Solovyov stood with his forehead pressed to the glass, surprised at the unusualness of his current place of residence. Its markedly military-space orientation. He watched as a column of cadets moved, implausibly slowly, toward the archway of his building. They probably wanted to salute the spot where engineer Los’s workshop had stood. After all, they must want very much to go to Mars if they had entered the Military Space Academy.
Despite their outward unhurriedness (and in this lies the monumentalness of how the masses move), the forward column had managed to cover a significant distance in the murky snow. Solovyov had already discerned several drummers leading the column. A man with a banner was marching ahead of the drummers. His legs rose to waist-level and with each step that imprinted itself in the snow, a tassel on the banner’s peak flew up recklessly. Perhaps he wanted to go to Mars more than the rest.
A whistling sounded behind Solovyov’s back. The bird was sitting on the cabinet again. This time the bird was not looking at him sideways. His bright yellow breast faced Solovyov. Solovyov stood on tiptoe and opened the window wider. Out of uncertainty, he spoke to the bird at full volume, ‘If you don’t want to stay, then fly.’
He walked away from the window for effect and pointed at the small ventilation window with his hand. Both the gesture and his intonation felt utterly false. The bird preferred not to move and if Solovyov were the bird, he would not have flown away, either. When Solovyov attempted to come closer to the cabinet, approaching from the other side, the bird flew up toward the lower window and hit the glass several times with a ringing thud. The bird fell to the floor, flew up, and struck the glass again. Solovyov rushed to the window and the bird flew off into the other room, tracing a semi-circle around the kitchen.
Solovyov followed the bird slowly into the other room. The bird was sitting on a bookshelf, prepared for a further encounter with the glass. Its eyes shone with the determination of a kamikaze. Solovyov stopped at the threshold, leaning against the doorjamb. He pitied the bird. He pitied the glass that might not withstand it. But the sound of the bird striking the window was genuinely unbearable for him. A prolonged, throbbing sound. The sound of live clashing with unlive.
‘Now listen, bird…’
Solovyov thought this was a voice for addressing someone standing on a ledge. Someone who had strapped on explosives. It was an unnaturally calm voice. A voice for difficult situations.
‘The big window’s taped up for winter. But I’ll open it so you can fly away…’
The bird was listening. Solovyov slowly moved along the opposite wall. After reaching the window, he forcefully slid the latch and pulled the window handle. The frame gave way with a dry crackling. Shreds of loosened cotton wool began fluttering in the wind. Holding his breath, Solovyov stole back to the doorway. Steam came out of his mouth when he finally exhaled. The surprised bird observed snowflakes melting on the parquet floor. The first column of cadets had managed to come through the archway and was now drumming from the side of the house with the open window.
‘Are you going to fly?’
The bird hesitated a little and flew over to the windowsill. Solovyov took several cautious strides toward the window. The bird could not stride. After starting to jump around the windowsill, it moved closer to the open window. Sat on the window frame as if it were a picture frame. Froze like a tiny yellow paintbrush stroke. In the mix of air currents behind the bird, there quivered towers of light and, under them, the stadium’s pseudo-classical columns. Down below, right by the window frame, the cadets were flowing like jelly over the bridge that led to the stadium. Ignoring the laws of physics—and the danger threatening them—they continued their drumming and collective marching on the bridge. The surprised bird turned its head several times. It flew away, without waiting for the bridge to collapse from the force of all those marching feet coming down at once.
When Solovyov arrived at the Institute, they told him that some woman or other from Moscow had been asking for him. She was now sitting in the institute library. Solovyov started off for the library but ran into Temriukovich along the way.
‘Listen, Solovyov…’ said Temriukovich, but then Tina Zhuk came up behind him and interrupted.
‘Not bothering you, am I? I just wanted to say…’
Temriukovich’s hand unexpectedly landed on Tina Zhuk’s lips.
‘Just for your information: you have a very loud voice. Intolerably loud for an academic establishment.’
Temriukovich turned and began shuffling down the corridor. Zhuk made a ghastly grimace and dashed off after Temriukovich.
‘Loud and unpleasant,’ Temriukovich sighed to himself. ‘With a voice like that, it’s better to keep quiet.’
‘I wanted to say that the academic secretary was looking for you,’ Zhuk uttered defiantly.
But the academic secretary himself was already approaching Temriukovich. He took the academician by the elbow and whispered something fiercely in his ear. Temriukovich continued moving, ferociously looking over the academic secretary’s head every now and then. They stopped by the library door.
‘Did you hear about how our senile one caused a stir at Cinema House?’ Tina Zhuk asked Solovyov.
She was not even trying to speak quietly.
‘Fine, what do you need from me this time?’ Temriukovich asked the academic secretary with irritation, freeing his elbow.
The academic secretary walked around the academician from the opposite side and took him by the other elbow. He was speaking to Temriukovich in an emphatically patient way. Solovyov gathered that he would not be able to get into the library so was now looking for an opportunity to get rid of Tina.
‘He barged in on a closed screening at Cinema House where they were only letting in people with membership cards…’ Zhuk rolled her eyes.
When they reached the men’s room, Solovyov excused himself and went in. Tina Zhuk did not come in. Oddly enough, thought Solovyov. Oddly enough. He stopped at a sink and turned on the water. He looked at his reflection in the mirror and wet his hands. Swept the hair off his forehead. Temriukovich raced in as Solovyov was about to leave. Temriukovich rushed for a stall without noticing Solovyov, slamming the door behind himself with a bang.
‘The only place at the institute where it’s easy to breathe,’ carried from the stall.
The end of the sentence was accompanied by furious watery burbling.
Solovyov left the men’s room and headed for the institute library. Other than the elderly librarian (how very little she resembled Nadezhda Nikiforovna!), only Murat was sitting in the reading room. He lifted his head when Solovyov appeared and Solovyov greeted him.
‘You looking for someone?’ asked Murat.
After hesitating, Solovyov told him about the researcher from Moscow.
‘There was someone,’ confirmed Murat.
The door to the reading room opened and Temriukovich came into sight. He froze silently on the threshold, not letting go of the door handle. The librarian smiled. Temriukovich went out, leaving the door open.
‘I heard a good story about him,’ said Murat. He took a box of mints out of his pocket. ‘Want one?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘So there was a premiere at Cinema House. Something of a crush at the entrance. Everybody’s showing their membership cards and invitations… Sure you don’t want one?’
Solovyov shook his head. Murat scooped out a few mints with three fat fingers and popped them in his mouth.
‘And then, all of a sudden, out of nowhere… Anyway, long story short, Temriukovich turns up. Gets in without any explanations whatsoever. “Member at Cinema House?” they ask him as he goes by and he says, “No, I have it with me”…’