place in Sretenka up some side street.
The play that evening, as the illuminated showcase at the entrance
announced, was Wolf's Trail, and we immediately found Grisha's name
in the cast. He was playing the doctor. His name stood last in the list.
Grisha met us in the foyer, looking as resplendent as ever, and invited
us at once to his dressing-room.
'I'll call him in as soon as the second act starts,' he said mysteriously
to Korablev.
I glanced questioningly at Korablev, but he was busy fitting a cigarette
into his long holder and pretended not to have noticed my look.
There were three other actors in Grisha's dressing-room, who looked
as if they belonged there. But when Grisha proffered us chairs there they
tactfully went out, and he apologised for the place. 'My private
dressing-room is undergoing repairs,' he said. We began talking about
our school theatre, recalled the tragedy The Hour Has Struck, in which
Grisha had played the part of a Jewish foster-child, and I said I thought
him simply wonderful in that role. Grisha laughed, and suddenly the air
of self-importance fell away from him.
'I don't understand what happened, Sanya. You used to draw well, I
remember,' he said. 'What made you suddenly take to the sky? Hell,
come and join our theatre. We'll make a scenic artist out 'of you. Not
bad, eh?'
I said I had no objection. Then Grisha excused himself again—he had
to go on very shortly and the make-up man was waiting for him— and
went out. We were left alone.
'For God's sake, Ivan Pavlovich, what is it all about? What have you
brought me here for? Who is 'he'? Who is it you want me to
meet?'
'You won't do anything silly, will you?'
'Ivan Pavlovich!'
'You've done one silly thing already,' Korablev said. 'Two, as a matter
of fact. First, you didn't come and stay with me. Second, you told Katya:
'I'll keep you informed.' '
'But Ivan Pavlovich, how was I to know? You simply wrote to me that
I should come to you. I never suspected it was so important. Now tell
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me, who are we waiting for here? Who's this person, and why do you
want me to meet him?'
'All right,' said Korablev. 'Only don't forget—you've got to sit still and
say nothing. The man is von Vyshimirsky.'
We were sitting, you will remember, in Grisha's dressing-room in the
Moscow Drama Theatre. But at that moment it seemed to me that all
this was taking place, not in the dressing-room, but on the stage,
because Korablev had hardly finished the sentence than into the room,
ducking not to knock his head on the low lintel of the doorway, stepped
von Vyshimirsky himself.
I guessed at once that it was he, though until that moment it had
never occurred to me that the man ever existed. I had always thought
that Nikolai Antonich had invented him in order to heap on him all my
accusations. He had been no more than a name, and now here he was,
suddenly materialising as a tall, weedy old man with a bent back and
yellow-grey moustache. Nowadays, of course, he was simply
Vyshimirsky, with no 'von' handle to his name. He wore a uniform
jacket with brass buttons—that of a cloakroom attendant.
Korablev said 'good evening' to him. He responded easily, even
patronisingly, with an extended hand.
'So this is who is waiting for me—Comrade Korablev,' he said. 'And
not alone, but with his son. He is your son?' he added quickly, glancing
swiftly from me to Korablev and back again.
'No he's not my son, he's a former pupil of mine. But he's an airman
now and he wants to meet you.'
'An airman and wants to meet me?' Vyshimirsky said with an
unpleasant smile. 'Why should an airman be interested in my poor
person?'
'Your poor person interests him,' said Korablev, 'because he happens
to be writing an account of Captain Tatarinov's expedition. And you, as
we know, took a very active part in that expedition.'
This remark did not exactly please Vyshimirsky, I could see. He
darted another quick look at me, and something like suspicion—or was
it fear?-flashed in his old rheumy eyes.
The next moment he assumed a dignified air and began to talk
nineteen to the dozen. Almost every other word was 'Comrade
Korablev', and he boasted blatantly. He said that it had been a great,
historic expedition, and that he had done a lot 'to make it a shining
success'. While saying this, he kept fidgeting about all the time,
standing up, making various motions with his hands, seizing his left
whisker and nervously tugging it downward, and so on.
'But that was a very long time ago,' he wound up in a surprised sort of
way.
'Not so very long,' Korablev interposed. 'Just before the revolution.'
'Yes, just before the revolution. In those days I wasn't working in an
artel of disabled men. The work I'm doing now is only temporary,
though, because I have important services to my credit. We put in some
good work those days. Yes, very good work.'
I was about to ask him what, exactly, that work was, but Korablev
silenced me with a steady, blank gaze.
'You once told me something about this expedition,' Korablev went
on. 'I remember you saying you have certain papers and letters. Would
you please repeat your story to this young man, whom you can simply
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call Sanya. Name the day and hour he can come and see you and leave
your address with him.'
'Certainly! I shall be delighted. You can come and see me, though I
must apologise beforehand for my lodgings. I used to have an eleven-
room apartment, and I don't conceal the fact, on the contrary, I write it
