BREATHE DEEPER: YOU'RE EXCITED!

On the morning of May Day, Victor Polesov, consumed by his usual thirst

for activity, hurried out into the street and headed for the centre. At

first he was unable to find any suitable outlet for his talents, since there

were still few people about and the reviewing stands, guarded by mounted

militiamen, were empty. By nine o'clock, however, bands had begun purring,

wheezing, and whistling in various parts of the town. Housewives came

running out of their gates.

A column of musicians'-union officials in soft collars somehow strayed

into the middle of the railway workers' contingent, getting in their way and

upsetting everyone.

A lorry disguised as a green plywood locomotive with the serial letter

"S" kept running into the musicians from behind, eliciting shouts from the

bowels of the locomotive in the direction of the toilers of the oboe and

flute:

"Where's your supervisor? You're not supposed to be on Red Army Street!

Can't you see you're causing a traffic jam?"

At this point, to the misfortune of the musicians, Victor Polesov

intervened.

"That's right! You're supposed to turn into the blind alley here. They

can't even organize a parade! Scandalous!"

The children were riding in lorries belonging to the Stargorod communal

services and the grain-mill-and-lift-construction administration. The

youngest ones stood at the sides of the lorry and the bigger ones in the

middle. The junior army waved paper flags and thoroughly enjoyed themselves.

It was crowded, noisy, and hot. Every minute there were bottlenecks, and

every other minute they were cleared. To pass the time during the

bottlenecks the crowd tossed old men and activists in the air. The old men

wailed in squeaky voices, while the activists sailed up and down with

serious faces in silence. One merry column of people mistook Polesov for a

supervisor as he was trying to squeeze through them and began tossing him.

Polesov thrashed about like Punchinello.

Then came an effigy of Neville Chamberlain, being beaten on his top-hat

with a cardboard hammer by a worker possessing a model anatomical physique.

This was followed by a truck carrying three members of the Communist Youth

in tails and white gloves. They kept looking at the crowd with

embarrassment.

"Basil!" shouted someone from the pavement, "you bourgeois ! Give back

those braces!"

Girls were singing. Alchen was marching along in a group of

social-security workers with a large red bow on his chest. As he went he

crooned in a nasal voice:

From the forests of Siberia

To the British Sea,

There's no one superior

To the Red Army. . . .

At a given command, gymnasts disjointedly shouted out something

unintelligible. Everything walked, rode and marched to the new tram depot

from where at exactly one o'clock the first electric tram in Stargorod was

due to move off.

No one knew exactly when the construction of the tramline had been

begun. Some time back in 1920, when voluntary Saturday work was introduced,

railway workers and ropemakers had marched to Gusishe to the accompaniment

of music and spent the whole day digging holes. They dug a great number of

large, deep holes. A comrade in an engineer's cap had run about among the

diggers, followed by a foreman carrying coloured poles. Work had continued

at the same spot the next Saturday. Two holes dug in the wrong place had to

be filled in again. The comrade descended on the foreman and demanded an

explanation. Then fresh holes had been dug that were even bigger and deeper.

Next, the bricks were delivered and the real builders arrived. They set

about laying the foundations, but then everything quieted down. The comrade

in the engineer's cap still appeared now and then at the deserted building

site and wandered round and round the brick-lined pit, muttering:

"Cost accounting!"

He tapped the foundations with a stick and then hurried home, covering

his frozen ears with his hands. The engineer's name was Treukhov.

The idea of the tram depot, the construction of which ceased abruptly

at the foundation stage, was conceived by Treukhov in 1912, but the Tsarist

town council had rejected the project. Two years later Treukhov stormed the

town council again, but the war prevented any headway. Then the Revolution

interfered, and now the New Economic Plan, cost accounting, and capital

recovery were the obstacles. The foundations were overgrown with flowers in

the summer, and in the winter children turned them into a snow-slide.

Treukhov dreamed of great things. He was sick and tired of working in

the town-improvement department of the Stargorod communal services, tired of

mending the kerbs, and tired of estimating the cost of hoardings. But the

great things did not pan out. The tramline project, re-submitted for

consideration, became bogged down at the higher instances of the provincial

administration; it was approved by one and rejected by another, passed on to

the capital, regardless of approval or rejection, became covered in dust,

and no money was forthcoming.

