Free The Adolescence of Zhenya Luvers by Boris Pasternak Page B

him—the most interesting thing of all was the tracks he left on the smooth snow with his sharp, narrow boot tips. These tracks, looking as if they had been carved, made the snow appear even whiter and silkier.
    â€œHere’s a letter. You’ll give it to Mr. Defendov. Personally. Do you understand? Now get dressed. You’ll be taken there immediately. Go to the rear entrance. Seryozha, the Akhmedianovs are expecting you.”
    â€œReally?” the boy asked rather mockingly.
    â€œYes. Get dressed in the kitchen!”
    Their father spoke distractedly and accompanied them slowly to the kitchen, where their furs, caps and mittens were heaped like a small mountain on a stool. The winter air blew in from the stairs. “Ah-yoch!” The frozen call of flying sleighs hung in the air. Since they were in a hurry, they missed their coat sleeves once or twice. Their clothes smelled of closets and sleepy fur.
    â€œWhat are you doing? Don’t put it on the edge of the table or it will fall off. Well, how are things?”
    â€œShe’s still groaning.” The chambermaid lifted her apron, leaned down and threw some small logs into the flames of the rumbling kitchen stove. “That’s not my affair,” she said with annoyance and went out of the room.
    In a dented black pail lay yellowed prescriptions and broken glass. The towels were soaked with fresh as well a clotted blood. They seemed to blaze, as if they could be trod out like flaring embers. Only water boiled in the pots. Everywhere stood white crucibles and mortars of unusual shape, as in a drugstore. Little Halim was breaking up ice blocks in the hallway.
    â€œIs there much left from the summer?” asked Seryozha.
    â€œWe’ll soon have new ice.”
    â€œHere, give it to me. You’re not doing it right.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, not right? I have to break it into little pieces. For the bottles.”
    â€œWell, are you through?”
    While Zhenya ran once more through the rooms, Seryozha went out onto the steps and beat the icy railings with a stick of wood, waiting for his sister.

8
    The Defendovs were eating their evening meal. The grandmother crossed herself and sank back into her armchair. The lamp shone dimly and was unsteady. Sometimes it was turned up too high, sometimes too low. Defendov often reached out his hand to the screw; he drew it back slowly, sat back on his seat and his hand shook, not like the hand of an old man, but more as if he were raising a glass of spirits poured too full. His fingertips shook. He spoke in a clear, steady voice, as if he put his words together not with sounds but with individual letters. And he pronounced them all, even the final consonants.
    The swollen neck of the lamp glowed, outlined with geranium and heliotrope tendrils. The cockroaches ran toward the warm glass, and the clock hands advanced cautiously. Time crept as it does in winter. In the room it festered; outside it congealed with a bad smell. Behind the windows, it hurried, doubled and tripled itself in the lights.
    Mrs. Defendov put roast liver on the table. The soup, spiced only with onions, steamed fragrantly. Defendov talked continuously, often repeating the words “I recommend,” but Zhenya heard nothing... . Even yesterday she had felt like crying. Now she thirsted for tears as she sat in the little jacket sewed according to her mother’s instructions.
    Defendov noticed how things were with her. He tried to distract her. Now he spoke to her as to a small child, then he fell into the opposite extreme. His joking questions frightened and confused her. He blindly fingered the soul of his daughter’s friend, as if he were asking her heart its age. After he had detected one of Zhenya’s characteristic traits, he tried to behave in conformity with it and thus help the child to stop thinking about home. But this only reminded her even more that she was among strangers.
    Suddenly she could