stretched their hands out to him to help him get in. He pulled himself up and jumped into the car, got to his feet, and embraced his wife.
“At last. Well, thank God, thank God it all ended like this,” Antonina Alexandrovna kept saying. “However, this happy outcome is no news to us.”
“How do you mean, no news?”
“We know everything.”
“From where?”
“The sentries kept telling us. Otherwise how could we have borne the uncertainty? Papa and I nearly lost our minds as it was. There he sleeps, you can’t wake him. He collapsed from anxiety as if he were cut down—you can’t rouse him. There are new passengers. I’m going to have you meet someone now. But first listen to what they’re saying all around. The whole car congratulates you on your happy deliverance. See what a husband I’ve got!” She suddenly changed the subject, turned her head, and, over her shoulder, introduced him to one of the newly arrived passengers, squeezed by his neighbors back in the rear of the car.
“Samdevyatov,” was heard from there, a soft hat rose above the mass of people’s heads, and the owner of the name began pushing his way towards the doctor through the thick of the bodies pressed against him.
“Samdevyatov,” Yuri Andreevich reflected meanwhile. “Something old Russian, I thought, folk epic, broad bushy beard, peasant tunic, studded belt. But here’s some sort of society for lovers of art, graying curls, mustache, goatee.”
“Well, so, did Strelnikov give you a fright? Confess.”
“No, why? The conversation was serious. In any case, he’s a strong, substantial man.”
“That he is. I have some notion of this person. He’s not native to us. He’s yours, a Muscovite. The same as our novelties of recent times. Also yours, imported from the capital. Our own minds would never have come up with them.”
“This is Anfim Efimovich, Yurochka—all-knowing, omniscient. He’s heard about you, about your father, knows my grandfather, everybody, everybody. Get acquainted.” And Antonina Alexandrovna asked in passing, without expression: “You probably also know the local teacher Antipova?” To which Samdevyatov replied just as expressionlessly: “What do you want with Antipova?”
Yuri Andreevich heard it and did not enter into the conversation. Antonina Alexandrovna went on:
“Anfim Efimovich is a Bolshevik. Watch out, Yurochka. Keep your ears pricked up with him.”
“No, really? I’d never have thought it. By the looks of him, it’s sooner something artistic.”
“My father kept an inn. Had seven troikas running around for him. But I am of higher education. And, in fact, a Social Democrat.”2
“Listen to what Anfim Efimovich says, Yurochka. Incidentally, don’t be angry, but your name and patronymic are a tongue twister. Yes, so listen to what I’m saying, Yurochka. We’re really terribly lucky. The city of Yuriatin isn’t taking us. There are fires in the city, and the bridge has been blown up, we can’t get in. The train will be transferred by a connecting track to another line, and it’s just the one we need, Torfyanaya is on it. Just think! And there’s no need to change and drag ourselves across the city with our luggage from one station to the other. Instead we’ll get a good knocking about before we make it anywhere. We’ll maneuver for a long time. Anfim Efimovich explained it all to me.”
4
Antonina Alexandrovna’s predictions came true. Hitching and unhitching its cars and adding new ones, the train rode endlessly back and forth on congested lines, along which other trains were also moving, for a long time obstructing its way out into the open fields.
The city was half lost in the distance, concealed by the slopes of the terrain. Only rarely did the roofs of its houses, the tips of factory chimneys, the crosses of belfries appear over the horizon. One of its suburbs was burning. The smoke of the fire was borne on the wind. Its streaming horse’s mane spread all across the sky.
The doctor and Samdevyatov sat on the floor of the car at the edge, their legs hanging over the doorway. Samdevyatov kept explaining things to Yuri Andreevich, pointing into the distance. At times the rumble of the rolling freight car drowned him out, so that it was impossible to hear anything. Yuri Andreevich asked him to repeat it. Anfim Efimovich put his face close to the doctor’s and, straining, shouted what he had said right into his ears.
“That’s the Giant picture house on fire. The junkers ensconced themselves there. But they already surrendered earlier. Generally, the battle isn’t over yet. Do you see those black dots on the belfry? That’s our boys. They’re removing the Czechs.”
“I don’t see anything. How can you make all that out?”
“And that’s Khokhriki burning, the artisans’ quarter. And Kolodeevo, where the shopping arcades are, is to the side. Why does that interest me? Our place is in the arcades. It’s not a big fire. The center hasn’t been touched yet.”
“Repeat that. I didn’t hear.”
“The center, I said, the city center. The cathedral, the library. Our family name, Samdevyatov, is San Donato altered in Russian style. We supposedly come from the Demidovs.”3
“Again I couldn’t make anything out.”
“I said Samdevyatov is a transformed San Donato. We supposedly come from the Demidovs. The princes Demidov San Donato. Maybe it’s just a pack of lies. A family legend. And this spot is called Spirka’s Bottom. Dachas, amusements, promenades. Strange name, isn’t it?”
Before them stretched a field. It was crisscrossed in various directions by branch lines. Telegraph poles went off across it with seven-mile strides, dropping below the skyline. A wide, paved road wound out its ribbon, rivaling the railways in beauty. First it disappeared beyond the horizon, then momentarily showed the wavy arc of a turn. And vanished again.
“Our famous highway. Laid across the whole of Siberia. Much sung by convicts. Base for the local partisans. Generally, it’s not bad here. You’ll settle in, get used to it. Come to love our town’s curiosities. Our water hydrants. At the intersections. Women’s clubs in winter under the open sky.”