"It's barbarous!" Treukhov shouted at his wife. "No money, indeed! But

they have enough money to pay for cab drivers and for carting merchandise to

the station! The Stargorod's cab-drivers would rob their own grandmothers!

It's a pillagers' monopoly, of course. Just try carrying your own stuff to

the station! A tramline would pay for itself in six years."

His withered moustache drooped angrily, and his snub-nosed face worked

convulsively. He took some blueprints out of the desk and showed them to his

wife for the thousandth time. They were plans for a terminus, depot and

twelve tramcar routes.

"To hell with twelve routes! They can wait. But three! Three! Stargorod

will choke without them!"

Treukhov snorted and went into the kitchen to chop wood. He did all the

household chores himself. He designed and built a cradle for the baby and

also constructed a washing-machine. For a while he washed the clothes in it

himself, explaining to his wife how to work the machine. At least a fifth of

Treukhov's salary went on subscriptions to foreign technical literature. To

make ends meet he gave up smoking.

He took his project to Gavrilin, the new chief of the Stargorod

communal services who had been transferred from Samarkand. The new chief,

deeply tanned by the Tunisian sun, listened to Treukhov for some time,

though without particular attention, and finally said:

"In Samarkand, you know, we don't need trams. Everyone rides donkeys. A

donkey costs three roubles-dirt cheap-and it can carry about three hundred

pounds. Just a little donkey; it's amazing!"

"But that's Asia," said Treukhov angrily. "A donkey costs three

roubles, but you need thirty roubles a year to feed it."

"And how many times do you think you can travel on your trams for

thirty roubles? Three hundred. And that's not even every day for a year."

"Then you'd better send for some of your donkeys," shouted Treukhov and

rushed out of the office, slamming the door. Whenever he met Treukhov from

that time on, the new chief would ask derisively: "Well, then, shall we send

for donkeys or build a tramway?"

Gavrilin's face was like a smoothly-peeled turnip. His eyes were filled

with cunning. About two months later he sent for the engineer and said to

him earnestly:

"I have a little plan. One thing is clear, though; there's no money,

and a tramline is not like a donkey-it can't be bought for three roubles.

We'll have to get some funds. What practical solution is there? A

shareholding company? What else? A loan repayable with interest! How long

will it take for a tramline to pay for itself? "

"Six years from the opening of the first three routes."

"Well, let's say ten years then. Now, the shareholding company. Who

will buy the shares? The food co-operatives and the-central union of dairy

co-operatives. Do the ropemakers need trams? Yes, they do. We will be

dispatching freight cars to the railway station. So that's the ropemakers.

The Ministry of Transport may contribute something, and also the province

executive committee. That's definite. And once we've got things going, the

State Bank and the Commercial Bank will give us loans. So that's my little

plan. It is going to be discussed at the executive committee meeting on

Friday, and if they agree, the rest is up to you."

Treukhov stayed up till the early hours, excitedly washing clothes and

explaining to his wife the advantages of trams over horse-drawn

transportation.

The decision taken on the Friday was favourable. But that was when the

trouble started. It proved very difficult to form a shareholding company.

The Ministry of Transport kept changing its mind about becoming a

shareholder. The food co-operatives tried their best to avoid taking fifteen

per cent of the shares and only wanted to take ten per cent. The shares were

finally distributed, though not without a few skirmishes. Gavrilin was sent,

for by the province control commission and reprimanded for using his

position to exert pressure. But everything came out all right, and then it

was only a question of beginning.

"Well, Comrade Treukhov," said Gavrilin, "get cracking! Do you think

you'll manage? Well and good. It's not like buying a donkey."

