t I've heard of it." The owner of the shooting gallery was clearly bored to death by this moustached gossip. His expression was courteous and dignified, but he was on the verge of yawning, and he twirled a little green box of cartridges in his fingers. He thought, and rightly so, that if a man came to shoot he ought to shoot. And if he wanted to have a chat, that was all right too-but in between shots. A chat on some interesting topic, naturally, like the races at the velodrome or the Russo-Japanese war. Deathly boredom was written all over his seedy face, the face of a failure, racked by secret passions. Gavrik felt sorry for him from the bottom of his heart. Like all the other children, he was for some reason very fond of this man with slanting side-whiskers, legs as bowed as a dachshund's, and a hairy, heavily tattooed chest showing through his thin undershirt. Gavrik knew that although the man made quite a decent living he never had a kopek to his name. He was always in debt, was always very worried about something. Rumour had it that he used to be a famous circus rider, and that once he had struck the owner of the circus across the face with his whip for having done something mean. He was sacked and black-listed. Deprived of his livelihood, he took to betting at the horse-races, and this was his downfall. Now he played at all games of chance; even at pitching coins with little boys. He was eternally in the grip of a frightful gambling fever. It was a known fact that at times he gambled away the clothes he wore. The shoes he had on, for example, did not belong to him. He had lost them at the beginning of the summer playing twenty-one, and now when he closed his place for the night he went home barefoot, carrying under his arm a box with the rifles and pistols; afraid of gambling them away, he left them for safekeeping until the morning with a janitor acquaintance of his in Malaya Arnautskaya Street. Once, on the beach, Gavrik himself had seen him bet a gentleman fifty kopeks that he could hit a sparrow on the fly from a Monte Cristo. Of course, he missed. What followed was so pitiful that Gavrik felt like crying. With a shameful show of surprise the man examined the gun for a long time, then shrugged his shoulders and reached inside his mended jacket. His face was pale. He brought out a fifty-kopek piece and handed it to the gentleman. The gentleman laughingly protested that it had all been in fun. But the proprietor of the shooting gallery suddenly looked at him with such insane, pathetic and at the same time ominously bloodshot eyes that the gentleman quickly took the coin, and, embarrassed, put it in the pocket of his pongee jacket. That day the shooting gallery did not close for dinner. "If I were you, sir, I'd try a shot at the ballet dancer and see how saucily she kicks up her legs," said the proprietor in his Polish accent. He clearly wanted to put an end to the boring conversation and get the visitor to shoot. "It's strange, though, that no one knows anything about it," the latter said. Just then he noticed Gavrik. He gave him a quick glance from head to foot. "Do you live here, son?" "Yes," said the boy. His voice was unusually thin. "Your people fishermen?" "Yes." "Why so shy? Come closer, don't be afraid." Gavrik looked at the coarse, tightly-twirled moustache which was as black as boot-polish, at the long strip of adhesive plaster across the cheek, and, terrified, approached the man, mechanically putting one foot in front of the other. 18 QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS "Your father and mother alive?" "No." "Then who do you live with?" "Grandpa." "Who's he?" "An old man." "Naturally-but what does he do for a living?" "He catches fish." "A fisherman, eh?" "Yes, a fisher." "And what are you?" "A boy." "I can see you're a boy and not a girl. What I'm asking you is what do you do?" "Oh, nothing. I help Grandpa." "That means you go out fishing together, eh?" "Uh-huh." "I see. Well, then, how do you fish?" "Why, we just put out the line for the night, and the next morning we pull out the bullheads." "That means you go out to sea in a boat, doesn't it?" "Uh-huh." "Every day?" "What's that?" "What a little blockhead you are! What I'm asking you is this: do you go out in the boat every day?" " 'Course we do." "Morning and evening?" "No." "How's that?" "Only mornings." "What about the evening?" "Well, evenings too." "Then why do you say only mornings when it's evenings too?" "No. Evenings we only put out the line. We pull out the bullheads in the morning." "I see. That means you go out evenings too." "No. Evenings we only put it out." "For God's sake! But to put it out don't you have to go out to sea first?" "Course we do. " "That means you go out evenings too, doesn't it?" "No, evenings we don't pull out. We only pull out mornings." "But in the evening you go out to put out the line, don't you?" " 'Course we do." "That means you go out evenings too, doesn't it?" "Uh-huh." "What a little blockhead you are! A man has to have a good meal under his belt before he tries talking to you. What makes you so stupid?" "I'm only a kid." With an unconcealed sneer the moustached gentleman surveyed Gavrik from top to toe and then gave him a fillip-quite a smart one-on the head. "A fine fisherman you are!" But the boy was by no means a blockhead. He had immediately sensed a sly and dangerous enemy in this man with the moustaches. There he was, wandering along the shore asking questions about the sailor. He was only making believe he'd come in here to shoot. Who could tell what he really was after? Most likely he was a detective. Why, he might even find out somehow that the runaway was hiding in their hut! Perhaps-God forbid!- he had found it out already. Gavrik had decided at once to act the fool. You couldn't learn much from a fool. He twisted his face into the stupid expression he thought a little half-wit should wear; he goggled his eyes, shifted from foot to foot with exaggerated embarrassment, and picked at a sore on his lip. When he saw he was dealing with a hopeless idiot, Moustaches thought it best to make friends with him first and pump him afterwards. He reasoned, not without foundation, that children were an inquisitive and observant lot and knew more than grown-ups about what was going on around them. "What's your name, sonny?" "Gavrik." "Well, look here, Gavrik, would you like to shoot?" A warm flush coloured the boy's face to the very tips of his ears. He instantly collected himself, however. "But I've no money," he said in a thin, squeaky voice, playing the fool. "I know that, but it doesn't matter. You can take a shot. I'll pay." "You're not making fun of me?" "Don't trust me? Well, look." With these words Moustaches laid a big brand-new five-kopek piece on the counter. "Shoot away." Gavrik, overcome with happiness, looked in indecision at the proprietor. But the latter's face had taken on such a strictly formal expression that an exchange of friendly winks was obviously out of the question. He looked at the boy as if he had never seen him before, and, leaning respectfully over the counter, said, "Which would you prefer to use, young man? A pistol or a rifle?" Gavrik was so bowled over by unexpected happiness that he really did feel like a half-wit now. "A Monte Cristo," he stammered, a silly grin on his face. With a flourish the proprietor loaded the gun and handed it to the boy. Breathing heavily, he glued himself to the counter and aimed at a bottle. The Japanese battleship appealed to him much more, of course, but he was afraid of missing. The bottle was a big one. He tried to prolong the pleasure of aiming as much as possible. After aiming at the bottle for a while he shifted to a hare, then to the battleship, and then back to the bottle. He moved the sight from one bull's-eye to another, swallowing his saliva and thinking in horror that the moment he fired, the bliss would come to an end. Finally he took a deep breath and put the rifle down. "You know what," he said to Moustaches, with a guilty look at the proprietor, "I think I won't. I aimed, and that's almost as good. Treat me instead to a drink of soda water with syrup at the stand. Besides, it'll cost you less." Moustaches had no objections. Making an effort not to look at the proprietor, whose expression was a mixture of contempt and ironic indifference, they set out for the stand. There Moustaches displayed such generosity that the boy could only gasp. Instead of water and syrup, which cost two kopeks, he ordered nothing less than a whole big bottle of Violet Soda, costing eight kopeks. Gavrik could not believe his eyes when the stand-keeper brought out the white bottle with the violet label and unwound the thin wire round the cork. The bottle popped. Not in the coarse way kvass bottles popped, but gently, with style. The clear water immediately began to foam, and out of the mouth of the bottle there poured a gas which actually did give off the delicate fragrance of real violets. Gavrik carefully picked up the cold bubbling glass with both hands, as if it were a treasure, and, squinting against the sun, began to drink. He could feel the sweet-smelling gas shooting up into his nose from his throat. As he swallowed this magic nectar of the wealthy, he felt that the whole universe was gazing upon him in this moment of triumph: the sun, the clouds, the sea, people, dogs, cyclists, the wooden horses of the merry-go-round, the girl who sold tickets at the municipal bathing beach. And they were all saying, "Look, look, that boy is drinking Violet Soda!" A little turquoise lizard had popped out of the weeds to warm its beady back in the sun, and as it clung to a rock with one paw it squinted up at him as if it, too, were saying, "Look, isn't he a lucky boy to be drinking Violet Soda!" While he drank Gavrik pondered on how to wriggle out of any further questions Moustaches might ask him. He thought up a whole plan. "Well, Gavrik, like the Violet Soda?" "Thanks. Never tasted anything so good in all my life." "I should think so. Now tell me, did you go out to sea yesterday evening?" "Uh-huh." "Did you see the Turgenev?" " 'Course! She almost ripped our line to pieces with her wheels." "A man didn't jump from the ship, did he?" Moustaches fixed his bushy black eyes on the boy. Gavrik forced his mouth into a grin. "So help me God, a man did jump off!" he said with exaggerated excitement. "May I drop dead on the spot! Bango!