Definitely Maybe: A Manuscript Discovered Under Strange Circumstances

CHAPTER 1

Excerpt 1…. the white July heat, the hottest it had been in two hundred years, engulfed the city. The air shimmered over red-hot rooftops. All the windows in the city were flung open, and in the thin shade of wilting trees, old women sweated and melted on benches near courtyard gates.

The sun charged past the meridian and sank its claws into the long-suffering bookbindings and the glass and polished wood of the bookcases; hot, angry patches of reflected light quivered on the wallpaper. It was almost time for the afternoon siege, for the furious sun to hang dead still in the sky above the twelve-story house across the street and fire endless rounds of heat into the apartment.

Malianov closed the window—both frames—and drew the heavy yellow drapes. Then, hitching up his underpants, he padded over to the kitchen in his bare feet and opened the door to the balcony. It was just after two.

On the kitchen table, among the bread crumbs, was a still life consisting of a frying pan with the dried-up remains of an omelet, an unfinished glass of tea, and a gnawed end of bread smeared with oozing butter.

“No one’s washed up and nothing is washed,” Malianov said to himself.

The sink was overflowing with unwashed dishes. They hadn’t been done in a long time.

The floorboard squeaked, and Kaliam appeared out of nowhere, mad with the heat; he glanced up at Malianov with his green eyes and soundlessly opened and closed his mouth. Then, tail twitching, he proceeded to his dish under the oven. There was nothing on his dish except a few bare fish bones.

“You’re hungry,” Malianov said unhappily.

Kaliam immediately replied in a way that meant, well, yes, it wouldn’t hurt to have a little something.

“You were fed this morning,” said Malianov, crouching in front of the refrigerator. “Or no, that’s not right. It was yesterday morning I fed you.”

He took out Kaliam’s pot and looked into it—there were a couple of scraps and a fish fin stuck to the side. There wasn’t even that much in the refrigerator itself. There was an empty box that used to have some Yantar cheese in it, a horrible-looking bottle with the dregs of kefir, and a wine bottle filled with iced tea. In the vegetable bin, amid the onion skins, a wrinkled piece of cabbage the size of a fist lay rotting and a sprouting potato languished in oblivion. Malianov looked into the freezer—a tiny piece of bacon on a plate had settled in for the winter among the mountains of frost. And that was it.

Kaliam was purring and rubbing his whiskers on Malianov’s bare knee. Malianov shut the refrigerator and stood up.

“It’s all right,” he told Kaliam. “Everything’s closed for lunch now, anyway.”

Of course, he could go over to Moscow Boulevard, where the break was from one to two. But there were always lines there, and it was too far to go in this heat. And then, what a crummy integral that turned out to be! Well, all right, let that be the constant… it doesn’t depend on omega. It’s clear that it doesn’t. It follows from the most general considerations that it doesn’t. Malianov imagined the sphere and pictured the integration traveling over the entire surface. Out of nowhere Zhukovsky’s formula popped into his mind. Just like that. Malianov chased it away, but it came back. Let’s try the conformal representation, he thought.

The phone rang again, and Malianov found himself back in the living room, much to his surprise. He swore, flopped down on the sofa, and reached over for the phone.

“Yes.”

“Vitya?” asked an energetic female voice.

“What number do you want?”

“Is this Intourist?”

“No, a private apartment.”

Malianov hung up and lay still for a while, feeling the nap of the blanket against his naked side and beginning to drip with sweat. The yellow shade glowed, filling the room with an unpleasant yellow light. The air was like gelatin. He should move into Bobchik’s room, that’s what. This room was a steambath. He looked at his desk, heaped with papers and books. There were six volumes just of Vladimir Ivanovich Smirnov. And all those papers scattered on the floor. He shuddered at the thought of moving. Wait a minute, I had a breakthrough before. Damn you and your stupid Intourist, you stupid blockhead. Let’s see, I was in the kitchen and then I ended up in here. Oh yes! Conformal representation! A stupid idea. But I guess it should be looked into.

He got up from the bed with a low groan, and the phone rang again.

“Idiot,” he said to the phone and picked it up. “Hello?”

“Is this the depot? Who’s on the phone? Is this the depot?”

Malianov hung up and dialed the repair service.

“Hello? My number is nine-three-nine-eight-zero-seven. Listen, I already called you last night. I can’t work, I keep getting wrong numbers.”

“What’s your number?” a vicious female voice interrupted.

