CHAPTER ONEOn the morning of 20th September 1928,between nine and ten, three events occurredthat set the stage for this tale. Alexei Ivanovich Shaibin,one of its many heroes, turned up at the Gorbatovs’;Vasya, the Gorbatov son, off spring of StepanVasilievich and Vera Kirillovna and stepbrother ofIlya Stepanovich, received a letter from Paris, from hisfriend Adolf Kellerman, with important news aboutVasya’s father; and fi nally, a poor wayfarer and hisguide arrived at the Gorbatovs’ farm in a broad valleyof the Vaucluse.No one knew this man’s name. Who was he? Whatroad had led him to his present wanderings? He hadpassed through here the previous year, in the spring,and he was already known in the surrounding area; atthat time he was still sighted and walked alone, an oldAstrakhan cap pulled to his eyes, sending up whitedust and bowing to those he met. He had spoken withIlya and with Vera Kirillovna herself for a long time;he’d drunk, had dinner, and spent the night. Butneither Vasya nor his sister Marianna saw the wayfarerthe next morning. He had left at dawn, blessing thehouse, the orchard, and the cowshed where the oxenslept, and the attic where Ilya slept. Later, people saidhe’d gone west, but more likely he’d gone southwest,past Toulouse, to see the Cossacks who had settled inthose parts.Now he was blind, and that same Astrakhan caphad slipped over his shaggy eyebrows. A dark blue scarran across his face, and he had no beard growing onhis cheeks; you could tell a regimental doctor had oncemended his face in haste, slapping together the tornpieces of his no longer young, swarthy skin. He wastall and ominously thin, and his military trouserssported red patches in many places—possibly scrapsfrom someone else’s service trousers, but French, trousersthat had once known the defense of Verdun. Thewayfarer walked with his harsh withered hand restingon the shoulder of his guide, a black-eyed girl of abouttwelve whose name was Anyuta.They stopped at the gate and the old man took offhis cap. The girl looked over the low stone wall. Thereshe saw an orchard, a vegetable plot, and a house withoutbuildings partially hidden by stocky willows. In thesilence and cool of the morning, the house stood low,burned by the sun over the long summer, with a northfacingporch and squat asparagus shoots, while fartheraway, past the dark blue shadow of moribund cypresses,plowed fi elds spread out, ready for winter crops.This was a human habitation created not instruggle with nature but at one with it. The sun wasalready high in the untroubled sky, and birds fl ewswiftly in its gleam, like short, darting needles sewingthrough it.Vasya and Marianna went over to the gate, eventhough they were up to their ears in work; they pushedback their round straw hats, which were as hard as tin,and their hands were covered in dirt.“You could have sung something,” Marianna said.“Where have you come from?” She began examiningAnyuta, her long colorful skirt and the narrow ribbontied around her head.The wayfarer made a low, unhurried bow.“From the Dordogne, gentle lady,” he said. “Weare on our way south, from the Dordogne to theSiagne River, to hot climes, to see good people, and inthe spring back to our own people, for the summer.And there—God will provide. People know us.”Vasya came closer, his face bathed in sweat.“But what are you going there for?” he asked.Anyuta gave him a frightened look. Her heartstarted pounding for fear they would have to leavewithout seeing the person they’d come to see, for thesake of whom they’d made a detour from the highway,past the river and mill. How can these people ask!How dare they! she thought.“We walk, my dear boy,” the wayfarer replied,“because we’re too old and blind to work. We go togood people’s homes to eat and have conversationswith good people, and we do not complain of ourLord God.”Marianna shrugged lightly and grinned.“Why do you speak so oddly? We were told youwere an educated man, or else a priest.”Anyuta rushed to the old man in despair.“Granddad, can we go? Granddad?” she whispered,tugging on his sleeve. “Let’s go, dear Granddad.We can come some other time!”The beggar put his hand on her shoulder but didnot go where she was pulling him. He took two stepstoward the wall, making a deep rut in the road dustwith his staff .“They told you wrong, my good lady,” he replied,and his micaceous eyes fl ashed. “I am no priest. Norwas I a doctor or an engineer. Allow us to sit on yourlittle porch. I know in your part of the world porchesalways look into the shade, and if Vera Kirillovna canfi nd a little water for us, Anyuta and I would be verygrateful.”And he bowed abruptly at the waist.Marianna opened the gate, and the wayfarerpassed between her and Vasya, Anyuta leading him.He walked majestically, without that grim fussiness sooften characteristic of the blind. They passed slowlybetween the vegetable beds toward the house; fromtime to time the beggar lifted his right hand fromAnyuta’s thin shoulder and made a fl uid cross over thebeds, and the house, and the bent pear trees’ smearedtrunks. A sack hung motionlessly from his shoulder;the sack was military, like his trousers. No one knewthis man’s name.Marianna watched him go, grinned again, andleaned over the shoots poking out of the earth.“Come on, let’s go, let’s listen,” Vasya said, “ordoes nothing have anything to do with you anymore?”He wiped his wet face with his sleeve and looked ather expectantly.“No, it doesn’t,” Marianna replied reluctantly.“There’s nothing for me to hear. But you go on.”Something stirred in Vasya’s sleepy face; his gazeslid down Marianna’s back, her black gathered skirt,her wooden shoes.“I’ve just had a letter from Adolf,” he said sullenly.“Has that nothing to do with you?”Marianna turned her merry, high-cheekboned facetoward him.“You mean he’s summoning you?”“Yes. He writes about Father. Old Kellerman hascome and wants a meeting with me. Father’s beenfound, and he has an important post.”Marianna clapped her hands and gave her brothera frightened look.“Ah, that Gorbatov!” she exclaimed. “He lets usknow through Kellerman. He wants to lure you there!”Vasya sat down beside her and put an arm aroundhis knees.“It’s time for me to go,” he said fi rmly. “Father iscalling, demanding that at least one of us return. Atfi rst old Kellerman was going to demand Adolf getIlya, but Adolf told him fl at out that was impossible.Whereas I . . . I’ve been wanting to go there for awhole year, and Adolf has summoned me. He writesthat my papers can be in order in two days.”“A whole year!” Marianna said slowly.“I never tried to pretend otherwise. Mama knowsit, and so does Ilya. I just can’t here. My path takes mehome, to Father, and this is the goal Kellerman and Ishare.” He dropped his head. “I know that Kellermanis trying to get in Father’s good graces, but does thatmatter, Marianna? I might have gone even withoutthis.”“No, you wouldn’t!”“I don’t know. It’s impossible for me here. Father’sworking with Kellerman there and despises our settlinghere. I’m going. I’ll have money, I’ll have the life Iwant. I didn’t choose this one. And you know, it’sessential to me—I mean, roots are absolutelyessential.”“Ilya says we should have roots in the air.”“Ilya’s always going to say something you don’tknow how to answer. But there, Father’s a big shot. Hesent Kellerman to Paris on business and he’s goingback in a month. You have to understand. I’ve beenwaiting a whole year for this, waiting for Gorbatov toturn up and summon me. Adolf has worn me down!”“He’s the one who won you over, and he’s the onesending you after your roots. He’s a scoundrel, yourAdolf, and Gorbatov’s a fi ne one! To lure you away, totempt you . . . Oh, Vasya, dear Vasya, what an automatonyou are, my God! If I were Ilya I would lock youin the attic and go to Paris myself and demand thatKellerman back off . If they don’t leave you in peace—someone should lodge a complaint. There’s manure toshovel here and you’re leaving!”