and oil shops there now stood a tall grey building, outside which a guard
in a huge sheepskin coat strode up and down. I accosted him.
"The town power station," he answered importantly, when I pointed
to the building and asked what it was.
"Do you happen to know where Skovorodnikov lives?"
"The judge?"
"No."
"Then I don't know. We have only one man here by that name-
the judge."
I walked away. Could it be that old Skovorodnikov had become a
judge? I turned round to have another look at the fine tall building
erected on the site of our wretched old houses, and decided that it could
be.
"What does the judge look like? Is he tall?"
"Yes."
"With whiskers?"
"No, he has no whiskers," the guard said. He sounded sort of offended
for old Skovorodnikov.
H'm, no whiskers. Not much hope.
"Where does that judge live?"
"In Gogolevsky Street, in what used to be Marcouse's house.
I knew the house, one of the best in the town, with lions' heads on
either side of the entrance. Again I was nonplussed. There was nothing
for it but to go down to Gogolevsky Street, and I went, little hoping that
old Skovorodnikov had shaved off his moustache, become a judge and
taken up residence in such a posh house.
In less than half an hour I was in Gogolevsky Street at the Marcouse
house. The lions' heads were eight years older, but as impressive and
106
fearsome as ever. I stood irresolute at the wide covered entrance door.
Should I ring or not? Or should I ask a policeman where the Address
Bureau was?
Muslin curtains in Aunt Dasha's taste hung in the windows and that
decided me. I rang the bell.
The door was opened by a girl of about sixteen in a blue flannel dress,
her smoothly brushed hair parted in the middle. She was of a dark
complexion, and that puzzled me. "Do the Skovorodnikovs live here?"
"Yes."
"And is ... er ... Darya Gavrilovna at home?" I said, giving Aunt Dasha
her full title.
"She'll soon be in," the girl said, smiling and regarding me with
curiosity. She smiled just like Sanya, but Sanya was fair and had curly
hair and blue eyes. No, this wasn't Sanya. "May I wait?" "Certainly."
I took my coat off in the hall and she showed me into a large well-
furnished room. The place of honour in it was occupied by a grand
piano. This did not look much like Aunt Dasha.
I was gazing about me with what must have been a rather sheepish
and happy expression, because the girl was staring at me with all her
eyes. All of a sudden she tilted her head and cocked up an eyebrow
exactly the way Mother used to do. I realised that it was Sanya after all.
"Sanya?" I queried, somewhat uncertainly. She looked surprised. "Yes."
"But you were fair," I went on in a shaky voice. "How comes it? When
we lived in the village you were quite fair. But now you're all on the
darkish side."
She was dumbfounded, even her mouth fell open. "What village?"
"When Father died!" I said, and laughed. "Don't say you've forgotten !
Don't you remember me?"
I felt choky in the throat. After all I had loved her very much and
hadn't seen her for eight years, and she looking so much like Mother.
"Sanya," she brought out at last. "My God! Why, we had given you up
for dead long ago." She embraced me.
"Sanya, Sanya! Is it really you! But sit down, why are you standing?
Where have you come from? When did you arrive?"
We sat down side by side, but she jumped up the next moment and
ran into the hall to get my box.
"Wait a minute! Don't go away. Tell me how you're getting on. How's
Aunt Dasha?"
"How about yourself? Why didn't you write to us? We've been
searching for you. We even put notices in the papers." "I didn't see
them," I said remorsefully.
Only now did I fully realise how beastly I had behaved. Fancy
forgetting that I had such a sister. And such a wonderful Aunt Dasha,
who couldn't even be told that I had come back, because she was likely
to die of joy, as Sanya explained to me.
"And Pyotr's been looking for you too," she went on. "He wrote to
Tashkent not long ago. He thought maybe you were living in Tashkent."
"Pyotr?"
"Why, yes."
"Skovorodnikov?"
"Who else?"
107
"Where is he?"
"In Moscow," Sanya said.
I was amazed.
"Has he been there long?"
"Ever since you two ran away."
Pyotr in Moscow! I couldn't believe my ears.
"But, Sanya, I live in Moscow myself!"
"No?"
"Yes, really. How is he, what's he doing?"
"He's all right. He's finishing school this year."
"The devil he is! I'm finishing too. Have you got any photos of him?"
I thought Sanya was somewhat embarrassed when I asked for a photo
of him. She said: "In a minute" and went out, returning almost
immediately, as if she had taken Pyotr's photo out of her pocket.
"My, isn't he handsome," I said and started laughing. "Ginger?"
"Yes."
"Gee, isn't it grand! And the old man? How's the old man? Is it true?"
"Is what true?"
"That he's a judge?"
"Why, he's been a judge these last five years."
We kept asking questions and interrupting each other and asking
more questions. We started the samovar going and made up the stove,
and then the bell tinkled in the hall.
"Aunt Dasha!"
"You stay here," Sanya whispered. "I'll break the news to her. She has
a heart condition, you know."
She went out and I heard the following conversation in the next room.
"Now don't get excited, Aunt Dasha, please. I have very good news so
there's no need to be upset."
"Well, out with it then!"
"You decided not to bake any pies today, Aunt Dasha, but you'll have
to."
"Pyotr has arrived?"
"That would be nice too, but no, it's not Pyotr. You won't get excited,
Aunt Dasha, will you?"
"I won't."
"Honestly?"
"Drat the girl! Honestly."
"That's who's come!" Sanya announced, throwing open the kitchen
door.
The remarkable thing is that Aunt Dasha recognised me at first
glance.
"Sanya," she said quietly.
She embraced me. Then she sat down and closed her eyes. I took her
hand.
"My darling boy! Alive? Where have you been? We've been searching
the world for you."
"I know, Aunt Dasha. It's all my fault."
"His fault! Good heavens! He comes back and talks about his fault!
Dear, dear boy. What a bonny lad you've grown! And so handsome!"
Aunt Dasha had always thought me a good looker.
108
Then the judge came in. The guard had been right—the old man had
shaved off his moustache. He looked ten years younger and it was now
hard to believe that he had once boiled skin-glue and built such hopes
upon it.
He knew that I had come back, as Sanya had telephoned him.
"Well, prodigal son," he said, hugging me. "Aren't you afraid I'll have
your head off, you rascal, you?"
What could I say for myself? I only grunted penitently.
Later that night he and I were left alone. The old man wanted to
know what I had been doing and how I had been living since I had left