“Nine-three-nine-eight-zero-seven. I keep getting calls for Intourist and the depot and—”

“Hang up. We’ll check it.”

“Please do,” Malianov said to the dial tone.

Then he slapped over to the table, sat down, and picked up his pen. So-o-o, where did I see that integral? Such a neat little guy symmetrical on all sides… where did I see it? And not even a constant, just a plain old zero! Well, all right then. Let’s leave it in the rearguard. I don’t like leaving anything in the rear, it’s as unpleasant as a rotting tooth.

He began rechecking the previous night’s calculations and he suddenly felt good. It was pretty clever, by God! That Malianov! What a mind! Finally, you’re getting there. And, brother, it looks good. This was no routine “figure of the pivots in a large transit instrument”; this was something that no one had ever done before! Knock on wood. This integral. Damn the integral, full speed ahead!

There was a ring. The doorbell. Kaliam jumped down from the bed and raced to the foyer with his tail in the air. Malianov neatly set down his pen.

“They’re out in full force,” he said.

Kaliam traced impatient circles in the foyer, getting underfoot.

“Ka-al-liam!” Malianov said in a suppressed but threatening tone. “Get out of here, Kaliam!”

He opened the door. On the other side stood a shabby man, unshaven and sweaty, wearing a jacket of indeterminate color that was too small for him. Leaning back to balance the huge cardboard box he was holding, muttering something incomprehensible, he came straight at Malianov.

“You, er…” Malianov mumbled, stepping aside.

The shabby fellow had already penetrated the foyer. He looked to the right, into the room, and turned determinedly to the left, into the kitchen, leaving dusty white footprints on the linoleum.

“Er, just a…” muttered Malianov, hot on his heels.

The man put the box down on a stool and pulled out a batch of receipts from his pocket.

“Are you from the Tenants’ Committee, or what?” For some reason, Malianov thought that perhaps the plumber had finally shown up to fix the bathroom sink.

“From the deli,” the man said hoarsely and handed him two receipts pinned together. “Sign here.”

“What is this?” Malianov asked, and saw that they were order blanks. Cognac—two bottles; vodka… “Wait a minute, I don’t think we ordered anything,” he said.

He saw the tab. He panicked. He didn’t have money like that in the apartment. And anyway, what was going on? His panic-stricken brain flashed vivid pictures of all kinds of complications, like explaining this away, refusing it, arguing, demanding, phoning the store, or maybe even going there in person. But then he saw the purple PAID stamp in the corner of the receipt and the name of the purchaser—I. E. Malianova. Irina! What the hell was going on?

“Just sign here,” the shabby man insisted, pointing with his black nail. “Where the X is.”

Malianov took the man’s pencil stub and signed.

“Thanks,” he said, returning the pencil. “Thanks a lot,” he repeated, squeezing through the narrow foyer with the delivery man. I should give him something, but I don’t have any change. “Thank you very much. So long!” he called to the back of the tight jacket, viciously pushing back Kaliam with his leg. The cat was trying to get outside to lick the cement floor of the landing.

Then Malianov closed the door and stood in the dusky light. His head was muddled.

“Strange,” he said aloud, and went back to the kitchen.

Kaliam was rubbing his head against the box. Malianov lifted the cover and saw tops of bottles, packages, bags, and cans. The copy of the receipt was on the table. So. The carbon was smeared, as usual, but he could make out the handwriting. Hero Street… hmm… everything seemed to be in order. Purchaser: I. E. Malianova. That was a nice hello! He looked at the total again. Mind-boggling! He turned the receipt over. Nothing interesting on the other side. A squashed mosquito. What was the matter with Irina? Had she gone completely bananas? We’re in debt for five hundred rubles. Wait, maybe she said something about this before she left? He tried to remember that day, the open suitcases, the mounds of clothes strewn all over the house, Irina half-dressed and wielding her iron. Don’t forget to feed Kaliam, bring him some grass, the spiky kind; don’t forget the rent; if my boss calls, give him my address. That seemed to be it. She had said something else, but Bobchik had run in with his machine gun. Oh yes! Take the sheets to the laundry. I don’t understand a damn thing!

Malianov gingerly pulled a bottle out of the box. Cognac. At least fifteen rubles! Is it my birthday or something? When did Irina leave? Thursday, Wednesday, Tuesday. He bent back his fingers. It was ten days today that she left. That means she had placed the order ahead of time. Borrowed the money from somebody again and ordered it. A surprise. Five hundred in debt, you see, and she wants to give me a surprise! At least one thing was settled: he wouldn’t have to go to the store. The rest was a fog as far as he was concerned. Birthday? No. Wedding anniversary? Didn’t think so. No, definitely not. Bobchik’s birthday? No, that’s in the winter.

