saying that it was all my fault, because I had insisted that the Captain's
letter referred to Nikolai Antonich when in fact it referred to some von
Vyshimirsky or other.
I couldn't quite see why Korablev should have mentioned that talk of
ours. But he must have had some reason for wanting me to remember it.
He looked at me gravely and seemed secretly pleased about something.
'I don't know who cares whether I prove something or not,' I said
gloomily. 'Who wants it?'
'That's just where you're mistaken, Sanya,' Korablev said. 'You want
it, and I want it, and so does one other person. Especially since you have
proved to be right.'
I stared at him. Five years have passed since that talk of ours. I now
knew more than anybody else in the world about Captain Tatarinov's
expedition. I had found the navigator's diaries and read them—the
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hardest job I had ever undertaken. I had had the good luck of meeting
that old Nenets, the last man who, with his own eyes, had seen a sledge
belonging to the expedition, and on this sledge, a dead man who might
have been the Captain himself. Yet I had not found a single piece of
evidence to show that I was right.
And now, when I had returned to Moscow and called on my old
teacher—who, I would have supposed, had long since forgotten about
this affair—now he tells me: 'You have proved to be right!'
'Ivan Pavlovich,' I began rather shakily, 'you really shouldn't say
such things unless you have—'
I was going to say 'irrefutable evidence', but he checked me. The
doorbell rang. Korablev bit his lip and looked round anxiously.
'I say, Sanya... I have to see a certain person. Do you mind sitting
here a bit?'
As he said this he led me into the next room, which was like a large
bookcase cluttered up with books. Instead of a door it had a green
curtain which was full of holes.
'And keep your ears open. It'll be worth your while.'
I forgot to mention that Korablev that evening had struck me as
behaving rather oddly. Several times he had started to whistle softly. He
had paced the room with his hands clasped on his head and ended by
chewing the pear stem with which he had been picking his teeth. After
piloting me into the 'bookcase' he hastily removed the vodka from the
table, then took something out of his desk, chewed on it, then took
several deep breaths with his mouth wide open, and went out to open
the door.
Who do you think was with him when he came back into the room?
Nina Kapitonovna! Yes, it was Nina Kapitonovna, bent, thinner than
before, with the shadows of age round her eyes, and wearing the same
old velvet coat.
She was saying something, but I was not listening. I was watching
Korablev as he attended solicitously to his visitor's comfort. He was
about to pour her out some tea, but she checked him.
'I don't want any. I've just had some. Well, how are you?'
'So-so, Nina Kapitonovna,' Korablev said. 'My back aches.'
'How come? Making old bones! Fancy saying such a thing! Rub Born
Bengue into your back if it aches. It helps.'
'Born Bengue-what is that?'
'An ointment. Do you drink?'
'I don't, Nina Kapitonovna, honestly,' Korablev said. 'I've given ft up.
Just once in a while, maybe, a small glass before dinner. Even the
doctors advise it.'
'No, you do drink. Now, when I was young I lived on a farm down
south. My father was a Cossack, you know. He'd come in, hardly able to
stand on his two legs, and say: 'That's nothing, if a man wants to kill
himself he drinks a glass before dinner every day.' '
Korablev laughed. Nina Kapitonovna looked at him and began to
laugh too. Then she told him a story about some winebibber of a
countess who 'used to down a glass of vodka first thing in the morning,
as soon as she woke up. Then she'd start walking around. All yellow,
puffy and blowsy. She'd walk around a bit, then have another one. In the
morning she was still normal, but by dinnertime she was tight as a
drum. In the evening she'd have a houseful o' visitors. Dressed
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beautifully, she'd sit down at the piano and sing. Talk about kind-
hearted! Everyone went to her. With the most trifling things. A fine
person, she was. But a drunkard!'
Apparently, this example did not exactly please Korablev, who tried to
change the subject. He asked how Katya was getting on.
Nina Kapitonovna made a little deprecating gesture with her hand. 'We
quarrel,' she said with a sigh. 'She's so touchy. And awfully
proud! If she fails in one thing, she goes after another. That's why
she's so nervous, all on edge.'
'Nervous?'
'Yes. And proud. And she won't talk,' said Nina Kapitonovna. 'I've
had an eyeful of those who won't talk, you know. I don't like the look of
it at all. I mean the way she keeps to herself. What's the sense? Why not
unburden your mind? But she won't.' 'Why don't you ask her, Nina
Kapitonovna?' 'She won't say. I'm like that myself. I'll never say.' 'I
met her once, she seemed all right to me,' said Korablev. 'She was going
to the theatre-true, all by herself, and I thought it strange. But she was
quite cheerful, she said, by the way, that she'd been offered a room in a
Geological Institute house.'
'They did offer her a room. But she hasn't moved in.' 'Why not?' 'She
feels sorry for him.' 'Sorry?' Korablev queried.
'Yes, sorry. For the sake of her mother's memory, and for his own
sake, too. And when she's not there he's not himself. Soon as he comes
in he asks: 'Where's Katya? Has she phoned?'' I guessed at once that
'he' was Nikolai Antonich. 'So she hasn't left. AU the time waiting for
someone.' Nina Kapitonovna moved her chair up closer to Korablev. 'I
