Look, somebody's coming."
Two air-force officers were climbing out of a car that had stopped in front of the house. They opened the gate and came striding up the garden path.
"They've come to see me," the woman said. "I know what it is: they're going to ask me again if it wouldn't be good for me to have a change, if I wouldn't like to go to the Crimea or to the Caucasus, to a sanatorium or to a holiday resort. . . ."
The men touched their caps. The senior officer, a captain, must have caught her last words, for he said:
"No, neither to the Crimea, nor to the Caucasus, nor to a sanatorium, nor to a holiday resort.
You wanted to see your mother, didn't you?
Well, she's coming to pay you a visit. Leaving today from Irkutsk.
She was brought to Irkutsk by a special plane."
"Who brought her?" the woman exclaimed in a happy and dazed voice. "You?"
"No," the captain replied. "Our comrades and yours."
The little girl came running up and looked boldly at the visitors; it was obvious that she was used to the blue uniform.
"Mummy," she said, "make me a swing and I'll go flying to and fro, to and fro.
Far, far away, like Daddy."
"Oh no, don't!" her mother cried. She picked up the little girl and hugged her tight.
"No, no, never fly away as far ... as your daddy."
On a daisy-covered green off Maly Ovrazhny Lane, behind the chapel whose peeling murals depicted stern, bearded old men and clean-shaven angels, and somewhat to the right of the picture of Judgement Day with its cauldrons, boiling oil and darting devils, Kvakin's gang was playing cards.
They had no money, and so they played for "back-breakers", "flicks" and "revive-the-stiff".
The loser's eyes were bound, he was forced to lie on his back on the grass, and he was given a "candle", that is, a long stick.
With this stick he was supposed to repel his kind brethren, who out of pity for the dead man would do everything they could to revive him by energetically lashing at his bare shins, calves and heels with nettle.
The game was at its height when the shrill call of a bugle came from the other side of the fence.
Timur's envoys stood there.
Nick Kolokolchikov, the staff trumpeter, gripped a shiny brass bugle in one hand, while the barefoot Geika, his face stern, held a big envelope made of wrapping paper.
"What kind of circus act is this?" asked the boy they called Figure, leaning over the fence. "Misha!" he yelled over his shoulder. "Drop the game, there's a sort of delegation here to see you!"
"Here I am," said Kvakin, hoisting himself up on the fence. "Hiya there, Geika!
Who's that shrimp you've got with you?"
"Take this envelope." Geika handed over the ultimatum. "You have twenty-four hours to think it over.
I shall come back for your answer at the same time tomorrow."
Touched on the raw at being called a shrimp, Nick Kolokolchikov raised his bugle and, blowing out his cheeks, sounded a furious retreat.
The two envoys then departed in a dignified silence under the inquisitive stares of the boys strung along the fence.
"What's this, anyway?" said Kvakin, fingering the envelope and looking at the gaping boys. "Here we were, minding our own business, and then bugles, threats!
No, fellas, I can't make head or tail of it!"
He tore open the envelope and, perched as he was on the fence, began to read:
" To Mikhail Kvakin, Chief of the Gang for the Mop-ping-up of Other People's Gardens.' That's me," he explained in a loud voice. "Full title and all the trimmings. 'And his,' " he continued, " 'inglorious assistant Peter Pyatakov, otherwise known simply as Figure.' That's you," he explained with satisfaction to Figure. "Sounds good, 'inglorious'!
Too high-sounding though, if you ask me; they could have called the fool something simpler. 'And likewise to all the members of their infamous band—an ul-ti-ma-tum.'
What that is I don't know," announced Kvakin sarcastically. "Most likely a swearword of some sort."
"It's an international word.
Means they're going to lash us," explained the boy, who was standing next to Figure, a close-cropped lad called Alex.
"Then why don't they say so!" said Kvakin. "Now we come to Article One:
" 'In consideration of the fact that you make night raids on the gardens of peaceful inhabitants, not sparing houses bearing our sign—a red star—or even those bearing the star with the black border of mourning, we order you, you cowardly scoundrels. . . .' "Can you beat it?
Just listen to how they swear—the dogs!" continued Kvakin, forcing a smile. "And look at all the fancy words and commas!
Boy! " 'We order you, Mikhail Kvakin, and that altogether inglorious individual, Figure, to appear at the place indicated by our messengers at a time not later than tomorrow morning, bringing with you a list of all the members of your infamous band.'
" 'In the event of a refusal, we shall consider ourselves at liberty to take any further action we may think fit.' "
"What do they mean—'at liberty'?" Kvakin pondered. "We never locked them up anywhere, did we?"
"It's another of those international words.
Means they're going to lash us," the close-cropped Alex explained again.
"Then why don't they say so?" Kvakin said with annoyance. "Too bad Geika's gone; looks like he hasn't cried for a long time."
"He won't cry," Alex said. "His brother's a sailor."
"So what?"
"His father was a sailor too.
He won't cry."