Definitely Maybe

by Arkady Strugatsky

  “Who hushed the voice of joy?” Malianov asked. “Everything is nonsense! There is only one luxury in the world. The luxury of human contact! I don’t remember who said that.” He unscrewed the cork. “Let’s enjoy the contact—the luxury …”

  The wine flowed abundantly and all over the table. Snegovoi jumped up to protect his white pants. He was abnormally large, he really was. People shouldn’t be that big in our compact times. Developing his thought, Malianov wiped the table. Snegovoi sat back down on the stool. The stool crunched.

  Up to that moment the luxury of human contact was being expressed in garbled exclamations. Damn that shyness of the intelligentsia! Two absolutely beautiful people cannot simply immediately open up to each other, take each other into their hearts and minds, become friends from the very first second. Malianov stood up and, holding his glass at ear level, expounded the theme out loud. It didn’t help. They drank. That didn’t help either. Lidochka looked out the window in boredom. Snegovoi rolled his glass back and forth on the table between his huge brown hands. Malianov noticed for the first time that Arnold’s arms were burned—all the way to the elbow, and even higher. This inspired him to ask:

  “Well, Arnold, when will you disappear next?”

  Snegovoi shuddered noticeably and looked up at him, then pulled his neck in and hunched his shoulders. Malianov got the impression that he was getting ready to get up, and he suddenly realized that his question, to put it mildly, may have appeared to have another meaning.

  “Arnold!” he yelled, flinging his arms up toward the ceiling. “God, that’s not at all what I meant! Lidochka, you must realize that this man is totally mysterious. He disappears from time to time. He drops by with the key to his place and melts into thin air. He’ll be gone a month or two. And then the doorbell rings, and he’s back.” He felt that he was babbling, that it was enough, that it was time to change the subject. “Arnold, you know perfectly well that I really like you, and I’m always happy to see you. So there can’t be any talk of your leaving before two in the morning.”

  “Of course, Dmitri,” Snegovoi replied, and slapped Malianov on the back. “Of course, my dear friend, of course.”

  “And this is Lidochka,” Malianov announced, pointing in her direction. “My wife’s best friend from school. From Odessa.”

  Snegovoi forced himself to turn toward Lidochka and asked: “Will you be in Leningrad long?”

  She answered rather politely, and he asked another question, something about the White Nights.

  In short, they began their luxurious contact, and Malianov could rest easy. No, no, I can’t drink. What shame! I’m completely knocked out. Without hearing or understanding a single word, he watched Snegovoi’s horrible face, eaten away by the fires of hell, and suffered pangs of conscience. When the suffering became unbearable, he got up quietly; clutching the walls, he made his way to the bathroom and locked himself in. He sat on the edge of the tub in gloomy despair for a while, then turned on the cold water full force and stuck his head under it.

  When he got back, refreshed and with a wet collar, Snegovoi was in the middle of a tense rendition of the joke about the two roosters. Lidochka was laughing loudly, throwing her head back and exposing her made-for-kissing neck. Malianov took this as a good sign, even though he was not well disposed toward people who raised politeness to an art. However, the luxury of contact, like any other luxury, demanded certain expenditures. He waited while Lidochka laughed, picked up the falling banner and launched into a series of astronomical jokes that neither of the others could possibly have heard. When he ran out of jokes, Lidochka brightened the occasion with beach jokes. To tell the truth, the jokes were rather middling, and she didn’t know how to tell them, either, but she did know how to laugh, and her teeth were sparkling sugar-white. Then the conversation somehow moved on to foretelling the future. Lidochka informed them that a gypsy woman told her that she would have three husbands and no children. What would we do without gypsies? muttered Malianov, and he bragged that a gypsy had told him that he would make a major discovery in the interrelation of stars with diffusion matter in the galaxy. They had some more iced Bull’s Blood and then Snegovoi suddenly unburdened himself of a strange story.

