I was dumbfounded.
"Nikolai Antonich in love with Maria Vasilievna? Even in those days?"
"Yes, yes," Vyshimirsky repeated impatiently. "There were personal reasons. Get me-personal? Personal, person, personality. He would have given his whole fortune to have that Captain packed off to the next world. And pack him off he did."
But love or not love, business was business. Nikolai Antonich did not give up his fortune, on the contrary he doubled it. He took delivery of rotten clothing for the expedition and pocketed a bribe from the supplier.
He took delivery of spoilt chocolate that smelt of kerosene, also in return for a bribe.
"Sabotage, deliberate sabotage," said Vyshimirsky. "It was planned as such!"
Evidently Vyshimirsky had not always held this negative view of the plan, considering his part in it and the fact that Nikolai Antonich had sent him to Archangel to meet the expedition and complete its fitting out.
This was where the power of attorney which Nikolai Antonich had shown to Korablev first comes into the picture. Together with this document Vyshimirsky had received money in cash and bills of exchange.
Sniffing angrily, the old man fished several bills out of the chest of drawers. A bill of exchange, broadly speaking, was a receipt for money stipulating that it was to be paid back at a stated time. Only this receipt was made out on thick state paper, which had watermarks and an expensive, impressive look. Vyshimirsky explained to me that these bills circulated in place of money. But they were not exactly money, because the "drawer" might suddenly declare that he had no money to meet them.
This left openings for all kinds of sharp practices, and Vyshimirsky accused Nikolai Antonich of one such swindle.
He accused him of having sent him, along with the power of attorney, bills of exchange which were no good, because the drawers were insolvent and unable to pay, and Nikolai Antonich had known this beforehand. Vyshimirsky did not know this and took the bills for money, all the more as the drawers were merchants and other people who were considered respectable in those days. He did not know this until the schooner had set sail, leaving debts to the amount of forty-eight thousand. Nobody, of course, would negotiate these dead bills.
And so Vyshimirsky had had to pay these debts out of his own pocket.
Afterwards he had had to pay them over again, because Nikolai Antonich brought an action against him and the court or- dered Vyshimirsky to repay all the monies which had been remitted to him in Archangel.
Of course, I have given only the gist of this story. The old man spent two hours telling it, and kept getting up and sitting down during its narration.
"I fought the case all the way to the Senate," he wound up grimly. "But I lost it."
That was the end of him, because his property came under the hammer.
His house-he had a house-was sold too, and he moved into smaller rooms. His wife died of grief, leaving him with young children on his hands. Then, when the Revolution came, he found himself in a single room, the one he was now obliged to live in. Or course, this was "only temporary", because "the government would soon appreciate his services to the people at their true worth". Meanwhile, he was obliged to live there, and he had a grown-up daughter who knew two languages and couldn't get married owing to the cramped space they lived in-there was no room in it for the husband. But he would move out as soon as he got his special pension.
"I'll move anywhere, to a Disabled Persons' Home if need be," he said with a gesture of bitter resignation.
Obviously, this grown-up daughter of his was very keen of getting married and wanted him to move out.
"Nikolai Ivanovich," I said to him, "may I ask you one question? You say that he sent this power of attorney to you in Archangel. How did he get it back again?"
Vyshimirsky stood up. His nostrils dilated and the tuft of grey hair on his head quivered with anger.
"I threw the paper in his face," he said. "He ran out to get me some water, but I didn't stay to drink it. I had a fainting fit in the street.
Oh, what's the use of talking!"
I heard him out with a painful feeling. There was something sordid about this story, as sordid as everything else around me in that room, so that all the time I felt like washing my hands. It had seemed to me that our talk would yield further evidence proving me in the right, evidence as new and surprising as the sudden appearance of this man himself had been. And so it did. Nevertheless, it was annoying to think that this new evidence was contaminated with dirt.