-right into the water, and what a splash! And how he swam!" "Wait a minute. Not making anything up, are you? Which way did he swim?" "So help me God I'm not! By the true and holy Cross!" Although Gavrik knew it was a sin, he quickly crossed himself four times. "And then he swam and swam-" The boy waved his arms to show how the sailor had swum. "Which way?" "That way." The boy waved his arm in the direction of the sea. "And what happened to him after that?" "After that a boat picked him up." "A boat? What kind?" "You know, a big one, a great big Ochakov boat with a sail." "From hereabouts?" "No." "Then where from?" "From Bolshoi Fontan. Or maybe from Lustdorf. All painted blue, and half red. A great big one. It picked him up and after that it headed straight for Lustdorf. By the true and holy-" "Did you notice the boat's name?" " 'Course I did: Sonya." "Sonya, eh? That's fine. Not lying, are you?" "By the true and holy Cross! May I never be happy in all my life! It was Sonya, or else Vera." "Sonya or Vera?" "Either Sonya or Vera-or else Nadya." "If you're lying-" Instead of paying for the drinks, Moustaches whispered something into the stand-keeper's ear, something that instantly made his expression turn sour. Then he nodded to the boy and hurriedly set out for the hill, obviously to take the suburban train to town. That was just what Gavrik had expected him to do. 19 A POUND AND A HALF OF RYE BREAD The sailor had to be warned immediately. But Gavrik was a smart and cautious boy, and before returning home he followed Moustaches from a distance until with his own eyes he saw him climb the hill and turn down the lane. Only then did he run back to the hut. The sailor was asleep, but at the click of the padlock he sprang to his feet and then sat down on the bed, looking at the door with glittering, frightened eyes. "Don't be afraid, it's me. Lie down." The sick man lay down again. The boy pottered about a long time in the corner, pretending to examine the hooks of the line, which was folded inside a round wicker basket. He did not know how to begin so as not to excite the sick man too much. Finally he came up to the bed and stood there for a while, scratching one foot with the other. "Feel better?" "Yes." "Your head clear?" "Yes." "Hungry?" This conversation, brief though it was, completely exhausted the sailor. He shook his head and closed his eyes. The boy let him rest. After a while he spoke again. "Listen," he said affectionately, in a low but persistent voice, "was it you jumped from the Turgenev yesterday?" The sick man opened his eyes and looked up at the boy very intently, but made no reply. "Listen to what I'm going to say," Gavrik whispered, sitting down on the bed. "Only lie quiet and don't get excited." Then, as circumspectly as he could, he told the sailor about his acquaintance with the moustached man. Again the sailor sprang to his feet and sat down on the bed, gripping the edge of it to hold himself erect. He stared at the boy with round, motionless eyes. His forehead had become damp. But he did not say a word. Only once did he break his silence. That was when Gavrik mentioned the adhesive plaster on Moustaches' cheek. At this point of the story a mischievous, devil-may-care Ukrainian twinkle flickered in the sick man's eyes, and he said hoarsely, through his teeth, "A cat must have scratched him." Suddenly he began to fidget, and then, steadying himself against the wall, he stood up on his shaky legs. "Come on," he muttered, looking round wildly. "Come on, let's go somewhere. For Christ's sake!" "Get back in bed, uncle, you're sick." "Come on . . . give me my kit. Where's my kit?" He had evidently forgotten that he had thrown off his clothes in the sea. His thin hand fumbled helplessly about the bed. Unshaven, in a white undershirt and drawers, he looked like a madman. His appearance was so pathetic, but at the same time so ominous that Gavrik nearly ran away in fright. He fought down his fear, however. He put his arms round the sick man's waist and tried to force him to lie down. "It's for your own good. Lie down, it's for your own good," he said, almost crying. "Hands off. I'm going now." "But how can you go anywhere in your drawers?" "Give me my kit." "What are you talking about? What kit? You didn't have any. Now lie quiet." "Let me go." "If you only knew what an awful nuisance you are! You're just like a baby. Lie down, I tell you!" the boy suddenly cried out in anger, losing his patience. "Stop acting like a baby!" The sailor lay back submissively, and Gavrik saw a feverish glaze come into his eyes again. The sailor began to moan softly, screwing up his face and arching his back. "For Christ's sake! Let somebody hide me. Let me go to the Committee. Can you tell me where the Odessa Committee is? Don't shoot, damn you, or you'll spoil all the grapes-" He began to rave. "Things are in a bad way," thought Gavrik. Just then he heard footsteps outside. Someone was coming straight to the hut, noisily making his way through the weeds. The boy hunched his shoulders, not daring to breathe. A host of terrifying thoughts raced through his head. But then suddenly he heard a familiar cough. Grandpa entered the hut. From the way he dropped the empty fish tank near the door, from the way he blew his nose and crossed himself long and bitterly as he looked at the icon of the miracle worker, Gavrik unerringly guessed that he had had a drink. This was something Grandpa did only once in a blue moon, when something out of the ordinary happened- whether good or bad. Judging by his attitude towards St. Nicholas, the occasion this time was sooner bad than good. "Well, Grandpa, buy meat for bait?" "Meat for bait?" The old man gave the boy a guileless look and then held a figged thumb under his nose. "Here's your meat! Bait it! And thank that old codger of a miracle worker for it. That's what I get for praying to that old fool, may he burst! When it comes to catching big-sized bullheads he's on the spot, but when it comes to getting a decent price for them at the market he's nowhere to be found! Can you imagine, gentlemen? Thirty kopeks a hundred for bullheads like that! It's unheard-of!" "Thirty kopeks a hundred!" the boy exclaimed. "Thirty kopeks, may I drop dead on the spot! Thirty kopeks for fish like this?' I says to her. 'Ain't you got no fear of God, Madam Storozhenko?' 'God's got nothing to do with market prices,' she says to me. 'We've got our own prices and he's got his. And if you don't like my price you can take your bullheads and sell them to the Jews. Maybe they'll give you a kopek more. Only first pay me back the eighty kopeks you owe me.' Ever seen the like? Now tell me, shouldn't I have spit straight in her damned eye for that? Well, gentlemen, that's just what I did. Right in front of the whole market, too! So help me God, I filled her eye with spit!" Grandpa hurriedly crossed himself. But he was not telling the truth. Naturally, he had not spat in anybody's eye. He had merely turned pale and begun to tremble from head to foot, and then he had pulled the fish out of the tank and thrown them into Madam Storozhenko's basket, muttering, "Here, take 'em, and I hope they choke you!" As for Madam Storozhenko, she calmly counted the fish and handed Grandpa twelve kopeks in sticky coppers. "Now we're quits," she said briefly. Grandpa took the money and, boiling with futile rage, went straight to a spirits shop where he bought himself a bottle of vodka. He scraped off the red sealing-wax against the grater nailed for the purpose to an acacia tree near the shop, and then with a shaking hand knocked out the little paper-wrapped cork. He poured the vodka down his throat in one go and smashed the thin bottle against the pavement, although he could have got a kopek for it. After that he set out for home. On the way he bought his grandson a red lollipop in the shape of a cock for a kopek-he still imagined Gavrik to be a little boy-and two very white and very sour rolls for the sick sailor. With the remaining money he bought a pound and a half of rye bread. His anger flared up again and again on the way home, and he stopped about a dozen times to spit furiously this way and that, absolutely convinced that he was spitting in Madam Storozhenko's accursed eye. "So help me God!" he said, breathing the sweetish odour of vodka straight into Gavrik's face and putting the lollipop cock into his hand. "Ask anybody you like at the market-the whole market saw me spit into her damned eye! And now, my child, suck this lollipop. It's just as good as cake." At this point the old man remembered the patient and began to urge the rolls on him. "Let him be, Grandpa. He just fell asleep. Let him rest." Grandpa carefully laid the rolls on the pillow beside the sailor's head and said in a whisper, "Shh, shh. Let him rest now. And later, when he wakes up, he'll eat. He can't eat the rye bread because his stomach is very weak now, but the rolls are all right for him." The old man looked down affectionately at the rolls and at the patient, then shook his head and remarked in a gentle voice, "Look how peacefully he sleeps. Ah, sailor, sailor, you're in a tight spot." Then he spread out his jacket in the corner and lay down to rest. Gavrik went outside, looked round, and closed the door firmly after him. He had decided to go, without wasting a minute, to Near Mills to see his brother Terenti. This decision had come to him the moment he heard the delirious sailor pronounce the word "Committee". Gavrik did not know exactly what this word meant, but he had once heard Terenti use it. 20 MORNING When Petya woke up, he was amazed to find himself in his city room, surrounded by furniture and wallpaper he had forgotten during the summer. A dry sunbeam coming through a crack in the shutter pierced the room. It cut a diagonal swath through the dusty air from top to bottom. The sawdusty air-motes of dust and tiny threads and hairs, moving and yet motionless-was brightly lit by the sunbeam and formed a semi-transparent wall. A big autumn fly blazed into colour as it flew through this wall, and then it just as suddenly became drab again. There was neither the quack of ducks nor the hysterics of a hen that had just laid an egg behind the house, neither the silly chatter of turkeys nor the fresh chirp of a sparrow, swaying almost inside the window on a thin mulberry branch bent in an arch under its weight. The noises both inside and outside the flat were altogether different: they were city noises. From the dining-room came the faint clatter of chairs being moved. There was a musical sound-the singing of a glass as it was washed in the rinsing-bowl. Father's "bearded" voice rang out, with a deep and strange city note to it. The buzz of the electric bell filled the hall. Doors were slammed, now the front door, now the kitchen door, and suddenly Petya discovered that he could tell from the sound which one it was. Meanwhile from outside, through a room with a window facing the yard-why, of course, that was Auntie Tatyana's room!-came the singing of the hawkers. Not for a minute did it cease, for they made their appearance one after the other, those roving artists of the courtyard stage, each performing his brief aria. "Cha-a-arcoal! Cha-a-arcoal!" sang a distant Russian tenor, as if sadly recalling the gay, carefree days of long ago. "Cha-a-a-arcoal!" His place was taken by a comic basso-the grinder: "Sharpen knives, scissors, razors! Sharpen knives, scissors, razors! Knives, scissors, razors!" After the grinder came a tinker, filling the yard with the manly roulades of his velvety baritone: "Pots to mend! Kettles and pails to mend!" A hucksteress with no gift for singing at all ran into the yard, and the sultry morning air of the city resounded with her burring recitative: "Pears, apples, tomatoes! Pears, apples, tomatoes!" An old-clothes man poured out plaintive Jewish couplets: "I cash clothes! I cash . . . I cash. . .." Finally, to crown the concert, came a lovely Neapolitan canzonet performed by a brand-new Nechada barrel-organ and a shrill-voiced street singer: The leaves in the wind softly sigh, Hark to the nightingale's trills! My love was once simple and shy, But today she parades in silk frills. Sing to me, O dove, Of my departed love.... "Cha-a-arcoal! Cha-a-arcoal!" sang the Russian tenor the minute the barrel-organ went away. The concert had begun all over again. Meanwhile the clatter of droshkies, the rumble of a suburban train and the blare of an army band came from the street proper. Into that din there suddenly broke a frightfully familiar whirring noise, a click and then clear, springy sounds, coming distinctly one after the other, as though counting something. What could that be? Why, that was the clock! The very same dining-room clock which, according to family legend, Daddy had won in a lottery when he was courting Mummy. And to think that he had forgotten it! Why, of course, that was the clock! It was striking the hour. He lost count, but he gathered nevertheless that it was very late-ten or eleven. Goodness! In the country he used to get up at seven! Petya sprang out of bed, threw on his clothes, washed himself-in a bathroom!-and walked into the dining-room, squinting against the sun which lay on the parquet in hot bars. