THE MUSE OF TRAVEL

An hour before the evening mail-train was due in, Father Theodore,

dressed in a short coat which came just below the knee, and carrying a

wicker basket, stood in line in front of the booking-office and kept looking

apprehensively at the station entrance. He was afraid that in spite of his

insistence, his wife might come to see him off, and then Prusis, the

stall-owner, who was sitting in the buffet treating the income-tax collector

to a glass of beer, would immediately recognize him. Father Theodore stared

with shame and surprise at his striped trousers, now exposed to the view of

the entire laity.

The process of boarding a train without reserved seats took its normal

and scandalous course. Staggering under the weight of enormous sacks,

passengers ran from the front of the train to the back, and then to the

front again. Father Theodore followed them in a daze. Like everyone else, he

spoke to the conductors in an ingratiating tone, like everyone else he was

afraid he had been given the "wrong" ticket, and it was only when he was

finally allowed into a coach that his customary calm returned and he even

became happy.

The locomotive hooted at the top of its voice and the train moved off,

carrying Father Theodore into the unknown on business that was mysterious,

yet promised great things.

An interesting thing, the permanent way. Once he gets on to it the most

ordinary man in the street feels a certain animation in himself and soon

turns into a passenger, a consignee, or simply a trouble-maker without a

ticket, who makes life difficult for the teams of conductors and platform

ticket-inspectors.

The moment a passenger approaches the right of way, which he

amateurishly calls a railway station, his life is completely changed. He is

immediately surrounded by predatory porters with white aprons and nickel

badges on their chests, and his luggage is obsequiously picked up. From that

moment, the citizen no longer is his own master. He is a passenger and

begins to perform all the duties of one. These duties are many, though they

are not unpleasant.

Passengers eat a lot. Ordinary mortals do not eat during the night, but

passengers do. They eat fried chicken, which is expensive, hard-boiled eggs,

which are bad for the stomach, and olives. Whenever the train passes over

the points, numerous teapots in the rack clatter together, and legless

chickens (the legs have been torn out by the roots by passengers) jump up

and down in their newspaper wrapping.

The passengers, however, are oblivious of all this. They tell each

other jokes. Every three minutes the whole compartment rocks with laughter;

then there is a silence and a soft-spoken voice tells the following story:

"An old Jew lay dying. Around him were his wife and children. 'Is Monya

here?' asks the Jew with difficulty. 'Yes, she's here.' 'Has Auntie Brana

come?' 'Yes.' 'And where's Grandma? I don't see her.' 'She's over here.'

'And Isaac?' 'He's here, too.' 'What about the children?' They're all here.'

'Then who's minding the shop?'"

This very moment the teapots begin rattling and the chickens fly up and

down in the rack, but the passengers do not notice. Each one has a favourite

story ready, eagerly awaiting its turn. A new raconteur, nudging his

neighbours and calling out in a pleading tone, "Have you heard this one?"

finally gains attention and begins:

"A Jew comes home and gets into bed beside his wife. Suddenly he hears

a scratching noise under the bed. The Jew reaches his hand underneath the

bed and asks: 'Is that you, Fido?' And Fido licks his hand and says: 'Yes,

it's me.' "

The passengers collapse with laughter; a dark night cloaks the

countryside. Restless sparks fly from the funnel, and the slim signals in

their luminous green spectacles flash snootily past, staring above the

train.

An interesting thing, the right of way! Long, heavy trains race to all'

parts of the country. The way is open at every point. Green lights can be

seen everywhere; the track is clear. The polar express goes up to Murmansk.

The K-l draws out of Kursk Station, bound for Tiflis, arching its back over

the points. The far-eastern courier rounds Lake Baikal and approaches the

Pacific at full speed.

The Muse of Travel is calling. She has already plucked Father Theodore

from his quiet regional cloister and cast him into some unknown province.

Even Ippolit Matveyevich Vorobyaninov, former marshal of the nobility and

now clerk in a registry office, is stirred to the depths of his heart and

highly excited at the great things ahead.

People speed all over the country. Some of them are looking for

scintillating brides thousands of miles away, while others, in pursuit of

treasure, leave their jobs in the post office and rush off like schoolboys

to Aldan. Others simply sit at home, tenderly stroking an imminent hernia

and reading the works of Count Salias, bought for five kopeks instead of a

rouble.

The day after the funeral, kindly arranged by Bezenchuk the undertaker,

Ippolit Matveyevich went to work and, as part of the duties with which he

was charged, duly registered in his own hand the demise of Claudia Ivanovna

Petukhov, aged fifty-nine, housewife, non-party-member, resident of the

regional centre of N., by origin a member of the upper class of the province

of Stargorod. After this, Ippolit Matveyevich granted himself a two-week

holiday due to him, took forty-one roubles in salary, said good-bye to his

colleagues, and went home. On the way he stopped at the chemist's.

The chemist, Leopold Grigorevich, who was called Lipa by his friends

and family, stood behind the red-lacquered counter, surrounded by

frosted-glass bottles of poison, nervously trying to sell the fire chief's

sister-in-law "Ango cream for sunburn and freckles-gives the skin an

exceptional whiteness". The fire chief's sister-in-law, however, was asking

for "Rachelle powder, gold in colour-gives the skin a tan not normally

acquirable". The chemist had only the Ango cream in stock, and the battle

between these two very different cosmetics raged for half an hour. Lipa won

in the end and sold the fire chief's sister-in-law some lipstick and a

bugovar, which is a device similar in principle to the samovar, except that

it looks like a watering-can and catches bugs.

"What can I get you?"

"Something for the hair."

"To make it grow, to remove it, or to dye it? "

"Not to make it grow," said Ippolit Matveyevich. "To dye it."

"We have a wonderful hair dye called Titanic. We got it from the

customs people; it was confiscated. It's a jet black colour. A bottle

containing a six months' supply costs three roubles, twelve kopeks. I can

recommend it to you, as a good friend."

Ippolit Matveyevich twiddled the bottle in his hands, looked at the

label with a sigh, and put down his money on the counter.

He went home and, with a feeling of revulsion, began pouring Titanic

onto his head and moustache. A stench filled the house.

By the time dinner was over, the stench had cleared, the moustache had

dried and become matted and was very difficult to comb. The jet-black colour

turned out to have a greenish tint, but there was no time for a second try.

Taking from his mother-in-law's jewel box a list of the gems, found the

night before, Ippolit Matveyevich counted up his cash-in-hand, locked the

house, put the key in his back pocket and took the no. 7 express to

Stargorod.

CHAPTER FIVE

Date: 2015-01-02; view: 820