Self-discovery

“There you go: an illustration of the comparative effects of daily information and art information!” he thought, angrily striding through the station square. “Lots of people could have come from distant parts: salesman, Party worker, athlete, fisherman… but no, she thought the worst, suspected me of vile intentions! It's the principle of getting by: better not trust them than be mistaken. And don't we make a much greater mistake by adhering to this principle?” In the train he had been thinking because there was nothing else to do. Now he was thinking to calm down, and still about the same thing. “Of course, if you tell about a man in a book or on screen — people will understand him, believe in him, forgive his drawbacks and love him for his good points. But it's much more complicated and prosaic in real life. Why blame the little lady — I'm just as bad myself. For a time, I didn't believe my own father. I loved him, but I didn't believe him. I didn't believe that he had fought in revolutions, in the Civil War, that he served under Chapayev, that he had met Lenin. It all began with the movie Chapayev: my father wasn't in it! There was Chapayev and all the other certified heroes — they declaimed colorful, curt slogans with powerful voices — and Dad wasn't there! And anyway, how could my Dad be a Chapayev man? He didn't get along with mother. He spoke in a wavering voice, caused by his ill — fitting dentures, which he kept in a glass overnight. He mispronounced words (not like in the movies). And he had been arrested in 1937. He used to tell the neighbor women over the back fence how during Kerensky's time he was forced, because of Bolshevik agitation, to stand two hours at attention in full battle gear on the breastwork of a trench. He said that he brought silver coins from the soldiers at the front to Lenin in the Smolny Institute for the revolution's coffers. He talked about how, condemned to death by the cossacks, he sat in a cellar… and the local women oohed and aahed, clasping their hands: 'Our Karpych is a hero — ah! ah! And I would laugh at him and not believe him. I knew exactly what heroes were like — because I watched movies and listened to the radio.”

He frowned at these memories.

“It wasn't really me. But the important point is that it was — but it looks like there is a hitch in the great method of transferring information via art. People watch a movie or a play, read a book and say: 'I like it… and go on living just as before. Some live well, some not badly, and the rest awfully. Art historians and critics often find a flaw in the consumers of the information: the public is foolish, the readers aren't ready, and so on. To accept that I would have to admit that I'm a fool and that I'm not ready either. No, I don't agree! And anyway, blaming things on the people's dullness and ignorance — that's not a constructive approach. People are capable of understanding and realization. Most of them are not dullards or ignoramuses. So it would be better to seek the flaw in the method — especially since I need that method for my experimental work.”

He saw a telephone booth and he stared at it dully: was he supposed to do something in that object? He remembered. He sighed, entered the booth, dialed the number of the New Systems Laboratory — Waiting for an answer, his heart began beating harder and his throat went dry. “I'm nervous and that's bad.” There was nothing but long ringing. Then, with second thoughts, he called the evening duty phone at the institute.

“Could you help me reach Krivoshein? Is he on vacation?” “Krivoshein? He's… no, he's not on vacation. Who's calling?” “If he should show up at the institute today, please tell him that… Adam is here.” “Adam? No last name?” “He knows. Please don't forget.” “All right. I won't.”

The man left the phone booth with a sense of relief: he had suddenly realized that he was not prepared to see him. “Well, I'm here. I might as well try. Maybe he's at home?”

He got on a bus. He was not interested in the city streets swathed in blue twilight: he had left in summer and he came back in summer. Everything was green, and it seemed that nothing had changed.