Markov, who knew any number of stories about the different Academicians and senior members of staff, said that Kovchenko had been awarded a Stalin Prize for a work that he had first read through after its publication: his part had been to obtain materials that were in short supply and to smooth over various bureaucratic obstacles.
Shishakov entrusted Kovchenko with the task of filling the various positions that had fallen vacant. Applications were invited for the posts of director of the vacuum laboratory and director of the low temperature laboratory; there were also vacancies for research directors.
The War Department furnished both workers and materials; the mechanical workshop was reorganized and the main building of the Institute restored; the central power station agreed to provide an unlimited supply of electricity; special factories sent in whatever materials were in short supply. All this was arranged by Kovchenko.
Usually when a new director takes over, people say respectfully, 'He's the first to arrive at work and the last to leave.' This was said of Kovchenko. But a new director wins even more respect when people say, 'It's two weeks since he was appointed and he's only appeared once, for half an hour. He just never comes in.' This means that the director is drawing up new canons of law, that he has access to the highest circles of government. And this is what was said of Academician Shishakov.
As for Chepyzhin, he went off to his dacha, to work in what he called his laboratory hut. Professor Feinhard, the famous cardiologist, had advised him not to lift anything heavy and to avoid any sudden movements. Chepyzhin, however, chopped wood, dug ditches and felt fine. He wrote to Professor Feinhard that a strict regime suited him.
In cold, hungry Moscow the Institute seemed an oasis of warmth and luxury. When they came in to work, the members of staff took great pleasure warming their hands on the hot radiators; their flats were freezing and damp.
What they liked most of all was the new canteen in the basement. It had a buffet where you could buy yoghurt, sweet coffee and pieces of sausage. And the woman behind the counter didn't tear off the coupons for meat and fat from your ration-cards; this was particularly appreciated.
The canteen had six different menus: one for doctors of science, one for research directors, one for research assistants, one for senior laboratory assistants, one for technicians and one for service personnel. The fiercest passions were generated by the two highest-grade menus, which differed only in their desserts – stewed fruit or a jelly made from powder. Emotions also ran high over the food parcels delivered to the houses of doctors and research directors.
Savostyanov remarked that, in all probability, these parcels had stirred more passions than the theory of Copernicus.
Sometimes it seemed as though higher, more mysterious powers were involved in the arcana of rations allocation; that it did not depend merely on the Party committee and the administrators of the Institute.
'You know, your parcel came today,' Lyudmila announced one evening. 'What I can't understand is why Svechin, a nonentity in the scientific world, should get two dozen eggs, while you, for some reason, only get fifteen. I checked it on the list. You and Sokolov each get fifteen.'
'God knows what it all means,' said Viktor. 'As you are aware, there are various different classes of scientists: very great, great, famous, talented and – finally – very old. Since the very great and the great are no longer with us, they don't need eggs. The others receive varying quantities of eggs, semolina and cabbage according to rank. But then everything gets confused by other questions. Are you active in society? Do you give seminars in Marxism? Are you close to the directors? And it comes out quite crazy. The man in charge of the Academy garage gets the same as Zelinsky – twenty-five eggs. There's a very charming young lady in Svechin's laboratory who was so upset yesterday that she burst into tears and refused to eat anything at all. Like Gandhi.'
Nadya burst out laughing. 'You know, Papa, I'm amazed you're not ashamed to eat your lamb chops with the cleaning ladies right there beside you. Grandmother could never have done that.'
'Each according to his labour,' said Lyudmila. 'That's the principle of Socialism.'
'Come on!' said Viktor. 'There's no trace of Socialism in our canteen. Anyway, I don't give a damn. But do you know what Markov told me today?' he added suddenly. 'At the Institute – and even at the Institute of Mathematics and Mechanics-people are typing out copies of my work and passing them round.'
'Like Mandelstam's poems,' said Nadya.
'Don't make fun of me,' said Viktor. 'And the final-year students are even asking for special lectures on it.'
'That's nothing,' said Nadya. 'Alka Postoeva told me, 'Your papa's become a genius.' '
'No,' said Viktor, 'I'm not yet a genius.'
He went off to his room. A moment later, however, he came back and said: 'I just can't get this nonsense out of my head. Two dozen eggs for Svechin! It's amazing what ways they find to humiliate people.'
To Viktor's shame, what hurt him most was being put on the same level as Sokolov. 'Yes, they should have recognized my merits by allowing me at least one extra egg. They could have given Sokolov fourteen – just as a symbolic distinction.'
He tried to laugh at himself, but he couldn't get rid of his pathetic sense of irritation. He was more upset at being given the same as Sokolov than at being given less than Svechin. With Svechin everything was clear enough: he was a member of the Party bureau. This was something Viktor could accept. But with Sokolov it was a matter of relative scientific standing. That was something he couldn't ignore. He felt quite tormented; his indignation sprang from the very depths of his soul. What an absurd way for the authorities to show their appreciation of people! But what could he do? There are times when everyone behaves pathetically.
As he was getting into bed, Viktor remembered his conversation with Sokolov about Chepyzhin and said in a loud, angry voice: 'Homo lackeyus!'
'Who do you mean?' asked Lyudmila, who was already in bed, reading a book.
'Sokolov. He's a born lackey.'
Lyudmila put a finger in her book to mark the page and said, without even turning her head:
'Soon you'll be thrown out of the Institute – and all for a few fine words. You're so irritable, you're always telling everyone what to do… You've already quarrelled with everyone else and now you want to quarrel with Sokolov. Soon no one will even set foot in our house.'
'No, Lyuda darling, that's not it at all. How can I explain? Don't you understand? The same fear as before the war, the same fear over every word, the same helplessness… Chepyzhin! Lyuda, we're talking about a great man. I thought the whole Institute would be seething, but the only person who said anything was the old caretaker. And then that strange remark Postoev made to Sokolov: 'What matters is that we're both Russians.' Why, why on earth did he say that?'
He wanted to have a long talk with Lyudmila; he wanted to share all his thoughts with her. He was ashamed at being so preoccupied with things like rations. He had grown dull. Why? Why had he somehow become older now that they were back in Moscow? Why had these trivialities, these petty-bourgeois concerns suddenly become so important? Why had his spiritual life in Kazan been so much deeper and purer, so much more significant? Why was it that even his scientific work – and his joy in it – was now contaminated with vanity and pettiness?
'It's all very difficult, Lyuda. I'm not well. Lyuda? Why don't you say anything?'
Lyudmila was asleep. Viktor laughed quietly. It seemed amusing that one woman should lose sleep over his troubles and another fall asleep while he talked about them. He could see Marya Ivanovna's thin face before him. He repeated what he had just said to his wife.
'Don't you understand? Masha?'
'Goodness, what nonsense gets into my head!' he said to himself as he fell asleep.
What nonsense indeed.
Viktor was very clumsy with his hands. If the electric iron burnt out or the lights fused, it was nearly always Lyudmila who sorted things out. During their first years together, Lyudmila had found this helplessness of Viktor's quite endearing; now, however, she found it irritating. Once, seeing him putting an empty kettle on the burner, she snapped: 'What's the matter with you? Are your hands made of clay or something?'
While they were assembling the new apparatus in the laboratory, these words of Lyudmila's came back to him; they had upset him and made him angry.
Markov and Nozdrin now ruled the laboratory. Savostyanov was the first to sense this. At one of their meetings he announced: 'There is no God but Professor Markov, and Nozdrin is his prophet!'
Markov's reticence and arrogance had quite disappeared. Viktor was amazed at his bold thinking, delighted by
