"Not here," the man said roughly with a gesture of annoyance, and put the book away into the big pocket of his white overall.
Katya ran home and returned in her own coat, leaving mine in the kitchen. She got into the ambulance. The doors closed on Maria Vasilievna, who lay there white and ghastly, and the ambulance, starting off with a jerk like an ordinary lorry, sped on its way to the casualty ward.
Nikolai Antonich and the old lady were left alone in the courtyard. For a time they stood there in silence. Then he turned and went inside, moving his feet mechanically as though he were afraid of falling. I had never seen him like that before.
The old lady asked me to meet the doctor and tell him he was not needed. I ran off and met him in Triumfalnaya Square, at a tobacconist kiosk. The doctor was buying a box of matches.
"Dead?" he asked.
I told him that she was not and that the ambulance had taken her to hospital and I could pay him if he wanted.
"No need, no need," the doctor said gruffly.
I went back to find the old lady sitting in the kitchen, weeping.
Nikolai Antonich was no longer there-he had gone off to the hospital.
"Nina Kapitonovna," I said, "is there anything I can do for you?" She blew her nose and wept and blew her nose again. This went on for a long time while I stood and waited. At last she asked me to help her on with her coat and we took a tram to the hospital.
That night, with the sense of speed still whistling as it were in my ears as I hurtled on, though I was lying in my bed in the dark, it dawned on me that Maria Vasilievna's decision to do away with herself had been made when sitting in Korablev's room the night before. That's why she had been so calm and had smoked such a lot and said such queer things. Her mind was on some mysterious track of its own, of which we knew nothing. Everything she said was tinctured by the decision she had come to. It was not me she had been asking questions, but herself, and she answered them herself.
Perhaps she had thought that I was mistaken and that it was somebody else the letter referred to. Perhaps she had been hoping that the passages which I had remembered and which Katya had deliberately kept from her, would not have the terrible import she feared. Perhaps she had been hoping that Nikolai Antonich, who had done so much for her late husband-so much that that alone was reason enough for marrying him-would turn out to be not so guilty and base as she feared.
And I? Look what I had done!
I went hot and cold all over. I flung back the blanket and took deep breaths to steady myself and think matters out calmly. I went over that conversation again. How clear it was to me now! It was as if each word was turning slowly round before me and I could now see its other, hidden side.
"I love Ensk. It's wonderful there. Such gardens!" It had been pleasant to her to recall her youth at that moment. She was taking farewell, as it were, of her hometown-now that she had made her decision.
"Montigomo Hawk's Claw - I used to call him that." Her voice had shaken, because nobody else knew she had called him that, and so it was undeniable proof that I had remembered the words right.
"I haven't spoken to him about these letters. He's upset as it is. I don't think I ought to just now-what do you say?" And these words, too, which had seemed so odd to me yesterday-how clear they were now! He was her husband, perhaps the closest person in the world to her. And she simply did not want to upset him, knowing that she had troubles enough in store for him.
I had forgotten all about my deep breathing and was sitting up in bed, thinking and thinking. She had wanted to say goodbye to Korablev as well-that was it! He loved her, too, maybe more than anybody else did. She had wanted to take leave of the life which they might have made a go of. I had always had a feeling that it was Korablev she cared for.
I should have been asleep long ago, seeing that I had a very serious term-test facing me the next day, and that it was anything but pleasant to brood over the happenings of that unhappy day.
I must have fallen asleep, but only for a minute. Suddenly a voice close at my side said quietly: "She's dead." I opened my eyes, but nobody was there, of course. I must have said it myself.
And so, against my will, I found myself recalling how Nina Kapitonovna and I had gone to the hospital together. I tried to go to sleep, but I couldn't drive the memories away.
We had sat on a big white seat next to some doors, and it was some time before I realised that the stretcher with Maria Vasilievna on it was in the next room so close to us.
And then an elderly nurse had come out and said: "You have come to see Tatarinova? You may go in." And she herself hastily put a white gown on the old lady and tied the strings.