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself!" exclaimed Auntie, shaking her head and at the same time smiling with pleasure at the sight of her tall, sunburned nephew. "It's eleven o'clock. We purposely didn't wake you-we wanted to see how long you'd lounge in bed, you country loafer. But that's all right, after your long journey. And now sit down, don't dawdle. With milk or without? In a glass or in your own cup?" Why, naturally! How had he ever forgotten? His cup! Why, of course, he had his own cup, a porcelain cup with forget-me-nots and an inscription in gold letters, "Happy Birthday"-last year's gift from Dunya. And look-the samovar! That, too, he had forgotten. And there were the buns warming on its handles. The pear-shaped sugar bowl of white metal. The sugar tongs in the shape of a stork. Look-there was the acorn bell on a cord under the hanging lamp! And the lamp itself, with the round little counterweight, filled with shot, above the white shade! And look-what was that in Father's hands? Why, a newspaper! And to think he'd forgotten such things existed! It was the Odessky Listok, with the picture of a smoking locomotive above the railway timetable, and a smoking ship above the boat timetable. (And among the ads, a lady in a corset!) And here were the Niva and Zadushevnoye Slovo. How many magazines had piled up during the summer! In a word, Petya found himself surrounded by such a host of old novelties that he didn't know where to look first. Pavlik, though, had got up at the crack of dawn and by now was fully at home in the new-old surroundings. He had long since drunk his milk, and at the moment was busy harnessing Kudlatka to a coach made up of chairs. Every now and then he ran from room to room with a worried look on his face, blowing his horn to summon the imaginary passengers. Petya jumped to his feet: he had remembered! "Oh, Auntie! Yesterday I didn't have time to tell you! You simply can't imagine what happened. Now I'll tell you the story-only Pavlik, you mustn't interrupt." "But I know all about it." Petya turned pale. "About the coach?" "Yes." "The boat too?" "Yes." "And how he jumped straight into the sea?" "I know the whole story." "Who told you?" "Father." "Oh, Daddy!" Petya cried out in despair, stamping his feet. "Why did you tell the story when you know I can tell it much better than you! Now you've spoiled it all!" Petya was almost crying. He had completely forgotten that he was a big boy now, and was to go to school the next day. He began to whine. "Auntie Tatyana, do let me tell you the story all over again. I'll tell it much better." But Auntie's nose suddenly turned red and tears came to her eyes. She pressed her fingers to her temples. "Oh please, please, don't," she said in a suffering voice. "I simply can't bear to hear it again. How can people who call themselves Christians have the heart to torture one another so?" She turned away, dabbing at her nose with a tiny lace handkerchief. Petya glanced in fright at Father. Father sat very grave and very still, looking towards the window. Tears seemed to be glistening in his eyes, too. Petya couldn't make head or tail of it. All he did know was that here, at least, he would not have a chance to tell the story of yesterday's adventures. He gulped down his tea and went out into the yard in search of an audience. The janitor listened to the story with galling indifference! "Well, what of it?" he remarked. "Worse things happen." There was not another soul to whom he could tell the story. Nusya Kogan, the shopkeeper's boy, who lived in the same house, was away on a visit to his uncle at Kuyalnitsky Bay. Volodka Dibsky had moved away. The others had not yet returned from the country. Gavrik had left a message with Dunya that he would drop in today, but there was no sign of him yet. Gavrik was the one to tell the story to! What if he went to the beach to look up Gavrik? Petya was not allowed to go to the beach by himself, but the temptation was too great. He shoved his hands into his pockets, circled about nonchalantly under the windows, and then sauntered out into the street with the same nonchalance, so as not to arouse any suspicion. After walking up and down in front of the house for appearance's sake, he turned the corner and set off at a gallop for the beach. Halfway down the street where the warm sea baths stood, he ran into a barefoot boy. There was something familiar about him. . . . Who could he be? It was Gavrik himself! 21 WORD OF HONOUR "Gavrik!" "Petya!" It was with these brief exclamations of surprise and joy-and with nothing more-that the bosom friends greeted each other. They did not hug each other, or squeeze each other's hands, or look into each other's eyes, as girls undoubtedly would have done in their place. They did not ask about each other's health, or shout with glee, or make a fuss about it. They acted the way men should, men of the Black Sea coast: they expressed their feelings in curt, restrained exclamations and then at once got down to essentials, as if they had parted only the day before. "Where to?" "To the beach. What about you?" "To Near Mills, to my brother's." "What for?" "I have to. Want to come along?" "Near Mills?" "Why not?" "Near Mills-" Petya had never been in Near Mills. He knew only that it was awfully far away, "at the other end of the world". In his imagination, Near Mills was a mournful place inhabited by widows and orphans. Its name always cropped up in connection with some misfortune or other. The concept "Near Mills" was associated most frequently of all with a case of sudden death. People would say: "Have you heard the sad news? Angelika Ivanovna's husband died suddenly and left her without a kopek. She's given up her place in Marazlievskaya Street and gone to live in Near Mills." From Near Mills there was no return. And if anybody ever did return from there, it was in the form of a shadow, and not for long-for an hour, no more. People would say: "Yesterday Angelika Ivanovna-you know, the one whose husband died suddenly last year- came from Near Mills to pay us a visit. She stayed an hour, no more. You would hardly recognise her. A mere shadow-" Once Petya had gone with Father to the funeral of a schoolmaster who had died suddenly, and at the grave the priest said words which filled him with awe-about an "abode of the righteous, where they will repose", or something of the sort. There could not be the slightest doubt, of course, that "abode of the righteous" stood for Near Mills, where the relatives of the departed came somehow or other to "repose". Petya had a vivid mental picture of this sad abode with its multitude of windmills among which "reposed" the shadows of widows in black shawls and orphans in patched frocks. Naturally, going to Near Mills without permission was a dreadful thing to do. It was much worse than raiding the pantry for jam; worse, even, than bringing home a dead rat inside his shirt. It was a real crime. Petya was dying to accompany Gavrik to the weird land of mournful windmills and see the shadows of widows with his own eyes, but he could not make up his mind right off. The struggle with his conscience lasted about ten minutes. But his waverings, need it be said, in no way prevented him from walking along the street at Gavrik's side and breathlessly recounting his travel adventures. So that by the time Petya emerged victorious in the violent battle with his conscience-now a thoroughly crushed conscience-he and Gavrik had covered quite a distance. Among the boys of the Black Sea coast, indifference towards everything under the sun was considered the height of good form. Petya was therefore astonished to see his story make a tremendous impression upon Gavrik. Not once did Gavrik spit contemptuously over his shoulder, not once did he say, "Tell it to your grandmother". Moreover, it seemed to Petya that Gavrik was a bit frightened-which he at once put down to his talent as a story-teller. Enacting the terrifying scene, Petya turned red in the face. "Then this one hauls off and slams him right in the mug with a stick with a nail in it!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. "It's the honest truth! And then that one yells 'Stop! Stop!' so loud you can hear him all over the Turgenev. You can spit in my eye if I'm lying. And then this one jumps on the rail and dives right into the sea- plunk!-and the spray flies up as high as the fourth storey, may I fall down dead if it doesn't! By the true and holy Cross!" So expressively did Petya jump about and swing his arms that he overturned a basket of string-beans in front of a grocer's shop, and they had to run two streets with their tongues hanging out to escape the proprietor. "What was the first one like?" asked Gavrik. "Did he have an anchor on his hand?" " 'Course he did!" Petya shouted excitedly, panting for breath. "Here?" Gavrik pointed to the place on his hand. " 'Course! But how do you know?" "As if I've never seen sailors!" muttered Gavrik, and he spat on the ground just like a grown-up. Petya looked at his friend with envy, and then he spat too. But he did not shoot out his spittle as expertly as Gavrik. Instead of flying a long way it dropped limply on his knee, and he had to wipe it off with his sleeve. Petya decided to polish up on his spitting there and then. He practised so diligently all the way that the next morning his lips were chapped and eating melon was painful. "What about the other one?" Gavrik asked. "Was he in sandals and did de wear glasses?" "Pince-nez." "Call 'em what you like." "But how do you know?" "As if I've never seen 'tecs!" When he finished his story Petya wetted his lips with his tongue and started it all over again from the beginning without pausing to catch his breath. Gavrik was going through unimaginable torments. Compared with what he knew, Petya's adventures weren't worth a fig! He'd just like to see Petya's face if he hinted that at this very moment the mysterious sailor was in their hut. But he had to keep silent and listen to Petya's blabber for a second time. It was more than human flesh could bear. What if he did drop a hint? Just a teeny one. No, no, not for anything! Petya would never keep it to himself. But suppose he made him give his word of honour? No, he'd let it out all the same. What if he made him cross himself in front of a church? Yes, in that case he probably wouldn't tell anybody. In a word, Gavrik was torn by doubts. The temptation was so great that every now and then he had to press his lips together with his fingers to keep from talking. Nothing helped, however. He wanted more than ever to tell his secret. In the meantime, Petya rattled on, showing how the coach had been travelling, how the frightful sailor had jumped out of the vineyard and attacked the coachman, how he, Petya, had yelled at him, and how the sailor had hidden under the seat. This was too much. "Give me your word of honour you won't tell anybody!" "Word of honour," said Petya quickly, without blinking an eye. "Swear it!" "So help me God, by the true and holy Cross! What is it?" "It's a secret." "Well?" "You won't tell anybody?" "May I never move from this spot if I do!" "Swear by your happiness!" "May I never be happy in all my life!" Petya said willingly. He was so curious he swallowed his saliva in big gulps. "May my eyes drop out of their sockets!" he added hurriedly, to give it more weight. "Well?" Gavrik walked along in silence for a while, breathing heavily and spitting on the ground. The struggle with temptation was still going on inside him, and temptation was gaining the upper hand. "Petya," he said hoarsely, "make the sign of the Cross in front of a church." Petya, burning with impatience, looked round for a church. The boys were at that moment walking past the limestone wall of Old Christian Cemetery. Along the wall sat vendors of wreaths and memorials, and over it could be seen the tops of old acacia trees and the marble wings of sorrowing angels. (Near Mills must indeed be next door to