  It seems that he had been told that he would die at the age of eighty-three in Greenland. (“In the Socialist Republic of Greenland,” Malianov joked, but Snegovoi replied calmly, “No, just in Greenland.”) He believed in it fatally, and his conviction irritated everyone around him. Once, during the war, though not at the front, one of his friends, soused, or as they used to say in those days, blotto, was so maddened by it all that he pulled out his gun, stuck the barrel into Snegovoi’s temple, and said, “Now we’ll see,” and cocked the gun.

  “And?” Lidochka asked.

  “Killed him dead,” Malianov joked.

  “It misfired,” Snegovoi explained.

  “You have some strange friends,” Lidochka said doubtfully.

  She hit it right on the barrelhead. Arnold Snegovoi rarely talked about himself, but when he did, it was memorable. And if one could judge by his stories, he had very strange friends indeed.

  Then Malianov and Lidochka argued hotly for some time over how Arnold might end up in Greenland. Malianov leaned toward the airplane crash theory. Lidochka subscribed to the simple tourist vacation. As for Arnold himself, he sat, his purple lips pulled into a smile, smoking cigarette after cigarette.

  Then Malianov thought about it and tried to pour some more wine into their glasses, but discovered that the bottle was already empty. He was about to rush over for another one, but Arnold stopped him. It was time for him to go, he had just stopped by for a minute. Lidochka, on the other hand, was ready to go on. She wasn’t even tipsy, the only sign of the wine was her flushed cheeks.

  “No, no, friends,” said Snegovoi. “I have to go.” He stood up heavily and filled the kitchen with his bulk. “I’m off. Why don’t you see me out, Dmitri. Good night, Lidochka, it was nice meeting you.”

  They walked through the foyer. Malianov was still trying to talk him into staying for another bottle, but Snegovoi kept shaking his gray head resolutely and muttering negatively. In the doorway he said loudly:

  “Oh yes! Dmitri! I had promised you that book. Come on over, I’ll give it to you.”

  “What book?” Malianov was about to ask, but Snegovoi put his fat finger to his lips and pulled Malianov across the landing. The fat finger on the lips stunned Malianov, and he followed Snegovoi like a moth after a flame. Silently, still holding Malianov by the arm, Snegovoi found his key in his pocket and unlocked the door. The lights were on in the apartment—in the foyer, in both rooms, in the kitchen, and even in the bathroom. It smelled of stale tobacco and strong cologne, and Malianov suddenly realized that in the five years they had known each other, he had never been in here. The room that Snegovoi led him into was clean and neat; all the lamps were on—the three-bulb chandelier, the floor lamp in the corner by the couch, and the small table lamp. On the back of a chair hung a tunic with silver buttons and epaulets, with a whole slew of medals, bars, and decorations. It turned out that Arnold Snegovoi was a colonel. How about that?

  “What book?” Malianov finally asked.

  “Any book,” Snegovoi said impatiently. “Here, take this one, and hold on to it or you’ll forget it. Let’s sit down for a minute.”

  Completely confused, Malianov took a thick tome from the table. Holding it tight under his arm, he sank onto the couch under the lamp. Arnold sat down next to him and lit a cigarette. He did not look at Malianov.

  “So, it’s like this … well …” he began. “First of all, who is that woman?”

  “Lidochka? I told you. My wife’s friend. Why?”

  “Do you know her well?”

  “No. I just met her today. She arrived with a letter.” Malianov stopped short and asked in fright, “Why, do you think she’s—”

  “I’ll ask the questions. We don’t have the time. What are you working on now, D
mitri?”

  Malianov remembered Val Weingarten and broke out in a cold sweat. He said with a wry grin:

  “Everybody seems to be interested in my work today.”

  “Who else?” Snegovoi demanded, his little blue eyes boring into him. “Her?”

  Malianov shook his head.

  “No. Weingarten. A friend of mine.”

  “Weingarten. Weingarten.” Snegovoi repeated.

  “No, no!” Malianov said. “I know him well, we were in grammar school together, and we’re still friends.”

  “Does the name Gubar mean anything to you?”

  “Gubar? No. What’s wrong, Arnold?”

  Snegovoi put out his cigarette and lit another one.

  “Who else made inquiries about your work?”

  “No one else.”

  “So what are you working on?”

  Malianov got angry. He always got angry when he was frightened.