A chill struck my heart, I understood at once that she must be in a bad way if you were allowed in without a special permission. My heart went cold again when the elderly nurse went up to another nurse, somewhat younger, who was registering patients, and in answer to a question of hers, said:
"Goodness, no! Not a chance."
Then began a long wait. I gazed at the white door and imagined them all-Nikolai Antonich, the old lady and Katya-standing around the stretcher on which Maria Vasilievna lay. Then somebody came out, leaving the door ajar for a moment, and I saw that it was not like that at all. There was no longer any stretcher there, and something white with a dark head lay on a low couch with somebody in white kneeling in front of it. I also saw a bare arm hanging down from the couch, and then the door shut. After that came a thin hoarse scream, and the nurse who was registering patients stopped for a minute, then resumed her writing and explaining. I don't know why, but I realised at once that the scream was Nikolai Antonich's. In such a thin little voice! Like a child's.
The elderly nurse came out and, with a business-like air that was obviously affected, began talking to some young man who stood kneading his hat in his hands. She glanced at me-because I had come with Nina Kapitonovna-then looked away at once. And I realised that Maria Vasilievna was dead.
Afterwards I heard the nurse saying to someone: "Such a pity, a beautiful woman." It all seemed to be happening in a dream, and I'm not sure whether it was she who said it or somebody else, as Katya and the old lady came out of the room in which she had died.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO IT ISN'T HIM
Those were miserable days and I don't feel like dwelling on them, though I remember every conversation, every encounter, almost every thought.
They were days which cast a large shadow, as it were, on my life.
Soon after Maria Vasilievna's funeral I sat down to work. It seemed to me that there was something like a sense of self-preservation in the fierce persistence with which I applied myself to my studies, thrusting all thoughts behind me. It was not easy, especially bearing in mind that when I went up to Katya at the funeral she turned away from me.
It happened like this. Unexpectedly, very many people came to the funeral-colleagues of Maria Vasilievna's and even students who had been at the Medical Institute with her. She had always seemed a lonely person, but apparently many people knew her and liked her. Among these strangers, all talking in whispers and gazing at the gateway, waiting for the coffin to be carried out, stood Korablev, hollow-eyed, his big moustache looking enormous on his haggard face.
Nikolai Antonich stood slightly apart with lowered head, and Nina Kapitonovna held his arm. It looked as if she was supporting him, though he stood quite straight. The Bubenchikov old ladies were there, too, looking like nuns in their old-fashioned black dresses.
Katya was standing next to them staring steadily at the gate. Her cheeks were rosy in spite of her grief, which was evident even in the impatient gesture with which she adjusted her hat when it kept slipping down on her forehead-probably she had not pinned her hair up properly.
Half an hour passed, but the coffin had not been carried out yet. And then suddenly I decided to go up to her.
It may not have been the right thing for me to do at such a moment as this-I don't know. But I wanted to say something to her, if only a single word.
"Katya!"
She had looked at me and turned away.
I sat over my books for days on end. This was my last semester at school, and I was determined to get "highly satisfactory" marks on all subjects. This was no simple task, especially when it came to Literature.
Came the day when even Likho, with an air of pained reluctance, gave me his "highly satisfactory". My passing-out essay did not worry me-I just dashed it off in accordance with the requirements of this loaf-head, knowing that he would give me a high mark if only through gratified pride.
I came out top of the class, with only Valya ahead of me. But then he had brilliant capabilities and was much cleverer than me.
But the shadow crept on. It was with an effort that Korablev brought himself to look at me whenever we met. Nikolai Antonich did not come to the school, and though no one mentioned our clash at the Teachers' Council, they all regarded me with a sort of reproach, as if that fainting fit of his at the council meeting and Maria Vasilievna's death vindicated him completely.
Everyone avoided me and I was lonelier than ever. But I little knew what blow awaited me.