Treukhov immersed himself in his work. The great things which he had

dreamed of for years had finally arrived. Estimates were made, a

construction programme drawn up, and the materials ordered. But difficulties

arose where they were least expected. It was found that there were no cement

experts in Stargorod, so they had to be brought in from Leningrad. Gavrilin

tried to force the pace, but the plants could not deliver the machinery for

eighteen months, even though it was actually needed within a year, at the

latest. A threat to order the machinery from abroad, however, brought about

the required effect. Then there were minor difficulties. First it was

impossible to find shaped iron of the right size, then unseasoned sleepers

were received instead of seasoned ones. The right ones were finally

delivered, but Treukhov, who had gone personally to the seasoning plant,

rejected sixty per cent of the sleepers. There were defects in the cast-iron

parts, and the timber was damp. Gavrilin made frequent visits to the

building sites in his ancient, wheezing Fiat and had rows with Treukhov.

While the terminus and depot were being erected, the citizens of

Stargorod merely made jokes.

In the Stargorod Truth the tram story was reported by the "Prince of

Denmark", writer of humorous pieces, known to the whole town under the pen

name of "Flywheel". Not less than three times a week, in a long account,

Flywheel expressed his irritation at the slowness of the construction. The

newspaper's third column -which used to bound with such sceptical headlines

as "No sign of a club", "Around the weak points", "Inspections are needed,

but what is the point of shine and long tails?" "Good and . . . bad", "What

we like and what we don't", "Deal with the saboteurs of education", and

"It's time to put an end to red tape"-began to present readers with such

sunny and encouraging headings at the top of Flywheel's reports as "How we

are living and how we are building", "Giant will soon start work", "Modest

builder", and so on, in that vein.

Treukhov used to open the newspaper with a shudder and, feeling disgust

for the brotherhood of writers, read such cheerful lines about himself as:

. . . I'm climbing over the rafters with the wind whistling in my ears.

Above me is the invisible builder of our powerful tramway, that thin,

pug-nosed man in a shabby cap with crossed hammers.

It brings to mind Pushkin's poem: "There he stood, full of great

thoughts, on the bank. . . ."

I approach him. Not a breath of air. The rafters do not stir.

I ask him: How is the work progressing? Engineer Treukhov's ugly face

brightens up. . . .

He shakes my hand and says: "Seventy per cent of the target has been

reached." [The article ended like this]:

He shakes my hand in farewell. The rafters creak behind me. Builders

scurry to and fro. Who could forget the feverish activity of the building

site or the homely face of our builder?

FLYWHEEL

The only thing that saved Treukhov was that he had no time to read the

papers and usually managed to miss Comrade Flywheel's jottings.

On one occasion Treukhov could not restrain himself, and he wrote a

carefully worded and malicious reply.

"Of course [he wrote], you can call a bolt a transmission, but people

who do so know nothing about building. And I would like to point out to

Comrade Flywheel that the only time rafters creak is when the building is

about to fall down. To speak of rafters in this way is much the same as

claiming that a 'cello can give birth to children.

"Yours, [etc.]"

After that the indefatigable prince stopped visiting the building site,

but his reports continued to grace the third column, standing out sharply

against a background of such prosaic headlines as "15,000 Roubles Growing

Rusty", "Housing Hitches", "Materials Are Weeping", and "Curiosities and

Tears".

The construction was nearing its end. Rails were welded by the thermite

method, and they stretched, without gaps, from the station to the

slaughterhouse, and from the market to the cemetery.

In the beginning it was intended to time the opening of the tramway for

the Ninth Anniversary of the October Revolution, but the car-building plant

was unable to supply the cars by the promised date and made some excuse

about "fittings". The opening had to be postponed until May Day. By this

date everything was definitely ready.

Wandering about, the concessionaires reached Gusishe at the same time

as the processions. The whole of Stargorod was there. The new depot was

decorated with garlands of evergreen; the flags flapped, and the wind

rippled the banners. A mounted militiaman galloped after an ice-cream seller

who had somehow got into the circular space cordoned off by railway workers.

A rickety platform, as yet empty, with a public-address system, towered

between the two gates of the depot. Delegates began mounting the platform. A

combined band of communal-service workers and ropemakers was trying out its

lungs. The drum lay on the ground.