death, if the road to it ran past a graveyard!) In the dusty, pale-lilac sky, beyond the acacias and the angels, hung the blue cupola of the cemetery church, topped by a golden cross. Petya faced the church and crossed himself fervently. "By the true and holy Cross, I won't tell a soul!" he said with conviction. "Well?" "Listen, Petya-" Gavrik bit his lips and then began to chew the back of his hand. Tears stood in his eyes. "Listen, Petya. Eat some earth to swear you won't tell!" Petya studied the ground. Near the wall he saw earth that was fairly clean and looked suitable. He scratched some up with his fingernails. Then, sticking out a tongue as fresh and pink as boiled sausage, he placed a pinch of the earth on it. Eyes popping, he stared questioningly at Gavrik. "Eat it!" Gavrik said darkly. Petya closed his eyes tight and conscientiously chewed the earth. At that instant they heard a strange clinking noise in the road. Two soldiers with black shoulder straps, their swords bared, were leading a convict in chains. The third soldier of the escort detail walked behind, carrying a revolver and a thick delivery register with a marbled-paper cover. The convict wore a skull cap of army cloth and a robe of the same material, under which grey drawers were visible. He walked with his head bent. The rattling leg-irons were covered by the drawers, but the long chain of the handcuffs hung in front and clinked as it beat against the man's knees. From time to time he raised the chain, with the gesture of a priest raising the hem of his robe as he crosses a puddle. Clean-shaven and grey-faced, he looked somehow like a soldier or a sailor. You could see he was very much ashamed at having to walk down the roadway in broad daylight in that condition. He kept his eyes on the ground. The soldiers seemed ashamed too, but they angrily looked up instead of down, so as not to meet the eyes of the passers-by. The boys stopped. They gaped at the visorless caps the soldiers wore tilted to one side, at their blue revolver cords, and at the gleaming white blades of the swords in their swinging hands. The sun made a dazzling glare on the tips of the swords. "Keep moving," the soldier carrying the register gruffly ordered the boys, without looking at them. "Locking's not allowed." The convict was led past. Petya wiped his tongue on his sleeve. "Well?" he said. "Well what?" "Well, now tell me." Suddenly Gavrik glared at Petya. Then he bent his arm with a fierce gesture and shoved his patched elbow under his friend's nose. "There, lick that!" Petya couldn't believe his eyes. "But I ate earth!" he said, his lips trembling. He was nearly crying. A wild, crafty gleam came into Gavrik's eyes. He squatted down and span round like a top, chanting in an insulting voice: Fooled you once, Fooled you twice. Tell your Mum I fooled you nice. Petya saw that he had been tricked. Gavrik obviously had no secret to tell and had only wanted to poke fun at him by making him eat earth. That was insulting, of course, but bearable. Next time he'd play a trick on Gavrik that would make him sorry. He'd see! "Never mind, you skunk-I'll pay you back!" Petya remarked with dignity. After that the two friends continued on their way as though nothing had happened- except that every once in a while Gavrik would suddenly dance a jig on his bare heels and chant: Fooled you once, Fooled you twice. Tell your Mum I fooled you nice. 22 NEAR MILLS They had a lot of fun on the way, and they saw many interesting things. Petya had never imagined the city was so big. The unfamiliar streets gradually became poorer and poorer. Occasionally they passed shops with merchandise standing right on the pavement, under the acacias. There were cheap iron bedsteads, striped mattresses, kitchen stools, stacks of huge red pillows, besoms made of millet stalks, mops and upholstery springs. There was a great deal of everything, and it was all big, new, and obviously cheap. Beyond the cemetery stretched firewood yards. They gave off a hot and somewhat sourish smell of oak, a smell which was surprisingly pleasant. After that were fodder shops-oats, hay and bran- with uncommonly large scales on iron chains. The weights were huge-like those in the circus. Next came timberyards where planks were seasoning. Here, too, there was a strong hot odour of sawn wood. This was pine, though, and instead of being sourish the smell was dry and fragrant and turpentinish. It was easy to see that the closer they came to Near Mills the coarser and uglier everything round them was. Gone were the elegant "Artificial Mineral Water Bars" with their gleaming nickel-plated whirligigs and jars of coloured syrup standing in rows. Their place was taken by food shops with blue signs-a herring on a fork-and taverns through whose open doors could be seen white egg-shaped tea-pots on shelves; the tea-pots were decorated with crude flowers which looked more like vegetables. Instead of handsome droshkies, drays rumbled over the uneven roadway littered with hay and bran. But as to finds, there were many more in this part of the city than in the familiar districts. Every now and then the boys came upon a horseshoe, or a screw, or an empty cigarette packet in the dust. Whenever they spotted a find they raced for it, jostling and pushing each other as they ran. "Halves!" they screamed. Or, "Finding's keeping!" Depending upon what had been shouted first the find was regarded, sacredly and inviolably, as either private property or held in common. There were so many finds that at last they stopped picking them up, making an exception only in the case of cigarette packets. These they needed for the game called "pictures". The packets had different values, depending upon the picture printed on the top. A picture of a man or woman counted for five, an animal for one, and a house for fifty. Every Odessa boy was certain to have a deck of such packet tops in his pocket. There was also a game with sweets wrappers, but this was played mostly by girls, and also by boys who were still babies, that is, who were under five. Gavrik and Petya, of course, had long looked upon sweets wrappers with the greatest scorn. They played only with cigarette pasteboards. For some reason or other Gipsies and Swallows were the favourite brands in the seaside districts. What the smokers of the seaside districts found in those cigarettes was a great puzzle. They were the worst cigarettes imaginable. Gipsies had a bright lacquered picture of a dark-eyed Gipsy girl with a smoking cigarette between her red lips and a rose in her blue hair. It was worth a mere five, and even that was stretching a point, for the Gipsy girl was shown only from the waist up. Swallows had a picture of three miserable birds, and they were worth still less than Gipsies-only three. There were some fools who even smoked Zephyrs, which had no picture at all, but only letters. Nobody ever played for Zephyr tops. And the strangest part of it all was that those cigarettes cost more than any others. One had to be an absolute idiot to buy such trash. The boys spat in disgust whenever they came across a Zephyr packet. Petya and Gavrik burned with impatience to grow up and start smoking. They would not make fools of themselves. They would buy only Kerches, a superior brand with a whole picture on the packet: a port town and a harbour with a lot of ships in it. Even the biggest experts did not know exactly how to price Kerches. There was a difference of opinion on the value of the ships. At any rate, in round numbers Kerches were quoted on the street exchange at about five hundred. The boys were unusually lucky. One might have thought all the smokers near the cemetery had specially set out to make Petya and Gavrik rich, for they smoked Kerches exclusively. The boys tumbled over each other picking them up. At first they couldn't believe their eyes. It was just like a dream where you found a three-ruble note at every other step. Soon their pockets were filled to overflowing. They were now so rich that wealth lost its joys. They were surfeited. Beside a tall narrow factory wall, on whose sooty bricks were painted letters so huge it was impossible to read them at close range, the boys played several rounds of the game, tossing the pictures and waiting to see which side came up. There was no particular zest to it, however. With so many pictures, neither of them minded losing, and that took all the fun out of playing. As they strolled on the city changed in appearance and character every minute. For a time a cemetery and prison atmosphere predominated. That gave way to a warehouse and tavern atmosphere. Then came the factories. Now the railway dominated the scene. Warehouses, block-signal stations, semaphores.. . . Finally, the road was barred by a striped level-crossing that dropped right before their noses. A pointsman carrying a green flag came out of his signal box. A whistle blew. A cloud of white steam shot up behind the trees, and past the entranced boys puffed a real engine, a big one, pushing a tender before it. Oh, what a sight it was! That in itself was worth leaving home without permission. How busily the connecting rods clicked along, how melodiously the rails sang, and how irresistible was the magnetism of those wheels flashing dizzily past, surrounded by a thick and yet almost transparent covering of steam. The soul was bewitched, was seized with a mad urge, was drawn into the inhuman, inexorable movement of the machine, while the body resisted the temptation with all its might and drew back, petrified with horror, deserted for an instant by its soul, which had already flung itself under the wheels! Pale, tiny, the boys stood with shining eyes, their little fists clenched and their feet planted wide apart; they could feel their scalps turning cold. How terrifying, and at the same time how jolly! Gavrik, true, was familiar with this emotion, but Petya was experiencing it for the first time. He was so thrilled that at first he paid no attention to the fact that in the driver's place at the oval window was a soldier, in a visorless cap with a red band, and that on the tender stood another soldier, belted with cartridge pouches and holding a rifle. The minute the engine disappeared round the turn the boys ran up the embankment and pressed their ears against the hot, white-polished rails, which rang out like a brass band. The joy of pressing his ear against the rail over which a real engine had passed-and no more than an instant before-was that not worth having left home without permission, was that not worth suffering any possible punishment? "Why was a soldier there instead of the driver?" asked Petya as they continued on their way when they had finished listening to the noise of the rails and had gathered flints from the roadbed. "Looks like the railwaymen are on strike again," Gavrik replied unwillingly. "On strike? What's that?" "A strike's a strike," said Gavrik in a still glummer voice. "They don't go to work. Soldiers run the trains instead." "Don't soldiers strike too?" "No. They're not allowed to. If they tried it they'd land in a punishment battalion in no time." "But otherwise they'd strike?" "What d'you think?" "Does your brother Terenti strike?" "Depends. . . ." "But why does he do it?" "Because. Stop pestering me. Look-there's the Odessa Goods Station. And over there is Near Mills." Petya stretched his neck and looked this way and that, but not a single mill could he see. There were neither windmills nor watermills. What he did see was: a water tower, the yellow fence of the Odessa Goods Station, red railway carriages, a hospital train with a Red Cross flag painted on it, piles of goods covered with tarpaulin, sentries. . . . "But where's Near Mills?" "There it is, just behind the railway shops, you blockhead." Petya said nothing: he was afraid of being tricked again. He twisted his head for such a long time that his collar