THE MARVELLOUS PRISON BASKET

The Stargorod branch of the ephemeral Sword and Ploughshare and the

young toughs from Fastpack formed a queue outside the Grainproducts meal

shop.

Passers-by kept stopping.

"What's the queue for?" asked the citizens.

In a tiresome queue outside a shop there is always one person whose

readiness to chatter increases with his distance from the shop doorway. And

furthest of all stood Polesov.

"Things have reached a pretty pitch," said the fire chief. "We'll soon

be eating oilcake. Even 1919 was better than this. There's only enough flour

in the town for four days."

The citizens twirled their moustaches disbelievingly and argued with

Polesov, quoting the Stargorod Truth.

Having proved to him as easily as pie that there was as much flour

available as they required and that there was no need to panic, the citizens

ran home, collected all their ready cash, and joined the flour queue.

When they had bought up all the flour in the shop, the toughs from

Fastpack switched to groceries and formed a queue for tea and sugar.

In three days Stargorod was in the grip of an acute food and commodity

shortage. Representatives from the co-operatives and state-owned trading

organizations proposed that until the arrival of food supplies, already on

their way, the sale of comestibles should be restricted to a pound of sugar

and five pounds of flour a head.

The next day an antidote to this was found.

At the head of the sugar queue stood Alchen. Behind him was his wife,

Sashchen, Pasha Emilevich, four Yakovleviches and all fifteen old-women

pensioners in their woollen dresses. As soon as he had bled the shop of

twenty-two pounds of sugar, Alchen led his queue across to the other

co-operatives, cursing Pasha Emilevich as he went for gobbling up his ration

of one pound of granulated sugar. Pasha was pouring the sugar into his palm

and transferring it to his enormous mouth. Alchen fussed about all day. To

avoid such unforeseen losses, he took Pasha from the queue and put him on to

carrying the goods purchased to the local market. There Alchen slyly sold

the booty of sugar, tea and marquisette to the privately-owned stalls.

Polesov stood in the queue chiefly for reasons of principle. He had no

money, so he could not buy anything. He wandered from queue to queue,

listening to the conversations, made nasty remarks, raised his eyebrows

knowingly, and complained about conditions. The result of his insinuations

was that rumours began to go around that some sort of underground

organization had arrived with a supply of swords and ploughshares.

Governor Dyadyev made ten thousand roubles in one day. What the

chairman of the stock-exchange committee made, even his wife did not know.

The idea that he belonged to a secret society gave Kislarsky no rest.

The rumours in the town were the last straw. After a sleepless night, the

chairman of the stock-exchange committee made up his mind that the only

thing that could shorten ms term of imprisonment was to make a clean breast

of it.

"Listen, Henrietta," he said to his wife, "it's time to transfer the

textiles to your brother-in-law."

"Why, will the secret police really come for you?" asked Henrietta

Kislarsky.

"They might. Since there isn't any freedom of trade in the country,

I'll have to go to jail some time or other,"

"Shall I prepare your underwear? What misery for me to have to keep

taking you things. But why don't you become a Soviet employee? After all, my

brother-in-law is a trade-union member and he doesn't do too badly."

Henrietta did not know that fate had promoted her husband to the rank

of chairman of the stock-exchange committee. She was therefore calm.

"I may not come back tonight," said Kislarsky, "in which case bring me

some things tomorrow to the jail. But please don't bring any cream puffs.

What kind of fun is it eating cold tarts?"

"Perhaps you ought to take the primus?"

"Do you think I would be allowed a primus in my cell? Give me my

basket."

Kislarsky had a special prison basket. Made to order, it was fully

adapted for all purposes. When opened out, it acted as a bed, and when half

open it could be used as a table. Moreover, it could be substituted for a

cupboard; it had shelves, hooks and drawers. His wife put some cold supper

and fresh underwear into the all-purpose basket.

"You don't need to see me off," said her experienced husband. "If

Rubens comes for the money, tell him there isn't any. Goodbye! Rubens can

wait."

And Kislarsky walked sedately out into the street, carrying the prison

basket by the handle.

"Where are you going, citizen Kislarsky? " Polesov hailed him.

He was standing by a telegraph pole and shouting encouragement to a

post-office worker who was clambering up towards the insulators, gripping

the pole with iron claws.

"I'm going to confess," answered Kislarsky.

"What about?"

"The Sword and Ploughshare."

