there an hour ago), roots snaking along the paths, as well as boulders the tireless Vorontsov had scattered here and
there. Zoya’s flashlight accentuated a bronze plaque on one of the boulders, drawing it out of the dark. The boulder
was a memorial stone for Vorontsov’s dog. A minute later
they saw its ghost. An indeterminate four-legged creature
stood about ten meters away, where the flashlight just barely reached. Its infernal gaze reflected the remnants of Zoya’s light. Judging from its height, the animal might even have been a cat.
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Solovyov had figured out long ago where they were going.
Maybe he had already figured it out when Zoya first
mentioned continuing the search. In reality, there was not much need for imagination here since they had examined
everything thoroughly in Taras’s room. If there was anything more to search for, to add to what they had found (where,
other than at home, might this kind of person store some-
thing?), then only his workplace remained. Lighted by the
moon that had risen, Taras’s workplace revealed itself in all its oriental majesty. It was the Vorontsov Palace, seen from below.
The seekers of the manuscript climbed over a fence and
ascended toward the centaur-like palace. They turned a
corner and found themselves in the English part of the
grounds, which Solovyov particularly liked. He had never
been here, ever, but even at night he found his bearings with ease on this small street leading toward the main entrance.
A good half of Soviet historical films had been shot on this narrow expanse. Solovyov felt a little like d’Artagnan. As a person with a European way of thinking, he would have
preferred to come into the palace from this side.
Zoya saw matters differently. After showing Solovyov the
palace from all sides (as the museum employee saw things,
there should be a tour even if there would be a break-in), she led him to a Moorish façade that looked out on the sea.
A wire stretched along a wall to the left of a mosaic arch that gleamed in the moonlight. Zoya took a penknife from
her pocket and cut it.
‘Alarm system?’ Solovyov whispered.
Zoya nodded silently. They walked several meters along
the western wing and stopped by a glass door, where Zoya
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asked Solovyov to take off the bag. Solovyov suddenly felt completely calm; his initial fear had subsided. These
goings-on had obviously stepped outside the bounds of
reality. Using the flashlight, Zoya took out two objects, only one of which Solovyov recognized: a glass cutter. Zoya did not begin with that, though. She took the second object
(three rubber circles, arranged in a triangle), placed it against the glass, pulled some sort of lever, and the contraption
remained, hanging on the window. It had suction cups.
Then came the glass cutter’s turn. Zoya used it to trace
an oval around the suction cups stuck to the glass. As
Solovyov observed the Chekhov specialist’s dexterousness
in wielding the glass cutter, it occurred to him that in
the event of their capture, the clause about break-ins
with previous concert would not apply to them: there was
no previous concert between him and Zoya. She had not
uttered a word about her plans. And he had not asked her
anything.
Zoya used the handle of the glass cutter to knock lightly
on the glass a few times. Then, grabbing the suction cups, she noiselessly removed the oval traced on the glass and
handed it to Solovyov. Thrusting her hand into the opening that had formed, she flicked a latch from inside. The door opened.
Zoya took the suction cup device from Solovyov’s hands,
placed it on the ground, and unstuck it from the glass oval.
The suction cups were returned to the bag with a clang.
Of everything that had happened, what struck Solovyov
most was probably Zoya’s composure. She was first to enter Vorontsov’s kingdom.
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palace, even with the flashlight switched off. She took
Solovyov’s hand and led him through several rooms where
all he could see (this was a strange tour) were several
gleaming vases and the fire alarm system’s lifeless flashing.
Darkness intensified the sound: the creak of a floor, the
squeak of door hinges, and even—this was right by
Solovyov’s ear—the bag chafing on his shoulder.
They ended up in the staff area. Solovyov figured that
out from the size of the rooms and, most importantly, the
windows. They stopped in one of the rooms. Zoya squeezed
Solovyov’s hand and froze. The light came on suddenly.
After his eyes adjusted to the light, Solovyov saw they were standing by a wall. Zoya’s free hand was lying on the switch.
She was smiling.
‘This is Taras’s room.’
The space was tiny. A window covered in metal shutters.
Shelf hanging on the wall, heaped with some sort of elec-
tronic odds and ends. Chair. Desk. Zoya’s photograph on
the desk.
‘I’m sure he’s in love with you.’
A steamship’s whistle sounded from somewhere far away,
as if from another world.
‘He loves me.’ Zoya turned the photograph upside down.
‘Is it really possible not to love me?’