rubbed a sore spot on his neck, but still he did not see any windmills. Strange! Gavrik, though, was not the least surprised at their absence. He walked briskly down a narrow path, past a long sooty wall of huge windows with little square panes, many of them broken. By this time Petya was rather tired. He dragged after Gavrik, shuffling his shoes over the grass, dark from the dust and soot. Every now and then iron shavings, evidently thrown outside through the window, rustled underfoot. Gavrik got up on his toes and looked into a window. "Look, Petya, the carriage shops. This is where Terenti works. Did you ever see the place? Come and look." Petya stood on tiptoe next to Gavrik and looked in through a broken pane. He saw a vast stretch of dusty air and the tiny clouded squares of the windows opposite. Broad belts hung down; everywhere stood big, uninteresting contraptions with little wheels. The place was strewn with metal shavings. The sunlight coming through the dusty windows lay in pale slanting squares all over the endless floor. And in all that huge and weird block of space there was not a single living soul. The place was filled, from top to bottom, with such a deathly, supernatural silence that Petya became frightened. "Nobody there," he said in a barely audible whisper. Gavrik, infected by Petya's mood, replied by moving his lips almost soundlessly, "Probably on strike again." "Hey there, get away from those windows!" a rough voice suddenly shouted from somewhere above. They turned round with a start. Beside them stood a sentry with a rolled greatcoat over his shoulder and a rifle in his hand. He was so close that Petya clearly smelt the dreadful odours of army cabbage soup and boot polish. The soldier's cartridge pouches of bright-yellow leather - heavy, creaking, and probably full of real bullets- were ominously close, and in general he was so tremendous that his two rows of brass buttons ran upwards to a dizzying height, right to the sky. "I'm done for!" thought Petya in horror. He felt that at any moment he might do that shamefully unpleasant thing very small children usually do when overcome by fright. "Hook it!" cried Gavrik in a thin voice and darted past the soldier. Petya dashed headlong after his friend. He thought he heard the soldier's boots stamping after him, and so he ran with every ounce of energy he could muster. But the sound of the boots did not fall behind. His eyes saw nothing but the flashing brown soles of Gavrik's feet in front of him. His heart thumped loud and fast. The soldier was still close behind. The wind roared in his ears. Only after he had run not less than a mile did Petya realise that what he heard was not the soldier's boots but his straw hat flapping against his back. The boys gasped for breath. Hot sweat poured down their temples and dripped from their chins. But a quick change came over Gavrik and Petya the minute they made certain the soldier was nowhere in sight. With an expression of total indifference they carelessly shoved their hands in their pockets and continued their way at a leisurely pace. By their entire manner they were telling each other that nothing at all had happened-and even if something had happened it was a trifling matter not worth talking about. For quite a while now they had been walking along a broad unpaved road. Although the fences and houses had lanterns like those in the city, with numbers on them, and there were the signs of shops and workshops, and even a corner chemist's with coloured pitchers and a golden eagle, it looked more like a village lane than a city street. "Well, where's that Near Mills of yours?" Petya asked in a sour voice. "This is it. Can't you see?" "Where?" "What do you mean where? Here." "Here?" "Of course. "But where are the mills?" "You're a funny bloke," said Gavrik patronisingly. "Ever see a fountain at the Fontan? You're talking like a baby. Asking questions without knowing what you're asking!" Petya was silenced. Gavrik was absolutely right. Maly Fontan, Bolshoi Fontan and Sredny Fontan didn't have any fountains at all. It was just a case of "that's what it's called". This place was called Mills but actually it had no mills. The mills, though, were only a trifle. Where were the shadows of changed widows and pale little orphan girls in patched frocks? Where were the ghostly grey sky and the weeping willows? Where was the weird, mournful land from which there was no return? No use asking Gavrik! To his utter disillusionment Petya saw neither widows, nor weeping willows, nor a grey sky. The sky, as a matter of fact, was hot and windy and the same bright colour as the blue the laundress used. In the yards of the houses stood bright-green mulberry trees and acacias. Belated pumpkin blossoms gleamed in the vegetable patches. Over the curly grass walked geese, turning their silly heads to the right and left like the soldiers on Kulikovo Field. From a smithy came the clang of hammers and the swish of bellows. All this, of course, was very interesting in its own lights, but it was difficult to give up the idea of a shadowy world where, in some mysterious manner, "reposed" the relatives of men who had died suddenly. In the innermost recesses of Petya's mind, the struggle continued for a long time-between the shadowy picture of imaginary mills where people "reposed", and the real, brightly-coloured picture of the railwaymen's settlement known as Near Mills, where Gavrik's brother Terenti lived. 23 UNCLE GAVRIK "Here we are." Gavrik pushed open the wicket with his foot, and the two friends walked into a parched-looking front garden bordered with purple irises. A huge dog with straw-coloured eyebrows immediately rushed at them. "Down, Rudko!" shouted Gavrik. "Didn't recognise me, eh?" The dog sniffed, recognised the boy, and gave a sad smile: he had got excited for nothing. Then he rolled his shaggy tail up into a loop, stuck out his tongue and ran, panting, to the back of the yard. Behind him dragged his clanging chain, fastened to a wire strung high overhead. A frightened woman peered from the wooden entrance-way of the clay hut. When she saw it was the boys, she turned and said, wiping her hands on her print apron, "Everything's all right. It's your brother come to see you." Behind her appeared a tall man in a striped sailor's jersey, the sleeves of which were cut short just below shoulders as thick as a wrestler's. But the shy look on his face, pock-marked and covered all over with tiny drops of sweat, did not in the least go with his athletic build. His figure was powerful, sort of frightening, even, but his face was just the opposite- gentle, and almost womanish. The man tightened his belt and walked up to the boys. "This is Petya, from Kanatnaya and the corner of Kulikovo Field," said Gavrik, indicating his friend with a casual nod. "A schoolmaster's kid. He's all right." Terenti gave Petya a passing glance and then fixed his small, twinkling eyes on Gavrik. "Now where are those shoes I bought you at Easter? Why must you walk about like a tramp from Duke's Gardens?" Gavrik gave a long sad whistle. "Ah, those shoes-" "You're a tramp, nothing but a little tramp!" Shaking his head, Terenti went to the back of the house. The boys followed him. There, to his indescribable delight, Petya saw a whole tinsmith's shop set up on an old kitchen table under a mulberry tree. It even had a hissing blowlamp. A strong, clipped, blue flame burst from its short muzzle, like from a tiny cannon. Judging by the baby's zinc bath-tub leaning upside down against the tree and by the soldering iron in Terenti's hand, he was busy at a job. "Repair work?" asked Gavrik, spitting on the ground exactly like a grown-up. "Uh-huh." "Nothing doing at the shops?" Ignoring the question, Terenti put the soldering iron into the flame of the blowlamp and attentively watched it grow hot. "That's all right," he muttered. "Don't you worry on our account. I can always find enough work for us to keep body and soul together." Gavrik sat down on a stool, crossed his bare legs, which did not reach to the ground, braced his hands on his knee and, rocking slowly back and forth, began to "talk shop" with his big brother. Wrinkling his peeling nose and pulling together his eyebrows, which were completely bleached from the sun and the salt water, Gavrik conveyed best regards from Grandpa, informed Terenti of the price bullheads were fetching, and waxed indignant about Madam Storozhenko, who was "such a bitch and has us by the throat all the time and never gives people a chance to breathe", and more in the same vein. Terenti nodded agreement, in the meantime carefully passing the tip of the hot iron across a strip of solder, which melted like butter. At first glance there might seem nothing unusual, let alone strange, in the fact that one brother had paid a visit to another and was telling him about his affairs. But considering Gavrik's worried air, and also the distance he had had to come for no other purpose than to talk to his brother, it would not be difficult to guess that Gavrik had an important matter on his mind. Terenti looked at him questioningly several times, but Gavrik indicated Petya with an unobtrusive wink and calmly talked on. As to Petya, he was so absorbed in the wonderful spectacle of soldering that he forgot everything in the world. He watched round-eyed as the huge shears cut through the thick zinc like so much paper. One of the most fascinating occupations of Odessa boys was to gather round a tinsmith in the middle of a courtyard and watch him practise his magic art. But there they watched a stranger, a man who was here one minute and gone the next, something like a sleight-of-hand artist on the stage. Quickly and skilfully he would do his work of soldering a tea-kettle, then roll up his pieces of tin into a tube, strap it over his shoulder, pick up his brazier and walk out of the yard, calling, "Pots to mend, kettles to mend!" Here, however, Petya was watching someone he knew, his friend's brother, an artist who displayed his skill at home, to a chosen few. At any moment he could ask, "I say there, what's in that little iron box? Is it acid?" without getting a rude answer like "Run along, young 'un, you're in the way". No, this was quite, quite different. From sheer delight Petya stuck out his tongue-which was not at all becoming in such a big boy. It is likely that he never would have left that table under the mulberry tree had he not suddenly noticed a girl with a baby in her arms approaching. With an effort she held up to Gavrik the plump one-year-old infant, who had two shining white teeth in his little coral mouth. "Look who's come, goo-goo! Gavrik's come, goo-goo! Now say, 'Hello, Uncle Gavrik.' Goo-goo!" With an extraordinarily grave expression Gavrik reached inside his shirt and, to Petya's boundless amazement, produced a red lollipop in the shape of a cock. To carry about such a treasure for three hours without tasting it, and what's more without showing it, was something only a person with incredible willpower could do! Gavrik held out the sweet to the child. "Here," he said. "Take it, Zhenechka," urged the girl, raising the child up close to the lollipop. "Take it with your little hand. See what a present Uncle Gavrik's brought you? Take the cock in your hand. That's right, that's the way. And now say, 'Thank you, dear Uncle.' Well, say it, 'Thank you, dear Uncle.' " The child gripped the bright red lollipop tight in his grimy chubby little hand and blew big bubbles from his mouth. His light-blue eyes stared blankly at his uncle. "See? That means he's saying, 'Thank you, Uncle'," said the girl, her eyes fixed enviously on the sweet. "But you mustn't put it in your mouth right off. Play with it first. And then after your porridge you can have the lollipop," she continued sensibly, casting quick curious glances at the handsome young stranger in a straw hat and new