  “Listen, Arnold. I don’t understand.”

  “Neither do I! And I want to know, very much. Tell me! Wait a minute. Is your work classified?”

  “What do you mean classified?” Malianov said in irritation. “It’s plain ordinary astrophysics and stellar dynamics. The interrelation of stars and interstellar matter. Nothing secret here, it’s just that I don’t like talking about my work until I’ve finished!”

  “Stars and interstellar matter.” Snegovoi repeated it slowly and shrugged. “There’s the estate, and there’s the water. And it’s not classified? Any part of it?”

  “Not a letter of it.”

  “And you’re sure you don’t know Gubar?”

  “I don’t know any Gubar.”

  Snegovoi smoked in silence next to him, huge, hunched over, frightening. Then he spoke.

  “Well, well, looks like there’s nothing there. I’m through with you, Dmitri. Please excuse me.”

  “But I’m not through with you! I’d still like to know—”

  “I don’t have the right!” Snegovoi said in clipped words and ended the conversation.

  Of course, Malianov would not have let the matter rest with that, but then he noticed something that made him bite his tongue. There was a bulge in the left pocket of Snegovoi’s pants and there was a very definite gun handle peering out of the pocket. A big gun. Like a gigantic Colt .45 from the movies. And that gun killed Malianov’s desire to ask any more questions. Somehow it was very clear that something was fishy and he was not the one to ask questions. And Snegovoi got up and said:

  “And now, Dmitri, I’ll be leaving again tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Excerpt 5.… lay on his back, waking up slowly. Trucks were rolling noisily outside the window, but it was quiet in the partment. The remnants of yesterday’s senseless evening were a slight buzz in his head, a metallic aftertaste in his mouth, and an unpleasant splinter in his heart or soul or wherever the hell it hurt. He had just begun to explore what the splinter was when there was a careful knock at the door. That must be Arnold with his keys, he guessed, and hurried to answer.

  On the way to the door he noted that the kitchen was cleaned up and that the door to Bobchik’s room was shut tight. She must have gotten up, done the dishes, and gone back to bed, he thought.

  While he struggled with the lock there was another delicate ring of the doorbell.

  “Coming, coming,” he said in his sleep-hoarsened voice. “Just a minute, Arnold.”

  But it turned out to be someone else. A complete stranger was wiping his feet on the rubber mat. The young man was wearing jeans, a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and large sunglasses. Just like a Tonton Macoute. Malianov noticed that on the landing, by the elevator, there were two other Tonton Macoutes in dark glasses, but before he had time to worry about them, the first Tonton Macoute said: “From the Criminal Investigation Department,” and handed Malianov a little book. Opened.

  “Terrific!” thought Malianov. Everything was clear. He should have expected it. He was hurt. In his shorts he stood before the Tonton Macoute from the Criminal Investigation Department and stared dully into the book. There was a photograph, some seals and signatures, but his dazed sensations let only one pertinent fact through: “Office of the Ministry of Internal Affairs.” In big letters.

  “Yes, of course, come in,” he mumbled. “Come in.”

  “Thank you,” said the Tonton Macoute with extreme politeness. “Are you Dmitri Alekseevich Malianov?”

  “I am.”

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

  “Please do. Wait, my room’s not made up. I just got up. Would you mind going into the kitchen? No, the sun’s in there now. All right, come in here, I’ll clean it up.”

  The Tonton Macoute went into the main room and stopped in the middle modestly, openly looking around, while Malianov straightened the bed, threw on a shirt and a pair of jeans, and opened the blinds and the window.

  “Sit here, in the armchair. Or would you be more comfortable at the desk? What’s the problem?”

  Carefully stepping over the papers strewn on the floor, the Tonton Macoute sat in the armchair and placed his folder on his lap.

  “Your passport, please.”

  Malianov went through the desk drawer and dug out his passport.

  “Who else lives here?” the Tonton Macoute asked as he examined the passport.

  “My wife, my son—but they’re away now. They’re in Odessa, on vacation, at her parents’.”

  The Tonton Macoute placed the passport on top of his folder and took off his sunglasses. A fellow with a perfectly ordinary exterior. And no Tonton Macoute. A salesman, maybe. Or a television repairman.

