After the reading, Darya, without waiting for applause (for the audience was silent and hostile to bourgeois habits), suddenly announced:
"And now - the violin!"
Sergei, enlightened and pleased, as if after a good dinner, nodded:
"That's right. After a good play you always need a little... Well, how do you say... A snack. Musically."
"Just be quiet," Vyacheslav said, smiling crookedly. "This is not Madame Viardot's salon."
"Calm down, my dear," answered Darya, sitting down. "We're not arresting ministers here - we're relaxing."
"Until we ourselves are arrested," someone muttered from the corner.
Sergei chuckled and added:
"Well, if anything, I have a uniform. I'll say that we're here with the military commission checking... The musical mood of the population."
Darya began to play. Something lyrical, touching. It seemed to Sergei that it was Glinka. Or maybe Bach. Or Khlebnikov himself, only in notes. He nodded enthusiastically to the beat - until suddenly a sharp knock-knock-knock was heard through the window.
Everyone froze. It was a prearranged signal. 'Policemens!' whispered Motya.
It was as if something had burst: coats, books, leaflets - everything flew up, as if the house had become a chicken coop, where a fox had broken in. People were rushing about, whispering, pushing. Someone had already climbed into the stove - not to warm up, but, as it turned out later, to hide a brochure.
Sergei stood up, brushed himself off, straightened his uniform and declared:
"The officer doesn't run."
"And the young lady?" Darya asked quietly, already squeezing his hand.
"The young lady with the officer," he said with pathos.
Lyasya shouted:
"God, how stubborn!"
Motya added:
"Oh my God, how handsome..."
And they both disappeared through the door. And Darya remained with him. Pale, but stubborn. She did not let go of the violin. She stood there with it, as if it were a weapon.
When three gendarmes burst into the room with lanterns and boots shaking snow onto the carpet, the first thing they saw was an officer, a beauty and... And a suitcase with sandwiches. No leaflets, no meetings, no demonstrations.
"Ah..." the chief said, stretching out, "H-h... Hi... Hello..."
"Good day," Sergei said politely. "What's the matter, gentlemen?"
"A denunciation... Ahem... Information... We... We came to check..."
"Have you checked?" said Sergei. "In front of you is an officer, a young lady, and bread and lard. Are you spying on dinners?
"There was a denunciation," he repeated, looking at the open suitcase. "Supposedly, a meeting... Agitation... Leaflets... But I... I didn't know that... That the officer..."
"You decide," said Sergei, smiling wryly. "Either an officer or rebels. Otherwise, my dear sir, your logic is like a weather vane - now one way, now the other!"
"Forgive me... W-w-wrong denunciation, Your Honor!"
Sergei waved his hand, as if he were dismissing the infantry battalion from training:
"Go before the cold chills your vigilance."
The gendarmes, not believing their luck, backed away and poured out...
When the door slammed behind them, Darya exhaled.
"It was... It was brilliant," she whispered."
"Yeah," he muttered. "I was not only brilliant, but also hungry, and fortunately no one guessed that the suitcase didn't contain sandwiches, but..."
"Shh!" Darya laughed. "Better not say it. Let them write in the report: officer, young lady, and sandwiches. The perfect trinity."
They went out onto the porch. The snow fell lazily, as if it had forgotten where it was supposed to fall. Sergei, still holding Darya's arm, watched the last lights trembling in the forest - the participants of the meeting had disappeared there. It was as if a curtain had fallen, separating the noise and worries from the night's peace. Darya pointed to a house that stood not far from the upper room - small but sturdy, with warm light in the windows and a wooden sign "Bread and Peace" above the entrance. Sergei grinned - the inscription was clearly a joke, but that made it doubly cozy.
"Here," she said quietly. "I live here. With my nanny and my aunt."
"Alone?"
"And who is with us, Tzar?"
She laughed. And he did too. Laughter brought them closer together than their previous words.
The house was clean and smelled of bread, as it should. In the entryway they took off their shoes carefully so as not to wake the old ladies. But before they could enter, a grey, wrinkled, but lively face appeared from behind the curtain. It was the nanny.
"Oh my God, Darya! It's so late! Who's with you?"
"The groom," Darya answered easily, without blinking. "Sergei Alekseevich."
Sergei almost choked on air.
"What?" he croaked, but Darya pinned his elbow. He realized it was too late to object.
The nanny, meanwhile, threw up her hands:
"My dear groom, oh my God... It's clear: your soul is pure!" She lightly touched his cheek and added: - You are a holy man, you'll see, everything will be fine with you."
"Well, well," he muttered, "I must admit, I collect butterflies..."
The nanny's eyes widened in delight:
"Wow! We once had a swallowtail sitting in our pantry! I thought it was a mouse, but he went - slap-slap!
But a stern voice was heard behind her:
"Who brings grooms here at night?"
An aunt came out from behind the curtain - a woman with a stern look and a folding apron. She measured Sergei with her gaze from head to toe.
"Look at him... He collects butterflies. And tell me he admires the stars through a telescope!"
"Sometimes," he admitted honestly. "I even have a collection of beetles at home..."
"Well..." the aunt drawled. "Out of his mind, then.
"Auntie!" Darya was indignant. "He's wonderful!
"Yes, I see, he is wonderful", she grumbled. "Okay, if he is a groom, let him stay. But sleep in the closet! And my maiden will have no sweetness until the wedding!
Sergei was taken aback. The closet, however, turned out to be a cozy little room with icons and a copper jug by the window. While he was changing into a nightgown (given to him, by the way, by the same aunt), he heard Darya quietly laughing in the next room.
"So the groom..." he thought. And suddenly he felt: he even liked it.
...666...