He counted the bottles. Ten of them. Who did she think would drink it all? I couldn’t handle that much in a year! Vecherovsky hardly drinks either, and she can’t stand Val Weingarten.

Kaliam began howling terribly. He sensed something in the box.

Excerpt 2…. some salmon in its own juices and a piece of ham with the stale crust of bread. Then he took on the dirty dishes. It was perfectly clear that a dirty kitchen was particularly offensive with such luxury in the refrigerator. The phone rang twice during this time, but Malianov merely set his jaw more firmly. I won’t answer, and that’s it. The hell with all of them with their Intourist and depots. The frying pan will also have to be cleaned, no getting around it. The pan will be needed for goals higher than some crummy omelet. Now, what’s the crux here? If the integral is really zero, then all that remains on the right side are the first and second derivatives. I don’t quite understand the physics of it, but it doesn’t matter, it sure makes terriffic bubbles. Yes, that’s what I’ll call them: bubbles. No, “cavities” is probably better. The Malianov cavities. “M cavities.” Hmmm.

He put the dishes away and looked into Kaliam’s pan. It was still too hot. Poor Kaliam. He’ll have to wait. Poor little Kaliam will have to wait and suffer until it cools off.

He was wiping his hand when he was struck by an idea, just like yesterday. And just like yesterday, he didn’t believe it at first.

“Wait a minute, wait just one minute,” he muttered feverishly, while his legs carried him down the hallway with the cool linoleum that stuck to his heels, through the thick yellow heat, to his desk and pen. Hell, where was it? Out of ink. There was a pencil around here somewhere. And meanwhile the secondary consideration, no, the primary, fundamental consideration was Hartwig’s function… and it was as though the entire right part had disappeared. The cavities became axially symmetric—and the old integral wasn’t zero! That is, it was so much not zero, the little integral, that the value was significantly positive. But what a picture it makes! Why didn’t I figure this out long ago? It’s all right, Malianov, relax, brother, you’re not the only one. Old Academician whatsizname didn’t figure it out either. In the yellow, slightly curved space, the axially symmetric cavities turned slowly like gigantic bubbles. Matter flowed around them, trying to seep through, but it couldn’t. The matter compressed itself on the boundaries to such incredible densities that the bubbles began to glow. God knows what happens next—but we’ll figure it out. First, we’ll deal with the fiber structure. Then with Ragozinsky’s arcs. And then with planetary nebulae. And what did you think, my friends? That these were expanding, thrown-off shells? Some shells! Just the opposite!

The damn phone rang again. Malianov roared in anger but went on writing. He should turn it off completely. There was a switch for that… He threw himself down on the sofa and picked up the receiver.

“Yes!”

“Dmitri?”

“Yes, who’s this?”

“You don’t recognize me, you cur?” It was Weingarten.

“Oh, it’s you, Val. What do you want?”

Weingarten hesitated.

“Why don’t you answer your phone?”

“I’m working,” Malianov said angrily. He was being very unfriendly. He wanted to get back to his table and see the rest of the picture with the bubbles.

“Working,” Weingarten said. “Building your immortal edifice, I guess.”

“What, did you want to drop by?”

“Drop by? No, not really.”

Malianov lost his temper completely.

“Then what do you want?”

“Listen, pal… What are you working on now?”

“I’m working. I told you.”

“No… I mean, what are you working on?”

Malianov was flabbergasted. He had known Val Weingarten for twenty-five years, and Weingarten had never expressed an iota of interest in Malianov’s work. Weingarten had never been interested in anything but Weingarten himself with the exception of two mysterious objects: the 1934 twopenny and the “consul’s half-ruble,” which was not a half-ruble at all but some special postage stamp. The bum has nothing to do, Malianov decided. Just killing time. Or maybe he needs a roof over his head, and he’s just building up to the question?

“What am I working on?” he asked with gleeful malice. “I can tell you in great detail if you like. You’ll be fascinated by it all, I’m sure, being a biologist and all. Yesterday morning, I finally broke through. It turns out that in the most general assumptions regarding the potential function, my equations of motion have one more integral besides the integral of energy and the integrals of momenta. It’s sort of a generalization of a limited three-field problem. If the equations of motion are given in vector form and then the Hartwig transformation is applied, then the integration is performed for the entire volume, and the whole problem is reduced to integro-differential equations of the Kolmogorov-Feller type.”

