Definitely Maybe Page 2

  He put the dishes away and looked into Kaliam’s pan. It was still too hot. Poor Kaliam. He’ll have to wait. Poor little Kaliam will have to wait and suffer until it cools off.

  He was wiping his hand when he was struck by an idea, just like yesterday. And just like yesterday, he didn’t believe it at first.

  “Wait a minute, wait just one minute,” he muttered feverishly, while his legs carried him down the hallway with the cool linoleum that stuck to his heels, through the thick yellow heat, to his desk and pen. Hell, where was it? Out of ink. There was a pencil around here somewhere. And meanwhile the secondary consideration, no, the primary, fundamental consideration was Hartwig’s function … and it was as though the entire right part had disappeared. The cavities became axially symmetric—and the old integral wasn’t zero! That is, it was so much not zero, the little integral, that the value was significantly positive. But what a picture it makes! Why didn’t I figure this out long ago? It’s all right, Malianov, relax, brother, you’re not the only one. Old Academician whatsizname didn’t figure it out either. In the yellow, slightly curved space, the axially symmetric cavities turned slowly like gigantic bubbles. Matter flowed around them, trying to seep through, but it couldn’t. The matter compressed itself on the boundaries to such incredible densities that the bubbles began to glow. God knows what happens next—but we’ll figure it out. First, we’ll deal with the fiber structure. Then with Ragozinsky’s arcs. And then with planetary nebulae. And what did you think, my friends? That these were expanding, thrown-off shells? Some shells! Just the opposite!

  The damn phone rang again. Malianov roared in anger but went on writing. He should turn it off completely. There was a switch for that … He threw himself down on the sofa and picked up the receiver.

  “Yes!”

  “Dmitri?”

  “Yes, who’s this?”

  “You don’t recognize me, you cur?” It was Weingarten.

  “Oh, it’s you, Val. What do you want?”

  Weingarten hesitated.

  “Why don’t you answer your phone?”

  “I’m working,” Malianov said angrily. He was being very unfriendly. He wanted to get back to his table and see the rest of the picture with the bubbles.

  “Working,” Weingarten said. “Building your immortal edifice, I guess.”

  “What, did you want to drop by?”

  “Drop by? No, not really.”

  Malianov lost his temper completely.

  “Then what do you want?”

  “Listen, pal … What are you working on now?”

  “I’m working. I told you.”

  “No … I mean, what are you working on?”

  Malianov was flabbergasted. He had known Val Weingarten for twenty-five years, and Weingarten had never expressed an iota of interest in Malianov’s work. Weingarten had never been interested in anything but Weingarten himself with the exception of two mysterious objects: the 1934 twopenny and the “consul’s half-ruble,” which was not a half-ruble at all but some special postage stamp. The bum has nothing to do, Malianov decided. Just killing time. Or maybe he needs a roof over his head, and he’s just building up to the question?

  “What am I working on?” he asked with gleeful malice. “I can tell you in great detail if you like. You’ll be fascinated by it all, I’m sure, being a biologist and all. Yesterday morning, I finally broke through. It turns out that in the most general assumptions regarding the potential function, my equations of motion have one more integral besides the integral of energy and the integrals of momenta. It’s sort of a generalization of a limited three-field problem. If the equations of motion are given in vector form and then the Hartwig transformation is applied, then the integration is performed for the entire volume, and the whole problem is reduced to integro-differential equations of the Kolmogorov-Feller type.”

  To his vast amazement, Weingarten was not interrupting him. For a second, Malianov thought that they had been disconnected.

  “Are you listening to me?”

  “Yes, very attentively.”

  “Perhaps you even understand what I’m saying?”

  “I’m getting some of it,” Weingarten said heartily. Malianov suddenly realized how strange his voice was. He was frightened by it.

  “Val, is something wrong?”

  “What do you mean?” Weingarten asked, stalling.

  “What do I mean? With you, of course! You sound a little funny. Can’t you talk right now?”

  “No, no, pal. That’s nonsense. I’m all right. It’s just the heat. Do you know the one about the two roosters?”

  “No. Well?”