The next morning, while the aunt was still fiddling with the samovar and the nanny was saying something about "blessings according to the Easter calendar," Vyacheslav looked in on them - wearing a hat askew over one ear, with a suitcase and an eternal grin in his eyes.
"Sergei!" he called out, without taking off his shoes. "Rise! Petersburg is waiting.
"What? - Sergei emerged from the closet, disheveled, with one boot in his hand.
"On the road, my friend, on the road. There is a time for work, and an hour for war."
An hour and a half later, under the reserved gaze of the aunt and the tears of the nanny, they were already shaking in a cab to the station. Darya, seeing them off with her eyes, did not say a word, only tossed a scarf to Sergei - the one she had knitted herself in the winter.
The train started moving. The familiar forests and fields disappeared. Country roads, villages with cows on the side of the road, icy lakes flashed past the window - and then factory chimneys, black roofs, then thicker and thicker: train stations, spires, lamps, rows of houses.
At Nikolaevsky Station, Vyacheslav quickly walked forward.
"Listen", he said without turning around, "go to Mikhailovsky Garden. Sit there for about two hours. I need to go to our people. They'll understand, they'll accept me. But not right away with you - you're new, and besides..." he chuckled, "In love."
"Me?.." Sergei blushed. "Well, listen..."
"Go, go, Sergei Kirillovich. Sit in the shade. The wind will think for you.
He disappeared, like the wind and is, and Sergei shrugged his shoulders and walked past the Winter Palace, past the rumbling horse-drawn trams, through the streets where they were raking the snow with crowbars. On the corner they were selling frozen apples. He turned toward the Mikhailovsky Castle and, entering the garden, inhaled the damp, frosty air.
It was quiet. Rare passers-by walked along the paths, the snow crunched underfoot. There was a lot of snow - February held on tenaciously, and even the benches were powdered, like in a fairy tale. Sergei found the one closest to the horse chestnut, sat down, pulled off his glove - and was left alone.
"Here I am," he thought, "a revolutionary among seagulls and jackdaws, with a hat and expectation." And he looked at a real live jackdaw, which was jumping near his bench, as if it was also waiting for a miracle. The thin crunch of snow, the light steam from his breath, the frosty air filled his chest. He sat silently, without moving - for three minutes, no less. And suddenly...
"Hello!" said a thin voice.
He looked up - before him stood a girl of about eight, with long black hair and a rich, obviously English-made, fur coat with sable trim. The white fur on her collar glittered like frost. She stood with her head slightly bowed, jumping from foot to foot - just as the jackdaw had been jumping by the bench a minute ago. Zazyrin involuntarily thought: well, here she is, the jumping jackdaw.
"Have we met somewhere?" the girl asked, looking intently, a little boldly, point-blank.
Her voice sounded strange - not because it was arrogant, no, not at all - but there was an elusive accent in it, the same one that children have who are brought up to the sounds of either French or English. Zazyrin blinked, as if he had woken up, and looked closely at her sly little face, at those grey, slightly slanted eyes, at the thin lips that were now holding back a mischievous smile.
"Yes... Yes, I think so," he muttered and suddenly remembered.
The first time he saw her was in a bookstore on Nevsky, near the Book Passage. She dropped her handkerchief there and he picked it up and handed it to her, nodding and saying awkwardly, but with some inner solemnity:
"Take care of yourself, young lady."
She didn't say anything then - she just looked straight at you and nodded, like an adult does when she recognizes another as an equal.
The second time was in a bakery not far from Kirochnaya. He waited, and she came in with a nanny, tall, narrow as a reed, speaking some kind of hodgepodge of English and French. The girl stood silently by the display case, looking at the buns as if they were works of art, and then, without knowing why, he bought a fresh, fluffy, still warm bun - and, approaching them, held it out:
"You are growing, you need to eat well."
Having said this, he suddenly felt his voice tremble. He was embarrassed - and the girl took the bun, bowed her head, and, in a royally short, almost mocking manner, thanked him.
And here she is again. Like a ghost. Or like a bird returning to the hand that once fed her.
"Why are you here, young lady?" he asked his 'bird', more thinking than trying to engage in a dialogue. "Alone?"
"Not alone," she replied, sitting down next to him on the edge of the bench. "There, you see that woman in glasses standing at the entrance to the park - that's my nanny. She said I could run a little. But I saw you - and thought: how strange. We always meet somewhere."
He laughed, quietly and sincerely.
"Yes, it's strange... It's as if you did it on purpose."
"Maybe. Or maybe it's you who's stalking me?"
He raised his glove to his lips to hide his smile.
"Rather, it is you who are me. Like a jackdaw."
"What other jackdaw?"
"Well..." he pointed to an empty spot near the bench. "Just now there was a little chick here. Jumping. Just like you. In a black outfit."
She snorted:
"If I am a jackdaw, then who are you?"
He shrugged, suddenly gathered his strength and blurted out by analogy:
"Then I'm a scarecrow!"
They both laughed.
And suddenly something warm was woven into this funny, almost childish laughter. He looked at her - and could not understand: why was she here? What need did she have to approach him? In the Mikhailovsky Garden, in the frost, when the wind raises the snow dust? Could it really be fate, and this jumping jackdaw was given to him as a sign?
The girl shook her booted foot and pouted her lips - it was obvious that she was tired of waiting for him to figure out what to talk about.
"But I was waiting for you, you know?"
Zazyrin turned to her:
"Waited? For me? Why?"
"Because I want you to explain everything to me," she said as simply as if she were talking about tea with jam.
He raised his eyebrows and smiled.
"And who are you, young lady, if it's not a secret?"
She straightened up solemnly and said:
"My name is Delia, I am the daughter of Gene York, a lawyer from New York, America."
