NO CONSULTATIONS

BY YOUR VISIT YOU ARE DISTURBING A BUSY MAN

Wherever it is impossible to place rails or barriers, to overturn

benches or hang up warning signs, ropes are used. They are stretched across

your path according to mood, and in the most unexpected places. If they are

stretched at chest level they cause no more than slight shock and nervous

laughter. But when stretched at ankle level they can cripple you for life.

To hell with doors! To hell with queues outside theatres. Allow us to

go in without business. We implore you to remove the barrier set up by the

thoughtless apartment superintendent on the pavement by his door. There are

the upturned benches! Put them the right side up! It is precisely at

night-time that it is so nice to sit in the gardens in the squares. The air

is clear and clever thoughts come to mind.

Sitting on the landing by the locked glass door in the very centre of

the House of the Peoples, Mrs. Gritsatsuyev contemplated her widow's lot,

dozed off from time to time, and waited for morning.

The yellow light of the ceiling lamps poured on to the widow through

the glass door from the illuminated corridor. The ashen morn made its way in

through the window of the stairway.

It was that quiet hour when the morning is fresh and young. It was at

this hour that the widow heard footsteps in the corridor. The widow jumped

up and pressed against the glass. She caught a glimpse of a blue waistcoat

at the end of the corridor. The crimson boots were dusty with plaster. The

flighty son of a Turkish citizen approached the glass door, brushing a speck

of dust from the sleeve of his jacket.

"Bunny!" called the widow. "Bun-ny!"

She breathed on the glass with unspeakable tenderness. The glass misted

over and made rainbow circles. Beyond the mistiness and rainbows glimmered

blue and raspberry-coloured spectres.

Ostap did not hear the widow's cooing. He scratched his back and turned

his head anxiously. Another second and he would have been around the corner.

With a groan of "Comrade Bender", the poor wife began drumming on the

window. The smooth operator turned around.

"Oh," he said, seeing he was separated from the widow by a glass door,

"are you here, too?"

"Yes, here, here," uttered the widow joyfully.

"Kiss me, honey," the technical adviser invited. "We haven't seen each

other for such a long time!"

The widow was in a frenzy. She hopped up and down behind the door like

a finch in a cage. The petticoat which had been silent for the night began

to rustle loudly. Ostap spread his arms.

"Why don't you come to me, my little hen? Your Pacific rooster is so

tired after the meeting of the Junior Council of Ministers."

The widow had no imagination.

"Bunny," she called for the fifth time, "open the door, Comrade

Bender."

"Hush, girl! Modesty becomes a woman. What's all the jumping about

for?"

The widow was in agony.

"Why are you torturing yourself?" asked Ostap. "Who's preventing you

from living? "

The widow burst into tears.

"Wipe your eyes, Citizeness. Every one of your tears is a molecule in

the cosmos."

"But I've been waiting and waiting. I closed down the shop. I've come

for you, Comrade Bender."

"And how does it feel on the stairs? Not draughty, I hope?"

The widow slowly began to seethe like a huge monastery samovar. ,

"Traitor!" she spat out with a shudder.

Ostap had a little time left. He clicked his fingers and, swaying

rhythmically, crooned:

"We all go through times

When the devil's beside us,

When a young woman's charms

Arouse passion inside us."

"Drop dead!" advised the widow at the end of the dance. "You stole my

bracelet, a present from my husband. And why did you take the chair? "

"Now you're getting personal," Ostap observed coldly.

"You stole, you stole!" repeated the widow.

"Listen, girl. Just remember for future reference that Ostap Bender

never stole anything in his life."

"Then who took the tea-strainer?"

"Ah, the tea-strainer! From your non-liquid fund. And you consider that

theft? In that case our views on life are diametrically opposed."

"You took it," clucked the widow.

"So if a young and healthy man borrows from a provincial grandmother a

kitchen utensil for which she has no need on account of poor health, he's a

thief, is he? Is that what you mean?"

"Thief! Thief!"

The widow threw herself against the door. The glass rattled. Ostap

realized it was time to go.

"I've no time to kiss you," he said. "Good-bye, beloved. We've parted

like ships at sea."

"Help!" screeched the widow.

But Ostap was already at the end of the corridor. He climbed on to the

windowsill and dropped heavily to the ground, moist after the night rain,

and hid in the glistening playgrounds.

The widow's cries brought the night watchman. He let her out,

threatening to have her fined.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

THE AUTHOR OF THE "GAVRILIAD"

As Madame Gritsatsuyev was leaving the block of offices, the more

modest ranks of employees were beginning to arrive at the House of the

Peoples: there were messengers, in-and-out girls, duty telephonists, young

assistant accountants, and state-sponsored apprentices.

Among them was Nikifor Lapis, a very young man with a sheep's-head

haircut and a cheeky face.

The ignorant, the stubborn, and those making their first visit to the

House of the Peoples entered through the front entrance. Nikifor Lapis made

his way into the building through the dispensary. At the House of the

Peoples he was completely at home and knew the quickest ways to the oases

where, under the leafy shade of departmental journals, royalties gushed from

clear springs.

First of all, Nikifor went to the snack-bar. The nickel-plated register

made a musical sound and ejected three checks. Nikifor consumed some

yoghurt, having opened the paper-covered jar, then a cream puff which looked

like a miniature flower-bed. He washed it all down with tea. Then Lapis

leisurely began making the round of his possessions.

His first visit was to the editorial office of the monthly sporting

magazine Gerasim and Mumu. Comrade Napernikov had not yet arrived, so

Nikifor moved on to the Hygroscopic Herald, the weekly mouthpiece by which

pharmaceutical workers communicated with the outside world.