shoes with buttons. "This is Petya, from Kanatnaya and the corner of Kulikovo," said Gavrik. "Why don't you go and play with him, Motya?" The girl became so excited that she turned pale. Hugging the child close, she edged away backwards, looking distrustfully at Petya, until she bumped into her father's leg. Terenti patted the girl on the shoulder and straightened the beruffled white bonnet on her close-cropped head. "Play with the boy, Motya," he said. "Show him the Russo-Japanese pictures I bought you when you were lying sick in bed. Play with him, my pet, and give Zhenechka to Mama." ' Motya rubbed her back against her father's leg and then turned up a face red with embarrassment. Her eyes were full of tears; her tiny turquoise earrings were trembling. Earrings such as those, Petya had noticed, were usually worn by milkwomen. "Don't be afraid, my pet. He won't fight with you." Motya obediently took the child into the house. She returned holding herself as stiff as a poker, with her cheeks drawn in and her expression frightfully grave. She stopped about four paces away from Petya, took a deep breath, and, stammering and looking to the side, said in an unnaturally thin voice, "If you like, I'll show you my Russo-Japanese pictures." "Very well," said Petya in a hoarse, careless voice- the voice demanded by good form when speaking to little girls. At the same time he painstakingly, and rather successfully, spat over his shoulder. "Come along, then." Not without a certain amount of coquetry the girl turned her back to Petya and, moving her shoulders much more than was necessary, went, skipping now and then, to the back of the yard. There, behind the cellar, she had her doll household. Petya swaggered along behind. As he looked at the hollow in Motya's thin neck and the little triangle of hair above it, he grew so excited that his knees wobbled. One could not, of course, call it passionate love. But that it would develop into a serious love affair was beyond all doubt. 24 LOVE To tell the truth, Petya had been in love many times in the course of his life. First of all, that little brunette- Verochka, wasn't it?-whom he had met at a Christmas party last year in the home of one of Father's colleagues. He had been in love with her all evening; they had sat next to each other at the table, and then, when the candles were put out, they crawled under the Christmas tree in the dark, and the floor was slippery from the fir needles. It was love at first sight. When, at half past eight, they made ready to take her home, he was overwhelmed with despair. So much so that at the sight of her braids and ribbons vanishing under her hood and fur coat he began to whimper and misbehave. Then and there he vowed to love her to the grave. In parting he bestowed upon her the cardboard mandolin given him from the Christmas tree, and four nuts: three gold and one silver. But two days passed, and nothing remained of that love affair except bitter regret of having so foolishly lost the mandolin. Then, of course, in the country he had fallen in love with Zoya, the girl who wore the pink stockings of a fairy; he even kissed her, by the waterbutt under the apricot tree. But falling in love with Zoya turned out to be a mistake, for the very next day she cheated so brazenly at croquet that he was forced to rap her over the shins with his mallet. After that, naturally, a love affair was out of the question. Then there had been his fleeting passion for the lovely girl on the steamer, the one who was travelling first class and had argued all the way with her father, Lord Glenarvan. But all that did not count. Who, after all, has not experienced such heedless attachments? Motya was another matter entirely. Besides being a girl, besides having turquoise earrings, besides turning so frightfully pale and red and moving her thin little shoulder-blades so adorably-besides all that, she was the sister of a pal. Actually, of course, not a sister but a niece. But considering Gavrik's age, she was the same as a sister. His friend's sister! Can anything make a girl more attractive and lovable than the fact that she is a friend's sister? Does not this in itself contain the seed of inevitable love? Petya was smitten. By the time they reached the cellar, he was over head and ears in love. However, to prevent Motya from guessing it he assumed a nasty, high-handed, indifferent manner. No sooner had Motya politely displayed her dolls, neatly tucked in their little beds, and the little stove with real pots and pans, only little ones, which her father had made from scraps of zinc, than Petya-though, to tell the truth, he found them awfully nice-spat contemptuously through his teeth and, with an insulting snicker, asked, "I say, Motya, why is your hair cut so short?" "I had typhus," Motya replied in a thin, hurt voice, and she gave such a deep sigh that a tiny peep, like a bird's, sounded in her throat. "Do you want to see my pictures?" Petya condescended. They sat down on the ground side by side and began to look at the patriotic coloured lithographs, most of them depicting naval battles. A sticky, dark-blue sky was criss-crossed with thin searchlight rays. Broken masts topped by Japanese flags were crashing down. Out of the sharp-edged waves rose the white jets of explosions. Shells burst in the air like stars. A Japanese cruiser was sinking; its sharp nose was tilted, and it was enveloped in yellow-red flames. Little yellow-faced men were tumbling into the sea. "Jappies!" breathed the enchanted girl as she crawled round the picture on her knees. "Not Jappies but Japs," Petya corrected her sternly. He knew what was what in politics. In another picture a dashing Cossack with red stripes down the sides of his breeches and a high black fur cap worn at an angle had just sliced off the nose of a Japanese who had stuck his head up from behind a hill. A thick stream of blood gushed in an arc from the face of the Japanese soldier. His stubby orange-coloured nose with its two black nostrils lay all by itself on the hill, and this sent the children into peals of laughter. "Don't poke your nose where it doesn't belong!" cried Petya, laughing and beating his hands against the warm dry earth spotted with white hen droppings. "Don't poke your nose!" chanted Motya, looking over her shoulder at the handsome boy and wrinkling her thin sharp nose, which was as motley as Gavrik's. The third picture showed the same Cossack and the same hill, on the other side of which the puttees of a fleeing Japanese could now be seen. At the bottom was this inscription: There was a Jap general Nogi, Ha-ha! And Ivan, he just knocked him groggy, la-la! "Don't poke your nose, don't poke your nose!" Motya sang in glee, nestling trustfully against Petya. "Isn't that right? He shouldn't go poking his nose in either, should he?" Petya, frowning, turned a deep red and did not reply. He was trying hard to keep his eyes from the girl's thin little bare arm with its two shiny vaccination marks, which were the same delicate flesh colour as paper stickers. But it was too late. He was already hopelessly in love. And when it turned out that besides pictures of the Russo-Japanese War Motya had first-class flints, nuts with which to play "king and prince", sweets wrappers, and even cigarette pictures, Petya's love reached its apogee. Ah, what a day of rare and wonderful happiness that was! Never in his life would Petya forget it. He became curious as to how the earrings held on, and the girl showed him the holes, which had been pierced only a short time before. He even ventured to touch the lobe of her ear; it was soft, and still slightly swollen, like a piece of tangerine. After that they played pictures. Petya cleaned her out, but she looked so downcast that he took pity on her and not only returned all the pasteboards he had won but made her a present of all his. Let her know how generous he was! Then they gathered dry weeds and kindling and lighted the doll's stove. There was a great deal of smoke but no fire. They gave this up and began to play hide-and-seek. In hiding from each other they crawled into such distant and out-of-the-way spots that it was a bit scarey to remain there alone. Yet what burning joy it was to listen to the approach of cautious footsteps as you sat in the hiding place, mouth and nose covered with both hands to keep from giggling! How furiously your heart pounded, how wildly your ears rang! All at once half of a face pale with excitement, its lips tightly pressed together, slowly appears from behind a corner. The peeling nose, the round eye, the pointed chin, the little white bonnet with the ruffles. Their eyes suddenly meet. Both are so startled that they feel they are about to faint. And then the wild, blood-curdling cry of triumph and victory: "Petya, seen you!" And both dash off for all they are worth to reach the rapping stick first. "Seen you!" "Seen you!" Once the girl hid so far away that the boy spent all of half an hour looking for her, until finally he thought of climbing over the back fence and trying the pasture. There, in a pit overgrown with weeds, sat Motya, her thin chin resting on her scratched knees, and her eyes fixed on the sky, across which a late-afternoon cloud was floating. Around her crickets were chirping and cows were grazing. It was all very frightening, and she was scared to death. Petya looked down into the pit. For a long time they gazed into each other's eyes, experiencing a strange, burning embarrassment which was not at all like any of the feelings connected with the game. "Seen you, Motya!" the boy wanted to shout, but he could not get out a single sound. No, decidedly, this was no longer part of the game but something altogether different. Motya climbed carefully out of the pit and they strolled back to the yard. They were embarrassed; they nudged each other with their shoulders, yet at the same time they discreetly refrained from holding hands. Over the immortelles of the pasture glided the cool shadow of the cloud. The minute they climbed the fence, however, Petya came to his senses. "Seen you!" the sly boy cried wildly, and he raced for the stick so as to rap the napping girl with it. In a word, it was all so unusual and so engrossing that Petya at first paid no attention to Gavrik when he came up to them at the height of the game. "Say, Petya, what was that sailor's name?" Gavrik asked with a preoccupied frown. "Which sailor?" "The one who jumped off the Turgenev." "I don't know." "But don't you remember you told me how that skunk with the moustaches, the detective, called him by his name?" "Why, yes, that's right! Zhukov. Rodion Zhukov. And now don't bother us, we're playing." Gavrik left, wearing the same preoccupied frown. As to Petya, he was so completely absorbed in his new love affair that this conversation immediately flew out of his mind. Soon after, Motya's mother called them to supper. "Motya, invite your gentleman friend to come in and have some gruel with us," she said. "He must be hungry." Motya blushed furiously, then turned pale and drew herself as erect as a stick, the way she had before. "Would you like to have some gruel with us?" she said in a choky voice. Only then did Petya realise that he was hungry. Why, he hadn't had any dinner that day! Never in all his life had he eaten such thick, delicious gruel with hardish, smoke-flavoured potatoes and little cubes of pork. After that marvellous supper in the open air, under the mulberry tree, the boys set out for home. Terenti accompanied them back to town. He ran into the house for a moment and came out wearing a short jacket and a lustrine cap with a button on the top of it. He carried a thin iron rod from an umbrella, the kind Odessa artisans usually took with them when they went out walking on a holiday. "Don't go, Terenti dear, it's late," his wife pleaded as she saw him off to the gate. The anxiety in her eyes made