"It's the summer," said the caretaker dreamily. "In summer it's only by chance that anyone shows up around here."
The Party's District Committee also seemed to be deserted.
"He's gone off at the head of a commission inspecting the region," said the female secretary. "He won't be back tomorrow, either. In any case it's nothing to do with the District Committee. You need to apply to his former place of work."
The next day Olya went around the circuit again. She demanded, implored, tried to telephone Moscow. That evening she dreaded going home. It was already the fourth day of her ordeal with the red coffin. Coming into the room where it had been set down, she was afraid to breathe, afraid of detecting a smell and losing her sanity At night the coffin appeared to her in a dream, not long and red, as it was, but small, luxurious, varnished, and painted like a lacquered box from Palekh. She kept trying to put it into a bag storage locker. But sometimes she forgot to dial the code, sometimes she was prevented by passersby. In the end, unable to bear it any longer, she decided to retrieve the contents and throw it away. She tried to open it, to separate its two halves, as one pries apart the two halves of a shellfish. And indeed the coffin suddenly resembled a finely modeled black shell, covered in mucous varnish. When she finally managed to open this bivalve, breaking her nails in the process, what she found inside was the celluloid doll she had had as a child, staring at her with strangely alive and moist eyes, like those of a human being.
The following morning Olya went to the cemetery There, in a tiny shack, behind the dilapidated church invaded by wild plants, sat three men, with dried fish and bread laid out on a sheet of newspaper. They were drinking.
They listened to her request and shook their heads in unison: "No, no, not a chance! Coming here out of the blue like this. Tomorrow's Saturday. We finish an hour early today. So, what do you think we are? Slaves? You might as well come on Sunday while you're at it. No, no! It's not possible!"
Olya did not go away. She understood that they were going through this routine so as to be paid more. The men went back to talking among themselves, casting oblique glances in her direction from time to time, and extracting fish bones stuck between their teeth. Finally one of them, as if taking pity, said to her: "Ah right, my beauty. You give us a hundred rubles now and fifty rubles after and we'll do you a first-class burial."
"How much?" asked Olya, dumbfounded, thinking she must have misheard.
"A hundred and fifty," the man repeated. "So what did you think? We're not going to do the job for the sake of your pretty blue eyes. Least of all on a Saturday! There are three of us. And we have to give something to the boss. And the driver. Suit yourself! But I'm making this offer out of the kindness of my heart."
And with a sharp crunch he bit into a huge onion.
Olya had only ten rubles left. The men sat there taking their ease, interrupting one another, swapping remarks about the funeral of a local notable. The whole shed was cluttered up with frayed old wreaths, tombstones, and iron bars for railings. Olya had an impulse to say to these men in a low voice: "For heaven's sake have pity on me, you bastards!"
"If I bring the money tomorrow morning," she asked, "Is that all right for you?"
The men nodded their approval. "Sure, that'll be fine. We'll start digging in the morning, before it gets hot."
When she got to Moscow Olya began telephoning all the people she knew but reaching someone in summer and especially on a Friday evening was very difficult. The only one who responded to her call was a vague acquaintance, a dealer Ninka had introduced her to.
"Olya," he exclaimed into the receiver almost joyfully, "I've been completely cleaned out. Yes, the cops caught me near the Beriozka with hot currency. And they emptied the apartment as well. I'm broke.
Otherwise, you know, I'd be very happy to help you but I haven't got a cent. Hang on. I'll give you the address of a buddy of mine. He can change your currency. What? You haven't got any? Well then, odds and ends of gold. Write this down. He's called Alik. Yes he's from Azerbaijan, a regular guy. A bit unpredictable, that's all…"
She arrived at Alik's place late in the evening. When she showed him the emerald bracelet and two rings he began to laugh.
"And you waste my time for that? No, young lady, I work seriously. Do you think I'd risk ending up cutting wood in the north for five grams?"
And he was already hustling her toward the exit along the dark corridor. Suddenly, as if remembering something, she opened her bag and took out the Gold Star.
"And that?"
"Have you got the certificate?"
Olya held it out to him.
"With the certificate I'll give you a hundred rubles."
"I need a hundred and fifty," said Olya in a weary voice.
"Well, come back another day," Alik said flatly, opening the door.
Outside Olya went into a telephone booth. There was an immediate reply.
"Alyosha," she whispered, almost without believing it.
"What a surprise!" a soft voice at the end of the line replied with quiet astonishment. "Where have you been hiding? Well, you're right, it's my fault. I'm living between Moscow and Paris now. Our diplomatic wagging tongues have spread the word that you've been having some problems. Well, I'm sure it'll all sort itself out in the end. Do forgive me, I can't give you much time. I've got a meeting here with people responsible for the festival. Yes, the French are here as well. It's a shame you can't come over. You'd be a charming flower at our all-male gathering. It'll all sort itself out in the end. Forgive me, I must get back to my guests now. Don't forget me. Give me a ring some time. And bonne nuit! "
Olya hung up. "Diplomat!" she thought. Then took her lipstick and powder compact out of her bag.
When he opened the door Alik remarked to her carelessly: "Ah! You've had second thoughts. And you were right to do so. A hundred rubles is a fair price. I'll have that Star on my hands for several months. There are not many collectors up for such a risk."
"I need a hundred and fifty," repeated Olya.
And she looked him in the eye for a long time. Alik took her by the elbow and in utterly changed tones observed: "Didn't anyone ever tell you you've got the eyes of a mountain deer?"
"Where must I go?" she asked in a weary voice.
The burial took place very quickly. The men worked swiftly and neatly. As they filled in the grave, Olya noticed that dazzling dandelion flowers, cut by the spades, were falling into it along with the earth, and this caused her a stab of pain.
By the afternoon she was sitting in the kitchen of her parents' apartment. She stared at the walls which, before leaving for Moscow, her father had started to paint pale blue. On the gas stove the great old kettle that was familiar to her from childhood was hissing in a soothing manner. It seemed to her that everything was still possible; you just had to learn to stop thinking, to stop remembering.
At that moment a strident woman's voice rang out beneath the windows. "Petrovna, they say there's butter at the Gastronom! Let's go there! We might get some."
"So, how many packs does everyone get?" shouted Petrovna from her window.
But their voices were drowned by a man's bass voice: "Don't be in a hurry, my little ladies. I've just been there. It's not butter. It's only good-quality margarine. And there's none left anyway."
Olya closed her eyes and for the first time in all these days she wept. She left for Moscow the same evening.
She spent much longer in the hospital than she had expected. After the abortion there were complications, then septicemia developed. What saved her was a huge silvery poplar tree outside the window. Its leaves made a great rushing sound and filled the whole ward with their shimmering light, redolent of the sunny south.