The Chemist | Mikhail Samarsky

1

Abram Moiseyevich Mendeleyev loved chemistry. He loved it so much that he even changed his original surname. That had happened a long time ago, however, and everyone around him had forgotten that Abrik, as his mother used to call him when he was little, had once been called Ravinovich.

When he was young, Abram would get upset whenever anyone called him Rabinovich, and he invariably corrected the offending person, whether it was an acquaintance or an official.

“V! V-v-v!” he would protest, almost shouting. “Do you understand? There is no letter B in my surname. I'm Ravinovich!”

The other person would generally look surprised, apologise and hurry away from the excitable young man—or, at the very least, change the subject.

Over time, Abram Moiseyevich realised that the problem wasn't really the letter B. It was a matter of principle. To his great delight, student Ravinovich unexpectedly discovered that he could apply to the registry office and, after some paperwork, transform himself into almost anyone he liked—even Joseph Vissarionovich Stalin. That particular prospect held no appeal for him, but becoming Mendeleyev was quite another matter. No sooner said than done.

Not all his fellow students appreciated his ingenuity. Some even tapped their foreheads meaningfully. But by then Abrik had stopped paying attention to such trifles. A year later he had not only a passport bearing his new surname but also a university diploma.

When his mother discovered that her son had renounced the family name, she actually fell ill. Abrik reassured her that it was only temporary. As soon as he grew rich and became a famous scientist, he would restore the ancestral surname—or make it a double one and become Mendeleyev-Ravinovich. His mother liked that explanation and quickly recovered.

His next step was no less decisive. Abram applied to the Israeli embassy for citizenship. The required papers were prepared with remarkable speed, and within days the newly qualified specialist in electrochemistry flew to the Promised Land.

Mr Mendeleyev had no difficulty obtaining citizenship, since nobody doubted that he was Jewish. But then it emerged that Israeli law required him to serve in the army, and buying his way out of it—or feigning an illness—was virtually impossible.

Wise and experienced people advised him to arrange an urgent telegram from home: his mother was at death's door. The telegram enabled Abrik to return to what he jokingly thought of as his unhistorical homeland. He showed no further desire to return to the historical one.

He found a job quickly. The personnel department of a well-known research institute was delighted to learn that a descendant of the great scientist would be joining the staff. For a time, some employees invented excuses to visit the laboratory merely to catch a glimpse of their new colleague.

Abram decided not to stop at his surname. A cat and a dog soon moved into the apartment he shared with his mother. The cat was called Nitrogen and the tiny lapdog Molecule. News of the pets' names spread rapidly throughout the institute after a party celebrating Abram's first salary. Abrik's standing among his colleagues rose sharply. They began to see him not only as a true patriot of chemistry, but as a worthy continuator of the great work begun by his great-great-great… grandfather.

He ordered a pair of spectacles with plain lenses and grew a thin little beard (for some reason, a thick one refused to grow). He now looked every inch the professor, albeit a young one.

In short, the chemist had performed quite enough chemistry on his own identity to create a splendid public image. But you can't fool fate. Fate doesn't care whether your name is Ravinovich, Rabinovich, Mendeleyev or even Nobel himself. It's all the same to her.

2

So what happened?

Our Abrik fell in love—so deeply that he was ready to abandon even his second, self-appointed surname.

The most dreadful thing about the affair, at least as far as his mother was concerned, was the bride's name: Lena Nasibulina. Do you see which way the wind is blowing? Yelena Baybekovna Nasibulina was a very beautiful Tatar woman.

When his mother learned the news, she fell ill again. This time nobody knew how to treat her. She even lost weight. In two weeks she dropped from 132 kilograms to 125.

“If you want your mother's premature death, my son,” she said gloomily, “then by all means marry that… that… that bag of soup bones of yours.”

“Mama!” the great scientist's supposed descendant frowned. “How can you say that? Lena is simply slender.”

“What do you mean?” His mother raised her head from the pillow. “Who are you hinting at? Your own mother?”

“Of course not, Mummy,” Abrik replied guiltily, spreading his hands. “You're above comparison. The best of the best.”

“You despicable flatterer,” his mother said between clenched teeth. “If I'm the best of the best, why are you running around with a walking skeleton? Take a good look at that… that girl, if you can call her one. She must be terribly ill. Do you think I haven't seen slim girls before? Of course I have. But this isn't slimness, it's a disease! Or do you suppose I know nothing about such things?”

