"Trouble, Jenny, big trouble!" he shouted over his shoulder. "Geika and Nick've been locked up!"
Olga strolled up the hill reading her book.
Where the steep path cut across the road she came upon George standing by his motorcycle.
They greeted each other.
"I was riding along when I saw you coming.
So I thought I'd wait and give you a lift if you were going the same way."
"That's not true!" Olga retorted. "You were waiting for me on purpose."
"All right, I was," said George. "Have it your way if you like.
I must apologise for scaring you this morning.
I was the lame old fellow at the gate, you see.
I was dressed for rehearsal.
Climb on and I'll take you home."
Olga shook her head.
He placed a bouquet of flowers on her book.
It was a nice bouquet.
Olga blushed in confusion—and threw it to the ground.
George had not expected that.
"Look here," he said with chagrin. "You play and sing well, and you have nice straightforward eyes.
I haven't offended you in any way.
I don't think even people of the most reinforced concrete professions should act like that."
"You shouldn't give me flowers!" Olga said guiltily, frightened by what she had done. "You—you can give me a lift without offering me flowers."
She took her seat on the leather cushion and the motorcycle sped off.
When the bike came to a fork in the road it ignored the road to the estate and tore down the one leading out into the open country.
"You've taken the wrong road," Olga shouted. "We should have gone to the right!"
"This is a better road," George replied. "It's more fun this way."
Another turn, and they roared through a rustling, shady stand of trees.
A dog left its herd to bark at them and chase the bike.
But the motorcycle was already far away.
Then a lorry came whining down the road like a heavy artillery shell in trajectory.
When George and Olga broke out from the clouds of dust which it had raised, they came into sight of the belching smokestacks, and glass and steel buildings of what looked like some strange city at the foot of a hill.
"That's our plant!" George shouted. "Three years ago I used to come here to pick mushrooms and wild strawberries!"
Almost without slackening speed, the motorcycle executed a U turn.
"Straight ahead!" Olga cried warningly. "Head straight for home!"
Suddenly the motor died down and they came to a stop.
"Just a moment," George said, jumping to the ground. "A minor breakdown."
He rolled the machine over to a birch tree by the side of the road, took out a monkey wrench and began to tinker with the motor.
"What part are you playing in your opera?" Olga asked, seating herself on the grass. "Why is your get-up so stern and frightening?"
"I've got the part of an old soldier," replied George, busy with the motor. "He's an ex-partisan and a bit off his head.
He lives near the border and is obsessed by the idea that our enemies might outwit us. But the soldiers are a gay young lot and spend their off-duty ^ hours playing volleyball.
There are all sorts of girls too."
George twisted his features into a frown and began to sing in a low voice:
Again the moon is dimmed behind the clouds. Three nights I've kept my weary watch—but shrouds Of misty silence hide the slinking foe. Even now he is at hand! But I am old and weak, so sleep not thou, Sleep not, my motherland!
Then he switched to another key and chanted in imitation of the chorus: Be still, old man—be still!
"What do they mean by 'be still'?" Olga asked, wiping the dust from her lips with a handkerchief.
"It means," explained George, continuing to work away with his monkey wrench, "it means sleep in peace, you old fool!
Officers and men are at their posts. . . . Olga, did your sister tell you about our talk?"
"She did, and I scolded her for it."
"You shouldn't have.
She's a very amusing child.
I said 'Oh', and she said, 'Boo'!"