"Good morning!" said Nikifor. "I've written a marvellous poem."

"What about?" asked the editor of the literary page. "On what subject?

You know, Trubetskoi, our magazine . . ."

To give a more subtle definition of the essence of the Hygroscopic

Herald, the editor gestured with his fingers.

Trubetskoi-Lapis looked at his white sailcloth trousers, leaned

backward, and said in a singsong voice: "The Ballad of the Gangrene".

'.'That's interesting," said the hygroscopic individual. "It's about

time we introduced prophylaxis in popular form."

Lapis immediately began declaiming:

"Gavrila took to bed with gangrene.

The gangrene made Gavrila sick . . ."

The poem went on in the same heroic iambic tetrameter to relate how,

through ignorance, Gavrila failed to go to the chemist's in time and died

because he had not put iodine on a scratch.

"You're making progress, Trubetskoi," said the editor in approval. "But

we'd like something a bit longer. Do you understand?"

He began moving his fingers, but nevertheless took the terrifying

ballad, promising to pay on Tuesday.

In the magazine Telegraphist's Week Lapis was greeted hospitably.

"A good thing you've come, Trubetskoi. We need some verse right away.

But it must be about life, life, and life. No lyrical stuff. Do you hear,

Trubetskoi? Something about the everyday life of post-office workers, but at

the same time . . . Do you get me?"

"Only yesterday I was thinking about the everyday life of post-office

workers, and I concocted the following poem. It's called 'The Last Letter'.

Here it is:

"Gavrila had a job as postman.

Gavrila took the letters round . . ."

The story of Gavrila was contained in seventy-two lines. At the end of

the poem, Gavrila, although wounded by a fascist bullet, managed to deliver

the letter to the right address.

"Where does it take place? " they asked Lapis.

It was a good question. There were no fascists in the USSR, and no

Gavrilas or members of the post-office union abroad.

"What's wrong?" asked Lapis. "It takes place here, of course, and the

fascist is disguised."

"You know, Trubetskoi, you'd do better to write about a radio station."

"Why don't you want the postman? "

"Let's wait a bit. We'll take it conditionally.

The crestfallen Nikifor Trubetskoi-Lapis went back to Gerasim and Mumu.

Napernikov was already at his desk. On the wall hung a greatly enlarged

picture of Turgenev with a pince-nez, waders, and a double-barrel shotgun

across his shoulders. Beside Napernikov stood Lapis's rival, a poet from the

suburbs.

The same old story of Gavrila was begun again, but this time with a

hunting twist to it. The work went under the title of "The Poacher's

Prayer".

Gavrila lay in wait for rabbits.

Gavrila shot and winged a doe . . .

"Very good!" said the kindly Napernikov. "You have surpassed Entich

himself in this poem, Trubetskoi. Only there are one or two things to be

changed. The first thing is to get rid of the word 'prayer'."

"And 'rabbit'," said the rival.

"Why 'rabbit'?" asked Nikifor in surprise.

"It's the wrong season."

"You hear that, Trubetskoi! Change the word 'rabbit' as well."

After transformation the poem bore the title "The Poacher's Lesson" and

the rabbits were changed to snipe. It then turned out that snipe were not

game birds in the summer, either. In its final form the poem read:

Gavrila lay in wait for sparrows.

Gavrila shot and winged a bird . . .

After lunch in the canteen, Lapis set to work again. His white trousers

flashed up and down the corridor. He entered various editorial offices and

sold the many-faced Gavrila.

In the Co-operative Flute Gavrila was submitted under the title of "The

Eolean Recorder".

Gavrila worked behind the counter. Gavrila did a trade in flutes . . .

The simpletons in the voluminous magazine The Forest as It Is bought a

short poem by Lapis entitled "On the Verge". It began like this:

Gavrila passed through virgin forest,

Hacking at the thick bamboo . . .

The last Gavrila for that day worked in a bakery. He was found a place

in the editorial office of The Cake Worker. The poem had the long and sad

title of "Bread, Standards of Output, and One's Sweetheart". The poem was

dedicated to a mysterious Hina Chlek. The beginning was as epic as before:

Gavrila had a job as baker.

Gavrila baked the cakes and bread . . .

After a delicate argument, the dedication was deleted.

The saddest thing of all was that no one gave Lapis any money. Some

promised to pay him on Tuesday, others said Thursday, or Friday in two

weeks' time. He was forced to go and borrow money from the enemy camp-the

place where he was never published.

Lapis went down to the second floor and entered the office of the

Lathe. To his misfortune he immediately bumped into Persidsky, the slogger.

"Ah!" exclaimed Persidsky, "Lapsus!"

"Listen," said Nikifor Lapis, lowering his voice. "Let me have three

roubles. Gerasim and Mumu owes me a pile of cash."

"I'll give you half a rouble. Wait a moment. I'm just coming."

And Persidsky returned with a dozen employees of the Lathe. Everyone

joined in the conversation.

"Well, how have you been making out?" asked Persidsky.

"I've written a marvellous poem!"

"About Gavrila? Something peasanty? 'Gavrila ploughed the fields early.

Gavrila just adored his plough'?"

"Not about Gavrila. That's a pot-boiler," said Lapis defensively. "I've

written about the Caucasus."

"Have you ever been to the Caucasus?"

"I'm going in two weeks."

"Aren't you afraid, Lapis? There are jackals there."

"Takes more than that to frighten me. Anyway, the ones in the Caucasus

aren't poisonous."

They all pricked up their ears at this reply.

"Tell me, Lapis," said Persidsky, "what do you think jackals are?"

"I know what they are. