'You look pale. Did you have any lunch?'
'I don't feel like eating.'
'Have some bread and butter while I warm up your supper.'
She poured out a few drops of his heart-medicine and said:
'I don't like the look of you. Drink this. And let me check your pulse.'
They went through to the kitchen. As he chewed his bread, Viktor kept glancing at the mirror Nadya had hung by the gas-meter.
'How strange it all is,' he said. 'How could I ever have guessed that I'd have to answer drawerfuls of questionnaires and hear what I've heard today? What power! The State and the individual… The State raises a man up, then throws him effortlessly into the abyss.'
'Vitya,' said Lyudmila, 'I want to talk to you about Nadya. Almost every night she comes home after curfew.'
'You told me about that the other day.'
'I know I did. Well, yesterday evening I happened to go up to the window and lift up the black-out curtain. What do you think I saw? Nadya and some soldier! They walked down the street, stopped outside the dairy and began kissing.'
'Well I never!' Viktor was so astonished he stopped chewing the food in his mouth.
Nadya kissing a soldier! After a few moments' silence, Viktor began to laugh. He was quite stunned; probably nothing else could have distracted him from his own sombre preoccupations. For a moment their eyes met; to her surprise, Lyudmila burst out laughing as well. Their empathy was complete, that rare understanding that needs neither thoughts nor words.
It was no surprise to Lyudmila when Viktor, apparently apropos of nothing at all, said: 'Mila, I was right to have it out with Shishakov, wasn't I?'
His train of thought was quite simple, though not so easy for an outsider to follow. Several things had come together: memories of his past; the fate of Tolya and Anna Semyonovna; the war; the fact that, however rich and famous a man may be, he will still grow old, die and yield his place to the young; that perhaps nothing matters except to live one's life honestly.
And so he asked: 'I was right, wasn't I?'
Lyudmila shook her head. Decades of intimacy can also divide people.
'Lyuda,' said Viktor humbly, 'people who are in the right often don't know how to behave. They lose their tempers and swear. They act tactlessly and intolerantly. Usually they get blamed for everything that goes wrong at home and at work. While those who are in the wrong, those who hurt others, always know how to behave. They act calmly, logically and tactfully – and appear to be in the right.'
Nadya came in after ten o'clock. As she heard the key in the lock, Lyudmila said: 'Go on, have a word with her.'
'It's easier for you,' said Viktor.
But as Nadya came into the room, with dishevelled hair and a red nose, it was Viktor who said: 'Who were you kissing opposite the front door?'
Nadya looked round as though about to run away. For a moment she just gaped at Viktor. Then she shrugged her shoulders and said calmly: 'A-Andryusha Lomov. He's at military school. He's a lieutenant.'
'Are you going to marry him then?' asked Viktor, astonished at Nadya's self-possession. He looked round to see Lyudmila's reaction.
'Marry him?' Nadya sounded very grown-up: irritated, but basically unconcerned. 'Maybe. I'm thinking of it… And then maybe not. I haven't made up my mind yet.'
At last Lyudmila said something.
'Nadya, why did you tell all those lies about Mayka's father and his lessons? I never told lies to my mother.'
Viktor remembered how, when he was courting Lyudmila, she would come to meet him and say: 'I've left Tolya with Mother. I told her I was going to the library.'
All of a sudden, Nadya was a child again. In an angry, whining voice, she shouted: 'And do you think it's right to spy on me? Did your mother spy on you?'
'Don't you dare be so insolent to your mother, you little fool!' roared Viktor.
Nadya gave him a look of patient boredom.
'So, Nadezhda Victorovna, it seems you haven't yet decided whether to marry the young colonel or to become his concubine?'
'No, I haven't – and he's not a colonel.'
Could some young lad in a military greatcoat really be kissing his daughter? Could he be falling in love with this brat of a girl, this ridiculous, sharp-witted little idiot? Could he be kissing her puppy-like eyes?
But then, this was an old story…
Lyudmila said nothing more. She knew that Nadya would only get angry and clam up. She also knew that, when they were alone, she would run her fingers through her daughter's hair and Nadya would sob without knowing why. She herself would feel a sharp pang of pity for Nadya, also without knowing why – after all, there were worse things for a young girl than to be kissing a young man. Then Nadya would tell her all about this Lomov; she would continue to run her fingers through Nadya's hair, all the time remembering her own first kisses and thinking of Tolya – yes, now she linked everything to Tolya.
There was something terribly sad about this girlish love, this love poised over the abyss of war. Tolya, Tolya…
Viktor was still ranting away, consumed by fatherly anxiety.
'Where's this man serving? I'm going to have a word with his commanding officer. Chasing after babes-in-arms! He'll teach him a lesson!'
Nadya didn't say anything. As though bewitched by her haughtiness, Viktor fell silent too. Then he asked: 'Why are you staring at me like that? You look like some member of a higher race studying an amoeba.'
Somehow, the way Nadya was looking at him reminded him of Shishakov. He had watched Viktor with the same calm self-confidence, looking down from his position of academic and political grandeur; his clear gaze had at once brought home to Viktor the futility of his indignation, the futility of his protests and ultimatums. The power of the State reared up like a cliff of basalt. Yes, Shishakov could well afford to watch Viktor's struggles with such indifference.
In some strange way this girl in front of him seemed also to understand the senselessness of his anger and indignation. She too seemed to understand that he was trying to achieve the impossible, to halt the flow of life itself.
That night Viktor felt as though he had ruined his whole life. His resignation from the Institute would be seen as a political gesture. He would be considered a source of dangerous oppositional tendencies -at a time when Russia was at war, when the Institute had been granted Stalin's special favour…
And then that terrible questionnaire. And that senseless conversation with Shishakov. And those discussions in Kazan. And Madyarov…
Suddenly he felt so terrified that he wanted to write to Shishakov and beg for forgiveness. He wanted the events of the day to be forgotten, blotted out.
55
Returning from the store in the afternoon, Lyudmila saw a white envelope in the letter-box. Her heart, already fluttering after climbing the stairs, began to beat still faster. Holding the letter in her hand, she went down the corridor, opened Tolya's door and looked in – the room was still empty, he hadn't returned.
Lyudmila glanced through pages covered in a handwriting she had known since childhood – her own mother's. She saw the names Zhenya, Vera and Stepan Fyodorovich, but the name of her son was not there. Once again hope ebbed away – for the time being.
Alexandra Vladimirovna said almost nothing about her own life – only a few words about her difficulties with the landlady; apparently Nina Matveevna had behaved very unpleasantly since Lyudmila's departure. She wrote that she had heard nothing from Seryozha, Stepan Fyodorovich or Vera. And she was worried about Zhenya – something quite serious seemed to have happened to her. She had written a letter hinting at various problems and saying she might have to go to Moscow.
Lyudmila didn't know how to feel sad. She only knew how to grieve. Tolya, Tolya.
Stepan Fyodorovich was now a widower… Vera was a homeless orphan. Seryozha might or might not be alive. Perhaps he was crippled? Perhaps he was lying in some military hospital? His father had either died in a camp or been shot; his mother had died in exile… Alexandra Vladimirovna's house had burnt down; she was alone, with no news of either her son or her grandson.