I emerged onto Peace Prospect and stopped, my attention claimed by an unusual sight. There was a man holding children’s toy flags in his hands walking along the road. Creeping along slowly about ten steps behind him with its engine roaring came a large white MAZ truck towing a gigantic, silverish tank that was giving off smoke. The tank bore the words FIRE HAZARD, and creeping along just as slowly on the right and the left of it were two red-painted jeeps bristling with fire extinguishers. From time to time a different sound mingled with the even roar of the engine, sending an icy shower down my spine, and then yellow tongues of flame erupted from the hatches of the tank. The firemen’s helmets were pulled down tight above their grimly courageous faces. A crowd of little kids swarmed around the cavalcade, screeching piercingly, “Swing him up and swing him down, they’ve brought the dragon into town!” Adult passersby apprehensively pressed themselves back against the fences on both sides, their faces clearly expressing the desire to protect their clothes from possible damage.
“They’ve brought my sweetheart,” a familiar rasping voice boomed right in my ear.
I turned around. Standing behind me looking rather mournful was Naina Kievna, with a mesh bag full of blue packets of sugar. “They’ve brought him,” she repeated. “Every Friday they bring him…”
“Where to?” I asked.
“Why, to the firing range, dear guest. They’re always experimenting… They’ve got nothing better to do with their time.”
“But who is it they’ve brought, Naina Kievna?”
“What do you mean, who? You can see for yourself, can’t you?”
She turned and walked away, but I caught up with her. “Naina Kievna, there was a telephonogram for you.”
“Who’s it from?”
“C. M. Viy.”
“And what’s it about?”
“You’ve got some kind of rally today,” I said, looking at her intently. “On Bald Mountain. Dress code formal.”
The old woman was clearly delighted. “Really?” she said. “Goody-goody! Where’s the telephonogram?”
“On the phone in the hall.”
“Does it say anything about membership dues?” she asked, lowering her voice.
“What do you mean?”
“You know, outstanding dues owed must be paid as from seventeen hundred—” she stopped.
“No,” I said, “It didn’t say anything like that.”
“That’s all right, then. What about transport? Will they send a car or what?”
“Let me carry your bag for you,” I offered. The old woman started back.
“What for?” she asked suspiciously. “You just stop that—I don’t like it… Give him my bag! And him still so young; he must be an early starter…”
I don’t like old women, I thought.
“So, what about the transport?” she asked again.
“At your own expense,” I said with malicious delight.
“Agh, the misers!” the old woman groaned. “They took my broomstick and put it in a museum, they don’t repair the flying mortar, they try to rob me of five rubles’ membership dues, and say I’ve got to get to Bald Mountain at my own expense! That’s some expense, dear guest of mine, and while the taxi’s waiting…” Mumbling and coughing, she turned and walked away from me. I rubbed my hands together and also went on my way. My conjectures had been confirmed. The knot of remarkable events was being drawn ever tighter. I’m ashamed to admit it, but at that moment it seemed to me even more interesting than modeling a reflex arc.
Peace Prospect was by now almost deserted. There was a swarm of little kids scurrying about at the crossroads—I think they were playing tipcat. Catching sight of me, they abandoned their game and started moving in my direction. Sensing approaching hostility, I walked hurriedly past them and set off toward the center of town. I heard a muffled exclamation of delight behind me: “Dandy!” I started walking faster. “Dandy!” several voices immediately howled out together. I began almost running. Behind me they squealed, “Dandy! Skinny-legs! Fancy-pants!” Passersby were giving me looks of sympathy. In situations like this the best thing to do is to go to ground somewhere. I dived into the nearest shop, which turned out to be a grocery store, and walked along the counters, noting that they had sugar in stock and that the range of salami and sweets wasn’t very extensive but the choice of so-called fish products exceeded all possible expectations. What wonderful salmon they had! I drank a glass of sparkling water and glanced out into the street. The little boys were gone, so I went out of the shop and continued on my way. Soon the “emporiums” and log-built fortress-huts came to an end and their place was taken by the modern two-story apartment blocks with little open yards, where little infants toddled and crawled about, middle-aged women knitted something warm, and middle-aged men played dominoes.
In the center of the town I found a wide square surrounded by two-story and three-story buildings. The surface of the square was covered with asphalt, and in the middle of it there was a little green garden. Rising up out of the greenery was a large red board with the inscription BOARD OF HONOR, and several smaller boards with maps and diagrams. I found the post office on the square too. I had agreed with the guys that the first to arrive would leave a note saying where he was. There was no note for me, so I left a letter giving my address and explaining how to get to the Log Hut on Chicken Legs. Then I decided to have some breakfast.
Walking around the square I came across the following: a theater that was showing the film Kozara; a bookshop that was closed for inventory; the town council building, with several dusty jeeps standing in front of it; the Icebound Sea Hotel, which, as usual, had no rooms available; two kiosks selling sparkling water and ice cream; shop number 2 (industrial goods) and shop number 18 (household goods); cafeteria number 11, which opened at twelve o’clock, and buffet number 3, which was closed with no explanation offered. Then I discovered the town militia station, and in front of its open doors I had a conversation with a very youthful militiaman holding the rank of sergeant, who explained to me where the gas station was and which was the road to Lezhnev.
“And where’s your car?” the militiaman inquired, surveying the square.
“At my friends’ place,” I replied.
“Ah, at your friends’ place…” the militiaman said with emphasis. I believe he made a mental note of me. I timidly said good-bye, feeling nervous.
Beside the huge three-story bulk of the Solovets Fish Suppliers, Processors, and Consumers Trust (as I deciphered the sign SOLFISUPPROCONSUMTRUST) I eventually found the tidy little tearoom number 16/27. It was very pleasant inside. There weren’t many people and they really were drinking tea and speaking about things I could understand: how the bridge at Korobets had finally collapsed and now you had to ford the river; how it had been more than a week since the traffic police post on the fifteen-kilometer mark had been removed; how “it’s sparking fit to kill an elephant, but it just won’t turn over.” The place smelled of gasoline and fried fish. Those who were not engaged in conversation inspected my jeans in great detail, and I felt glad that they had a working-man’s stain at the back—fortunately I’d sat on a grease gun two days earlier.