The Adolescence of Zhenya Luvers by Boris Pasternak Read Free Book Online Page B

meaning given to them brought them to life, stripped them of their exotic glamour, and turned them into fellow creatures.
    They said good-by to Negarat. “I am leaving part of my books with Tsvetkov. He is the friend I have told you so much about. Please keep reading them, Madame. Your son knows where I’ve been living; he often visits the landlord’s family. I will pass on my room to Tsvetkov. I will tell him to expect to hear from you.”
    â€œHe should come visit us sometime. Tsvetkov, did you say?”
    â€œYes, Tsvetkov.”
    â€œHe should certainly drop in. We’d like to meet him. I knew the family as a child... .” And she noticed her husband standing before Negarat, his hands grasping the lapels of his tight-fitting coat and distractedly awaiting the moment when he could make final arrangements for tomorrow with the Belgian. “He should come, but not right away. I will let him know when. Now please take this book—it is yours. I haven’t finished it, but I cried over it, and the doctor advised me to stop reading altogether. To avoid excitement.” And again she glanced at her husband, who stood with his head down, collar crackling, cheeks inflated, as if investigating with great interest whether he really had shoes on both feet and whether they had been properly polished. “Yes, that’s how life is. Please don’t forget your walking stick. I do hope we’ll see each other again.”
    â€œOf course, we shall. Friday. What day is it today?” Negarat became anxious, the way all those who leave become anxious.
    â€œWednesday. Is it not Wednesday, Vika? Yes, Wednesday.”
    â€œ Ecoutez .” Finally their father spoke. “ Demain ... .” and taking Negarat’s arm, they walked downstairs together.

5
    They talked as they walked along. Zhenya from time to time had to break into a light trot in order not to be left behind and to keep up with Seryozha. They walked very fast, her coat sliding back and forth, because she had her hands in her pockets and was steering herself with her arms in order to get up more speed. The thin ice broke with a crunch under their rubbers. They were going to buy a gift for Mama to give their departing friend. And they talked as they walked along.
    â€œThey took him to the railway station?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œBut why did he sit in the straw?”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œIn the cart. Up to his legs.”
    â€œI told you already—because he is a prisoner, a criminal.”
    â€œAre they taking him to jail?”
    â€œNo, to Perm. There is no criminal court here. Watch out for your feet.”
    They had to cross the intersection, passing the workshop of a coppersmith. The workshop doors had stood open all summer and Zhenya was used to seeing the intersection in a state of friendly commotion, set off by the open jaws of the workshop. All through July, August and September carts stopped here for repairs and blocked the street. Peasants, mostly Tartars, stood around, buckets and pieces of broken, rusty gutter pipe strewn everywhere. The blazing, persecuting sun turned the crowd into a gypsy encampment and painted the Tartars with gypsy colors. It sank into the dust at about the hour when hens were killed behind the neighbors’ fences. The cart frames, freed from their animals, let their shafts with their greased plates drop into the dust.
    The same buckets and the same scraps of metal still lay in confused disorder, now powdered with hoar frost. But the doors were tightly shut against the cold, as on a holiday. The intersection was empty, and only the familiar odor of stuffy gas, which flowed with a shrill screech from an air valve, reached Zhenya’s nostrils and clung to them as a cheap fruit wine clings to the palate.
    â€œBut is there a prison administration in Perm?”
    â€œYes, the criminal department... . I think we go this way.... The prison is in Perm