“Second, he may not even go out tonight.
And if he does, then . . .”
Now Panikovsky connected the two lines with a third, making something like a triangle in the sand, and concluded:
“Who knows?
He might be out with a whole bunch of people.
Then what?”
Balaganov looked at the triangle with respect.
He didn’t find Panikovsky’s arguments particularly convincing, but the triangle projected such compelling hopelessness that Balaganov hesitated.
Panikovsky noticed it and pounced.
“Go to Kiev!” he said suddenly.
“Then you’ll see that I’m right.
Yes, you have to go to Kiev!”
“What are you talking about!” mumbled Shura.
“Why Kiev?”
“Go to Kiev and ask what Panikovsky did there before the revolution.
Do it!”
“Leave me alone,” said Balaganov gloomily.
“No, you should ask!” demanded Panikovsky.
“Go and ask!
And they’ll tell you that before the revolution, Panikovsky was a blind man.
Do you think I would have become a son of Lieutenant Schmidt if it hadn’t been for the revolution?
I used to be a wealthy man.
I had a family and a nickel-plated samovar on my table.
And how did I make my living?
With dark glasses and a cane.”
He took a black cardboard case with dull silver stars out of his pocket and showed Balaganov his dark-blue glasses.
“These glasses fed me for many years,” he said with a sigh.
“I would put them on, take a cane, go out to Kreshchatik Street, and ask some nice-looking gentleman to help the poor blind man across the street.
The gentleman would take me by the arm and walk with me.
When we reached the opposite sidewalk, he would already be missing his watch, if he had a watch, or his wallet.
Some people used to carry wallets, you know.”
“So why did you quit?” asked Balaganov, perking up.
“The revolution!” answered the former blind man. “I used to pay a cop standing on the corner of Kreshchatik and Proreznaya five rubles a month, and nobody bothered me.
The cop even made sure I was safe.
He was a good man!
His name was Semen Vasilyevich Nebaba.
I ran into him recently—he’s a music critic nowadays.
And now?
Can you really mess with the police these days?
I’ve never seen nastier guys.
They’re so principled, such idealists.
And so, Balaganov, in my old age I had to become a swindler.
But for such an important task, I can make use of my old glasses again.
It’s much better than a mugging.”
Five minutes later, a blind man in dark-blue glasses stepped out of a public restroom that was surrounded by tobacco and mint plants.
His chin raised to the sky, he headed for the park exit, constantly tapping in front of him with a souvenir cane.
Balaganov followed him.
Panikovsky was unrecognizable.
Holding his shoulders back and carefully placing his feet on the sidewalk, he almost walked into buildings, tapped on display window railings with his cane, bumped into people, and moved on, looking right through them.
He was so diligent he even dispersed a small lineup that had formed at a bus stop.