  Weingarten told him the joke about two roosters—it was extremely dumb but rather funny. But not a Weingarten joke at all. Malianov, naturally, listened to it and laughed at the appropriate place, but the joke only intensified the vague feeling that all was not right with Weingarten. Maybe he’d had another round with Sveta, he thought uncertainly. Maybe they ruined his epithelium again. And then Weingarten asked:

  “Listen, Dmitri. Does the name Snegovoi mean anything to you?”

  “Snegovoi? Arnold Pavlovich Snegovoi? I have a neighbor by that name, lives across the hall. Why?”

  Weingarten said nothing. He even stopped breathing through his mouth. There was only the sound of jingling and jangling—he must have been playing with his coins. “And what does he do, your Snegovoi?”

  “A physicist, I think. Works in some bunker. Top secret. Where do you know him from?”

  “I don’t,” Weingarten said with an inexplicable sadness. The doorbell rang.

  “They’re all champing at the bit!” Malianov said. “Hold on, Val. There’s someone breaking down my door.”

  Weingarten said something, or even shouted, but Malianov had tossed the phone on the sofa and was running out into the foyer. Kaliam was underfoot already, and Malianov almost tripped over him.

  He stepped back as soon as he opened the door. On his doorstep stood a young woman in a short white jumper, very tanned, with short sun-bleached hair. Beautiful. A stranger. (Malianov was acutely aware of wearing only his undershorts and having a sweaty belly.) There was a suitcase at her feet and a jacket over her arm.

  “Dmitri Malianov?” she asked embarrassedly.

  “Y-yes,” Malianov answered. A relative? Third cousin Zina from Omsk?

  “Please forgive me, Dmitri. I’m sure this isn’t a good time for you. Here.”

  She handed him an envelope. Malianov silently took the envelope and removed a piece of paper from it. Horrible, wrathful feelings toward all the relatives in the world and specifically toward this Zina or Zoya raged in his chest.

  But it turned out that this was no third cousin. In large hurried letters, the lines going this way and that, Irina had written: “Dimochka! This is Lida Ponomareva, my best friend from school. I told you about her. Be nice to her, don’t growl. Won’t stay long. Everything’s fine. She’ll tell you all about it. Kisses, I.”

  Malianov howled a long silent howl, closed his eyes, and opened them again. However, his lips were making an automatic, friendly smile.

  “How nice,” he said in a friendly, casual tone. “Come on in, Lida, please. Forgive my appearance. The heat, you know.”

  There must have been something wrong with his welcome, because Lida’s pretty face took on a lost look, and for some reason she looked back out at the sunlit landing, as though suddenly questioning whether she had come to the right place.

  “Here, let me take your suitcase,” Malianov said quickly. “Come in, come in, don’t be shy. You can hang your jacket here. This is our main room, I work in there, and this is Bobchik’s. It will be yours. You probably want to take a shower?”

  He heard a nasal quacking coming from the sofa.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Make yourself at home, I’ll be right with you.”

  He grabbed the phone and heard Weingarten repeating in a strange monotone:

  “Dmitri, Dmitri, oh, Dmitri, come to the
phone, Dmitri.”

  “Hello! Val, listen—”

  “Dmitri!” Weingarten shouted. “Is that you?”

  Malianov was frightened.

  “What are you shouting about? I’ve just had a visitor, forgive me. I’ll call you later.”

  “Who? Who’s the visitor?” Weingarten demanded in an inhuman voice.

  Malianov felt a shiver. Val’s gone mad. What a day.

  “Val,” he said very calmly. “What’s the matter? A woman just arrived. A friend of Irina’s.”

  “Son of a bitch!” said Weingarten and hung up.

  CHAPTER 2

  Excerpt 3.… and she changed from her minijumper into a miniskirt and a miniblouse. It must be said that she was a very attractive girl—and Malianov came to the conclusion she had no use for bras at all. She didn’t need a bra; she was in perfect shape without one. He forgot all about the Malianov cavities.