One day, about a fortnight after Maria Vasilievna's death, I went in to see Korablev. I wanted to ask him to go with us to the Geology Museum (I was then a Young Pioneer leader and my group had asked to be taken to the museum).
But he came out to me in a very agitated state and told me to call later.
"When, Ivan Pavlovich?"
"I don't know. Later."
In the hall hung a coat and hat and on a side table lay the brown woolen scarf which I had seen the old lady was knitting. Korablev had Nikolai Antonich in his room. I went away.
What was Nikolai Antonich doing there? He hadn't been in Korab-lev's place for at least four years. What was Korablev so upset about?
When I went back, Nikolai Antonich was no longer there. I remember everything as if it were yesterday: the stove was burning, and Korablev, wearing the thick shaggy jacket he always put on when he was a little tipsy or out of sorts, was sitting in front of the stove, gazing into the fire. He looked up when I came in, and said: "What have you done, Sanya! My God, what have you done!"
"Ivan Pavlovich!"
"My God, what have you done!" he repeated in a tone of despair. "It isn't him, it isn't him at all! He has proved it undeniably, incon-testably."
"I don't understand, Ivan Pavlovich. What are you talking about?"
Korablev got up, then sat down and got up again.
"Nikolai Antonich has been to see me. He has proved me that the Captain's letter does not refer to him at all. It's some other Nikolai, some merchant by the name of von Vyshimirsky."
I was astounded.
"But Ivan Pavlovich, it's a lie. He's lying!"
"No, it's true," said Korablev. "It was a vast undertaking of which we know nothing. There were lots of people involved, merchants, ship chandlers and what not, and the Captain knew all about it from the very beginning. He knew that the expedition had been fitted out very badly, and he wrote to Nikolai Antonich about it. I saw his letters with my own eyes."
I could hardly believe my ears. I had always thought that the letter I had found at Ensk was the only one in existence, and this news about other letters from the Captain simply bowled me over.
"Lots of things went wrong with them," Korablev continued. "Some shipowner took the crew off just when they were putting out to sea, they managed, with great difficulty, to get a wireless telegraph installation, but had to leave it behind because they couldn't get an operator, and other troubles-so why should Nikolai Antonich be blamed for all this? It's as clear as anything, my God. And I-I guessed as much... But I-"
He broke off and suddenly I saw that he was crying. "Ivan Pavlovich," I said looking away. "It turns out then, that it's not his fault, but the fault of that 'von' somebody or other. In that case why did Nikolai Antonich always claim that he had been in charge of the whole business? Ask him how many beef tea cubes the expedition took with them, how much macaroni, biscuits and coffee. Why did he never mention this 'von' before?"
Korablev wiped his eyes and moustache with his handkerchief. He got some vodka from the cupboard, poured out half a tumbler and immediately poured a little back with a shaking hand. He drank the vodka and sat down again.
"Oh, what does it matter now?" he said with a wave of his hand. "But how blind I was, how terribly blind!" he exclaimed again in a tone of despair. "I should have persuaded her that it was impossible, incredible, that even if it was Nikolai Antonich-all the same you couldn't throw the blame for the failure of such a vast venture on a single man. I could have said that your insistence was due to your hatred of the man."
I listened to Korablev in silence. I had always liked him and had a great respect for him, and it was all the more unpleasant to me to see him in this abject state. He kept blowing his nose, and his hair and moustache were dishevelled.
"Whether I hate him or not," I said -quietly, "has nothing to do with it. I don't know what you meant by it, anyway. Do you mean that I stuck to my version for base personal motives?" Korablev was silent. "Ivan Pavlovich!" He was still silent.
"Ivan Pavlovich!" I shouted. "You think I got mixed up in this on purpose so's to have my revenge on Nikolai Antonich? Is that why you said that even if it was him and not some 'von' or other-all the same you couldn't throw the blame for the failure of such a vast enterprise on a single man? You believe it's all my fault? Why don't you answer? Do you?"