Definitely Maybe (10 page)

Weingarten was just waiting for him to finish.

“Look, Dmitri, you have to understand one thing.”

But Zakhar did not let him finish.

“Just a minute!” he pleaded, putting out his hands as though to lead Weingarten and Malianov to their separate corners. “Let me talk, while I still remember. Will you wait, Val, and let me talk? It’s about headaches. You just mentioned them, Dmitri. You know, I was hospitalized last year.”

It turned out that he was in the hospital the year before because there was something wrong with his blood, and he shared a room with this Vladlen Semenovich Glukhov, an orientalist. Glukhov was there with a heart condition, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that they got to be friends and met once in a while after they got out. And, just two months ago, that same Glukhov complained to Gubar that he had this huge project for which he had been gathering material for ten years and it was all going to hell because of a strange idiosyncrasy that Glukhov had developed. Namely: As soon as he sat down to write up his research, his head began aching terribly, to the point of nausea and fainting spells.

“And yet he would think about his work freely,” Zakhar continued, “read materials, and even, I think, talk about it … though I’m not sure, and I don’t want to lie to you. But he couldn’t write about it at all. And after what you just said, Dmitri …”

“Do you know his address?” Weingarten demanded.

“Yes.”

“Does he have a phone?”

“Yes. I have the number.”

“Go ahead, invite him over here. He’s one of us.”

Malianov jumped up.

“Go to hell!” he shouted. “You’re nuts! You can’t do that. Maybe he’s just got a thing about it.”

“We all have a thing.”

“Val, he’s an orientalist! A completely different field!”

“It’s the same one, buddy, I swear it’s the same one.”

“Don’t do it! Zakhar, sit down, don’t listen to him. He’s drunker than a coot.”

It was horrible and impossible to picture a normal and total stranger coming into this hot, smoke-filled kitchen and immersing himself in the pervasive madness, terror, and drunkenness.

“Look, why don’t we do this?” Malianov insisted. “Why don’t we call Vecherovsky? I swear it’ll do more good.”

Weingarten had no objections to Vecherovsky. “Right,” he said. “That’s a good idea, calling Vecherovsky. Vecherovsky, he’s got a head on his shoulders. Zakhar, go call your Glukhov, and then we’ll call Vecherovsky.”

Malianov desperately didn’t want any Glukhovs. He begged, he pleaded, he insisted that it was his house and that he was going to throw all of them out on their ears. But it was no good going against Weingarten. Zakhar went off to call Glukhov, and the boy slipped off the stool and followed him like a shadow

Excerpt 14.…
Zakhar’s son, comfortably ensconced on the corner of the bed, graced the proceedings with occasional readings from the
Popular Medical Encyclopedia
, given to him by Malianov to keep him quiet. Vecherovsky, strikingly elegant in contrast to the sweaty, disheveled Weingarten, listened and looked at the strange boy curiously, raising his red eyebrows high. He had not yet said anything substantial—he had asked a few questions that had, to Malianov (and not to Malianov alone), seemed irrelevant. For instance, for no reason at all, he asked Zakhar if he was often in conflict with his supervisors and Glukhov if he liked to watch television. (It turned out that Zakhar never had conflicts with anybody, that was his personality, and Glukhov did like to watch television, not only liked it, but couldn’t resist it.)

Malianov really liked Glukhov. In general, Malianov didn’t like seeing new people in old company; he was always afraid they would misbehave somehow and he would be embarrassed for them. But Glukhov turned out to be okay. He was extremely cozy and unthreatening—a little scrawny, snub-nosed fellow with reddish eyes hidden by strong glasses. When he arrived he happily drank the glass of vodka Weingarten offered him and was visibly saddened when he learned it was the last one in the house. When he was subjected to cross-examination, he listened to each one attentively, leaning
his head professorially to the right and looking to the right as well. “No, no,” he replied apologetically. “No, nothing like that happened to me. Please, I can’t even imagine anything like that. My thesis? I’m afraid it’s too foreign for you: ‘The Cultural Influence of the USA on Japan: An Attempt at a Qualitative and Quantitative Analysis.’ Yes, my headaches seem to be some idiosyncrasy: I’ve discussed it with major doctors—a rare case, they said.”