A Moscow correspondent in a shaggy cap wandered around inside the

depot, which contained ten light-green trams numbered 701 to 710. He was

looking for the chief engineer in order to ask him a few questions on the

subject of tramlines. Although the correspondent had already prepared in his

mind the report on the opening, with a summary of the speeches, he

conscientiously continued his search, his only complaint being the absence

of a bar. The crowds sang, yelled, and chewed sunflower seeds while waiting

for the railway to be opened.

The presidium of the province executive committee mounted the platform.

The Prince of Denmark stammered out a few phrases to his fellow writer.

Newsreel cameramen from Moscow were expected any moment.

"Comrades," said Gavrilin, "I declare the official meeting to celebrate

the opening of the Stargorod tramway open."

The brass trumpets sprang into action, sighed, and played the

International right through three times.

"Comrade Gavrilin will now give a report," cried Comrade Gavrilin.

The Prince of Denmark (Flywheel) and the visitor from Moscow both wrote

in their notebooks, without collusion:

"The ceremony opened with a report by Comrade Gavrilin, Chairman of the

Stargorod Communal Services. The crowd listened attentively."

The two correspondents were people of completely different types. The

Muscovite was young and single, while Flywheel was burdened with a large

family and had passed his forties some time ago. One had lived in Moscow all

his life, while the other had never been there. The Muscovite liked beer,

while Flywheel never let anything but vodka pass his lips. Despite this

difference in character, age, habits and upbringing, however, the

impressions of both the journalists were cast in the same hackneyed,

second-hand, dust-covered phrases. Their pencils began scratching and

another observation was recorded in the notebooks: "On this day of festivity

it is as though the streets of Stargorod have grown wider. . . ."

Gavrilin began his speech in a good and simple fashion. "Building a

tramway is not like buying a donkey."

A loud guffaw was suddenly heard from Ostap Bender in the crowd; he had

appreciated the remark. Heartened by the response, Gavrilin, without knowing

why himself, suddenly switched to the international situation. Several times

he attempted to bring his speech back on to the rails, but, to his horror,

found he was unable to. The international words just flowed out by

themselves, against the speaker's will. After Chamberlain, to whom Gavrilin

devoted half an hour, the international arena was taken by the American

Senator Borah; the crowd began to wilt. Both correspondents wrote: "The

speaker described the international situation in vivid language. . . ."

Gavrilin, now worked up, made some nasty comments about the Rumanian

nobility and then turned to Mussolini. It was only towards the end of his

speech that he was able to suppress his second international nature and say

in a good, businesslike way:

"And so, Comrades, I think that the tram about to leave the depot . . .

is leaving on whose account? Yours, of course, Comrades-and that of all

workers who have really worked, not from fear, Comrades, but from

conscience. It is also due, Comrades, to that honest Soviet specialist,

Chief Engineer Treukhov. We must thank him as well."

A search for Treukhov was made, but he was not to be found. The

representative of the dairy co-operatives, who had been itching to have his

say, squeezed through to the front of the platform, waved his hand, and

began speaking loudly of the international situation. At the end of the

speech, both correspondents promptly jotted down, and they listened to the

feeble applause: "Loud applause turning into an ovation." They both wondered

whether "turning into an ovation" wasn't too strong. The Muscovite made up

his mind to cross it out. Flywheel sighed and left it.

The sun rapidly rolled down an inclined plane. Slogans resounded from

the platform, and the band played a flourish. The sky became a vivid dark

blue and the meeting went on and on. Both the speakers and the listeners had

felt for some time that something was wrong, that the meeting had gone on

much too long and that the tramway should be started up as soon as possible.

But they had all become so used to talking that they could not stop.

Treukhov was finally found. He was covered with dirt and took a long

time to wash his face and hands before going on to the platform.

"Comrade Treukhov, chief engineer, will now say a few words," announced

Gavrilin jubilantly. "Well, say something-I said all the wrong things," he

added in a whisper.

Treukhov wanted to say a number of things. About voluntary Saturdays,

the difficulties of his work, and about everything that had been done and

remained to do. And there was a lot to be done: the town ought to do away

with the horrible market; there were covered glass buildings to be

constructed; a permanent bridge could be built instead of the present

temporary one, which was swept away each year by the ice drifts, and finally

there was the plan for a very large meat-refrigeration plant.