Victor Mikhailovich was speechless. Kislarsky sauntered towards the

province public prosecutor's office, sticking out his little egg-shaped

belly, which was encircled by a wide belt with an outside pocket.

Victor Mikhailovich napped his wings and flew off to see Dyadyev.

"Kislarsky's a stooge," cried Polesov. "He's just gone to squeal on us.

He's even still in sight."

"What? And with his basket?" said the horrified governor of Stargorod.

• "Yes."

Dyadyev kissed his wife, shouted to her that if Rubens came he was not

to get any money, and raced out into the street. Victor Mikhailovich turned

a circle, clucked like a hen that had just laid an egg, and rushed to find

Nikesha and Vladya.

In the meantime, Kislarsky sauntered slowly along in the direction of

the prosecutor's office. On the way he met Rubens and had a long talk with

him. "And what about the money?" asked Rubens. "My wife will give it to

you."

"And why are you carrying that basket?" Rubens inquired suspiciously.

"I'm going to the steam baths." "Well, have a good steam!"

Kislarsky then called in at the state-owned sweetshop, formerly the

Bonbons de Varsovie, drank a cup of coffee, and ate a piece of layer cake.

It was time to repent. The chairman of the stock-exchange committee went

into the reception room of the prosecutor's office. It was empty. Kislarsky

went up to a door marked "Province Public Prosecutor" and knocked politely.

"Come in," said a familiar voice.

Kislarsky went inside and halted in amazement. His egg-shaped belly

immediately collapsed and wrinkled like a date. What he saw was totally

unexpected.

The desk behind which the prosecutor was sitting was surrounded by

members of the powerful Sword and Ploughshare organization. Judging from

their gestures and plaintive voices, they had confessed to everything.

"Here he is," said Dyadyev, "the ringleader and Octobrist." "First of

all," said Kislarsky, putting down the basket on the floor and approaching

the desk, "I am not an Octobrist; next, I have always been sympathetic

towards the Soviet regime, and third, the ringleader is not me, but Comrade

Charushnikov, whose address is-"

"Red Army Street!" shouted Dyadyev. "Number three!" chorused Nikesha

and Vladya. "Inside the yard on the right!" added Polesov. "I can show you."

Twenty minutes later they brought in Charushnikov, who promptly denied

ever having seen any of the persons present in the room before in his life,

and then, without pausing, went on to denounce Elena Stanislavovna. It was

only when he was in his cell, wearing clean underwear and stretched out on

his prison basket, that the chairman of the stock-exchange committee felt

happy and at ease.

During the crisis Madame Gritsatsuyev-Bender managed to stock up with

enough provisions and commodities for her shop to last at least four months.

Regaining her calm, she began pining once more for her young husband, who

was languishing at meetings of the Junior Council of Ministers. A visit to

the fortune-teller brought no reassurance.

Alarmed by the disappearance of the Stargorod Areopagus, Elena

Stanislavovna dealt the cards with outrageous negligence. The cards first

predicted the end of the world, then a meeting with her husband in a

government institution in the presence of an enemy-the King of Spades.

What is more, the actual fortune-telling ended up rather oddly, too.

Police agents arrived (Kings of Spades) and took away the prophetess to a

government institution (the public prosecutor's office).

Left alone with the parrot, the widow was about to leave in confusion

when the parrot struck the bars of its cage with its beak and spoke for the

first time in its life.

"The times we live in!" it said sardonically, covering its head with

one wing and pulling a feather from underneath.

Madame Gritsatsuyev-Bender made for the door in fright.

A stream of heated, muddled words followed her. The ancient bird was so

upset by the visit of the police and the removal of its owner that it began

shrieking out all the words it knew. A prominent place in its repertoire was

occupied by Victor Polesov.

"Given the absence . . ." said the parrot testily.

And, turning upside-down on its perch, it winked at the widow, who had

stopped motionless by the door, as much as to say: "Well, how do you like

it, widow?"

"Mother!" gasped Gritsatsuyev.

"Which regiment were you in?" asked the parrot in Bender's voice.

"Cr-r-r-rash! Europe will help us."

As soon as the widow had fled, the parrot straightened its shirt front

and uttered the words which people had been trying unsuccessfully for years

to make it say:

"Pretty Polly!"

The widow fled howling down the street. At her house an agile old man

was waiting for her. It was Bartholomeich.

"It's about the advertisement," said Bartholomeich. "I've been here for

two hours."

The heavy hoof of presentiment struck the widow a blow in the heart.

"Oh," she intoned, "it's been a gruelling experience."