He couldn't help but smile - it sounded so funny.
"Attorney Gene York from New York City?"
Delia immediately frowned and said angrily:
"It's not funny. Dad is a very respected man. We came here two years ago."
"Forgive me," he said with a slight bow. "It's just rare for a name and a city to coincide so well."
She softened again:
"Everyone here already knows us. Dad has a lot of clients among the local nobility, even more than when he lived in America. And I..." she thought for a moment, "I study. I watch. And listen."
"What is it that you are listening to that is so important?
"The adults," she whispered, looking into my face. "They say that Japan has attacked Russia. That there will be a war. That it has already begun. That Dad should not show up in certain places. That there will be noise. Shooting. Bombs. They say all this, thinking that I don't hear. But I hear. And I understand everything. Only... No one says why."
He fell silent. He took a deep breath. Strange girl. Strange morning.
"And you decided that I would tell you... Why?" he asked cautiously.
"Yes. Because you are not like others. Because you are serious. Because you gave me a bun. And you don't just give a bun.
He couldn't help but laugh.
"Okay. Let's say I tell you. But..." he looked back.
Only rare figures in coats and shawls were walking in the park; someone was feeding sparrows by the fountain.
"But this will be between us," he said.
"A secret?" Her eyes flashed.
"A secret. I will tell you not as an adult to an adult. But as one person to another."
He paused, peered at the snow beneath his feet. Then slowly, as if checking each word, he said:
"This war... Not for Japan. Not for its islands. Not for the railroads. This is to distract people from the most important thing. So that they don't think about why they don't have bread. Why it's cold in the villages. Why father drinks. Why mother cries. So that the fear and anger of ordinary people doesn't turn on the Tsar. So that they go to war - for something far away, something they never needed."
She listened with her head bowed.
"Is it like a fairy tale where the villain blows smoke so that the heroes can't see who's behind them?"
"Yes," he nodded. "The essence is the same."
"And... And you fight against those who burn fires that produce such smoke?"
He looked at her.
"I'm still learning. But maybe, yes."
"I want to too," she said quietly. "When I grow up. I don't want to be fooled."
He was silent. There was something majestic in the childish determination of this jumping jackdaw.
"You see... As I personally understand it... The whole point is that the workers and peasants, who are fleeced every day by landowners, bankers, and factory owners, have finally begun to raise their heads. They have begun to make noise, go on strike, write petitions. Organize strikes. And the Tsar's ministers, looking at this, panicked. How can they, such peasants, be pacified? Shoot bullets - the people will get angry. Give money - the treasury is empty. And so they came to the Tsar with a proposal: if the people's anger is accumulating, let it not be directed at us, but at someone else. At the enemy."
"To Japan?" Delia raised her head, squinting in disbelief.
"Exactly. Japan opposed the construction of a railway in Korea. They wanted to buy some land from us themselves - down there, by the sea. And so, taking advantage of this, the Tsar declared the Japanese enemies of Russia. Like, they are a threat. But in fact, this was a pretext to send those same strikers - workers, peasants, the poor - to the slaughter."
Delia's eyes widened, then... Then she burst out laughing. A real, ringing, childish laugh.
"This is nonsense! War - because of a railroad? Because of a piece of land? And what about the bright ideas? Where are the heroes? Where is the battle between good and evil?"
Sergei was taken aback, not knowing how to respond to this.
"In books," Delia continued, "they always fight for the truth. For justice. Isn't that so?"
Zazyrin looked at her for a long time, at her fur coat, at her black hair sparkling in the sun. At those clear, amazingly adult eyes.
"I'm afraid," he said quietly, "justice... Everyone has their own. Some see it in protecting wealth. Some see it in dividing up that wealth. And that's why some consider themselves right when they kill others."
"But then no one is right!" Delia jumped up. "Then everything is a lie! Then war is not heroism, but filth!"
He was silent. What could he say to her? He, who himself did not yet know how to distinguish truth from the dust of words?
"And you," she suddenly asked. "Who are you for?"
He smiled bitterly.
"I am for no one to die in vain. Not you, not me. Not that soldier who will be sent to the front tomorrow.
"And if you were a Tsar? Would you also declare war?"
"No," he said. "I would try to hear those who scream not from anger, but from pain."
She fell silent. Then suddenly she came closer, stood on tiptoe and looked into his face.
"I think you're good. Just too sad. And you can't be good and sad. It's unfair.
With these words she turned sharply, pressed her hat to her ear and ran along the snowy path.
He didn't call out to her. He just watched her go and thought: this is truly a jackdaw. So funny, so strange, so amazingly naive - but what if, in her own way, she's right?
Five minutes passed. The cold slightly nipped at his face, the snow crunched under the feet of the rare citizens passing by. Sergei had already begun to forget the funny figure of Delia, the jumping jackdaw, when suddenly Vyacheslav approached him, with a confident gait, like a man going with results. In his hand was a book in a blue, worn binding, and on his lips was a mysterious smile.
"Why is your face so flushed?" he said in a low voice, sitting down next to her. "Have you met a queen? Or fallen in love with someone?"
Sergei waved his hand, smiling:
"Rather to the city than to a person. And what about you?"
"Me?" Vyacheslav lifted the book slightly, stroking its spine, like a living creature. "Food for thought. Look here, but don't look too hard, or they'll arrest us here."
Sergei looked at the cover with curiosity. The title was missing, the letters were erased. But as soon as Griftsov opened the first page, it became clear: before them was something forbidden. It was the work of Pyotr Nikitich Tkachev, a Jacobin in spirit, an ideologist of the revolutionary minority. Without knowing it, Sergei was holding in his hands for the first time a text for which he could get a year in prison - and without a trial.
