s it, good lad! Maybe I should make a salad?”

  I hastily declined, because the sight of Igor Valeryevich with a knife—even a kitchen knife—would have been too much for me.

  “How about some tea with lemon? You don’t mind? That’s grand, then!” And he immediately started crooning some bouncy little tune to himself.

  Half a day of this excessive bonhomie wore me out finally and completely. I didn’t trust him and was expecting this performance to come to an abrupt end at any moment, after which Igor Valeryevich would reveal his true, ferocious face.