In general, they laid an egg with Glukhov, but it didn’t matter, it was nice that he was there. He was a real down-to-earth guy. He drank heartily and wanted more, ate caviar with childlike glee, preferred Ceylon tea, and his favorite reading matter was mysteries. He watched the strange child with reserved apprehension, laughing uncertainly from time to time, listened to the delirious tales with uncommon sympathy, and scratched behind both ears, muttering, “Yes, that’s amazing, unbelievable!” In a word, everything about Glukhov was clear to Malianov. There would be no new information and certainly no advice coming from him.

Weingarten, as usual when Vecherovsky was around, lowered his profile. He even looked more presentable and stopped shouting and calling people “buddy.” However, he did eat the last grains of the black caviar.

If you didn’t count the brief replies to Vecherovsky’s questions, Zakhar said nothing. He didn’t even get to tell his own story—Weingarten took that upon himself. And he stopped admonishing his son and just smiled painfully as he listened to the helpful quotations about the diseases of various delicate organs.

And so they sat in silence. Sipping cold tea. Smoking. The windows of the house across the street shone molten gold, the silver sickle of the new moon hung in the dark blue sky, and there was a sharp crackling sound coming through the
window—they must have been burning old crates again on the street. Weingarten rustled his pack of cigarettes, peeked inside, crumpled it up, and softly asked: “Who’s got any cigarettes left?” “Here, help yourself,” Zakhar replied in a low voice. Glukhov coughed and rattled his teaspoon in the glass.

Malianov looked over at Vecherovsky. He was sitting in his chair, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, studying the nails of his right hand. Malianov looked at Weingarten. Weingarten was smoking and watching Vecherovsky over the glowing tip of his cigarette. Zakhar was looking at Vecherovsky. And Glukhov. Malianov was struck by the silliness of the situation. What, actually, do we expect from him? So, he’s a mathematician. So, a major mathematician. So, let’s say he’s a very major mathematician—a world-famous mathematician. So? We’re like a bunch of children. God! We’re lost in the woods and trustingly flutter our eyes at the nice man: Oh, he’ll lead us out.

“Well, basically, that’s all the ideas we have on the matter,” Weingarten said smoothly. “As you can see, there are at least two positions shaping up.” He spoke as though addressing the group, but looked only at Vecherovsky. “Dmitri feels that we should try to explain all these events in the framework of known natural phenomena. I feel that we are dealing with the intervention of forces completely unknown to us. That is: like cures like, fantastic with the fantastic.”

That tirade sounded unbelievably phony. No, he couldn’t just simply say, we’re lost, mister, lead us out; no, he had to sum things up: We’ve been doing some thinking too. And now sit there like a fool. Malianov picked up the teapot and left Val to his shame. He did not hear the conversation while he ran the water and put on the kettle. When he returned, Vecherovsky was speaking slowly, carefully examining the nails on his left hand.

“… and that’s why I feel your point of view is more accurate. Really, the fantastic should be explained by the fantastic. I suspect that all of you have fallen into the sphere of interest of … let’s call it a supercivilization. I think that’s become the standard term for an intelligence many degrees more powerful than human intelligence.”

Weingarten inhaled deeply and, exhaling smoke, nodded with an important and concentrated air.

“Why they need to stop your research in particular,” continued Vecherovsky, “is not only a complex question, but an academic one. The point is that humanity, without even suspecting it, has attracted the attention of this intelligence and stopped being a self-contained system. Apparently, without even suspecting it, we’ve trod on the corns of some supercivilization, and that supercivilization, apparently, has decided to regulate our progress as it sees fit.”

“Phil,” Malianov said. “Wait. Don’t you see it either? What the hell kind of supercivilization is this? Some supercivilization that prods us like a blind kitten. Why all this meaningless nonsense? My investigator and the cognac? Zakhar’s women? Where is the fundamental principle of reason: expediency, economy?”

“Those are particulars,” Vecherovsky replied softly. “Why measure nonhuman expediency in human terms? And then remember with what force you smack yourself on the cheek to kill a crummy mosquito. A blow like that could easily kill all the mosquitoes in the vicinity.”

Weingarten added: “Or, for instance. What is the expediency of building a bridge over a river from the point of view of a trout?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Malianov said. “It just doesn’t make sense.”