To his vast amazement, Weingarten was not interrupting him. For a second, Malianov thought that they had been disconnected.

“Are you listening to me?”

“Yes, very attentively.”

“Perhaps you even understand what I’m saying?”

“I’m getting some of it,” Weingarten said heartily. Malianov suddenly realized how strange his voice was. He was frightened by it.

“Val, is something wrong?”

“What do you mean?” Weingarten asked, stalling.

“What do I mean? With you, of course! You sound a little funny. Can’t you talk right now?”

“No, no, pal. That’s nonsense. I’m all right. It’s just the heat. Do you know the one about the two roosters?”

“No. Well?”

Weingarten told him the joke about two roosters—it was extremely dumb but rather funny. But not a Weingarten joke at all. Malianov, naturally, listened to it and laughed at the appropriate place, but the joke only intensified the vague feeling that all was not right with Weingarten. Maybe he’d had another round with Sveta, he thought uncertainly. Maybe they ruined his epithelium again. And then Weingarten asked:

“Listen, Dmitri. Does the name Snegovoi mean anything to you?”

“Snegovoi? Arnold Pavlovich Snegovoi? I have a neighbor by that name, lives across the hall. Why?”

Weingarten said nothing. He even stopped breathing through his mouth. There was only the sound of jingling and jangling—he must have been playing with his coins. “And what does he do, your Snegovoi?”

“A physicist, I think. Works in some bunker. Top secret. Where do you know him from?”

“I don’t,” Weingarten said with an inexplicable sadness. The doorbell rang.

“They’re all champing at the bit!” Malianov said. “Hold on, Val. There’s someone breaking down my door.”

Weingarten said something, or even shouted, but Malianov had tossed the phone on the sofa and was running out into the foyer. Kaliam was underfoot already, and Malianov almost tripped over him.

He stepped back as soon as he opened the door. On his doorstep stood a young woman in a short white jumper, very tanned, with short sun-bleached hair. Beautiful. A stranger. (Malianov was acutely aware of wearing only his undershorts and having a sweaty belly.) There was a suitcase at her feet and a jacket over her arm.

“Dmitri Malianov?” she asked embarrassedly.

“Y-yes,” Malianov answered. A relative? Third cousin Zina from Omsk?

“Please forgive me, Dmitri. I’m sure this isn’t a good time for you. Here.”

She handed him an envelope. Malianov silently took the envelope and removed a piece of paper from it. Horrible, wrathful feelings toward all the relatives in the world and specifically toward this Zina or Zoya raged in his chest.

But it turned out that this was no third cousin. In large hurried letters, the lines going this way and that, Irina had written: “Dimochka! This is Lida Ponomareva, my best friend from school. I told you about her. Be nice to her, don’t growl. Won’t stay long. Everything’s fine. She’ll tell you all about it. Kisses, I.”

Malianov howled a long silent howl, closed his eyes, and opened them again. However, his lips were making an automatic, friendly smile.

“How nice,” he said in a friendly, casual tone. “Come on in, Lida, please. Forgive my appearance. The heat, you know.”

There must have been something wrong with his welcome, because Lida’s pretty face took on a lost look, and for some reason she looked back out at the sunlit landing, as though suddenly questioning whether she had come to the right place.

“Here, let me take your suitcase,” Malianov said quickly. “Come in, come in, don’t be shy. You can hang your jacket here. This is our main room, I work in there, and this is Bobchik’s. It will be yours. You probably want to take a shower?”

He heard a nasal quacking coming from the sofa.

“Sorry,” he said. “Make yourself at home, I’ll be right with you.”

He grabbed the phone and heard Weingarten repeating in a strange monotone:

“Dmitri, Dmitri, oh, Dmitri, come to the phone, Dmitri.”

“Hello! Val, listen—”

“Dmitri!” Weingarten shouted. “Is that you?”

Malianov was frightened.

“What are you shouting about? I’ve just had a visitor, forgive me. I’ll call you later.”

“Who? Who’s the visitor?” Weingarten demanded in an inhuman voice.

Malianov felt a shiver. Val’s gone mad. What a day.

“Val,” he said very calmly. “What’s the matter? A woman just arrived. A friend of Irina’s.”

“Son of a bitch!” said Weingarten and hung up.