Then he started off again about his pension, saying that they were bound to give him a special pension, seeing that he had an employment record of over forty-five years. One young man had already called on him and collected his papers. He, too, was interested in Nikolai Antonich, by the way, but he did not call again.
"He promised to do something for me," said Vyshimirsky, "but he never came again."
"Interested in Nikolai Antonich?"
"Yes. He was interested, to be sure he was."
"Who was it?"
Vyshimirsky spread his hands.
"He called several times," he said. "I have a grown-up daughter, you know, and they sat together talking and drinking tea. Getting acquainted, you know."
The shadow of a smile crossed his face-evidently this acquaintance had raised certain hopes.
"Well, well," I said. "And he took some papers away, you say?"
"Yes. To help get my pension, a special pension."
"And he inquired about Nikolai Antonich?"
"Yes, he did. He even asked whether I knew anybody else. Whether anybody else knew what this ugly customer had been up to. I put him on to one man."
"That's interesting. Who is that young man?"
"A respectable-looking man, too," said Vyshimirsky. "He promised to do something. He said he had to have all those papers to get me a pension. A special pension."
I asked what his name was, but the old man could not remember.
"Something with a 'sha' in it," he said.
Then his grown-up daughter came in. I could see now why there was such a hurry to get her married. It was going to be a problem, not because there was "no room for a husband" but because to that lady's nose. It was a terrific nose, and it kept sniffing and snuffling with an alarmingly predatory air.
I greeted her politely, and she ran out, reappearing some minutes later looking quite a different person. She was wearing a normal dress now in place of that Arab burnous thing she had had on when she came in.
We fell into conversation, talking first about Korablev, who was the only acquaintance we had in common, then about his pupil, who was still fiddling about in his comer with his reels and coils and paying no attention to us whatever.
"Anyuta, what was the name of that young man?" her father asked timidly.
"What young man?"
"The one who promised to get me my pension."
Anyuta's nose twitched and her lips quivered, and a variety of expressions crossed her face. The strongest was indignation.
"I don't remember-Romashov, I think," she answered carelessly.
Romashka! Romashka had been to see them! He had promised the old man assistance in getting him a special pension, he had paid court to Anyuta with the nose! In the end he had disappeared, taking some papers with him, and the old man could not even remember what kind of papers they were. At first I thought this was some other Romashov, some other man by the same name. But no, it was the same one. I described him in detail, and Anyuta said venomously:
"That's him!"
He had paid court to her, that was clear. Afterwards he had stopped paying court, otherwise she would not be calling him the names she did. He had got out of the old man everything he knew about Nikolai Antonich. He was collecting information. What for? Why had he taken from Vyshimirsky those papers, which only went to prove one thing-thai before the revolution Nikolai Antonich had been no teacher, but just a mean stock-jobber?
I came away from Vyshimirsky with a reeling head. There could be only two solutions here-either that his purpose was to destroy all traces of this past, or to get some sort of hold over Nikolai Antonich.
A hold over him? But why? Wasn't he his pupil, his most devoted and loyal pupil? He had always been that, even at school, when he eavesdropped on the boys to hear what they were saying about Nikolai Antonich and then reported it to him. No, he was acting on instructions! Nikolai Antonich had asked him to find out what Vyshimirsky knew about him. It was a "plant". He had sent Romashov to take away the papers which might prove damaging to him.
I went into a cafe and had some icecream. Then I had a drink of something-some mineral water. I felt very hot and kept thinking and thinking. After all, many years had passed since Romashka and I had parted after finishing school. At that time he had been a nasty piece of work, a mean, cold soul. But he was sincerely devoted to Nikolai Antonich-at least, so we thought. Now I wasn't so sure. He may have changed. Perhaps, without Nikolai Antonich knowing it, out of pure devotion to him, he had decided to destroy papers which might cast a reflection on the good name of his teacher, his friend?
No, he would never do anything merely out of devotion to that man.