Vecherovsky waited a while and then, certain that Malianov had stopped talking, continued.

“I would like to stress the following. When the question is put this way, your personal problems recede into the background. We’re talking about the fate of mankind. Well, perhaps not in the fatal sense of the word, but the fate of its dignity in any case. So now our goal is to protect not only your revertase, Val, but the future of our whole planet’s biology. Or am I wrong?”

For the first time in Vecherovsky’s presence Val blew up to his usual proportions. He nodded most energetically but said something that Malianov did not expect at all.

He said: “Yes, absolutely. We all understand that we’re not talking just about us here. We’re talking about hundreds of research projects. Maybe thousands. What am I saying—about the future of research in general!”

“So,” Vecherovsky said energetically, “there is a battle ahead of us. Their weapon is secrecy, therefore ours will be publicity. The first thing we should do is tell all our friends who, on the one hand, have enough imagination to believe us and, on the other, enough authority to convince their colleagues who hold high posts in science. In that way we will enter into contact with the government obliquely and gain access to the mass media. We will then be able to inform all mankind if necessary. Your first move was absolutely correct. You turned to me. I will personally attempt to convince several major mathematicians who are at the same time important administrators. I will begin, naturally, with our own people, and then move on to foreign mathematicians.”

He was animated, sitting up straight, and talking and talking and talking. He mentioned names, titles, positions; he clearly defined who Malianov should see and who Weingarten
should turn to. You would have thought that he had been planning this for days. But the more he talked, the more depressed Malianov became. And when Vecherovsky, with totally indecent agitation, moved on to part two of his program, the apotheosis—when humanity, united by the general alarm, fights off the supercivilized enemy shoulder to shoulder across the entire planet—well, then Malianov felt that he’d had it, stood up, and went into the kitchen to make fresh tea. So much for Vecherovsky. Some brain. The poor guy must have been terrified too. This is no simple argument about telepathy. But it’s our own fault: Vecherovsky this, Vecherovsky that. Vecherovsky is just an ordinary man. A smart man, yes, a major figure, but no more than that. As long as you talk about abstractions, he’s terrific, but when it’s real life … That Vecherovsky immediately took Val’s side and didn’t even want to hear him out really hurt. Malianov took the teapot and went back into the room.

Naturally, Weingarten was letting Vecherovsky have it: Deep respect is deep respect, but when a man is blathering nonsense, no amount of respect is going to help. Maybe Vecherovsky thinks he’s dealing with total idiots. Maybe Vecherovsky has a couple of authoritative and feeble-minded academicians stowed away somewhere who will greet this news with great enthusiasm after a bottle or two. He, Weingarten, did not personally have any academicians like that. He, Weingarten, had his old friend Dmitri Malianov, from whom he expected some definite sympathy, especially since Malianov was in the same pickle. And what happened—did he welcome his tale of woe with enthusiasm? With interest? With at least sympathy? The hell he did! The first thing he said was that Weingarten was a liar—and in his own way, Malianov is right. Weingarten is terrified to even think about approaching his boss with a story like that even though his boss is still
a young man, not yet ossified, and well disposed to a certain noble madness in science. He doesn’t know Vecherovsky’s situation, but he, Weingarten, has no intention of spending the rest of his days in even the most luxurious of nuthouses.

“The orderlies will come and take us away!” Zakhar said woefully. “That’s clear. It’s okay for you guys, but they’ll brand me a sex maniac as well.”

“Hold on, Zakhar,” Weingarten said in irritation. “No, Phil, I just don’t recognize you! Let’s assume that all our talk of mental institutions is an exaggeration. This will still mean the end of our careers as scientists, immediately! Our reputations will be ruined! And then, goddamn it, even if we did find one or two sympathetic souls in the Academy, how can they go to the government with this ranting? Who would want to risk doing that? You know what kind of pressure would have to be brought on a man for him to risk that? And for humanity, our dear co-inhabitants of planet Earth …” Weingarten waved his hand and looked at Malianov with his olive eyes. “Pour me some hot tea,” he said. “Publicity … publicity is a two-ended stick, you know.” And he began slurping his tea, rubbing the back of his hairy arm across his nose.