She turned the chair and sat, straddling it, then pulled
out the desk’s side drawers, one after another. They were
all empty. They were all noisily sent back. The desk’s middle drawer turned out to be filled with papers. Zoya pulled out an armload, carelessly dumping them on the floor. Taras’s
papers slid into a formless mass, surrounding a chair leg.
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out of the papers before he’d managed to examine what
was lying there.
‘That’s it!’
Zoya’s mother’s hand, familiar to Solovyov, was visible
through the transparent folder. Zoya offered her cheek and tapped it with her finger.
‘Clever girl,’ said Solovyov, kissing Zoya.
They crammed the other papers into the drawer. At first
it would not close, so Solovyov had to pull the papers back out and stack them in a compact bundle on the table. Zoya
seemed to ponder something before turning out the light.
‘Want to make love in Vorontsov’s bedroom?’
The light went out. Depth and resonance had been
restored to the silence. Solovyov felt Zoya’s hand on his belt.
‘Are you sure you want that?’
The hand pulled lightly at his belt. It was a gesture of
disappointment. The selfless female accomplice’s terse oh, you. And Solovyov understood that. But he truly did not feel like it. A sense of danger suppressed other instincts in him.
Unlike in Zoya. She was constructed the exact opposite way.
They walked through several rooms without turning on
the flashlight (S
olovyov thought they were not walking the same way as when they arrived), then stopped in one of
the rooms. Solovyov’s knee bumped into something soft. A
bed. A canopy hung over it like a formless blot.
‘Are you planning to screw me here or not?’
The echo of Zoya’s question resounded through all the
palace’s chambers and returned to the bedroom, where it
flung Solovyov on the bed with a quick push to the shoulder.
He froze as he sank into Vorontsov’s feather bed. Zoya
descended upon him the next second. Despite his light
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shock, Solovyov noted that she had managed to undress.
She was so worked up that she had not managed to pull
off his clothes (come on, why are you acting like a corpse!?) All that remained for Solovyov was to give in. His jeans
were lowered. Zoya was convinced that the corpse compar-
ison was unjustified.
Solovyov had never experienced anything like this before.
Even yesterday night, which had seemed so absolutely
stupendous, faded. He felt the silk of the palace bedspread with his buttocks as he saw Zoya’s profile dancing against the background of the enormous canopy. Maybe it was
actually the canopy, not Zoya, that lent his senses a keenness he had not known before. Such intimate relations with the
past aroused him as a researcher. At that instant, he did not feel like history’s guest. He was a small but integral part of it. His merging with Zoya seemed to him like a merging
with the past. Which had become accessible and discernible and had undressed before him. This was the orgasm of a
true historian.
Zoya was lying on Vorontsov’s vast bed with her arms
spread wide. Her breathing was almost back to normal but
her heart (Solovyov laid his head on her chest) was still
pounding rapidly and resonantly. Creaking floorboards
sounded in the doorway.
‘Did you hear that?’ whispered Solovyov.
She did not stir. The creak repeated and Solovyov
squeezed Zoya’s hand.
‘I think it’s Vorontsov’s ghost,’ Zoya said without lowering her voice. ‘No big deal. Anyway, we did his favorite thing.’
She lurched and sat up on the bed.
‘It’s time.’
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Solovyov heard the slapping of bare feet and the rustle
of clothing being donned. He fastened his belt and stood,
too. He was experiencing a pleasant weakness and a lack
of desire to move. The task of leaving unnoticed, which is important for any burglar in his right mind, now seemed
of little significance to him.
‘It’s too early to relax,’ said Zoya.
She noticed his apathy. Zoya handed him the bag and
again led him through the dark rooms. How did she know
this palace so well? They ended up in the same place they
had entered. From here they could see the sea and the
moon’s path on the water. Little lights of different colors were blinking in the corner of the room.
‘That’s strange,’ Zoya muttered, ‘I shut off the alarm
system. Why is it lit here?’
‘The door’s open anyway. We can leave.’
‘We can, of course . . .’
Without saying a word, Zoya approached the blinking
panel and tugged a long switch.
In the first seconds, Solovyov did not even realize it was a siren. The noise was deafening. It came out of nowhere,
out of utter quiet. In terms of strength, this noise could only be compared with silence. This noise was the converse of quiet: like all opposites, they possessed common characteristics. Crimea’s entire southern coast was being notified of the trespassers at the palace.
Zoya grabbed him by the hand and they set off running.
Solovyov turned by one of the famous Vorontsov lions.
