The prevailing atmosphere of disquietude made me approach the flat with especial caution. The street was all but deserted, the yard was as foul and noisome as ever, and the only individual I encountered as I crossed it, holding my breath, was a hideous wretch, shaking with disease, digging presumably for food in the stinking heaps of rubbish piled in the corner. His jaws munched mechanically, and he looked up with a guilty look, like a dog discovered in some overt misdeed. From the window as I mounted the stairs I threw him some money without waiting to see how he took it.
Arriving at No. 5, I listened intently at the back door. There was no sound within. I was about to knock, when I recalled the poor devil I had seen in the yard. An idea occurred—I would give him another forty roubles and tell him to come up and knock. Meanwhile, I would listen at the bottom of the stairs, and if I heard unfamiliar voices at the door I would have time to make off. They would never arrest that miserable outcast, anyway. But the fellow was no longer in the yard, and I repented of having thrown him money and interrupted his repast. Misplaced generosity! I remounted the stairs and applied my ear to the door.
Thump—thump—thump! Nothing being audible, I knocked boldly, hastily re-applying my ear to the keyhole to await the result.
For a moment there was silence. Impatient, I thumped the door a second time, louder. Then I heard shuffling footsteps moving along the passage. Without waiting, I darted down the steps to the landing below. Whoever came to the door, I hurriedly considered, would be certain, when they found no one outside, to look out over the iron banisters. If it were a stranger, I would say I had mistaken the door, and bolt.
The key squeaked in the rusty lock and the door was stiffly pushed open. Shoeless feet approached the banisters, and a face peered over. Through the bars from the bottom I saw it was the dull and unintelligent face of the boy, Grisha, who had replaced Maria.
“Grisha,” I called, as I mounted the stairs, to prepare him for my return, “is that you?”
Grisha’s expressionless features barely broke into a smile. “Are you alone at home?” I asked when I reached him.
“Alone.”
Grisha followed me into the flat, locking the back door behind him. The air was musty with three weeks’ unimpeded accumulation of dust.
“Where is Maria? See! I have brought her a lovely pair of brand-new shoes. And for you a slab of chocolate. There!”
Grisha took the chocolate, muttering thanks, and breaking off a morsel slowly conveyed it to his mouth.
“Well? Nothing new, Grisha? Is the world still going round?”
Grisha stared, and, preparatory to speech, laboriously transferred the contents of his mouth into his cheek. At last he got it there, and, gulping, gave vent somewhat inarticulately to the following unexpected query:
“Are you Kr-Kr-Kry‑len‑ko?”
Krylenko! How the deuce should this youngster know my name of Krylenko—or Afirenko, or Markovitch, or any other? He knew me only as “Ivan Ilitch,” a former friend of his master.
But Grisha appeared to take it for granted. Without waiting he proceeded:
“They came again for you this morning.”
“Who?”
“A man with two soldiers.”
“Asking for ‘Krylenko’?”
“Yes.”
“And what did you say?”
“What you told me, Ivan Ilitch. That you will be away a long time and perhaps not come back at all.”
“By what wonderful means, I should like to know, have you discovered a connection between me and anyone called Krylenko?”
“They described you.”
“What did they say? Tell me precisely.”
Grisha shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. His sluggish brain exerted itself to remember.
“Tall—sort of, they said, black beard … long hair … one front tooth missing … speaks not quite our way … walks quickly.”
Was Grisha making this up? Surely he had not sufficient ingenuity! I questioned him minutely as to when the unwelcome visitors had first come, and made him repeat every word they had said and his replies. I saw, then, that it was true. I was known, and they were awaiting my return.
“Today was the second time,” said Grisha. “First they came a few days ago. They looked round and opened the cupboards, but when they found them all empty they went away. ‘Uyehal—departed,’ said one to the others. ‘There’s nothing here, so it’s useless to leave anyone. When will he return?’ he asks me. ‘There’s no knowing,’ I tell him. ‘Maybe you’ll never come back,’ I said. Early this morning when they came I told them the same.”
A moment’s consideration convinced me that there was only one line of action. I must quit the flat like lightning. The next step must be decided in the street.
“Grisha,” I said, “you have acquitted yourself well. If ever anyone asks for me again, tell them I have left the city for good, and shall never return. Does Maria know?”
“Maria is still at the farm. I have not seen her for two weeks.”
“Well, tell her the same—because it’s true. Goodbye.”
Arriving in the street, I began to think. Had I not better have told Grisha simply to say nobody had come back at all? But Grisha was sure to bungle the moment he was cross-questioned and then they would think him an accomplice. It was too late, anyway. I must now think of how to change my appearance completely and with the minimum of delay. The nearest place to go to was the Journalist’s. If he could not help me I would lie low there till nightfall, and then go to the Doctor’s.
Limping along painfully, half covering my face with my scarf as if I had a toothache, I approached