"Just listen", whispered Vyacheslav and began to read: "History belongs not to the majority that endures, but to the minority that acts. Hope is not in gradual transformations, but in shaking the foundations..."
His voice sounded low and passionate, as if he himself was speaking not lines, but truth. He turned the pages with special tenderness, like a priest turning the Gospel. And he pointed his finger at paragraphs, especially highlighting those that dealt with class antagonism, the role of the intelligentsia as the force that is obliged to lead the people, even against their will.
Sergei listened with tension, but understood with difficulty. His consciousness clung to fragments of phrases: "bourgeois ideals", "revolutionary dictatorship", "active minority"... The thought pounded in his head: is this really the way? This one?
"Slava," he asked quietly, "you... Do you believe in all this yourself?"
Vyacheslav thought for a second. He closed the book, stroked it with his palm and, without looking at his interlocutor, said:
"I don't believe in words, I believe in cracks. Do you understand? In the world, like in an old house, cracks appear. And we don't know what caused them - a storm outside or rot inside. But I know for sure that this house will collapse sooner or later. And then... Then someone will have to build a new one."
"And you want to be that builder?"
"No," he chuckled. "I may just be a laborer on this construction site. But if not us, then who?"
Sergei nodded. He suddenly felt acutely that his previous life - lectures, exams, meetings, jokes with friends - was as if in a fog. And now - everything is clearer. As if a window had opened. And the wind hit his face.
He didn't know if he was ready for the revolution. But he knew that the question was no longer: ready or not ready. It could come without asking.
Sergei sat silently for another minute, still under the impression - from the book, and from Vyacheslav's words, and from that strange conversation with the jackdaw, who, as it now seemed, had not just come, but had been sent, as if by Chance itself, in a fur coat and with a sly little face.
He exhaled and suddenly said, as if in passing:
"You know, before you... A jackdaw was talking to me here. I talked to her for maybe ten minutes - well, about what you read in the book. About the people, about the ministers, about the war..."
"WITH WHAT?!" Vyacheslav's voice cut through him. "WITH WHAT WERE YOU TALKING?!
Sergei winced. The man was looking at him with his mouth slightly open, like a man who had just been told he had stepped on a mine.
"Not with what, but with whom. With a girl, about eight years old. Well... Well, she came up. We got to talking. Smart, by the way. From America. The daughter of some lawyer...
"Oh, God!" Vyacheslav groaned and hit himself on the forehead with his palm. "What lawyer?!"
"Jack York. Or Jake. Or John. I don't remember, bro. But she said his last name was York, just like the city of New York, which is where they come from, by the way. I think they live somewhere on the English Embankment, I didn't look..."
Vyacheslav jumped up from the bench, rearing up like a man who had a bucket of ice water poured in his face.
"Are you a complete idiot, Zazyrin?" he hissed. "You gave a lecture on revolutionary theory to an eight-year-old spy in a fur coat from the duchess?! Do you even have any brains left? Didn't you think that this little jackdaw is already croaking somewhere in the office of her lawyer dad? And he - straight to the office! From there - to the police department! And then - hello, Shpalernaya and interrogation under the lamp?!"
Sergei opened his mouth, trying to get at least a word in:
"But she... She's a child! She asked me herself! I just..."
"Just?!" Vyacheslav was already waving his arms. "You just signed your own death warrant! And maybe mine too! This little jackdaw of yours - do you know what she is now? A bird of death, that's who she is!"
He roared almost theatrically, attracting the attention of the rare passers-by, and abruptly headed towards the exit of the park.
"Slava, wait!" Sergei exclaimed and rushed after him, forgetting about the gloves and - most importantly - about the blue book left on the bench.
He ran along the path, slipping on the trampled snow, shouting after them:
"She's just a child! I'm sorry! Wait a minute! I didn't mean to!"
But Vyacheslav did not stop. He walked quickly, clenched his fists, and when Sergei drew level with him, he turned around sharply, raised his hand - his fist right up to his nose:
"If they take me because of you, I'll get you even from Solovki. Together with your jackdaw. Get out!"
And he disappeared - into the crowd, into the snowy shroud, leaving Zazyrin in the middle of the road, alone, wet from the melting snow and stupid, like a man who frightened the entire revolution with an eight-year-old girl.
Zazyrin stood for a while longer under the wet snow, looking in the direction where Vyacheslav had disappeared. There was no resentment in his chest, no - rather emptiness. The wind rocked the rare, wet lanterns, as if laughing, and Sergei smiled weakly in response. He said to himself in a low voice:
"The bird of death, you say... Or maybe it's the bird of happiness?"
And, without looking back, he walked away from the garden.
...666...
His apartment was on the second floor of a gray building at the intersection of Sredny Prospekt and 8th Line. The room was in the corner, damp, but familiar. Sergei, without taking off his coat, went to the closet, on the top shelf of which his collection was kept - several boxes with beetles, butterflies, even a couple of rare dragonflies. He took the box off, ran his finger along the glass and suddenly decided: that's it, it's time.
"I haven't spoiled anything," he said out loud. "Ideas don't die from children's laughter. Maybe she'll keep it in herself. How many people remember such conversations once and for all?"
He carefully packed the box containing the collection, tied a scarf and, without a moment's hesitation, walked out into the night.
Nikolaevsky Station was noisy and crowded. Soldiers, vendors with baskets, children in bright hats. Sergei went to the ticket office, took a ticket to Kolpino and, hiding the box under his arm, took his seat in the almost empty carriage.
The train shuddered and moved. Outside the window there was darkness and snow whirlwinds. He looked at her as if into an abyss, and kept looking for Vyacheslav's face in these whirlwinds. But he was not there.