  But everything was very proper, the way it is in the best of homes. They sat and chatted and had tea, and sweated. He was Dimochka by then, and she was Lidochka for him. After the third glass Dimochka told her the joke about the two roosters—it just seemed appropriate—and Lidochka laughed merrily and waved her naked arm at Dimochka. He remembered (the roosters reminded him) that he was supposed to call Weingarten, but he didn’t, instead he said to Lidochka:

  “What a marvelous tan you have!”

  “And you’re as white as a slug,” said Lidochka.

  “Work, work, work.”

  “In the Pioneer camp where I work …”

  And Lidochka told him in minute detail, but with great charm, how it was in their Pioneer camp with regard to getting a tan. In return, Malianov told her how the fellows tan themselves on the Great Antenna. What was the Great Antenna? Hers was just to ask, and he told her about the Great Antenna. She stretched out her long brown legs, crossed them at the ankle, and put them on Bobchik’s chair. Her legs were mirror-smooth. Malianov had the impression that they even reflected something. To get his mind off them, he got up and took the boiling teakettle off the stove. He managed to burn his fingers with the steam and was reminded of some monk who stuck an extremity into either fire or steam to escape the evil brewing as a result of his direct contact with a beautiful woman. A decisive fellow.

  “How about another glass?” he asked.

  Lidochka did not reply, and he turned around. She was looking at him with her wide-open, light eyes. There was a strange expression on her shiny tan face—not quite confusion and not quite fear—and her mouth was agape.

  “Shall I pour some?” Malianov asked uncertainly, giving the kettle a wave.

  Lidochka sat up, blinked rapidly, and brushed her forehead with her fingers.

  “What?”

  “I said: Would you like some more tea?”

  “No, no, thanks.” She laughed as if nothing had happened. “I have to watch my figure.”

  “Oh yes,” Malianov said with extreme gallantry. “A figure like that has to be watched. Insured even.”

  She smiled briefly and, turning her head, looked out into the courtyard over her shoulder. She had a long, smooth neck, maybe just a bit too thin. Malianov had another impression. Namely, that the neck was created to be kissed. Just like her shoulders. Not to mention the rest. Circe, he thought. And immediately added: But I love my Irina and I will never be untrue to her in my whole life.

  “That’s strange,” Circe said. “I have the feeling that I’ve seen all this before: this kitchen, this yard—only there was a big tree in the yard. Has that ever happened to you?”

  “Of course.” Malianov spoke readily. “I think it happens to everyone. I read somewhere that it’s called déjà vu.”

  “Probably,” she said doubtfully.

  Malianov, trying not to make too much noise, sipped his tea carefully. There seemed to be a break in the banter. Something was worrying her.

  “Perhaps you and I have already met somewhere?” she asked suddenly.

  “Where? I would have remembered.”

  “Maybe accidentally. In the street or at a dance.”

  “A dance?” Malianov countered. “I’ve forgotten how to do it.”

  And they both stopped talking. So profound was the silence that Malianov’s toes curled up in discomfort. It was that horrible situation when you don’t know where to look and your brain is full of sentences that roll around like rocks in a barrel and are of absolutely no use in changing the subject or starting a new conversation. Like: “Our Kaliam goes right in the toilet bowl.” Or “There just aren’t any tomatoes in the stores this year.” Or “How about another cup of tea?” Or, say, “Well, and how do you like our fair city?”

  Malianov inquired in an unbearably false voice:

  “Well, and what plans do you have for our fair city, Lidochka?”

  She did not reply. She regarded him in silence, her eyes round in extreme surprise. Then she looked away, wrinkled her brow. Bit her lip. Malianov always considered himself a poor psychologist and usually had no inkling of anyone else’s feelings. But it was perfectly clear to him that the question was beyond the beautiful Lida’s ken.

  “Plans?” she finally muttered. “Well, of course. Naturally!” She seemed to remember. “Well, the Hermitage, of course … the Impressionists … Nevsky Prospect … and, you know, I’ve never seen the White Nights.”

  “A modest tourist itinerary,” Malianov said quickly, helping her out. He couldn’t watch a person trying to lie. “Let me pour you some tea.”

  And she laughed again, as cool as anything.

