Rybakov Anatoly
THE BRONZE BIRD
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Anatoly Rybakov
THE BRONZE BIRD
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Foreign Languages Publishing House
Moscow 1956
Translated from the Russian by David Skvirsky
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CONTENTS
Part I. FUGITIVES
Part II. PURSUIT
Part III. GOLIGIN BRUSHWOOD ROAD
Part IV. MUSEUM OF REGIONAL STUDIES
Part V. THE SECRET OF THE BRONZE BIRD
Part I
FUGITIVES
Chapter I
THINGS YOU CAN'T FORESEE
Genka and Slava were sitting on the bank of the Utcha.
Genka, his red hair sticking out in all directions, his pants rolled up above his knees and the sleeves of his striped singlet above his elbows, was eyeing the tiny boat station with a disdainful expression on his face.
"Call this a station!" he said, dangling his feet in the water. "They stuck a life belt on a hen-coop and think they've got a station!"
Slava was silent. His pale face, with its slight, rosy tan, looked thoughtful. Chewing a blade of grass in a melancholy way, he was reflecting on a distressing thing that had happened in the camp.
Why did it have to happen just when he, Slava, had been left in charge? True, it was a duty he shared with Genka, but Genka never gave a hang for anything. Here he was dangling his feet in the water without a care in the world.
That indeed was exactly what he was doing.
"A station!" he commented. "Three broken-down tubs! I can't stand show-offs! And there's nothing to show off about! They should simply have written: 'boats for hire,' or 'landing.' That would have been modest and to the point. But 'station'!"
"I'm sure I don't know what we're going to say to Kolya," Slava sighed.
"What's there to say? We're not to blame. And if he starts lecturing I'm going to tell him straight, 'Look, Kolya, you've got to be objective. Nobody's to blame. Besides, life's full of things you can never foresee.'" And with a philosophical air he added, "Yes, life would not be worth while living without them."
"What are you talking about?"
"Things you can't foresee."
"You've got no sense of responsibility," Slava said, scanning the road leading from the railway station.
"'Sense,' 'responsibility'!" Genka said with a contemptuous wave of his hand. "Beautiful words... Everyone answers for himself. Back in Moscow I said we shouldn't take any Young Pioneers to camp with us. I warned them, didn't I? But nobody listened."
"It's no use talking to you," Slava replied indifferently.
For some time they sat in silence, Genka dangling his feet in the water and Slava chewing his blade of grass.
It was baking hot in the July sun. A grasshopper was chirping tirelessly in the grass. The river, narrow and deep and hidden in the shadow of the shrubbery overhanging its banks, wound its way through fields, hugged the foot of the hills, carefully skirted round the villages and disappeared in the forest, hushed, dark and cool.
The wind brought the sounds of a rural street from a village nestling at the foot of a mountain in the distance. The village looked like a haphazard heap of iron, plank and thatched roofs lying amidst the greenery of orchards. Near the stream, by the ferry, the bank was criss-crossed by a dense network of footpaths.
Slava kept his eyes on the road. The Moscow train had probably arrived and Kolya Sevastyanov and Misha Polyakov would be here any minute. Slava sighed.
"Sighing?" Genka smirked. "Those ohs and ahs! How many times have I told you..."
"There they are!" Slava rose, shading his eyes with his hand.
Genka stopped dangling his feet and climbed to the top of the bank.
"Where? Hm. It's them all right. Misha's in front. Behind him... No, it's not Kolya. Some chap or other. It's Korovin! 'Pon my word, it's Korovin, remember the chap who was a waif? And he's got a sack on his shoulders."
"Books, probably."
The boys gazed intently at the small figures moving up the narrow path across the fields. And although they were still far away, Genka spoke in a whisper:
"Only bear in mind, Slava, I'll do all the