"Still, this jackdaw is strange," he muttered. "Maybe it really is a sign? Or even a bird of happiness?"
The train sped through the February darkness, and for the first time in a long time, Sergei felt his heart at peace. As if something important had been done, even if it seemed stupid at first. He closed his eyes and thought: maybe someday this girl would remember his words. And maybe she would even understand.
By evening, Zazyrin reached Darya Mironovna's house, in the dark, when smoke was already pouring out of the chimneys and the windows were glowing with a soft, yellow light.
He didn't call, he just pushed the door open as if he were one of his own. The room was warm, smelled of wax and dried herbs. Darya was sitting by the lamp with a book on her lap and, looking up at him, didn't immediately recognize him. But then she jumped up.
He said nothing. He just took off his gloves, opened the box and handed it to her - butterflies. His favorites. His best. Wonderful, colorful, the ones he had caught in his youth, when life seemed quieter, cleaner. She took the box carefully, like a relic. She was silent for a long time. And suddenly, unable to bear it, she pressed herself against his cheek and kissed him.
"You... You're a fool, Sergei," was all she said, laughing, and her eyes sparkled.
At that moment the door swung open and Vyacheslav stepped into the house. He took off his hat, shook off the snow and walked past Sergei as if he were a nobody. He spoke without looking:
"Darya... I need to go to bed. There will be big troubles tomorrow morning. Possibly serious ones."
"What?" she cried. "What happened? Where have you been?"
But he didn't hear anymore. Throwing his coat right on the floor, he went into the small room and slammed the door behind him. A moment later, the dull sound of a falling body was heard - he had fallen asleep.
Darya stood in the middle of the room, confused, clutching the box to her chest. She looked at Sergei.
"What does this mean? What did he mean?"
Sergei sighed but shook his head.
"We'll find out in the morning. Right now, Darya, you need to lie down. Please. And tomorrow... Tomorrow we'll go skiing, do you hear? Into the forest."
"Into the forest?" she whispered, as if hearing the word for the first time. "Now?"
"Not now. In the morning. Now - just sleep."
He said it quietly, but as if it was the only right choice in this scattered night, trembling with impending disaster.
...666...
In the morning we woke up early - the sun, breaking through the thin curtains, lay in golden ribbons on the floor. Snow sparkled outside the windows, as if someone had poured it with special tenderness during the night.
Sergei quietly knocked on Vyacheslav's door.
"Will you come with us?" he asked, looking in.
He, without rising from the pillow, answered in a muffled voice:
"Without me. I don't want to. My head hurts."
"Okay," Sergei nodded briefly. "Rest."
And half an hour later, he and Darya were already skiing through the sparkling morning forest. Everything around them seemed to have been painted: the trees stood, covered with frost, the air rang with frost, the sky was blue as porcelain.
"It's so quiet here," whispered Darya, "as if the whole country has frozen."
"Maybe it did. Before the storm," he responded. "Or before awakening."
They walked deeper, where the trees were more densely packed, where there was no path. Sergei deliberately looked for a corner where he would not hear a single voice.
"Wait," he said finally and stopped.
She turned around. Her cheeks were burning from the cold, her eyes were shining. He looked at her and, slowly taking a folded piece of paper out of his pocket, said:
"Can?
"Certainly.
And read:
"The storm unleashed its wild refrain,
Across the fields its fury sweeps;
The road, now cloaked in snowy chain,
Lies smooth where winter's blanket creeps.
No trace remains beneath the snow,
The blizzard spins with dust and might;
No light can pierce the tempest's show,
The world is lost to endless white.
Yet to a gallant heart so bold,
The storm's no burden, fear, or plight;
He'll forge a path through frost and cold,
If only passion fuels his fight."
He finished reading, and silence hung between them like a snowflake before it fell.
"But it's..." said Darya, as if remembering with joy. "It's Nikitin! Ivan Savvich!"
"Yes," Sergei nodded. "The great poet of the future Russia."
She laughed, lightly hitting the snowdrift with her ski pole:
"'Yet to a gallant heart so bold, the storm's no burden, fear, or plight!'"
He laughed too, but there was something more in his voice - not just joy, but pride, a bright power. And in this laughter, and in these words, there seemed to be confidence: the road, no matter how snow-covered it was, would still be found. If you go together.
Soon they turned back, looking at their double tracks stretching across the white virgin soil. They returned home slowly, but with the feeling that somewhere deep in their chests something had started to glow - and would not go out.
They were approaching the house, and suddenly Sergei's heart sank. At the gate stood a cart, covered in frost, and next to it were gendarmes in greatcoats, with their collars pulled up. One was smoking, the other was holding a paper with an embossed seal. Vyacheslav was just being led out of the house.
He walked between two policemen, his hands cuffed, his face pale, but his lips pressed tightly together. He did not resist, did not say a word, but when he was led out into the yard, his gaze fell on Sergei - and he froze, as if he had been hit in the forehead.
This look is heavy, mute, like a brand.
Darya took a sharp breath.
"Sergei..." she whispered. "Is this... Is this for him?"
Sergei was silent, not taking his eyes off Vyacheslav. Meanwhile, on the porch, sat the old nanny and Darya's aunt. They whispered, but so that he would definitely hear.
"And the gendarmes didn't even look at your Sergei Kirillovich," said the aunt, squinting. "Your fiancé!"
"Look at how cleverly he got out of it," the nanny added with a hiss. "And yet I walked with him, laughing. Like, one is clean, the other is going to the gallows..."
Darya flared up:
"Don't you dare!" she cried, but there was fear in her voice.
