Andreevich. He perceived in the careful steps and voices a respect for the hour of night and a concern for the sleepers on the train as might have been in the old days, before the war.
The doctor was mistaken. There was the same hubbub and stamping of boots on the platform as everywhere else. But there was a waterfall in the vicinity. Its breathing out of freshness and freedom extended the limits of the white night. It had filled the doctor with a feeling of happiness in his sleep. The constant, never ceasing noise of its falling water reigned over all the sounds at the junction and imparted to them a deceptive semblance of silence.
Not divining its presence, but lulled by the mysterious resilience of the air of the place, the doctor fell fast asleep again.
Two men were talking below in the freight car. One asked the other:
“Well, so, have you calmed them down? Twisted their tails?”
“The shopkeepers, you mean?”
“Yes, the grain dealers.”
“We’ve pacified them. Like silk now. We knocked off a few as an example, and the rest got quiet. We collected a contribution.”
“How much did you take from the area?”
“Forty thousand.”
“You’re kidding!”
“Why should I kid you?”
“Holy cow, forty thousand!”
“Forty thousand bushels.”
“Well, there’s no flies on you! Good boys, good boys!”
“Forty thousand milled fine.”
“I suppose it’s no wonder. This area’s first class. Heart of the meal trade. Here along the Rynva and up to Yuriatin, village after village, it’s landings, grain depots. The Sherstobitov brothers, Perekatchikov and sons, wholesaler after wholesaler!”
“Don’t shout. You’ll wake people up.”
“All right.”
The speaker yawned. The other suggested:
“How about a little snooze? Looks like we’ll be starting.”
Just then a deafening noise came rolling from behind, swiftly growing, covering the roar of the waterfall, and an old-fashioned express train raced at full steam down the second track of the junction past their train, which stood without moving, hooted, roared, and, blinking its lights for the last time, vanished into the distance without a trace.
The conversation below resumed.
“Well, that’s it now. We’ll sit it out.”
“It won’t be soon now.”
“Must be Strelnikov. Armored, special purpose.”
“It’s him, then.”
“When it comes to counterrevolutionists, he’s ferocious.”
“It’s him racing against Galeev.”
“Who’s that?”
“The ataman Galeev. They say he’s standing with his Czechs covering Yuriatin. Seized control of the landings, blast him, and he’s holding them. The ataman Galeev.”7
“Prince Galileev, maybe. I forget.”
“There’s no such prince. Must be Ali Kurban. You got mixed up.”
“Kurban, maybe.”
“That’s another story.”
22
Towards morning Yuri Andreevich woke up a second time. Again he had dreamed something pleasant. The feeling of bliss and liberation that had filled him did not end. Again the train was standing, maybe at a new station, or maybe at the old one. Again there was the noise of a waterfall, most likely the same one, but possibly another.
Yuri Andreevich began to fall asleep at once and through his dozing fancied running feet and turmoil. Kostoed grappled with the head of the convoy, and the two shouted at each other. Outside it was still better than before. There was a breath of something new that had not been there earlier. Something magical, something springlike, black-and-white, flimsy, loose, like the coming of a snowstorm in May, when the wet, melting flakes on the ground make it not white but blacker still. Something transparent, black-and-white, strong scented. “Bird cherry!” Yuri Andreevich guessed in his sleep.
23
In the morning Antonina Alexandrovna said:
“Still, you’re an amazing man, Yura. A tissue of contradictions. Sometimes a fly flies by, you wake up and can’t close your eyes till morning, and here there’s noise, arguments, commotion, and you can’t manage to wake up.