“Mama, I beg you, stop,” her son whimpered theatrically. “Why are you so obsessed with her weight? She's very clever, affectionate, gentle…”

“Oh, dear, oh, dear!” his mother interrupted, throwing up her hands. “I'm going to burst into tears. Please don't get mixed up with that flighty creature.”

“Please do not insult my… er… fiancée!” Abram exclaimed. “I'm not twelve years old. I can decide for myself whom I… whom I should… well, spend time with!”

“Abrik, my darling,” his mother suddenly laughed, “God bless you. Be friends with whomever you please. Have I ever objected? If it's just friendship, then be friends.”

“No,” her son said firmly. “It's not just friendship. I want to marry Yelena.”

“You change your mind seven times a week,” his mother smirked. “One minute you want to be friends, the next you want to get married. Make up your mind and stop tormenting your poor sick mother.”

“I have made up my mind. We've decided to marry.”

“And she has agreed to take our surname?” his mother suddenly asked.

“Which one of our surnames?” her son asked mischievously.

“Oh, Lord!” She threw up her hands. “Have you forgotten our family name already?”

“I haven't forgotten anything,” Abrik mumbled. “But Lena doesn't want to be Mendeleyeva or Ravinovich. She knows Mendeleyev is an invented surname…”

“Even Fyodorovich, the caretaker of our building, knows that,” his mother said sarcastically. “But why doesn't she want our real surname?”

“I don't know, Mama,” Abram replied. “To tell you the truth, I don't much care.”

“Oh, dear God!” His mother either wiped away a tear or pretended to. “Has she cast a spell on you? Do you hear yourself? And what will your surname be, then?”

“Nasibulin,” her son announced proudly.

His mother fainted.

3

Ivan Nasibulin made no attempt to avoid military service.

On the very first day, the company sergeant-major, Warrant Officer Makhnov, stopped in front of the new recruit and gave him a long, searching look.

“Nasibulin!”

“Present!” the soldier answered loudly.

“Come to the supply room after roll call. We need to talk.”

“Yes, sir!” the soldier barked.

In the supply room, the sergeant-major stared at him for some time, grunting and rolling a cigarette between his fingers. Then he suddenly spoke.

“I'm looking at you, and there's something I can't work out.” The warrant officer thrust out his lower lip. “What nationality are you?”

“Russian,” the soldier answered with a broad smile.

“Well, your first name sounds Russian enough,” the sergeant-major agreed. “But why Nasibulin? I've had two Tatars in my company. One was Khabibulin, and the other had a name like yours: Nasibulin. Maybe you're Tatar too?”

“No, Comrade Warrant Officer, I'm Russian. I promise you!” the soldier protested.

“But if I look closely,” the warrant officer continued, “you've got a Jewish-looking face. Come on, tell me the truth.”

“I don't know,” the soldier said, spreading his hands. “Honestly!”

“All right, let's try another angle. What was your mother's maiden name?”

“Nasibulina,” Ivan answered.

“And do you have a father?” the warrant officer asked in surprise.

“Yes, sir!”

“What's his surname?”

“Nasibulin.”

“Bloody hell!” The warrant officer scratched his head. “I don't understand. Were they both called Nasibulin before they married?”

“No. Before the wedding my father was Mendeleyev.”

The warrant officer turned white with shock. His next question came out automatically.

“A chemist, was he?”

“Yes, Comrade Warrant Officer. A chemist.”

The sergeant-major seized a carafe of water from the table and drained it to the last drop.

“Are you sure? You're not lying?”

“Why would I lie?” the soldier asked in amazement. “Dad took Mum's surname when they married.”

“But why?” The warrant officer's mouth fell open.

“That I don't know.” Ivan shrugged. “Dad never told me, and I never bothered him with questions.”

“And is he… still alive?” Sweat broke out on the warrant officer's forehead.

“Well, yes,” Ivan nodded, forgetting the proper form of address to a superior.

The warrant officer paced back and forth across the supply room. At last he stopped, pointed a threatening finger at the soldier and said:

“All right, go to bed! I'll check tomorrow. If you've been lying, I'll keep you on duty for the rest of your service. Understand?”

“Yes, sir!” the soldier answered. “Permission to leave?”

“Go,” the warrant officer muttered. Then he added, “Bloody chemists. Always mixing something up—and leaving me to sort out the reaction.”