Petya feel somehow uneasy. "Stay at home instead. You can never tell what-" "I have things to do." "You know best," she said submissively. "Everything'll be all right," Terenti said with a gay wink. "Don't go past the goods station." "Never fear." "Good luck, then." "Same to you." Terenti and the boys set out for town. But the route they took was altogether different from the one by which the boys had come. Terenti led them through vacant lots, backyard vegetable patches and side streets. This route turned out to be much shorter, and they met fewer people on the way. Quite unexpectedly they came out on familiar Sennaya Square. Here Terenti said to Gavrik, "I'll drop in later this evening," and with a nod of his head he disappeared in the crowd. The sun had already set. In some of the shops the lamps were being lit. "What will they say at home!" Petya thought in horror. His happiness was over. Now he would have to pay for it. He tried to keep his thoughts from dwelling on this, but he found it impossible. Lord, what his new shoes looked like! And his stockings! Where had those big round holes in the knees come from? They hadn't been there in the morning. His hands were a sight-as filthy as a cobbler's. And the spots of tar on his cheeks. Good God! No doubt about it; there'd be a terrific row when he got home! If they'd only give him a whipping it wouldn't be so bad. But the whole trouble was they would never do that. They would groan and moan and wring his heart with reproaches-and the worst of it was that the reproaches would all be just. Father might even grab him by the shoulders and shake him as hard as he could, shouting, "Where have you been, you good-for-nothing! Do you want to drive me to my grave?" And that, as everybody knew, was ten times worse than the worst possible whipping. These and similar bitter thoughts put the boy into a thoroughly depressed mood, aggravated by infinite regret at the burst of passion which had moved him so foolishly to give away those pictures to the first girl he met. 25 "I WAS STOLEN" No power on earth, it seemed, could save Petya from an unprecedented row. It was not for nothing, however, that the hair on Petya's crown grew in two whorls instead of one, as it does on most boys, and this, as anyone will tell you, is the surest sign of luck. Providence sent Petya an unexpected deliverance. He could have expected anything under the sun, but never this. Not far from Sennaya Square, in Staro-Portofrankovskaya Street, he saw Pavlik running along the pavement. He was all by himself. He stumbled as he ran, and tears streamed down his grimy cheeks as though they were being squeezed out of a rag. His pink little tongue quivered ruefully in the open square of his mouth. From his nose hung two pearly drops. He was emitting a steady wail, but since he was running at the same time what he produced was not a smooth "Ahhhh" but a jerky and hiccupy "Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah!" "Pavlik?!!" At sight of his brother, Pavlik ran up to him as fast as he could and clutched his sailor blouse with both hands. "Petya! Petya!" he cried, trembling and panting. "Oh, Petya dear!" "What are you doing here, you bad boy?" Petya asked sternly. Instead of replying, Pavlik began to hiccup. He could not utter a word. "Answer me: what are you doing here? Well? Where have you been, you good-for-nothing? I see you want to drive me to my grave, eh? Say something or else I'll have to slap some sense into you." Petya seized Pavlik by the shoulders and shook him until he cried out through his hiccups, "I-hie!-I was- st-stolen!" Then again he gave way to tears. What had happened? Petya was not the only one, it appeared, who had got the happy idea of taking a stroll on his own the day after returning to town. Pavlik had dreamt of the same thing a long time. He had not intended, of course, to wander off as far as Petya did. His plans included a visit to the rubbish-heap, and, at the outside, a walk round the corner to watch how the soldiers at the entrance to Army Staff building presented arms. Unfortunately, who should come into the yard just then but Vanka-Rutyutyu, or Punch. Together with the other children, Pavlik watched the show from beginning to end. But he found it too short. A rumour spread, though, that in the next yard a longer performance would be given. The children followed Vanka-Rutyutyu into the next yard, but there the show was still shorter. It came to an end at the part where Vanka-Rutyutyu-a long-nosed puppet with the stiff neck of a paralytic, wearing a cap that looked like a pod of red pepper-killed the policeman with a blow of his stick. But absolutely everybody knew that after that there must come a horrible monster- something halfway between a furry yellow duck and a crocodile-and this monster would seize Vanka-Rutyutyu's head in its jaws and drag him off to the nether regions. This part, however, was not shown. Perhaps it was because not enough coppers had been thrown from the windows. In the next yard, though, business was certain to be better. Their eyes fixed on the wicker basket where the puppets lay mysteriously hidden, the bewitched children moved from one courtyard to the next in the wake of the loudly-dressed woman with a street organ slung over her shoulder and the hatless man carrying a screen under his arm. Pavlik, devoured by curiosity, trudged along beside the other children on his sturdy little legs, his tongue sticking out and his light chocolate-coloured eyes, with their large black pupils, open wide. He forgot everything -Daddy and Auntie Tatyana, and even Kudlatka whom he had not had time to put in the stable or give a good portion of oats and hay. The boy lost all sense of time. When he came out of his trance he discovered with a start that night was falling and that he was following the street organ along totally unfamiliar streets. All the other children had long since disappeared. He was quite alone. The loudly-dressed woman and the man with the screen walked along quickly, evidently in a hurry to get home. Pavlik could scarcely keep up with them. The streets became more and more strange and suspicious. It seemed to Pavlik that the man and woman were whispering something in a sinister manner. They turned a corner and then suddenly wheeled round, and Pavlik noticed in alarm that there was a cigarette in the woman's mouth. Terror swept over him. He began to tremble as he suddenly remembered. Absolutely everybody knew that organ-grinders enticed little children away from home, broke their arms and legs, and then sold them to the circus as acrobats. How, oh how could he have forgotten that! It was as well known as the fact that sweets manufactured by "Krakhmalnikov Bros." could poison you, or that the ice-cream sold in the streets was made of milk in which sick people had bathed. Here there could be no doubt. Only Gipsy women and other women who stole children smoked. In another minute they would seize him, stuff a rag into his mouth, and carry him off to Romanovka, where they would twist his arms and legs out of their sockets and turn him into an acrobat. With a loud wail Pavlik turned and fled. He ran as fast as he could, until suddenly he bumped into Petya. After giving his little brother a good spanking Petya triumphantly dragged him home by the arm. At home, panic reigned. Dunya was running frantically through the neighbouring courtyards, her cheap taffeta skirts swishing. Auntie Tatyana was rubbing her temples with a migraine stick. Father was getting into his summer coat to go down to the police station to report his children missing. Upon seeing Pavlik safe and sound, Auntie rushed up to him, undecided whether to laugh or to cry. She did both at the same time. Then she spanked the little vagrant soundly. Then she planted kisses all over his smudgy little face. Then she spanked him again. Only after that did she turn a threatening face to Petya. "And what about you, my friend?" "Where were you gadding about, you bandit?" Father shouted, seizing the boy by the shoulder. "I was looking for Pavlik," Petya replied modestly. "I ran all over the city before I found him. You ought to thank me. If not for me he would have been stolen long ago." Then and there he launched into a magnificent tale of how he had chased the organ-grinder, how the organ-grinder had tried to escape him down back alleys, and how he had finally seized the organ-grinder by the collar and shouted for the police. Then the organ-grinder became frightened, let go of Pavlik, and ran away. "Otherwise I'd have had him put in jail, by the true and holy Cross!" Although Petya's story, contrary to his expectations, aroused not the slightest admiration, and Father even wrinkled his nose in disgust and said, "Aren't you ashamed to talk such nonsense?" there was nothing anyone could do about it, for it was Petya, and Petya alone, who had found the missing Pavlik. Thanks to that Petya got off scot-free. That's what came of being a lucky boy with two whorls on his crown! Meanwhile Gavrik had returned to the hut to find Grandpa and the sailor greatly excited. A little while before, some officials had come to the hut, supposedly from the city council, to check up on Grandpa's fishing permit. The papers had been in order. "Who's that on the bed?" the gentleman with the brief case had suddenly asked, noticing the sailor. Grandpa did not know what to say. "Is he ill? If so, then why don't you take him to the hospital?" "No," said Grandpa, putting on an air of cheerful indifference. "He's not ill; he's drunk." "Drunk, is he? Your son?" "No." "A stranger?" "I tell you he's a drunk, Your Honour." "Yes, I understand. But where did he come from?" "Where?" Grandpa repeated, pretending he was a half-witted old man. "He's a drunk, I tell you. You know, a drunk. He was lying in the weeds, that's all." The gentleman looked closely at the sailor. "Was he lying in the weeds like that, in nothing but his underdrawers?" "That's how I found him." "Hey, you! Let me smell your breath!" the gentleman shouted, putting his face down close to the sailor's. Zhukov made believe he did not hear. He turned his face to the wall and covered his head with a pillow. "Strange! A drunk who doesn't smell of alcohol," the gentleman remarked. Then he added, regarding Grandpa severely, "You'd better look out, there!" With that the officials departed. Gavrik did not like the looks of this at all. Passing by the restaurant he had seen the district police inspector, the nasty one whom the local fishermen called "our boat snooper", seated at a table. The inspector had been drinking beer, and his heavy mug stood on a thick round piece of cardboard with the inscription "Sanzenbacher's Beer". He had seemed less interested in the beer, however, than in the time shown by his silver watch. The sailor felt much better. Evidently the crisis had passed. He was no longer feverish. He sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his stubbly cheeks. "I'll have to get out of here at once," he said. "Where'll you go without trousers?" Grandpa asked sadly. "Stay here until dark. No other way out. Hungry, Gavrik?" "I had supper at Terenti's." Grandpa raised his eyebrows. Think of it! His grandson had already been at Terenti's. Quick work! "How are things there?" "He's planning to drop in today." The old man chewed his lips and raised his eyebrows still higher, marvelling at how quick-witted his grandson was. Why, he grasped things better than many a grown man. And on top of everything, he was shrewd. Oh, how shrewd he was! Although only nine and a half, Gavrik really did have a better understanding of some things than many adults. This was not surprising, for from his earliest years he had lived among fishermen, and the fishermen of Odessa did not differ essentially from the sailors, stokers, shipyard workers and dockers, that is to say, from the poorest and most freedom-loving