There was some other motive behind this, I was sure. But I couldn't make out what that motive was. I could only go by the old set of relations which had existed between Nikolai Antonich and Romashka, as I knew very little about their present relations.
It might have been some very simple motive, something to do with promotion. Nikolai Antonich, it should be remembered, was a professor, and Romashka was his assistant. It might even be money-even as a schoolboy his ears used to burn at the mere mention of money. Something to do with his salary perhaps.
I phoned Valya. I wanted to consult him, seeing that he had been visiting the Tatarinovs in recent years, but he was not at home. He never was when he was most needed!
"No, it's not salary or a career," I went on thinking. "He'd get these by other, simpler means. You only have to look at him." It was time to go home, but evening was only just drawing in, a lovely Moscow evening so unlike my evenings at Zapolarie that I felt a desire to walk back to my hotel, though it was a good distance away.
And so I sauntered off, first in the direction of Gorky Street, then down Vorotnikovsky Street. Familiar places! I had passed my hotel and continued down Vorotnikovsky, then turned off into Sadovo-Triumfalnaya, past our school. And from there it was a stone's throw to 2nd Tverskaya-Yamskaya, where a few minutes later found me standing in front of a familiar house. I looked through the gate and saw a familiar tidy little courtyard and a familiar brickbuilt woodshed where I used to chop wood for the old lady. And there was the staircase down which I had tumbled head over heels, and there the door with the brass nameplate on which was inscribed in fanciful lettering: "N. A. Tatarinov".
"Katya, I've come to see you. You won't drive me away, will you?"
Afterwards Katya said that she realised at once the moment she saw me that I was "quite different" from what I had been the other day outside the Bolshoi Theatre. One thing she couldn't make out, though-why, coming to see her so suddenly and looking "quite different", I never took my eyes off Nikolai Antonich and Romashka the whole evening.
That was an exaggeration, of course, but I did glance at them now and again. My brain that evening was working at full exam-time pressure and I guessed and grasped things at a bare hint.
I forgot to mention that before leaving the cafe I had bought some flowers. I had walked to the Tatarinovs' house carrying a bunch of flowers and felt rather awkward. Ever since the days Pyotr and I had stolen gillyflowers from the gardening beds at Ensk and sold them for five kopecks a bunch to people coming out of the theatre, I had never walked through the streets carrying flowers. Now that I had come, I should have given the flowers to Katya. Instead, I put them down on the hall table beside my cap.
I just have shown some agitation, though, because when I spoke I couldn't keep the ring out of my voice. Katya looked at me quickly straight in the face.
We were about to go into her room, but at that moment Nina Kapitonovna came out of the dining-room. I bowed. She looked at me blankly and nodded stiffly.
"Grandma, this is Sanya. Don't you recognise him?"
"Sanya? Bless my heart! Is it really?"
She threw a startled look over the shoulder, and through the open door of the dining-room I saw Nikolai Antonich sitting in an armchair with a newspaper in his hands. He was at home!
"How do you do, Nina Kapitonovna!" I said warmly. "Do you still remember me? I bet you have forgotten me."
"No I haven't. Forgotten! Nothing of the sort," the old lady answered.
We were still embracing when Nikolai Antonich appeared in the doorway.
It was a moment of renewed mutual appraisal. He could have ignored me, as he had done at Korablev's anniversary party. He could have made it plain that we were strangers. Finally, he could have shown me the door if he had dared. But he did none of these things.
"Ah, our young eagle?" he said affably. "So you've come flying in at last? And high time too."
And he held his hand out to me unhesitatingly.
"How do you do, Nikolai Antonich."
Katya looked at us in surprise, and the old lady blinked dazedly, but I was tickled - I now felt up to any talk with Nikolai Antonich.
"Well,'well... That's fine," Nikolai Antonich said, regarding me gravely. "It seems only yesterday that we had a boy, and now he's an Arctic pilot, if you please. And what a profession to have chosen too! Good for you!"