Treukhov opened his mouth and, stuttering, began. "Comrades ! The

international position of our country . . ." And then he went on to burble

such boring truisms that the crowd, now listening to its sixth international

speech, lost interest.

It was only when he had finished that Treukhov realized he had not said

a word about the tramway. "It's a shame," he said to himself, "we have

absolutely no idea how to make speeches."

He remembered hearing a speech by a French Communist at a meeting in

Moscow. The Frenchman was talking about the bourgeois press. "Those acrobats

of the pen, those virtuosos of farce, those jackals of the rotary press," he

exclaimed. The first part of his speech had been delivered in the key of A,

the second in C, and the final part, the pathetique, had been in the key of

E. His gestures were moderate and elegant.

"But we only make a mess of things," decided Treukhov. "It would be

better if we didn't talk at all."

It was completely dark when the chairman of the province executive

committee snipped the red tape sealing off the depot. Workers and

representatives of public organizations noisily began taking their seats in

the trams. There was a tinkling of bells and the first tram, driven by

Treukhov himself, sailed out of the depot to the accompaniment of deafening

shouts from the crowd and groans from the band. The illuminated cars seemed

even more dazzling than in the daytime. They made their way through Gusishe

in a line; passing under the railway bridge, they climbed easily into the

town and turned into Greater Pushkin Street. The band was in the second

tramcar; poking their trumpets out of the windows they played the Budyonny

march.

Gavrilin, in a conductor's coat and with a bag across his shoulders,

smiled tenderly as he jumped from one car to another, ringing the bell at

the wrong time and handing out invitations to:

on May 1 at 9 p.m.

GALA EVENING

at the COMMUNAL SERVICES WORKERS' CLUB

Programme

1. Report by Comrade Mosin.

2. Award of certificates by the Communal Service Workers' Union.

3. Informal half: grand concert, family supper and bar.

On the platform of the last car stood Victor Polesov, who had somehow

or other been included among the guests of honour. He sniffed the motor. To

his extreme surprise, it looked perfectly all right and seemed to be working

normally. The glass in the windows was not rattling, and, looking at the

panes closely, he saw that they were padded with rubber. He had already made

several comments to the driver and was now considered by the public to be an

expert on trams in the West.

"The pneumatic brake isn't working too well," said Polesov, looking

triumphantly at the passengers. "It's not sucking!"

"Nobody asked you," replied the driver. "It will no doubt suck all

right,"

Having made a festive round of the town, the cars returned to the

depot, where a crowd was waiting for them. Treukhov was tossed in the air

beneath the full glare of electric lights. They also tried tossing Gavrilin,

but since he weighed almost 216 pounds and did not soar very high, he was

quickly set down again. Comrade Mosin and various technicians were also

tossed. Victor Polesov was then tossed for the second time that day. This

time he did not kick with his legs, but soared up and down, gazing sternly

and seriously at the starry sky. As he soared up for the last time, Polesov

noticed that the person holding him by the foot and laughing nastily was

none other than the former marshal of the nobility, Ippolit Matveyevich

Vorobyaninov. Polesov politely freed himself and went a short distance away,

still keeping the marshal in sight. Observing that Ippolit Matveyevich and

the young stranger with him, clearly an ex-officer, were leaving, he

cautiously started to follow them.

As soon as everything was over, and Comrade Gavrilin was sitting in his

lilac Fiat waiting for Treukhov to issue final instructions so that they

could then drive together to the club, a Ford station-wagon containing

newsreel cameramen drove up to the depot gates.

A man wearing twelve-sided horn-rimmed spectacles and a sleeveless

leather coat was the first to spring nimbly out of the vehicle. A long

pointed beard grew straight out of his Adam's apple. A second man carried

the camera and kept tripping over a long scarf of the kind that Ostap Bender

usually called chic moderne. Next came assistants, lights and girls. The

whole group tore into the depot with loud shouts.

"Attention!" cried the bearded owner of the leather coat. "Nick, set

the lights up!"

Treukhov turned crimson and went over to the late arrivals.

"Are you the newsreel reporters?" he asked. "Why didn't you come during

the day? "

"When is the tramway going to be opened? "

"It has already been opened."