Sergei said nothing. He continued to stand there, as if made of stone. Only his lips trembled when the gendarmes seated Vyacheslav in the cart. He did not turn around - only his shoulders trembled.
And then the aunt again, not hiding her malice:
"They say that your Sergei Kirillovich left a booklet written against the Tsar on a bench in Mikhailovsky Garden, and now Vyacheslav is guilty!"
Everything inside Sergei fell apart. He closed his eyes. His thoughts condensed into one: A book... On the bench... Who found it? How? Who reported it?.. He didn't even remember if his handwriting, name, or note was on the book. But his heart already knew: one coincidence was enough. And one whisper.
Darya touched his hand:
"Sergei... You... You didn't..."
"I don't know," he answered quietly. "I don't know who's to blame. But if it was me…"
He didn't finish. The cart rocked, the wheels crunched on the crust - and Vyacheslav was taken away.
"And how our Darya Mironovna will grieve..." said the aunt, fanning herself with a woolen scarf. "She really liked Vyacheslav Grigorievich!
"Shut up," the nanny interrupted, "she'll marry Sergei."
But the aunt only smiled and said emphatically, through her teeth:
"She won't marry him!" the aunt said, as if offended. "After all, he doesn't see anyone except bugs and caterpillars!"
Sergei, hearing how they spoke about him, clenched his fists in his pockets. He stood half-turned, as if he was going to leave, but his legs did not obey. He understood: the gift was from the soul, from the heart - but was it really so difficult to see it?
"Vyacheslav Grigorievich would have been free," added the aunt more quietly, but on purpose, so that it would be heard, "if it weren't for your scatterbrain!"
"Don't blab what you don't know!" the nanny suddenly barked, and there was something completely unwomanly in her voice - stern, inexorable. "Our Sergei is a holy soul..."
"What a shame on our heads," the aunt stubbornly drawled. "And because of whom?"
Sergei couldn't resist turning around. But at that very moment he saw Darya walking quickly along the path among the icy bushes. Her headscarf was untied, her skirt was almost catching the snow. She was walking towards the forest without looking back.
"Darya Mironovna!" he called out, but she didn't hear, or pretended not to hear.
He rushed after her, forgetting about the cold, about his aunt, about everything. If only he could catch up.
"Darya Mironovna," he shouted to her, "will you marry me?"
She didn't turn around. She just threw over her shoulder, barely turning her head:
"No, I won't go, Sergei Kirillovich.
He shuddered. The tone was official, distant, alien, as if a wall of ice had been built between them. He wanted to scream, to grab her hand, but he stood there, submissive, like a boy being interrogated.
"Why?"
"Questions like these don't get answered."
He stepped closer, more quietly:
"Answer me, please!
She turned around. Her face was flushed, not from the cold, but from anger. Her eyes were sparkling.
"You are not a man," she said sharply.
He didn't flinch. He just nodded weakly, as if there was no arguing with that.
"Thank you. And now something else. Something even more offensive."
"Vyacheslav is facing hard labor!" she cried, clenching her fists. "And you... You..."
"But he didn't tell me anything about himself!"
"That means he didn't trust you and didn't want to bother you!" She came closer, almost poking her finger into his chest. "When a person collects insects with such lust, then..."
And, without finishing speaking, she darted into the thicket, through the sparkling air, towards the old fir trees.
"Believe me, Darya!.." Sergei exclaimed in despair.
But she didn't hear anymore. Or didn't want to.
Sergei stood there, stunned, and then suddenly his whole soul flared up: this can't be done like this - it can't be done!
If he is a coward, if he is unworthy, he will prove otherwise. He will save Vyacheslav. He will bring him back. For her sake. For himself. For the sake of meaning.
With these thoughts he rushed back. Skis away, steps with double force. House. Porch. Knock on the shoulder - the door swung open.
The nanny recoiled in horror:
"What are you... Are you crazy?"
Aunt screamed:
"Oh, my God..."
But he didn't hear them.
As if in a dream, he slowly, silently stepped toward the corner where the box stood in the dim light, shrouded in a veil of dust, like a monument to days gone by. His collection. Butterflies. Wings as delicate as hopes. Meaningless now, but still holy. He picked it up, carefully, like the body of a friend fallen in battle, and suddenly, with a sudden, almost superhuman effort, he waved his hand.
There was a dull thud.
The glass crunched, with a guttural groan, like a snowstorm breaking against a rock. The wings, once so bright, fluttering in the light, crumbled into dust, into shreds. The aunt screamed. "You've gone mad," came a shrill voice from the side. "Oh, Lord, what are you doing, what is this, my God…"
The birds perched on the ridge of the roof took flight. In the yard, a horse neighed, trembling with sudden alarm. All living things stirred, as if the world had caught in this gesture a call to death - but also to liberation.
And he stood there. He was breathing heavily. And in his chest, where everything he had accumulated was stored, it was as if a knot had broken.
...666…
...And then, as if emerging from an icy hole of memories, Zazyrin opened his eyes. Not right away. With effort. Into the darkness, which was cut only by the pale winter light - that same northern, dawnless, indifferent to life.
He was still lying on the sagging sofa in his corner room on Sredny Prospekt. The wall was peeling, familiar, like an old friend. Above his head was a crack, stretching from the corner to the lamp, like a thin fracture in time. A dim, barely noticeable light seeped through the thick curtains - neither morning, nor day, nor evening. As if time itself had forgotten the names of its parts.
He did not sleep. He could not. Everything inside him was buzzing, everything was burning - not his skin, not his body, but his soul. A soul that was tired, dried out, but still holding on to scraps of hope.