"Citizen Bender left you, didn't he? It was you who put the

advertisement in, wasn't it?"

The widow sank on to the sacks of flour.

"How weak your constitution is," said Bartholomeich sweetly. "I'd first

like to find out about the reward. . . ."

"Oh, take everything. I need nothing any more . . ." burbled the

sensitive widow.

"Right, then. I know the whereabouts of your sonny boy, O. Bender. How

much is the reward?"

"Take everything," repeated the widow.

"Twenty roubles," said Bartholomeich dryly.

The widow rose from the sacks. She was covered with flour. Her

flour-dusted eyelashes flapped frenziedly. "How much?" she asked.

"Fifteen roubles." Bartholomeich lowered his price. He sensed it would

be difficult making the wretched woman cough up as much as three roubles.

Trampling the sacks underfoot, the widow advanced on the old man,

called upon the heavenly powers to bear witness, and with their assistance

drove a hard bargain.

"Well, all right, make it five roubles. Only I want the money in

advance, please: it's a rule of mine."

Bartholomeich took two newspaper clippings from his notebook, and,

without letting go of them, began reading.

"Take a look at these in order. You wrote 'Missing from home . . . I

implore, etc.' That's right, isn't it? That's the Stargorod Truth. And this

is what they wrote about your little boy in the Moscow newspapers. Here . .

. 'Knocked down by a horse.' No, don't smile, Madame, just listen . . .

'Knocked down by a horse.' But alive. Alive, I tell you. Would I ask money

for a corpse? So that's it . . . 'Knocked down by a horse. Citizen O. Bender

was knocked down yesterday on Sverdlov Square by horse-cab number 8974. The

victim was unhurt except for slight shock.' So I'll give you these documents

and you give me the money in advance. It's a rule of mine."

Sobbing, the widow handed over the money. Her husband, her dear husband

in yellow boots lay on distant Moscow soil and a cab-horse, breathing

flames, was kicking his blue worsted chest.

Bartholomeich's sensitive nature was satisfied with the adequate

reward. He went away, having explained to the widow that further clues to

her husband's whereabouts could be found for sure at the offices of the

Lathe, where, naturally, everything was known.

Letter from Father Theodore written in Rostov at the Milky Way

hot-water stall to his wife in the regional centre of N.

My darling Kate,

A fresh disaster has befallen me, but I'll come to that. I received the

money in good time, for which sincere thanks. On arrival in Rostov I went at

once to the address. New-Ros-Cement is an enormous establishment; no one

there had ever heard of Engineer Bruns. I was about to despair completely

when they gave me an idea. Try the personnel office, they said. I did. Yes,

they told me, we did have someone of that name; he was doing responsible

work, but left us last year to go to Baku to work for As-Oil as an

accident-prevention specialist.

Well, my dear, my journey will not be as brief as I expected. You write

that the money is running out. It can't be helped, Catherine. It won't be

long now. Have patience, pray to God, and sell my diagonal-cloth student's

uniform. And there'll soon be other expenses to be borne of another nature.

Be ready for everything.

The cost of living in Rostov is awful. I paid Rs. 2.25 for a hotel

room. I haven't enough to get to Baku. I'll cable you from there if I'm

successful.

The weather here is very hot. I carry my coat around with me. I'm

afraid to leave anything in my room-they'd steal it before you had time to

turn around. The people here are sharp.

I don't like Rostov. It is considerably inferior to Kharkov in

population and geographical position. But don't worry, Mother. God willing,

we'll take a trip to Moscow together. Then you'll see it's a completely West

European city. And then we will go to live in Samara near our factory.

Has Vorobyaninov come back? Where can he be? Is Estigneyev still having

meals? How's my cassock since it was cleaned? Make all our friends believe

I'm at my aunt's deathbed. Write the same thing to Gulenka.

Yes! I forgot to tell you about a terrible thing that happened to me

today.

I was gazing at the quiet Don, standing by the bridge and thinking

about our future possessions. Suddenly a wind came up and blew my cap into

the river. It was your brother's, the baker's, I was the only one to see it.

I had to make a new outlay and buy an English cap for Rs. 2.50. Don't tell

your brother anything about what happened. Tell him I'm in Voronezh.

I'm having trouble with my underwear. I wash it in the evening and if

it hasn't dried by the morning, I put it on damp. It's even pleasant in the

present heat.

With love and kisses,

Your husband eternally,

Theo.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Date: 2015-01-02; view: 866