Watson, Ian - Novel 11 by Chekhov's Journey (v1.1)

was 1908.1 once wrote an article on the Tunguska mystery.”
                 “I
stand corrected. Anyway, Anton Chekhov was safely in his grave by then. It
certainly didn’t happen in 1888, dear boy!” Kirilenko stood up too. “Excuse me,
Felix Moseivich, but I am safe in presuming that Mikhail is fully au courant with the actual life of
Chekhov?”
                 “Absolutely. Must we all keep breaking out in French? We’re
Soviet artists, not nineteenth century Russians.”
                 “If
there are no gaps in Mikhail’s
knowledge of the facts, then he couldn’t possibly invent something to fill
those gaps.”
                 “He
could hardly fill gaps, if there aren’t any.”
                 “So
he’s fantasizing,” Sergey said.
                 “But
he can’t be. Oh, admittedly he fantasizes that he’s Chekhov—in the
psychological sense. But he has to do so accurately ,
just as I instructed him to. He can only invent around the known facts. He
doesn’t have free rein to make up whatever he chooses. I must say, nothing like
this has happened before in my experience. It’s an important and fascinating
new development.” However, Kirilenko hardly sounded very happy about it.
Actually, what had happened was confoundedly embarrassing. . .
                 “Maybe
Petrov’s insane?” suggested Sergey. “You know: cuckoo? Round
the twist?”
                 “Thanks,”
said Mikhail.
                 “We
have to get to the bottom of this,” said Kirilenko. “I shall reinforce my
instructions—then we’ll skip forward a few weeks. Probably that’ll put us back
on the right track . . .”
                 Just
then the double doors opened and Osip wandered into the room without having
troubled to knock—attracted by their voices raised in dispute?
                 “Damn
it, man!” snapped Felix. Was the caretaker keeping watch on them, as well as on
the building?
                “Would you lot like something to
eat?” asked Osip. “Some refreshments?”
                 Felix Fixed him with a hard stare for several moments,
before allowing, “Maybe we should break for lunch.”
                 “It
couldn’t have been a comet, could it?” Sonya said. “The Tunguska thing? I thought it had all the characteristics of
a nuclear explosion in mid-air? The heat flash. Radiation scabs on the reindeer. The pattern of tree-fall, the growth spurt in
the trees afterwards . . .”
                 “Oh
yes,” agreed Sergey sarcastically. “Naturally I came to that conclusion in my
article. A nuclear explosion in 1908—nothing more obvious,
when you come to think of it.”
                 Felix
noted how Osip had pricked up his ears. “Be off with you,” he told the
caretaker. “Get on with it—we’re hungry.”
                 Slowly
Osip slouched from the room.
                 “There’s
no other explanation, is there, that fits all the facts?” said Sonya.
                 “Soviet
scientists are working hard on the Tunguska problem every year,” Sergey explained. “They use helicopters and geiger
counters.”
                 “And
still nobody knows for sure,” said Felix. “From all I’ve heard it’s . . . damn
it, it’s downright Chekhovian! Who knows what
happened? Who’ll ever know?”
                 “It
was you who dragged outer space into
all this, in the first place!” Sergey shouted accusingly.
                 Outside,
the sun shone down dazzlingly upon the snowscape, though a curtain of cloud was
in the offing . . .
     

NINE
                 Anton gazed ACROSS a grim river, the
colour of slate. Barges drifted by with dozens of boatmen lining their
gunwales, clutching poles like medieval soldiers armed with pikes. It was
hellishly cold.