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She asked me to tell her all about Ensk, even the post-office there.

"What about the post-office?" she said. She was rattled because I hadn't

heard of some people by the name of Bubenchikov.

"And the orchard by the synagogue! Never heard of it? Tell me

another! You must have gone after those apples scores of times."

She heaved a sigh.

"It's a long time since we left Ensk. I didn't want to move, believe me!

It was all Nikolai Antonich's doing. He came down. It's no use waiting

any longer, he says. We'll leave our address, and if need be they'll find

us. We sold all our things, this is all that's left, and came here, to

Moscow."

"Grandma!" Katya said sternly.

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"What d'you mean-Grandma?"

"At it again?"

"All right. I won't. We're all right here."

I understood nothing—whom they had been waiting for or why it was

no use waiting any longer. I did not ask any questions, of course, all the

more as Nina Kapitonovna changed the subject herself.

That was how I spent my time at our headmaster's flat in Tverskaya-

Yamskaya Street.

When I was leaving Katya gave me the book Helen Robinson against

my word of honour that I would not bend back the covers or dirty the

pages.

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE TATARINOVS

The Tatarinovs had no domestic help, and Nina Kapitonovna had a

pretty hard time of it considering her age. I helped her. Together we

kindled the stove, chopped firewood, and even washed up. I found it

interesting there. The flat was a sort of Ali Baba's cave to me, what with

its treasures, perils and riddles. The old lady was the treasure, and

Maria Vasilievna the riddle, while Nikolai Antonich stood for things

perilous and disagreeable.

Maria Vasilievna was a widow—or maybe she wasn't, because one day

I heard Nina Kapitonovna say of her with a sigh: "Neither widowed nor

married." The odd thing about it was that she grieved so much for her

husband. She always went about in a black dress, like a nun. She was

studying at a medical institute. I thought it rather strange at the time

that a mother should be studying. All of a sudden she would stop talking

and going anywhere, either to her institute or to work (she was also

working), but would sit with her feet up on the couch and smoke. Katya

would then say: "Mummy's pining," and everybody would be short-

tempered and gloomy.

Nikolai Antonich, as I soon learnt, was not her husband at all, and

was unmarried for all that he was forty-five. "What is he to you?" I once

asked Katya. "Nothing."

She was fibbing, of course, for she and her mother bore the same

surname as Nikolai Antonich. He was Katya's uncle, or rather a cousin

once removed. He was a relative, yet they weren't very nice to him. That,

too, struck me as odd, especially since he, on the contrary, was very

obliging to everybody, too much so in fact.

The old lady was fond of the movies and did not miss a single picture,

and Nikolai Antonich used to go with her, even booking the tickets in

advance. Over the supper she would start telling enthusiastically what

the film was about (at such times, by the way, she strongly resembled

Katya), while Nikolai Antonich patiently listened, though he had just

returned from the cinema with her.

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Yet she seemed to feel sorry for him. I saw him once playing patience,

his head bent low, lingers drumming on the table, and caught her

looking at him with compassion.

If anyone treated him cruelly, it was Maria Vasilievna. What he did

not do for her! He brought her tickets for the theatre, staying at home

himself. He gave her flowers. I heard him begging her to take care of

herself and give up her job. He was no less attentive to her visitors. The

moment anyone came to see her, he would be there on the spot. Very

genial, he would engage the guest in conversation, while Maria

Vasilievna sat on the couch, smoking and brooding.

He was his most amiable when Korablev called. He obviously looked

at Whiskers as his own guest, for he would drag him off at once to his

own room or into the dining-room and not allow him to talk shop.

Generally, everybody brightened up when Korablev came, especially

Maria Vasilievna. Wearing a new dress with a white collar, she would lay

the table herself and do the honours, looking more beautiful than ever.

She would even laugh sometimes when Korablev, after combing his

moustache before the mirror, began paying noisy court to the old lady.

Nikolai Antonich laughed too .and paled. It was an odd trait of his-he

always turned pale when he laughed.

He did not like me. For a long time I never suspected it. At first he

merely showed surprise at seeing me, then he started to make a wry face

and became sort of sniffy. Then he started lecturing:

"Is that the way to say 'thank you'?" He had heard me thank the old

lady for something. "Do you know what 'thank you' means? Bear in

mind that the course your whole life will take depends upon whether

you know this or not, whether you understand it or not. We live in

human society, and one of the motive forces of that society is the sense

of gratitude. Perhaps you have heard that I once had a cousin.

Repeatedly, throughout his life, I rendered him material as well as

moral assistance. He turned out to be ungrateful. And the result? It

disastrously affected his whole life."

Listening to him somehow made me aware of the patches on my

trousers. Yes, I wore broken-down boots, I was small, grubby and far

too pale. I was one thing and they, the Tatarinovs, quite another. They

were rich and I was poor. They were clever and learned people, and I

was a fool. Here indeed was something to think about!

I was not the only one to whom Nikolai Antonich held forth about his

cousin. It was his pet subject. He claimed that he had cared for him all

his life, ever since he was a child at Genichesk, on the shores of the Sea

of Azov. His cousin came from a poor fisherman's family, and but for

Nikolai Antonich, would have remained a fisherman, like his father, his

grandfather and seven generations of his forefathers. Nikolai Antonich,

"having noticed in the boy remarkable talents and a penchant for

reading", had taken him to Rostov-on-Don and pulled strings to get his

cousin enrolled in a nautical school. During the winter he paid him a

"monthly allowance", and in the summer he got him a job as seaman in

vessels plying between Batum and Novorossiisk. He was instrumental in

getting his brother a billet in the navy, where he passed his exam as

naval ensign. With great difficulty, Nikolai Antonich got permission for

him to take his exams for a course at Naval College and afterwards

assisted him financially when, on graduation, he had to get himself a

new uniform. In short, he had done a great deal for his cousin, which

explained why he was so fond of talking about him. He spoke slowly,

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going into great detail, and the women listened to him with something

akin to awed reverence.

I don't know why, but it seemed to me that at those moments they felt

indebted to him, deeply indebted for all that he had done for his cousin.