  “Let’s get acquainted,” he said. “I’m a senior investigator of the CID. My name is Igor Petrovich Zykov.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Then he remembered that he, damn it all, was no criminal, and that he, damn it all, was a senior scientific colleague and a Ph.D. And no boy, either, for that matter. He crossed his legs, got comfortable, and said coolly:

  “I’m listening.”

  Zykov lifted the folder in both hands, crossed his legs, and replacing the folder on his knee, said:

  “Do you know Arnold Pavlovich Snegovoi?”

  Malianov was not surprised by the question. For some reason—some inexplicable reason—he knew that they would ask about either Val Weingarten or Arnold Snegovoi. And so he could answer calmly.

  “Yes. I am acquainted with Colonel Snegovoi.”

  “And how do you know that he’s a colonel?” Zykov inquired immediately.

  “Well, I mean …” Malianov avoided a direct answer. “We’ve known each other a long time.”

  “How long?”

  “Well, five years, I guess. Ever since we moved into this building.”

  “And what were the circumstances of your meeting?”

  Malianov tried to remember. What were the circumstances? Damn. When he brought the key the first time? No, we already knew each other then.

  “Hm,” he said, uncrossing his legs and scratching the back of his head. “You know, I don’t remember. I do remember this. The elevator wasn’t working, and Irina, that’s my wife, was coming back from the store with groceries and the baby. Arnold Snegovoi helped her with the packages and the boy. Well, she invited him to drop in. I think he came over that same evening.”

  “Was he in uniform?”

  “No,” Malianov said with certainty.

  “So. And from that time you became friends?”

  “Well, friends is too strong a word. He drops in sometimes—borrows books, lends books, sometimes we have a cup of tea. And when he goes away on business he leaves his keys with us.”

  “Why?”

  “What do you mean, why? You never …”

  But actually, why did he leave the keys? It never even occurred to me to wonder. I guess, just in case, probably.

  “Just in case, probably,” Malianov said. “Maybe his relatives might show up—or some
one else.”

  “Did anyone ever come?”

  “No … not that I remember. No one when I was around. Maybe my wife might know something about this.”

  Igor Zykov nodded thoughtfully, then asked:

  “Well, have you ever talked about science, your work?”

  Work again.

  “Whose work?” Malianov asked darkly.

  “His, of course. He was a physicist, wasn’t he?”

  “Haven’t the slightest idea. I thought he was in rocketry.”

  He hadn’t finished the sentence when he broke out in a sweat. What did he mean, was? Why the past tense? He didn’t leave his key. God, what had happened? He was ready to scream at the top of his lungs, “What do you mean was?” but Zykov knocked him for a loop. With the swift movement of a fencer he shot his arm out and grabbed a notebook out from under Malianov’s nose.

  “Where did you get this?” he demanded, his face suddenly looking older. “Where did you get it?”

  “Just a—”

  “Sit down!” Zykov shouted. His blue eyes ran over Malianov’s face. “How did this data get in your hands?”

  “What data?” Malianov whispered. “What the hell data are you talking about?” he roared. “That’s my calculations.”

  “That is not your calculations,” Zykov answered coldly, also raising his voice. “Where did this graph come from?”

  He showed him the page from afar and pointed to a crooked line.

  “From my head!” Malianov shouted. “Right from here!” He struck his temple with his fist. “That is the relation of the density to the distance from the star!”

  “This is the graph of the growth of crime in our district for the last quarter!” Zykov announced.

  Malianov was dumbfounded. And Zykov, flapping his lips wetly, went on.

  “You didn’t even copy it right. It’s not really like that, it goes this way.” He picked up Malianov’s pencil, jumped up, put the paper on the table, and, pressing heavily with the pencil, drew another line over Malianov’s chart. “There. And over here it goes like this, not like that.” When he was finished, and the pencil point was broken, he threw away the pencil, sat down again, and looked at Malianov with pity. “Eh, Malianov, Malianov. You’re a highly educated man, an experienced criminal, but you behave like the lowliest punk.”