The Librarian

THE BUYER

BUT AT HOME a surprise was waiting. A note, folded in four and wedged in the door, with a message for me from a certain Vadim Leonidovich Kolesov. He wrote that in Housing Department Office No. 27 he had heard from the manager, Mukhina, that I intended to sell the apartment and, as an extremely interested party, he wished to meet with me. His aged parents lived nearby, so the purchase of accommodation in this precise location would be ideal, and he asked permission to call round that evening at about ten.

The polite tone of the letter suggested a man of delicate manners. True, the thought did briefly flash through my mind that I hadn’t really told Antonina Petrovna anything much, but it was easier to convince myself that in my tired state I had simply not attached any significance in that situation to the question: “What are you thinking of doing with the apartment?”—and had replied automatically, without even realizing it.

Everything, of course, was suddenly going rather too well, but after a long sequence of setbacks in this worldly life, a minor indulgence from destiny seemed entirely justified.

A quick sale was the outcome that suited my plans to return home soon better than any other. I reread the message excitedly and put the sheet of paper in my pocket, promising myself that in the event of a successful deal I would give Antonina Petrovna a more substantial present than a box of sweets.

I still had half a day in reserve, so I put my feet up for a while and took a nap, and then tidied the apartment, washed the floors and slipped out for half an hour to the grocery shop. Outside I saw the couple from the previous day chatting to each other again—the bald man with the bundle and the dacha lady in the headscarf. On my way back, they had been joined by another two: a man with a moustache, who was clearly another vegetable gardener, clutching the handle of the spade on which he was leaning with strong, sinewy hands, and a floppy-haired young guy in a threadbare mechanic’s boiler suit, with a toolbox. The young guy was cracking simple-minded little jokes to the dacha lady, and the sinewy man with the spade was laughing loudly.

An elderly woman in horn-rimmed spectacles who was sitting at the entrance to the building set aside her knitting and asked me sternly: “Who are you visiting, young man?”

I replied politely, “Only myself. I’m the late Vyazintsev’s nephew.”

Satisfied with my answer, the stern woman took up her needles again.

I spent the time until Kolesov’s arrival sorting through my uncle’s bunker. In addition to preserved goods and all sorts of builder’s lumber, the cupboards under the ceiling in the hallway contained a photographic enlarger, a Kharkov electric shaver in a box, a slide projector and a whole bundle of copies of the old Outlook magazine, with the flexible blue plastic records that came with them. I even tried to play one, but the speakers of the radiogram had a loose connection somewhere, and the sound kept cutting out. While I was edging my way in behind the wardrobe to drag out the wires, someone rang the doorbell.

At this point I must admit that Kolesov did not at all resemble the ideal buyer nurtured by my dreams—the bashful father of a small family consisting of a wife and a five-year-old daughter.

Vadim Leonidovich was bony and lanky, with intensely black slicked-back hair that was receding deeply above the temples, like Mickey Mouse. He smiled and gesticulated continually, and he had a very shrewd look about him, but in theory a shrewd man ought not to be interested in my apartment.

Instead of a wife and a little fair-haired daughter, Kolesov had brought with him a friend by the name of Alik. Vadim Leonidovich introduced him and immediately broke into profuse, staccato apologies for descending unannounced on me and for bringing his workmate along as well. Apparently this Alik—a character with a face as red as sunburn—had kindly given Vadim Leonidovich a lift in his car. Alik stood in one spot with his fists thrust into the pockets of his leather jacket, swaying to and fro from his heels to his toes with a springy movement, like a rocking chair, and only once asked for some water.

Vadim Leonidovich scampered round the sitting room as nimbly as a spider, glanced briefly into the kitchen, and soon I heard him cry out in joy from my uncle’s bedroom:

“Alik, Alik, come here quickly!”

“What’s up in there?” the sullen Alik muttered, but he answered the summons anyway.

Kolesov was standing in front of the shelves, exultantly leafing through a book.

“Would you believe it, eh?”

His eyes met Alik’s and Alik coughed.

“The Quiet Grass! Have you read it?” Kolesov asked, skewering me with a piercing glance.

“No,” I replied drily. I was thoroughly fed up of Kolesov’s scurrying about and fatuous exclamations. “Is it worth reading?”

“I don’t think so,” he said with a smile. “It’s a rubbishy little book. It’s just that for me it’s associated with a certain romantic memory that can’t be expressed in words. Koktebel, the sea… Alik here knows about it. I can tell you if you like…”

I took the book out of his hands and examined it cursorily. Published in the late 1970s. The narrow spine was half worn away and it was hard to understand how Kolesov could possibly have discovered this “romantic memory” on my uncle’s shelves.

“Listen!” he suddenly exclaimed. “You don’t need the book. Sell it to me, eh?”

I said guardedly that if we made a deal, I would make him a present of this piece of trash.

Vadim Leonidovich started fussing.

“Didn’t I say that everything suits me just fine?… I’m willing to lay out er, er, er… eight thousand greenbacks. What do you say?” he asked, and froze with an anxious air.

It was two thousand more than my very boldest forecasts. Inwardly exultant, I paused sagaciously to maintain gravitas, as if I were weighing up all the pros and cons, and then nodded.

Vadim Leonidovich declined tea and delighted me by taking a tape measure out of his pocket and measuring the walls, drawing the conclusion: “The suite will be a perfect fit.” Then, in confirmation of the seriousness of his intentions, Kolesov informed me that he would like to start registering the deal the next day. I reminded him that on a Saturday everything would be closed. He clicked his tongue in annoyance, postponed our meeting until Monday and dictated his home and work telephone numbers for me.

Vadim Leonidovich wheedled The Quiet Grass out of me anyway. “Oh, please, now we’ve struck a deal,” he whined jokingly, and I decided not to be petty and mean-spirited.

Vadim Leonidovich pressed the book to his chest and said it was this “lucky find” that had decided everything; for him it was a “good sign” about the apartment. He suddenly recollected that an acquaintance was waiting for him in the car and it was terribly impolite to keep him waiting. Vadim Leonidovich hadn’t mentioned any third party before that…

Now I realize it was my obliging nature that saved me. Who knows what would have happened if I had refused to let Kolesov have his present…

Somehow it happened, no doubt because the conversation ran on, that I followed my visitors out. As we walked down the stairs, Kolesov joked happily, saying that he had been searching for The Quiet Grass for a long time, and now a stroke of luck had brought the book to him.

In the hours that had passed since I came back from the shop and then received Kolesov, it had turned completely dark. The yard was empty. The woman knitting by the entrance, the garrulous dacha folk, the bald man with the bundle and the mechanic had all gone home.

The car, a Zhiguli 2106, had two people in it: the driver and a passenger sitting beside him. When we appeared, they got out and Vadim Leonidovich waved the little book to them, after which the driver relaxed and leaned back against the car, while his companion came towards us. I had just enough time to realize that my visitors were not even a threesome, but a foursome…