of paper was returned, now adorned with the magic stamp.
“Now off we go to the consulate,” grunted Podtyagin joyfully as they left the redoubtable-looking though in reality rather dreary building. “It’s in the bag now. How do you manage to talk to them so calmly, my dear Lev Glebovich? It was such agony for me when I went before! Come on, let’s go on the top deck of the bus. What a joy this is—I’m actually in a sweat, you know.”
He was the first to clamber up the twisting staircase. The conductor on the top deck banged on the iron side with his hand and the bus moved off. Houses, signboards, sunlight on shop windows floated by.
“Our grandchildren will never understand all this nonsense about visas,” said Podtyagin, reverentially examining his passport. “They’ll never understand that there could be so much human anxiety connected with a simple rubber stamp. Do you think,” he added anxiously, “that the French really will give me a visa now?”
“Of course they will,” said Ganin. “After all, they told you that permission had been given.”
“I think I’ll leave tomorrow,” Podtyagin smiled. “Let’s go together, Lyovushka. It’ll be fine in Paris. No, you just look what a mug I have here.”
Ganin glanced over his arm at the passport with its photograph in the corner. The photograph was quite remarkable: a dazed, bloated face swam in a grayish murk.
“I have no less than two passports,” Ganin said with a smile. “One Russian, which is real but very old, and a Polish one, forged. That’s the one I use.”
As he paid the conductor, Podtyagin put down the yellow document on the seat beside him, selected 40 pfennigs from the several coins in his hand and glanced up at the conductor.
“ Genug? ”
He then looked sideways at Ganin.
“What did you say, Lev Glebovich? Forged?”
“Certainly. My first name really is Lev, but my surname is not Ganin at all.”
“What do you mean, my dear fellow?” Podtyagin goggled in amazement and suddenly clutched at his hat—a strong wind was blowing.
“Well, that’s the way it was,” ruminated Ganin. “About three years ago. Partisan detachment. In Poland. And so on. Thought I’d break through to St. Petersburg and raise a rebellion. Now it’s quite convenient and rather fun having this passport.”
Podtyagin suddenly looked away and said glumly, “I dreamed about St. Petersburg last night, Lyovushka. I was walking along the Nevski. I knew it was the Nevski, although it looked nothing like it. The houses had sloping angles as in a futurist painting, and the sky was black, although I knew it was daytime. And the passers-by were giving me strange looks. Then a man crossed the street and took aim at my head. He’s an old haunter of mine. It’s terrible—oh, terrible—that whenever we dream about Russia we never dream of it as beautiful, as we know it was in reality, but as something monstrous—the sort of dreams where the sky is falling in and you feel the world’s coming to an end.”
“No,” said Ganin, “I only dream about the beautiful things. The same woods, the same country house. Sometimes it’s all rather deserted, with unfamiliar clearings. But that does not matter. We have to get out here, Anton Sergeyevich.”
He went down the spiral staircase and helped Podtyagin to step onto the pavement.
“Just look at the way that water sparkles,” Podtyagin remarked, breathing laboriously, and pointed at the canal with all five fingers stretched.
“Careful—mind that bicycle,” said Ganin. “There’s the consulate over there on the right.”
“Please accept my sincere thanks, Lev Glebovich. If I’dbeen on my own I’d never have got through all that red tape. It’s a great relief to me. Farewell, Deutschland.”
They entered the consulate building. As they went up the stairs Podtyagin began searching in his pockets.
“Come on,” said Ganin, turning round.
But the old man kept searching.
twelve
Only four
“Now off we go to the consulate,” grunted Podtyagin joyfully as they left the redoubtable-looking though in reality rather dreary building. “It’s in the bag now. How do you manage to talk to them so calmly, my dear Lev Glebovich? It was such agony for me when I went before! Come on, let’s go on the top deck of the bus. What a joy this is—I’m actually in a sweat, you know.”
He was the first to clamber up the twisting staircase. The conductor on the top deck banged on the iron side with his hand and the bus moved off. Houses, signboards, sunlight on shop windows floated by.
“Our grandchildren will never understand all this nonsense about visas,” said Podtyagin, reverentially examining his passport. “They’ll never understand that there could be so much human anxiety connected with a simple rubber stamp. Do you think,” he added anxiously, “that the French really will give me a visa now?”
“Of course they will,” said Ganin. “After all, they told you that permission had been given.”
“I think I’ll leave tomorrow,” Podtyagin smiled. “Let’s go together, Lyovushka. It’ll be fine in Paris. No, you just look what a mug I have here.”
Ganin glanced over his arm at the passport with its photograph in the corner. The photograph was quite remarkable: a dazed, bloated face swam in a grayish murk.
“I have no less than two passports,” Ganin said with a smile. “One Russian, which is real but very old, and a Polish one, forged. That’s the one I use.”
As he paid the conductor, Podtyagin put down the yellow document on the seat beside him, selected 40 pfennigs from the several coins in his hand and glanced up at the conductor.
“ Genug? ”
He then looked sideways at Ganin.
“What did you say, Lev Glebovich? Forged?”
“Certainly. My first name really is Lev, but my surname is not Ganin at all.”
“What do you mean, my dear fellow?” Podtyagin goggled in amazement and suddenly clutched at his hat—a strong wind was blowing.
“Well, that’s the way it was,” ruminated Ganin. “About three years ago. Partisan detachment. In Poland. And so on. Thought I’d break through to St. Petersburg and raise a rebellion. Now it’s quite convenient and rather fun having this passport.”
Podtyagin suddenly looked away and said glumly, “I dreamed about St. Petersburg last night, Lyovushka. I was walking along the Nevski. I knew it was the Nevski, although it looked nothing like it. The houses had sloping angles as in a futurist painting, and the sky was black, although I knew it was daytime. And the passers-by were giving me strange looks. Then a man crossed the street and took aim at my head. He’s an old haunter of mine. It’s terrible—oh, terrible—that whenever we dream about Russia we never dream of it as beautiful, as we know it was in reality, but as something monstrous—the sort of dreams where the sky is falling in and you feel the world’s coming to an end.”
“No,” said Ganin, “I only dream about the beautiful things. The same woods, the same country house. Sometimes it’s all rather deserted, with unfamiliar clearings. But that does not matter. We have to get out here, Anton Sergeyevich.”
He went down the spiral staircase and helped Podtyagin to step onto the pavement.
“Just look at the way that water sparkles,” Podtyagin remarked, breathing laboriously, and pointed at the canal with all five fingers stretched.
“Careful—mind that bicycle,” said Ganin. “There’s the consulate over there on the right.”
“Please accept my sincere thanks, Lev Glebovich. If I’dbeen on my own I’d never have got through all that red tape. It’s a great relief to me. Farewell, Deutschland.”
They entered the consulate building. As they went up the stairs Podtyagin began searching in his pockets.
“Come on,” said Ganin, turning round.
But the old man kept searching.
twelve
Only four
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