Why didn't he feel a twinge of guilt about Sokolov? Why did he feel no shame?
But what was there to be ashamed of? All they had done was walk through a park and sit down for a while on a bench.
No, it wasn't just a matter of sitting on a bench. He was ready to break with Lyudmila. He was ready to tell Sokolov that he loved his wife and wanted to take her from him.
He remembered everything that had gone wrong between him and Lyudmila: how badly she had treated his mother; how she had refused to let his cousin stay the night after his release from camp; how rude and callous, how cruel and obstinate she had sometimes been.
All this made him feel callous himself. And that was what he needed to feel, if he was to be ruthless. But Lyudmila had spent her life with him; she had shared all his troubles and difficulties. Her hair was going grey; she had suffered. Was there really nothing good in her? He had been proud of her in the past; he had loved her strength and honesty. Yes, he was simply nerving himself to be ruthless.
As he was getting ready to go out in the morning, Viktor remembered Yevgenia's visit and thought: 'All the same, it's a good thing she's back in Kuibyshev.'
Just then, as Viktor was feeling ashamed at being so mean, Lyudmila said: 'So now Nikolay's been arrested as well. How many of our family does that make? At least Yevgenia's not in Moscow any more.'
Viktor wanted to reproach her, but stopped himself in time – that would have been too dishonest.
'Oh yes, Chepyzhin phoned,' said Lyudmila.
Viktor looked at his watch.
'I'll be back early this evening. I'll ring him then. By the way, I'm probably going to the Urals again.'
'Will you be there long?'
'No. Just two or three days.'
He was in a hurry. Today was an important day.
His work was important – even to the State – but his private thoughts were mean, petty and trivial. It was as though they were in inverse proportion.
As she was leaving, Yevgenia had asked Lyudmila to go to Kuznetsky Most and hand over two hundred roubles for Krymov.
'Lyudmila,' said Viktor. 'Don't forget the money Zhenya gave you. I think you've left it too late already.'
He didn't say this because he was worried on behalf of Krymov or Yevgenia; he said it because he was afraid that Lyudmila's negligence might bring Yevgenia back to Moscow again. Then she would start making telephone calls, sending off petitions and statements… In the end his flat would be nothing but a centre for agitation on behalf of political prisoners.
Viktor knew he was being both petty and cowardly. Feeling ashamed of himself, he said hurriedly: 'You must write to Zhenya. Invite her to stay in my name. Maybe she needs to come to Moscow but feels awkward about asking. Yes, Lyuda. Write to her straight away.'
He felt better after that, but then he knew it was only for his own peace of mind that he'd said it… How strange everything was… When he'd just sat in his room all day, a pariah afraid even of the house-manager and the girl at the rations desk, his head had been full of thoughts about life, truth and freedom, thoughts about God… That was when no one had wanted him, when the telephone had been silent for weeks on end and people had ignored him if they passed him on the street. But now, when dozens of people waited on him, phoning him up and writing to him, when a Zis-101 came to pick him up and hooted discreetly beneath the window, now he found it impossible to shed himself of petty anxieties, trivial irritations and thoughts that were emptier than the husks of sunflower seeds. He'd said the wrong thing then, he'd laughed at the wrong moment there – yes, he was obsessed by trivia.
For a while after Stalin's telephone call, he had thought that he need never know fear again. But it was still there; only its outer trappings had changed. Now it was simply a more aristocratic fear, a fear that travelled by car and was allowed to use the Kremlin telephone switchboard.
And what had once been unimaginable – an attitude of envious rivalry towards the achievements and theories of other scientists – had begun to seem quite normal. He was like an athlete – afraid of being overtaken, afraid that someone might beat his record.
He didn't really want to talk to Chepyzhin now; he didn't have the strength for what would be a long and difficult conversation. He and Chepyzhin had oversimplified when they talked about the dependence of science on the State. He himself was quite free; no one any longer thought of his theories as absurdities straight out of the Talmud. No one dared attack them now. The State needed theoretical physics; Badin and Shishakov understood that now. For Markov to show his true talent for setting up experiments, for Kochkurov to show his talent for seeing their practical applications, you needed a theoretician. Now, after Stalin's telephone call, that was generally understood. But how could he explain to Dmitry Petrovich that this telephone call had brought him freedom? Why had he suddenly become so intolerant of Lyudmila's failings? And why was he now so well-disposed towards Shishakov?
He had grown particularly fond of Markov – perhaps because he had now become genuinely interested in the personal lives of his bosses, in everything secret or half-secret, in every act of harmless cunning or outright treachery, in all the various humiliations arising from invitations or absence of invitations to the Presidium, in who figured on a special list or who merely heard the fateful words: 'You're not on the list.' Yes, he would much sooner spend a free evening chatting with Markov than be arguing with Madyarov at one of their Kazan gatherings.
Markov had an extraordinarily sharp eye for people's absurdities; he could make fun of their weaknesses lethally but without malice. His mind was very elegant and he was a first-class scientist. He was possibly the most talented experimental physicist in the country.
Viktor already had his coat on when Lyudmila said: 'Marya Ivanovna phoned yesterday.'
'Yes?' said Viktor immediately.
His face must have changed.
'What's the matter?' asked Lyudmila.
'Nothing. Nothing at all,' he said, coming back into the room.
'I didn't quite understand. Some unpleasantness at the Institute. I think Kovchenko phoned them. Anyway it's the usual story. She's worried about you. She's afraid you're going to put your foot in it again.'
'How?' asked Viktor impatiently. 'I don't understand.'
'I don't understand myself. I've already told you. She evidently didn't want to go into it at length on the phone.'
'Tell me all that again,' said Viktor. He unbuttoned his coat and sat down on a chair by the door.
Lyudmila looked at him, shaking her head from side to side. He thought her eyes seemed sad and reproachful. As though to confirm this, Lyudmila said: 'Vitya, Vitya… You didn't have time to phone Chepyzhin, but you're always ready to hear about dear Masha, aren't you? I thought you were late.'
Viktor gave her an odd, sideways look and said: 'Yes, I am late.'
He went up to her, took her hand and kissed it. She patted him on the head and ruffled his hair.
'You see how interesting and important Masha's become,' said Lyudmila quietly. She gave a wry smile and added: 'The same Masha who couldn't tell the difference between Balzac and Flaubert.'
Viktor looked at her: her eyes were moist, her lips almost trembling.
He shrugged his shoulders helplessly and walked out. In the doorway he turned round again.
He felt quite shaken by the look on Lyudmila's face. It was a look of utter exhaustion, touching helplessness, and shame – both on his behalf and on her own. On his way down the stairs, he thought that, if he were to break with Lyudmila and never see her again, he would remember that look until his dying day. He realized that something very important had just happened: his wife had informed him that she knew of his love for Marya Ivanovna and he had confirmed it.