But it was not Talberg.
Three doors slammed, then Nikolka's astonished voice could be heard coming from the staircase.
Another voice answered.
The voices coming upstairs were gradually drowned by the noise of hobnailed boots and a rifle-butt.
As the cold air flooded in through the front door Alexei and Elena were faced by a tall, broad-shouldered figure in a heel-length greatcoat and cloth shoulder-straps marked in grease pencil with a first lieutenant's three stars.
The hood of the coat was covered with hoar-frost and a heavy rifle fixed with a rusty bayonet filled the whole lobby.
'Hello there', piped the figure in a hoarse tenor, pulling at the hood with fingers stiff with cold.
'Viktor!'
Nikolka helped the figure to untie the drawstring and the hood fell away to reveal the band of an officer's service cap with a faded badge; on the huge shoulders was the head of Lieutenant Viktor Myshlaevsky.
His head was extremely handsome, with the curiously disturbing good looks of centuries of truly ancient inbred lineage.
His attractive features were two bright eyes, each of a different colour, an aquiline nose, proud lips, an unblemished forehead and 'no distinguishing marks'.
But one corner of his mouth drooped sadly and his chin was cleft slantwise as though a sculptor, having begun by modelling an aristocratic face, had conceived the wild idea of slicing off a layer of the clay and leaving an otherwise manly face with a small and crooked feminine chin.
'Where have you come from?'
'Where've you been?'
'Careful,' replied Myshlaevsky weakly, 'don't knock it.
There's a bottle of vodka in there.'
Nikolka carefully hung up the heavy greatcoat, from whose pocket there protruded the neck of a bottle wrapped in a piece of torn newspaper.
Next he hung up a Mauser automatic in a wooden holster, so heavy that it made the hatstand of stag's antlers rock slightly.
Only then did Myshlaevsky turn round to Elena. He kissed her hand and said:
'I've come from the Red Tavern district.
Can I spend the night here, please, Lena?
I'll never make it home tonight.'
'My God, of course you can.'
Suddenly Myshlaevsky groaned, tried to blow on his fingers, but his lips would not obey him.
His face grew moist as the frost on his eyebrows and smooth, clipped moustache began to melt.
The elder Turbin unbuttoned Myshlaevsky's service tunic, pulled out his dirty shirt and ran his finger down the seam.
'Well, of course . . .
Thought so.
You're crawling with lice.'
'Then you must have a bath.' Frightened, Elena had momentarily forgotten about Talberg. 'Nikolka, there's some firewood in the kitchen.
Go and light the boiler.
Oh, why did I have to give Anyuta the evening off?
Alexei, take his tunic off, quickly.'
By the tiled stove in the dining-room Myshlaevsky let out a groan and collapsed into a chair.
Elena bustled around, keys clinking.
Kneeling down, Alexei and Nikolka pulled off Myshlaevsky's smart, narrow boots strapped around the calf.
'Easy now . . . oh, take it easy . . .'
They unwound his dirty, stained puttees.
Under them was a pair of mauve silk socks.
Nikolka at once put the tunic out on to the cold verandah, where the temperature would kill the lice.
In his filthy cotton shirt, criss-crossed by a pair of black suspenders and blue breeches strapped under his instep Myshlaevsky now looked thin, dark, sick and miserable.
He slapped his frozen palms together and rubbed them against the side of the stove.
'News . . . rumors . . .
People . . . Reds . . .' '. . .
May . . . fell in love . . .'
'What bastards they are!' shouted Alexei Turbin. 'Couldn't they at least have given you some felt boots and a sheepskin jerkin?'
'Felt boo-oots', Myshlaevsky mimicked him, weeping. 'Felt boo . . .'
Unbearable pain gripped his hands and feet in the warmth.
Hearing Elena's footsteps go into the kitchen, Myshlaevsky screamed, in tears, screamed furiously:
'It was a shambles!'