There were some people in the station—mostly peasants, one could easily recognize such in them; quietly talking and drinking tea with dignity and care and biting their sugar with the force of explosions. They never put their sugar into the tea-tumblers. Later a man with a disagreeable face entered the room and looked around. This was not a peasant, I said to myself,—he would not take off his hat. The newcomer was evidently looking for me, as when he noticed me, he first bought some tea and a sandwich, and then, as if there were no other place in the room, picked out a seat near me. "An enemy," I thought to myself and buried my face in my supper.
The man wanted to talk, but evidently felt embarrassed.
"Cold outside, isn't it?" he asked.
A foreign intonation. No accent, however. A Pole or a Russian-German.
"Hm, hm, very!"
"Yes, severe climate, dog's cold. Going to stay in Tumen, or plan to go further?" he asked after a pause.
"Going to stay, or going further,—what do you ask for? But if it interests you—going to stay for a while. If I croak here, or somewhere else—you aren't going to attend my funeral. So what's the big idea?"
"Oh, nothing, nothing! You see I am a stranger here and lately live practically at the depot. Am looking for a man by the name of Vysotsky, so I ask almost everybody for the man."
"Vysotsky?" I asked, assuming an air of astonishment, "Vysotsky?" (Marchenko and his crowd flashed through my mind, especially in connection with my mission)—"no, I don't think that I know anyone by that name."
"Here, here," the man laughed, shoving me with his shoulder, "lay it out, old man, you must know him"