  “Dimochka,” she said, pouting her lips prettily. “Why are you pestering me with your tea? If you must know, I never drink the stuff. And especially in this heat!”

  “Coffee?” Malianov offered readily.

  She was categorically opposed to coffee. In the heat, and especially at bedtime, you shouldn’t drink coffee. Malianov told her how the only thing that helped him in Cuba was drinking coffee—and the heat there was tropical. He explained about coffee’s effect on the autonomic nervous system. And then he also told her, while he was at it, that in Cuba panties have to show under miniskirts, and if panties aren’t visible, then it’s not a miniskirt, and a woman whose panties are not visible, she is considered a nun and an old maid. For all that, the morality is, strangely, very strict. Uh-nuh! Revolution.

  “What cocktails do they drink there?” she asked.

  “Highballs,” Malianov replied proudly. “Rum, sweet soda, and ice.”

  “Ice,” she said dreamily …

  Excerpt 4.… then he poured her another glass of wine. The decision to toast the use of the informal Russian personal pronoun for “you” came up. Without the kissing. Why should there be kissing between two intelligent people? The important thing was spiritual rapport. They drank to using the informal “you” and spoke of spiritual closeness, new methods of birth deliveries, and about the differences among courage, bravery, and valor. The Riesling was finished, and Malianov put the empty bottle out on the balcony and went over to the bar for some cabernet. They decided to drink the cabernet out of Irina’s favorite smoked crystal glasses, which they chilled first. The conversation on femininity, which came up after the one on manliness and bravery, went very well with the icy red wine. They wondered what asses had decreed that red wine should never be chilled. They discussed the question. Isn’t it true that iced red wine is particularly good? Yes, absolutely. By the way, women who drink icy red wine become particularly beautiful. They resemble witches somewhere. Where precisely? Somewhere. A marvelous word—somewhere. “You are a pig somewhere.” I love that expression. By the way, speaking of witches—what do you think marriage is? A real marriage. An intelligent marriage. Marriage is a contract. Malianov refilled the glasses and developed the thought. In the aspect that a man and wife are first of all friends, for whom friendship is the most important thing. Honesty and friendship. Marriage is a friendship. A contract on friendship, understand? He had his hand on Lidochka’s bare knee an
d was shaking it for emphasis. Take Irina and me. You know Irina—

  The doorbell rang.

  “Who could that be?” Malianov asked, looking at his watch. “Seems to me we’re all home.”

  It was a little before ten. Repeating, “Seems to me we’re all here,” he went to open the door and naturally stepped on Kaliam in the foyer. Kaliam meowed.

  “Ah, damn you, you devil!” Malianov said to him, and opened the door.

  It turned out to be his neighbor, the highly mysterious Arnold Pavlovich Snegovoi.

  “Is it too late?” he roared from under the ceiling. A huge man, built like a mountain. A gray-haired demon.

  “Arnold!” Malianov said with glee. “What’s the meaning of ‘late’ between friends? C’mon in!”

  Snegovoi hesitated, sensing the cause of the glee, but Malianov grabbed his sleeve and dragged him into the foyer.

  “You’re just in time,” he said, pulling Snegovoi on a tow-line. “You’ll meet a marvelous woman!” he promised as he maneuvered Snegovoi around the corner into the kitchen. “Lidochka, this is Arnold!” he announced. “I’ll just get another glass, and another bottle.”

  Things were beginning to swim before his eyes. And not just a little, if the truth be told. He shouldn’t have anything else to drink. He knew himself. But he really wanted things to go well, for everyone to like everyone else. I hope they hit it off, he thought generously, swaying in front of the opened bar and peering into the yellow dusk. It’s all right for him, he’s a bachelor. I have Irina. He shook his finger into space and dived into the bar.

  Thank God, he didn’t break anything. When he came back with a bottle of Bull’s Blood and a clean glass, the situation in the kitchen did not please him. They were both smoking in silence without looking at each other. And for some reason Malianov thought their faces were vicious: Lidochka’s face was viciously beautiful and Snegovoi’s face, scarred by old burns, was viciously stern.