‘But,’ Podtyagin quietly interrupted him, ‘what about the mountains of paper, the coffinlike cardboard boxes, the interminable files, files and more files! The shelves are groaning under the weight of them. And the police official practically expired under the strain of finding my name in the records. You just can’t imagine (at the word ‘imagine’ Podtyagin shook his head slowly and mournfully) what a person has to go through simply to be allowed to leave this country. As for the number of forms I’ve had to fill in! Today I had already begun to hope: ah, they will stamp my passport with their exit visa! Nothing of the sort. They sent me to have my picture taken, but the photos won’t be ready until this evening.’
‘All very proper,’ Alfyorov nodded. ‘That’s how things should be in a well-run country. None of your Russian inefficiency here. Have you noticed, for instance, what’s written on the front doors? “For the gentry only.” That’s significant. Generally speaking, the difference between our country and this one can be expressed like this: imagine a curve, and on it —’
Ganin stopped listening and said to Klara, sitting opposite him, ‘Yesterday Lyudmila Borisovna asked me to tell you to ring her up as soon as you came home from work. It’s about going to the cinema, I think.’
Klara confusedly thought: ‘How can he talk about her so casually. After all, he knows that I know.’
For propriety’s sake she inquired, ‘Oh, did you see her yesterday?’
Ganin raised his eyebrows in surprise and went on eating.
‘I don’t quite understand your geometry,’ Podtyagin was saying, carefully sweeping breadcrumbs into the palm of his hand with his knife. Like most aging poets he had a penchant for plain human logic.
‘But don’t you see? It’s so clear,’ cried Alfyorov excitedly. ‘Just imagine —’
‘I don’t understand it,’ Podtyagin repeated firmly, and, tilting his head back slightly, he poured the collection of crumbs into his mouth. Alfyorov spread out his hands in a gesture of helplessness and knocked over Ganin’s glass.
‘Oh, sorry!’
‘It was empty,’ said Ganin.
‘You’re not a mathematician, Anton Sergeyevich,’ Alfyorov went on fussily, ‘but I’ve been swinging on that trapeze all my life. I once used to say to my wife that if I’m a “summer” you’re surely a spring cinquefoil —’
Gornotsvetov and Kolin dissolved in mannered mirth. Frau Dorn gave a start and looked at them both in fright.
‘In short, a flower and a figure,’ said Ganin drily. Only Klara smiled. Ganin started pouring himself some water, his action watched by all the others.
‘Yes, you’re right, a most fragile flower,’ drawled Alfyorov, turning his bright, vacant look onto his neighbor. ‘It’s an absolute miracle how she survived those seven years of horror. And I’m sure that when she arrives she’ll be gay and blooming. You’re a poet, Anton Sergeyevich; you ought to write something about it — about how womanhood, lovely Russian womanhood, is stronger than any revolution and can survive it all — adversity, terror —’
Kolin whispered to Ganin, ‘There he goes again — it was the same yesterday — all he could talk about was his wife.’
‘Vulgar little man,’ thought Ganin as he watched Alfyorov’s twitching beard. ‘I bet his wife’s frisky. It’s a positive sin not to be unfaithful to a man like him.’
‘Lamb today,’ Lydia Nikolaevna suddenly announced stiffly, with a cross look at the listless way her lodgers were eating their meat course. Alfyorov bowed for some reason, then went on. ‘You’re making a big mistake by not taking that as a theme.’ (Podtyagin was gently but firmly shaking his head.) ‘When you meet my wife perhaps you’ll understand what I mean. She’s very fond of poetry, by the way. You two ought to agree. And I’ll tell you another thing —’
Glancing sidelong at Alfyorov, Kolin was stealthily beating time to him. Watching his friend’s finger, Gornotsvetov shook with silent laughter.
‘But the chief thing,’ Alfyorov burbled on, ‘is that Russia is finished, done for. She’s been rubbed out, just as if someone had wiped a funny face off a blackboard by smearing a wet sponge across it.’
‘But —’ Ganin smiled.
‘Does what I say upset you, Lev Glebovich?’
‘Yes, it does, but I won’t stop you from saying it, Aleksey Ivanovich.’
‘Does that mean, then, that you believe —’
‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ Podtyagin interrupted in his even, slightly lisping voice. ‘No politics, please. Why must we talk politics?’
‘All the same Monsieur Alfyorov is wrong,’ Klara put in unexpectedly, and gave her hair-do a brisk pat.
‘Is your wife arriving on Saturday?’ asked Kolin in an innocent voice down the length of the table, and Gornotsvetov tittered into his table napkin.
‘Yes, Saturday,’ Alfyorov replied, pushing away his plate with the uneaten remains of his mutton. His eyes lost their combative gleam and immediately faded to a reflective look.
‘Do you know, Lydia Nikolaevna,’ he said, ‘yesterday Lev Glebovich and I were stuck in the lift together.’
‘Stewed pears,’ replied Frau Dorn.
