The White Guard - Mikhail Bulgakov [3]
On his shoulders Nikolka wore sergeant's shoulder-straps to which were sewn the white stripes of an officer cadet, and on his left sleeve a sharp-pointed tricolor chevron. (Infantry, No. 1
Detachment, 3rd Squad. Formed four days ago in view of impending events.)
Yet despite these events, all was well inside the Turbins' home:
it was warm and comfortable and the cream-colored blinds were drawn - so warm that the two brothers felt pleasantly languorous.
The elder dropped his book and stretched.
'Come on, play "The Survey Squad".' Thrum-ta-ta-tum, thrum-ta-ta-tum . . .
'Who look the smartest? Who move the fastest? The Cadets of the Engineers!'
Alexei began to hum the tune. His eyes were grim, but there was a sparkle in them and his blood quickened. But not too loud, gentlemen, not too loud . . .
'No need to run, girls, Life can be fun, girls -'
The guitar strummed away in time to the marching feet of an engineer company - left, right, left, right! In his mind's eye Nikolka saw a school building, peeling classical columns, guns. Cadets crawling from window to window, firing. Machine-guns at the windows. A handful of soldiers was besieging the school, literally a handful. But it was no use. General Bogoroditzky had turned yellow and surrendered, surrendered with all his cadets. The shame of it . . .
'No need to run, girls, Life can be fun, girls -The Survey Squad is here!'
Nikolka's eyes clouded again. Heat-haze over the red-brown Ukrainian fields. Companies of cadets, white with powdery dust, marching along the dusty tracks. All over now. The shame . . . Hell.
Elena pushed aside the drapes over the door, and her auburn head appeared in the dark gap. She glanced affectionately at her brothers but anxiously at the clock. With good reason; where on earth was Talberg? Their sister was worried. To hide it, she started to sing the tune with her brothers, but suddenly stopped and raised her finger.
'Wait. Did you hear that?'
On all seven strings the company came to a halt. All three listened. There was no mistaking the sound: gunfire. Low,
muffled and distant. There it was again: boo-oo-om . . . Nikolka put down his guitar and jumped up, followed, groaning, by Alexei.
In the lobby and drawing-room it was quite dark. Nikolka stumbled over a chair. Outside it was exactly like a stage-setting for The Night Before Christmas - snow and twinkling, shimmering lights. Nikolka peered through the window. Heat-haze and school house vanished as he strained his ears. Where was that sound? He shrugged his tabbed shoulders.
'God knows. I get the impression it's coming from the Svyato-shino direction. Funny, though. It can't be as near as that.'
Alexei was standing in the dark, but Elena was nearer to the window and her eyes were shadowed with fear. Why had Talberg still not come home? What did it mean? The elder brother sensed her anxiety and because of it he said nothing, although he very much wanted to speak his thoughts. There was not the slightest doubt that it was coming from Svyatoshino. The firing was no more than eight miles outside the City. What was going on?
Nikolka gripped the window-catch and pressed his other hand against the pane as if to break it open, and flattened his nose against the glass.
Td like to go out there and find out what's going on . . .'
'Maybe; but it's no place for you right now . . .' said Elena anxiously. Her husband should have been home at the latest - the very latest - at three o'clock that afternoon, and now it was ten.
They went silently back into the dining-room. The guitar lay glumly silent. Nikolka went out to the kitchen and carried in the