“Give the phone here,” said Andrei.
“It’s the paper,” Selma said in a whisper, putting her hand over the mouthpiece
Andrei reached out his hand. “Give me the phone!” he repeated, raising his voice. “And don’t make a habit of speaking for someone else!”
Selma gave him the phone and grabbed the pack of cigarettes. Her hands were trembling—and so were her lips.
“Voronin here,” said Andrei.
“Andrei?” It was Kensi. “Where did you disappear to? I’ve been searching for you everywhere. What are we going to do? There’s a fascist coup in the City.”
“Why fascist?” Andrei asked, stunned.
“Will you come into the office? Or are you really unwell?”
“I’ll come, of course I’ll come,” said Andrei. “You just explain—”
“We have lists,” Kensi said hurriedly. “Special correspondents and all the rest of it… Archives…”
“I get it,” said Andrei. “Only why do you think the coup’s fascist?”
“I don’t think so, I know so,” Kensi said impatiently.
Andrei gritted his teeth and grunted. “Wait,” he said irritably. “Don’t be so hasty…” He tried feverishly to grasp the situation. “OK, you get everything ready, I’ll leave right now.”
“Yes, come on,” said Kensi. “Only be careful on the streets.”
Andrei hung up and turned toward the farmers. “Guys,” he said, “I’ve got to go. Will you give me a ride to the office?”
“Sure we’ll give you a ride.” Uncle Yura responded. He was already getting up from the table, gluing together a roll-up on the way. “Come on, Stas, no more sitting around here. The pair of us are sitting around here and they’re taking power, aren’t they?”
“Yes,” Stas agreed regretfully, also getting up. “It’s all turning out kind of stupid. Seems like we’ve taken off the head, hanged every one of them, and there’s still damn-all sign of the sun. Screw it all, where did I stick that little shooter of mine?”
He rummaged in all the corners, searching for his ugly automatic rifle, Uncle Yura puffed on his roll-up as he lazily pulled a tattered wadded jacket over his army tunic, and Andrei was about to get a coat too, but he ran into Selma, who was standing there, blocking his way, looking very pale and very determined. “I’m going with you!” she declared in the same special, high, brazen voice that she used to start a quarrel.
“Let me through,” said Andrei, trying to move her out of the way with his good arm.
“I won’t let you go anywhere,” said Selma. “Either you take me with you or you stay at home!”
“Get out of the way,” Andrei bellowed, flying off the handle. “You’re the very last thing we need there, you fool!”
“I. Won’t. Let. You. Out!” Selma said spitefully.
Then Andrei hit her, without taking a swing but very hard, across the cheek with his open hand. Silence fell. Selma didn’t budge, but her white face with the lips stretched out into a fine thread broke into red blotches again.
Andrei came to his senses. “I’m sorry,” he said through his teeth.
“I won’t let you go…” Selma repeated in a very quiet voice.
Uncle Yura cleared his throat a couple of times and said, as if he were talking to no one in particular, “In general, at a time like this, a woman all alone in the apartment… you know… it’s probably not a good idea…”
“Definitely not,” Stas backed him up. “She wouldn’t be safe now on her own, but if she’s with us, no one will touch her, we’re farmers…”
But Andrei carried on standing in front of Selma, looking at her. Even at this stage he was still trying to understand something about this woman, and as usual he couldn’t understand a thing. She was a slut, a born slut, a slut by the grace of God—he understood that. He had understood that a long time ago. She loved him, she had loved him from the very first day—he knew that too, and he knew it was no obstacle to her. And staying in the apartment alone right now was no problem to her either; she’d never been afraid of anything anyway. He knew that perfectly well too. He knew all the separate things about himself and about her, but taking them all together…
“All right,” he said. “Put on something warm.”
“Do your ribs hurt?” Uncle Yura inquired, trying to change the subject to something as different as possible.
“It’s OK,” Andrei growled. “It’s bearable. We’ll battle through.”
Trying not to meet anyone’s eyes, he stuck the cigarettes and matches in his pocket and stood in front of the sideboard in the far corner of the room, where Donald’s pistol lay under a pile of napkins and towels. Should he take it or not? He imagined various scenes and circumstances in which the pistol could come in handy, and decided not to take it. To hell with it, I’ll manage without it somehow. I’m not planning to fight a war with anyone anyway…
“Right, are we off, then?” said Stas.
He was already standing by the door, cautiously threading his bandaged head through the strap of his automatic. Selma was standing beside him in her coarse, long sweater, which she had pulled on straight over her low-necked dress. She had a raincoat over her arm.
“Let’s go,” Uncle Yura commanded, clattering the butt of his machine gun against the floor.
“Take off the earrings,” Andrei growled to Selma, and went out onto the stairs.
They started walking down. On the landings, residents of the building were whispering to each other in the dark, and they moved aside when they saw the armed men. Someone said: “It’s Voronin…” and then immediately called to him, “Mr. Editor, can you tell us what’s happening in the City?”
Andrei didn’t get a chance to reply, because the man who asked was shushed from all sides, and someone said in an ominous whisper, “Can’t you see the man’s being taken away, you fool!” Selma giggled hysterically.
They came out into the courtyard and clambered into the cart, and Selma flung the raincoat across Andrei’s shoulders. Uncle Yura suddenly said, “Quiet!” and they all started listening.
“There’s shooting somewhere,” Stas said in a low voice.
“Long bursts,” Uncle Yura added. “Not sparing the ammunition. And where do they get it from? Ten cartridges is half a liter of home brew, and just listen to him blast away… Gee-up,” he roared. “Can’t hang around here any longer.”
The cart rumbled into the archway. Little Wang was standing on the porch of the caretaker’s lodge with his broom and shovel.
“Lookee, it’s Vanya!” Uncle Yura exclaimed. “Whooah there! Hi there, Vanya! What are you doing here, eh?”
“Sweeping up,” Wang replied with a smile. “Hello.”
“Drop that, no more sweeping up!” said Uncle Yura. “Come on, what are you up to? You come along with us, we’ll make you a minister, you know—you’ll walk around in shantung silk and ride in a swanky ‘Victory’ automobile.”
Wang laughed politely.
“All right, Uncle Yura,” Andrei said impatiently. “Let’s go, let’s go!”
His side was hurting badly, sitting in the cart was uncomfortable, and he already regretted that he hadn’t set out on foot. Without even noticing, he had slumped against Selma.
“OK then, Vanya, if you don’t want to come, then don’t,” Uncle Yura decided. “But about being a minister—you get yourself ready! Comb your hair, you know, wash your neck…” he flourished the reins. “Gee-up.”
They rumbled out onto Main Street.
“Whose cart is this, do you know?” Stas suddenly asked.
“Damned if I know,” Uncle Yura replied without turning around. “The horse looks like it’s that skinflint’s… you know, lives right on the edge of the Cliff, ginger hair and freckles… Canadian, I reckon…”