He saw - clearly, painfully: Darya, as she walked away, through the snowdrifts, without looking back. Vyacheslav - tied up like an animal, under guard. He saw how he himself, with desperate determination, smashed butterflies on the floor - his whole cozy, frail world, grown in the musty shadow. And behind this - silence. Like in a room where after a word an echo of meaning is heard.
He lay on his back, his hands clasped behind his head, looking at the ceiling. And he thought: here he is, a man, naked before his own fate. Helpless and perhaps ready to start all over again.
And in this heavy languor he felt his eyelids drooping. Without a fight. Without a desire to forget - simply because his soul no longer bears the burden. Like a soldier who fell not from a bullet, but from fatigue.
Sleep came like mercy. Quietly. Slowly. Not like an escape, but like a conclusion.
And in that dream there were shadows. And snow. And a road stretching into the distance. And a girl whose fur coat fluttered like wings. She jumped like a jackdaw, and then disappeared - each time before he could catch up. Like a sign, like a prophecy, like a song sung not out loud.
And a light wind came from somewhere deep within - from that room where there was love and where the stoves burned.
...666...
In the small two-story office of Gene York on Liteiny Prospekt, under the modest sign "Eugene S. York - Legal Services," there was a special silence - not empty, but filled with subdued work and the smell of time. It seemed to be absorbed into the parquet boards, into the suede spines of reference books, into the ink stains on blotting papers. This silence was not silence - no, it breathed: the rustling of papers, the ringing of the clock on the mantelpiece, the occasional tapping of the tip of a pen on the edge of an inkwell.
The room, like the person, preserved the traits of character. The dark oak shelves, like the shoulders of an old official, bent under the weight of folios; scrolls of contracts, sealed with sealing wax, lay in even piles, like sleeping jurors. Between the windows was a map of Petersburg, with needles stuck into the Neva, into Gorokhovaya, into one point on the Vyborg side. And above all this, a smell: a mixture of wax, old ink and barely perceptible lavender. Karen had left a small bouquet the day before: she said that "the air here is too literal" and needed something living.
On the table by the window, where the northern light, breaking against the edge of the shutter, fell dimly but steadily, lay an open folder. The papers inside were marked with underlines, notes, notes in the margins, sometimes strictly to the point, sometimes mocking, as if written with a grin in the corner of the lips: "he wants to, but can't", "he couldn't hold back, he said too much", "we'll start from here, perhaps". This was the Golovins' case.
There were two people standing in chairs in front of the table.
The woman was thin, with a straight posture and stubbornly compressed lips, dressed in a strict dark dress, the collar of which was lacy, but modest, as if someone had deliberately woven elegance into the framework of decency. Anna Lvovna Golovina, a merchant by marriage, but in appearance more of a teacher than a mistress of income. She kept her hands clasped - not as if she were praying, but as if she were afraid to open her fingers and show a tremor.
Next to her was Sergei Petrovich Maltsev, a man of about forty-five, with an aquiline nose and a forehead lined with folds. In the past, he had been an artillery officer, and now he was the manager of her late brother's factory. His bearing was not ostentatious, but noticeable: every turn of his head, every tilt of his body was like a well-considered command. And yet now he sat slightly awkwardly, as if he was having difficulty adjusting his own determination to the circumstances.
Gene, sitting opposite, leafed through the papers with the imperturbability of a lecturer. He made no unnecessary movements, did not interrupt, did not hurry. Only occasionally did he raise his eyes - dark gray, attentive, in which there was neither delight nor disgust, only work.
"Pavel Golovin", he began, putting the sheet aside, "a merchant of the second guild, Anna Lvovna's husband, the boy's father. Six-year-old Mikhail Golovin, raised by his mother in a house on Poltavskaya, attended the preparatory department at the private school of Linder... Until the spring - was everything consensual?"
"Until spring," she confirmed, quietly but firmly.
Gene nodded.
"And then Mr. Golovin filed an application with the city council asking to formalize guardianship - without the mother's consent?"
Maltsev straightened his collar.
"He didn't just file it. He pointed out that the child's mother..." he hesitated, and his voice acquired the dryness of an office, "...does not observe moral and hygienic conditions. And also allows outsiders to be involved in the child's upbringing. Which was a lie."
"A lie," Anna Lvovna echoed, but did not add a word. Only her lips trembled, as if from an old pain that had not yet healed.
Gene looked at them again. No longer than a second, like a surgeon looking at a stitch.
"Do you want me to act as an attorney in the guardianship case?"
"Yes," she said. "But not only that. I want Mikhail to stay with me."
"The court decides not according to desire, but according to the state of affairs," he answered calmly. "What do you have?"
"The house," she said. "The means. The witnesses. And the truth."
Gene said nothing. He picked up the pen and smoothed out the page. His fingers moved precisely, without embellishment, as officers write in their field journals.
"Okay. So, here's how it is: we request the protocols, copies of complaints, references from Linder's doctor and teacher. And also, we file an objection with the provincial chancellery. Until then, the boy will remain at his place of residence, since his father's house, according to the papers, is in the process of being rebuilt."
He didn't ask why his father had suddenly decided to take the boy. He didn't ask who those "outsiders" were that Pavel had mentioned. But there was something in his voice, as if he already knew. Not from gossip, but from the habit of seeing a line in someone else's confusion.
"We won't touch the child," he added. "For now. Let him live his own life. Childhood is not the subject of a lawsuit. It is only lost once."
Gene slowly ran his palm across his forehead, from temple to temple, as if dispersing a hot thought, and in a restrained, slightly hoarse voice reminded:
"However..." he looked up, "according to the current law, the child remains with the father if the mother is deemed unreliable."
He spoke with a cautious, almost indifferent dryness, as if he were discussing not a living boy but a duty on silk. The words, like pebbles, fell evenly and heavily into the silence.