section of the city's population. They all had more than their share of life's trials and tribulations, the children no less than the adults-and perhaps even more. This was the year 1905, the year of the first Russian revolution. The poor, the disinherited, the oppressed were rising to fight tsarism. And not the last among them were the fishermen. It was a fierce struggle that had started, a struggle to the death. And a struggle that taught them to be shrewd, cautious, vigilant, daring. All these qualities had gradually, imperceptibly, grown and developed in our little fisherman. Gavrik's brother Terenti had also been a fisherman. After his marriage, however, he had gone to work in the railway shops. From many signs Gavrik could not help guessing that his elder brother had something to do with what in those times was vaguely and significantly called "the Movement". When he visited Terenti at Near Mills, Gavrik often heard him use words like "committee", "faction", "password". Although he did not know what they meant, he sensed that they were connected with words like "strike", "police agent" and "leaflet", words everyone understood. Gavrik knew especially well what leaflets were, those sheets of rough paper with small grey letters printed on them. Once Terenti had asked him to distribute some along the shore, and he had put them, at night, in the fishing boats, trying to do it so that no one saw him. Terenti had said, "If anyone sees you, throw them into the water and run. If they catch you, say you found them in the bushes." But everything had gone off all right. And so, that was why Gavrik had decided to go straight to his brother about the sailor. He knew that Terenti would arrange everything. He also understood, however, that his brother would have to consult someone else, and to go somewhere, perhaps even to that "Committee". That meant they must wait. But waiting was becoming dangerous. Several times the sailor opened the door a crack and cautiously peeped out. It was fairly dark by now, but not dark enough to risk going out the way he was without attracting attention, especially since there were still many people on the beach and they could hear singing from rowing-boats on the water. The sailor returned to the bed. "The rats! The damned bloodhounds!" he said in a loud voice, no longer wary of the old man and Gavrik. "Just let me get my hands on them! I'll-I don't know what I'd do to them! I'd risk my head but I'd pay them back-" And he quietly struck the bed with his massive fist. 26 THE PURSUIT Night had already fallen when the door of the hut was suddenly pushed open, and for an instant the body of a big man shut out the stars. The sailor sprang to his feet. "That's all right," Gavrik said. "It's our Terenti." The sailor sat down again, peering into the darkness at the newcomer. "Evening," came Terenti's voice. "It's so dark I can't see a soul. Why don't you light the lamp? What's up, out of paraffin?" "There's a few drops left." Grandpa rose with a grunt and lighted the lamp. "Hello, Grandpa, how are things going with you? I was in town today and I thought, what about looking my own folk up? Why, I see you've got a visitor as it is. Hello, there." Terenti gave the stranger a quick, close glance in the flickering light of the wick lamp. "He's the one we fished out of the sea," Grandpa explained wryly, with a good-natured grin. "So I hear." The sailor said nothing. He eyed Terenti with glum suspicion. "Rodion Zhukov, I take it?" Terenti said, a gay note in his voice. The sailor gave a start but instantly controlled himself. He braced himself more firmly against the bed with his fists and narrowed his eyes. "What about it?" he said with a defiant smile. "Why do I have to tell you? I answer only to the Committee." The grin faded from Terenti's pock-marked face. Never had Gavrik seen his brother so grave. "You may take me for the Committee," Terenti replied after a moment's reflection. He sat down on the bed beside the sailor. "Prove it," the sailor said stiffly, edging away. "First prove who you are." The sailor indicated his underdrawers with an angry glance. "Can't you see for yourself?" "That's not enough." Terenti walked over to the door, opened it a crack and said in a low voice, "Will you come in for a minute, Ilya Borisovich?" There was a rustling in the bushes, and then a short frail young man wearing pince-nez on a black ribbon looped behind one ear entered the hut. A black sateen Russian blouse belted with a leather strap showed beneath his old, unbuttoned jacket. Atop his shock of hair perched a flat engineering student's cap. The sailor felt that he had seen this "student" somewhere before. The young fellow turned sidewise, adjusted his pince-nez and squinted at the sailor with one eye. "Well?" Terenti asked. "I saw this comrade on the morning of June the 15th at the Platonov jetty guarding the body of the sailor Vakulinchuk who was brutally murdered by officers," the young fellow said quickly, without stopping for breath. "You were there, Comrade, weren't you?" "Right you are." "There. I knew I wasn't mistaken." Without saying a word Terenti produced a bundle from under his jacket and laid it on the sailor's knees. "Trousers, a belt and a jacket, couldn't get boots, sorry, so you'll have to go without until you can buy some, and now get dressed and don't lose any time about it, we'll turn our backs," the young fellow said all in one breath, adding, "I've an idea this place is being watched." Terenti gave a wink. "Get going, Gavrik." Gavrik understood at once and quietly slipped out of the hut into the darkness. He stopped and listened. He thought he heard a rustle among the dry potato bushes in the vegetable patch. He crouched and tiptoed forward. Suddenly, when his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he clearly saw two motionless figures in the middle of the patch. The boy caught his breath. His ears began to ring so loudly that he no longer heard the sea. Biting his lips savagely, he made his way without a single sound to the rear of the hut to see if there was anyone on the path. On the path stood two other men, one of them in a white jacket. Gavrik crawled towards the hill and there he saw several men. He could tell at once they were policemen by their white jackets. The hut was surrounded. He was just about to run back when a big, hot hand firmly seized him from behind by the scruff of the neck. He broke away, but the next instant he was tripped up and sent sprawling into the bushes. A pair of strong hands gripped him. He twisted round, and, to his horror, found himself face to face with Moustaches; he was staring into an open foul-breathed mouth and at a chin as rough as a pine board. "Plee-eease," Gavrik whined in a thin little voice. "Shut up, you dog!" hissed Moustaches. "Let me go, plee-eease, let me go!" "I'll teach you to shout, you little rat," Moustaches muttered through his teeth, seizing Gavrik's ear in fingers of steel. Gavrik shrank back and, turning his face to the hut, screamed in a wild voice, "Hook it!" "Shut up or I'll kill you!" Moustaches yanked Gavrik's ear so savagely that it cracked. Gavrik felt as though his head had split. It was stabbed by horrible, unimaginable pain. At the same time he was swept by a wave of hatred and anger that turned everything black before his eyes. "Hook it!" he shouted again at the top of his voice, writhing with pain. Moustaches threw himself on Gavrik. Continuing to twist his ear savagely, he used his other hand to stop the boy's mouth. But Gavrik rolled on the ground, biting the sweaty, hateful, hairy hand. Weeping, he shouted frenziedly, "Hoo-ook it!" Moustaches violently flung Gavrik aside and raced towards the hut. A long police whistle sounded. Gavrik got to his feet and saw at once that his shouts had been heard, for three figures-two tall and one short -dashed out of the hut and across the vegetable patch, stumbling as they ran. Two white jackets barred their way. The fugitives wheeled about, only to find that they were surrounded. "Halt!" an unfamiliar voice cried out of the darkness. "Shoot, Ilya!" Gavrik heard Terenti yell in desperation. The next instant there were three flashes and three revolver shots one after the other, sounding like the cracking of a whip. The shouts and grunts told Gavrik that a scrimmage was going on in the darkness. Would they be caught? So overcome with horror that he did not know what he was doing, Gavrik dashed forward, as if he could help them in some way. He had not run more than ten paces when he saw the same three figures-two tall and one short-tear themselves away from the tussle, run towards the bluff and disappear in the darkness. "Stop them! Stop them!" There was a flash of red light, followed by the loud report of a policeman's Smith & Wesson. Police whistles shrilled at the top of the bluff. It looked as if a cordon had been posted all along the shore. Gavrik listened with a sinking heart to the hue and cry of the pursuit. It was beyond him why Terenti had chosen to run in that direction. Only a madman would have climbed the bluff. Straight into a trap, where they would all be caught. It would have been better to try to escape along the beach. He ran on a bit farther. He thought he could make out three figures crawling up the sheer wall of the bluff. They were done for! "Oh, Terenti, why did you go that way!" the boy whispered in despair. He bit his hand to keep from crying, but scalding tears tickled his nose and stung his throat. Then all of a sudden Gavrik understood why they had chosen the bluff. He'd quite forgotten. And yet it was so simple! The point was that- At this very moment Moustaches flung himself at Gavrik, caught him under the arms and dragged him backwards, tearing the boy's shirt. He pushed him into the hut, near which two policemen were now standing. Gavrik struck his cheek painfully against the door and fell on top of Grandpa, who was sitting on the floor in the corner, his legs crossed under him. "If they get away, I'll have your heads!" Moustaches yelled at the policemen, and ran out. Gavrik sat down beside Grandpa, crossing his legs under him in the same way. They sat in silence, listening to the whistles and cries gradually dying away in the distance. At last all was silence. Only then did Gavrik become aware of his ear. He had forgotten all about it, but it ached terribly. It felt as if it were on fire. Even touching it was painful. "That devil! Almost tore my ear right off!" he muttered, trying his hardest to hold back the tears and to appear indifferent. Grandpa glanced at him without turning his head. The old man's eyes were motionless and horrifyingly blank. He softly chewed his lips. For a long time he was silent. At last he shook his head and said reproachfully, "Who ever saw the likes of it? Tearing off a child's ear! Is that the way to act?" He drew a heavy sigh and took to chewing his lips again. All at once he bent anxiously over Gavrik, looked fearfully at the door to see whether anyone was listening, and whispered, "Did you hear anything? Did they get away?" "They went up the bluff," Gavrik said rapidly in an undertone. "Terenti took them to the catacombs. If they're not shot down on the path they're sure to get away." Grandpa turned his face to the icon of the miracle worker, closed his eyes, and slowly crossed himself with a sweeping gesture, pressing his folded fingers hard against his forehead, his stomach and both shoulders. A tear, so tiny that it was almost invisible, crept down his cheek and disappeared in a wrinkle. 27 GRANDPA Many cities of the world have catacombs-Rome, Naples, Constantinople, Alexandria, Paris, Odessa. Some fifty years earlier, Odessa's catacombs had been limestone quarries. To this day they run in a labyrinth beneath the entire city, with several exits beyond its limits. Everyone in Odessa knew, of course, that the catacombs were there,