3
First of all he undressed, crumpling up his overalls and underwear and flinging them into a box of filthy junk. Filth unto filth. Then, standing stark naked in the center of the kitchen, he looked around and shuddered with renewed revulsion. The kitchen was submerged under heaps of dirty dishes. Plates were banked up in the corners, covered with bluish cobwebs of mold that charitably concealed black lumps of something or other. The table was crammed with murky, finger-marked wineglasses, water glasses, and empty preserved-fruit jars. The sink was choked with cups and saucers; blackened saucepans, greasy frying pans, colanders, and casseroles sat on the stools, giving off a lethargic stench. He walked over to the sink and turned the faucet on. He was in luck! The water was hot! And he set to work.
After washing all the dishes, pots, and pans, he grabbed hold of a mop. He worked with zealous enthusiasm, as if he were washing the dirt off his own body, but he couldn’t keep that up for all five rooms. He limited himself to the kitchen, the dining room, and the bedroom, merely glancing into the other rooms with a feeling of bewilderment—he simply couldn’t get used to it, just couldn’t understand what one man would need so many rooms for, and such monstrously huge, musty rooms at that. He closed their doors tightly, wedging them shut with chairs.
Now he ought to pop down to the shop to buy something for the evening. Davydov was coming, and some of the usual mob were bound to drop in too… But first he decided to get washed up. The water was running almost cold already, but it was still wonderful anyway. Then he put fresh sheets on the bed, and when he saw his own bed with clean sheets and crisp, starched pillowcases, when he caught the scent of freshness that they exuded, he was suddenly overcome by a desperate urge to lay his own clean body down for a while in this long-forgotten cleanness, and he collapsed with a crash, setting the trashy springs screeching and the old polished wood creaking.
Yes, it was wonderful, so cool, fragrant, and squeaky, and there on the right, within his reach, there turned out to be a pack of cigarettes with matches, and on the left, also within range, there was a small shelf of handpicked detective novels. It was slightly disappointing that there was no ashtray anywhere within reach, and it turned out that he had forgotten to wipe the dust off the small shelf, but these were merely insignificant details. He chose Ten Little Indians, lit up, and started reading.
When he woke, it was still light. He listened. The apartment and the building were silent, with only the water, dripping copiously from the defective faucets, weaving a strange pattern of sound. And apart from that, everything around him was clean, and that was strange too, but at the same time inexpressibly delightful. Then there was a knock at the door. He pictured Davydov, with his powerful build and tanned skin, scented with hay and reeking of fresh alcohol, standing outside on the landing, holding his horses by their bridles, with a bottle of moonshine at the ready. And then there was another knock and he woke up completely.
“Coming!” he yelled, springing up and running across the bedroom, searching for his underwear. He came across a pair of stripy pajama bottoms and hastily pulled them on. The elastic was weak, and he had to hold the pants up at one side.
Contrary to expectations, he couldn’t hear any good-natured swearing from behind the front door, no neighing of horses or glugging of liquid. Smiling in anticipation, Andrei pulled back the latch, opened the door, gave a croak, and took a rapid step back, grabbing the cursed elastic with his other hand as well. Standing there in front of him was his recent acquaintance Selma Nagel, the new girl from number 18.
“Have you got any cigarettes?” she asked, without even a trace of neighborly conviviality.
“Yes… please… come in…” Andrei mumbled, backing away.
She came in and walked past him, scalding him with the mingled aromas of incredible perfumes.
She walked through into the dining room, then he closed the door, and with a despairing call of “Wait just a moment, I’ll be right there!” dashed into the bedroom. “Ay-ay-ay” he said to himself. “Ay-ay-ay, how could I…” In fact, however, he didn’t feel ashamed in the least; he even felt glad that he’d been caught out like this, so clean and washed, with his broad shoulders and smooth skin and magnificently developed biceps and triceps—it was actually a shame to get dressed. But after all, it was necessary to get dressed, and he stuck his hands in a suitcase and rummaged around in it, then pulled on a pair of gymnastics pants and a washed-out blue sports singlet with the intertwined letters “LU” (for Leningrad University) on the back and the chest. And that was how he appeared before Selma Nageclass="underline" chest thrust out, shoulders spread wide, with a slightly lingering gait and a pack of cigarettes in his outstretched hand.
Pretty Selma Nagel indifferently took a cigarette, clicked her lighter, and lit up. She didn’t even look at Andrei, and she had an air about her as if she didn’t give a damn for anything in the world. In fact, by daylight she didn’t look so very pretty. Her face was rather irregular, even coarse, her nose was too short, and her large mouth was daubed too thickly with lipstick. However, her little legs, so thoroughly naked, were far above and beyond all praise. Unfortunately he couldn’t get a proper look at all the rest—who in hell’s name had taught her to wear such baggy clothes! A sweater, and with that neck! Like a frogman.
She sat there in a deep armchair, with one beautiful leg crossed over the other beautiful leg, and looked around indifferently, holding her cigarette soldier fashion, with the burning end cradled inside her palm. Andrei sat down jauntily but elegantly on the edge of the table and also lit up.
“My name’s Andrei,” he said.
She turned her indifferent gaze onto him. Her eyes weren’t the way they had seemed last night either. They were large but quite definitely not black; they were pale blue, almost transparent.
“Andrei,” she repeated. “Polish?”
“No, Russian. And your name’s Selma Nagel—you’re from Sweden.”
She nodded. “Yes, from Sweden… So it was you they were beating in the police station yesterday?” she asked, abruptly setting a little lacquered box, slightly larger than a matchbox, on her knee. “Nothing but crackling and howling on every wavelength, no fun at all.”
Andrei cautiously took the little box from her and realized with surprise that it was a radio. “Oh, wow!” he muttered. “Is it really transistorized?”
“How should I know?” She took the radio back from him and there was a burst of wheezing, crackling, and mournful howling. “It just doesn’t work, that’s all. So you’ve never seen any like this, then?”
Andrei shook his head. Then he said, “Actually, your radio shouldn’t work. There’s only one radio station here, and that broadcasts directly through the mains.”
“Oh God,” said Selma. “Then what are people supposed to do here? There’s no box either.”
“What box?”
“You know, the telly… TV!”
“Ah… Yes, that’s not planned for any time soon around here.”
“Well, what a drag!”
“We can crank up the phonograph,” Andrei suggested shyly, feeling awkward. Really and truly, what was all this—no radio, no television, no movie theaters?
“The phonograph? What sort of thing is that, then?”
“You don’t know what a phonograph is?” Andrei asked in amazement. “Well, it’s a gramophone. You put on a record…”