"But," he continued, "there are, of course, certain nuances. If we can convince the court that the father cannot, does not want to, or is simply not capable of raising the child... It all depends on the circumstances. Does he live in a home where the child will not have proper supervision? Is there evidence of... Let's say, relationships that are unbecoming of a family man?"
He glanced at Anna Lvovna. She was already sitting, barely holding back her impulse: her lips were trembling, her hands were clasped so tightly, as if she were holding herself back from falling apart. And Maltsev, still maintaining his bearing, suddenly seemed to have pulled his head into his shoulders - either from what he had said, or from a premonition of what would be said.
"Pavel is impeccable," she almost shouted. "You don't understand. He may be dry and harsh in his words, but he is a man of duty. He doesn't drink, doesn't gamble, doesn't hang out in pubs. He works day and night. And I... And I won't allow his name to be blackened."
Gene didn't answer right away. He leaned forward a little, stood up, walked over to the table, pushed the inkwell aside and slowly opened the file. But instead of papers, his gaze suddenly caught a newspaper clipping. He didn't immediately understand what he was looking at, but the headline - laconic, like a blow to the temple - immediately cut off everything unnecessary:
'The death of American accountant Creighton. The hunt near St. Petersburg turned into tragedy.'
Gene froze. His face didn't change, but his gaze became slightly cloudy - not from fear or regret, but from those special, dense thoughts that visit a person who has experienced a collision with his own double.
Morris Creighton He came up like a gunpowder bottle, inexorably and with a pop.
The Baron, that same Buher, later said - seemingly in passing - that the wolves seemed to have chosen Creighton themselves. That they were heading specifically for him, as if they sensed... Not fear, no - guilt.
Gene remembered his gaze. Direct, squeezing, like a clamp, and not blinking for a second. He remembered how Creighton stood on the platform, under the dogs and signs, like a boss from another world. He also remembered how casually he threw phrases into your face, heavy as a stone in water: "You showed up just in time, although we could have managed without you."
He remembered everything, and yet he felt nothing. Creighton was in the way. He was a threat. Too direct, too strong, too famous. And now he wasn't.
And with his disappearance, it was as if an invisible niche had suddenly become free in the city. Morris's former clients - manufacturers, commission agents, even mid-level officials - began to appear one after another at the doors of this very office on Liteiny. At first politely, as if to a replacement. Then - with trust. And now as to a man "who is now in charge of everything."
Gene didn't look for it. He didn't bait, didn't bribe, didn't invite. But success - like fog - came by itself, filling the room, the table, the letterbox. He even sometimes felt - an unpleasant feeling - as if some of them, especially the fussy, puffy merchants, looked at him with a note of respect mixed with superstitious fear. As if they believed: this one survived, and that one didn't.
Gene came back to reality as if from the shadows. He straightened up, closed the folder and only then looked at Anna Lvovna again.
"Sorry," he said almost quietly. "I got distracted. Well... If you claim that Pavel Golovin is impeccable, perhaps we should check to what extent this corresponds to the opinion of his entourage. After all, no matter how honest a person is, there will always be someone who will say the opposite."
Anna shuddered.
"You want... You're going to dig into his private life?"
"I'm going to find out," Gene said calmly, "what kind of life would be best for your son."
He sat back down, bent over the sheet, picked up a pen, thought for a second, and added:
"Just please... Don't interfere with my work. After all, you came here to ask for help."
He did not look at them. He wrote, bending over, almost without lifting his pen. The lines were strict, almost cruel. The paper rustled under his hand, like snow under boots.
And suddenly, as if from the middle of another thought, from the layer where everyday life lives, and not jurisprudence, he spoke - quietly, with an absent-minded, homely intonation:
"We still need to find a nanny for the girl."
The phrase sounded softly, but in the complete silence of the room - like porcelain hitting stone. It had nothing to do with the paper, or the case, or the two people sitting in front of him. Not with the law, not with judicial practice. It was personal, torn from another, deeply hidden layer of his life, where no one was supposed to look.
Anna and Maltsev exchanged glances. Maltsev frowned.
"Excuse me," he said, reservedly, but with obvious awkwardness. "Did I hear you right? You mentioned... Nanny?"
Anna, sternly, almost coldly:
"We're talking about a boy, Mr. York. My son. He's boy, not a girl."
Gene winced. His face darkened for a moment, like a screen on which someone else's shadow had passed.
"Yes. Of course." He straightened up, put the pen back in its holder. "I beg your pardon. I... I was just thinking about something else. It happens. Fatigue", he added, shrugging slightly. "I will prepare the documents for your next visit. Tomorrow, by evening, if that suits you."
Anna nodded dryly, without getting up. Only a second later, when it became clear that the conversation was over, she stood up, nodded again - this time more coldly - and, without waiting for Maltsev, headed for the exit.
Sergei Petrovich paused for a second, as if he wanted to say something - perhaps not as a reproach, but as a reminder of something human - but Gene had already turned away. And so Maltsev only bowed briefly and followed her, quietly closing the door behind him.
Gene was left alone.
He did not move. The gaslight, warm and uneven, cast reflections on the map on the wall like tiny fires. The city lay before him, in lines, in marks, in needles with tiny notes. It seemed as if the whole map were a living being, breathing. But his thoughts did not return to it.
He stood up, picked up his hat and cane. He ran his hand over his face, either to shake off fatigue or to smooth himself down, to tidy himself up. The twilight was thickening outside the windows. The lamplighters, decorously and methodically, climbed up to the lamps and lit the kerosene lamps. The shadows from their steps, fragile and wavering, fell on the pavement, as if the past was trying to compete with the present for every inch of the street.