Inside the palace, lights went on one after another, almost like in the movies. There was nothing Solovyov wanted
more at that moment than to turn into a stone lion and
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greet, calmly dignified (his paw on a sphere), the police, dogs, and volunteers who would come running. To greet
everyone who would set off to defend the deceased count’s
property. Following Zoya, he leaped lightly onto a metal
fence. His foot caught on something as he was jumping
down and he rolled below, along the incline. Stones dug at him, roots caught at him. Zoya’s bag with the break-in tools and the general’s manuscript hit his face and chest. He
stopped in some kind of bushes. Which, to top things off,
scratched him very painfully.
‘Still in one piece?’ asked Zoya.
Zoya’s silhouette was still spinning but the alarm was no
longer sounding. Why had she turned it on? Why had they
run below where there was nothing but the sea, where they
would be much easier to catch? It would have been better
to make their way upward, to the highway. At least they
could have hailed a car there. Solovyov was jogtrotting
obediently behind Zoya. She was in high spirits despite the circumstances. Pointing out, in a chipper voice, where to
turn. She jumped off the parapets with a happy whoop.
Why was she so elated?
They made their way to an open patch of ground over
the sea. There was a strong wind blowing here that had not been noticeable in the park. Waves were rolling over huge
boulders that formed something like a bay. Tatters of foam looked rather sinister in the moonlight.
‘It’s Vorontsov’s bathing area,’ Zoya said, gesturing below.
‘There should be a boat somewhere among those rocks.’
They went down some steps and began walking to the
left, along the rocks. There really was a boat between two boulders. Ten meters from the boat, waves slapped heavily
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at the rocks from the outside of the barrier, slipping off them with an offended grunt. Back in his adolescence,
Solovyov had learned from books that landing is the most
dangerous thing for shipwreck survivors. Or casting off, like now. A wave tosses a lifeboat against the crags and smashes it to bits. The end.
Solovyov left the bag on shore and jumped onto the
boulder nearest the boat. He still vaguely hoped there would be no oars in the boat. No, they lay on the bottom. Solovyov caught the mooring clamp and leaned over the water.
‘The boat’s on a chain,’ he said, almost festively, ‘with a lock.’
Zoya took a hammer and chisel out of the bag and silently
extended them to Solovyov. His companion’s power of fore-
sight astounded Solovyov almost more than the surf. He
dragged part of the chain onto the rock, chose one of the
links, and struck it with all the power of his desperation.
He wound up and struck again. His strikes at the chain
brought sparks from the rock but moved him no closer to
his goal. The goods were solid. One time, Solovyov missed
the chisel with the hammer and struck himself very painfully on the knuckle. He bit his lip and tolerated the pain in
sil
ence, but Zoya, who was sitting alongside him, apparently saw it all. It even looked to him like she was smiling. A
piece of the chain finally fell from the rock with a jingle.
They could (could!) set sail.
After sitting at the oars, Solovyov held out his hand to
Zoya but she jumped into the boat herself. The boat swayed and floated away from the rock it had been chained to. Zoya sat at the stern. Solovyov meekly rowed toward a supposed
exit from the bathing area.
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‘Not there!’
Zoya showed him two small crags. There was no longer
any water between them, only foam. But this was where
the boat passed through. The water had no set direction in that spot. There were no dangers hiding underwater here.
Solovyov was able to row out of the bathing area and get
a safe distance away. Only then did he dare raise his head.
The shore they had left was calm and no visible signs of
pursuit could be observed. The open ground that loomed
over the bathing area was empty. The Vorontsov palace
stood out on the mountain like a gleaming rectangle.
Solovyov relaxed too early. He realized when he saw the
boat’s stern in the air that they were on the crest of a wave.
‘Head into the wave!’ Zoya commanded ‘Row right! Right
again!’
The boat handled poorly. It seemed cumbersome and
unwieldy to Solovyov, and too big for one rower (why had
Zoya not once offered to row with him?). On the other
hand, he sensed all the boat’s fragility and insignificance in comparison with the night waves. After adapting to this, he began rowing more evenly. Solovyov’s motions were no
longer spasmodic, and the oars rowed ever less frequently
at the air. They went along the shore, roughly one hundred meters away. They met the waves head-first. They aligned
the boat on its primary course.
About an hour and a half later, Solovyov felt like he had
rowed his hands raw. Zoya gave him her handkerchief and
he wrapped one hand with it. He used his own T-shirt for
the other hand. Solovyov was tired, too. He had used a lot of unnecessary motion in the beginning but now that his
rowing might be considered exemplary, he had very little
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