"Yes, yes, we are a little late. We came across some good nature shots.

There was loads of work. A sunset! But, anyway, we'll manage. Nick, lights!

Close-up of a turning wheel. Close-up of the feet of the moving crowd.

Lyuda, Milochka, start walking! Nick, action! Off you go! Keep walking, keep

walking ! That's it, thank you! Now we'll take the builder. Comrade

Treukhov? Would you mind, Comrade Treukhov? No, not like that.

Three-quarters. Like this, it's more original! Against a tram . . . Nick!

Action! Say something! "

"I. . . I. . . honestly, I feel so awkward!"

"Splendid! Good! Say something else! Now you're talking to the first

passenger. Lyuda, come into the picture! That's it. Breathe deeper, you're

excited! . . . Nick! A close-up of their legs! Action! That's it. Thanks

very much. Cut! "

Gavrilin clambered out of the throbbing Fiat and went to fetch his

missing friend. The producer with the hairy Adam's apple came to life.

"Nick! Over here! A marvellous character type. A worker! A tram

passenger. Breathe deeper, you're excited! You've never been in a tram

before. Breathe! "

Gavrilin wheezed malevolently.

"Marvellous! Milochka, come here! Greetings from the Communist Youth!

Breathe deeper, you're excited! That's it! Swell! Nick, cut!"

"Aren't you going to film the tramway?" asked Treukhov shyly.

"You see," lowed the leather producer, "the lighting conditions make it

difficult. We'll have to fill in the shots in Moscow. 'Bye-'bye!"

The newsreel reporters disappeared quicker than lightning.

"Well, let's go and relax, pal," said Gavrilin. "What's this? You

smoking!"

"I've begun smoking," confessed Treukhov. "I couldn't stop myself."

At the family gathering, the hungry Treukhov smoked one cigarette after

another, drank three glasses of vodka, and became hopelessly drunk. He

kissed everyone and they kissed him. He tried to say something nice to his

wife, but only burst into laughter. Then he shook Gavrilin's hand for a long

time and said:

"You're a strange one! You should learn to build railway bridges. It's

a wonderful science, and the chief thing is that it's so simple. A bridge

across the Hudson . . ."

Half an hour later he was completely gone and made a Philippic against

the bourgeois press.

"Those acrobats of the press, those hyenas of the pen! Those virtuosos

of the rotary printing machine!" he cried.

His wife took him home in a horse-cab.

"I want to go by tram," he said to his wife. "Can't you understand? If

there's a tramway system, we should use it. Why? First, because it's an

advantage!"

Polesov followed the concessionaires, spent some time mustering his

courage, and finally, waiting until there was no one about, went up to

Vorobyaninov.

"Good evening, Mr. Ippolit Matveyevich!" he said respectfully.

Vorobyaninov turned pale. "I don't think I know you," he mumbled.

Ostap stuck out his right shoulder and went up to the

mechanic-intellectual. "Come on now, what is it that you want to tell my

friend?"

"Don't be alarmed," whispered Polesov, "Elena Stanislavovna sent me."

"What! Is she here?"

"Yes, and she wants to see you."

"Why?" asked Ostap. "And who are you?"

"I . . . Don't you think anything of the sort, Ippolit Matveyevich. You

don't know me, but I remember you very well."

"I'd like to visit Elena Stanislavovna," said Vorobyaninov

indecisively.

"She's very anxious to see you."

"Yes, but how did she find out? "

"I saw you in the corridor of the communal services building and

thought to myself for a long time: 'I know that face.' Then I remembered.

Don't worry about anything, Ippolit Matveyevich. It will all be absolutely

secret."

"Do you know the woman?" asked Ostap in a business-like tone.

"Mm . . . yes. An old friend."

"Then we might go and have supper with your old friend. I'm famished

and all the shops are shut."

"We probably can."

"Let's go, then. Lead the way, mysterious stranger."

And Victor Mikhailovich, continually looking behind him, led the

partners through the back yards to the fortune-teller's house on

Pereleshinsky Street.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Date: 2015-01-02; view: 869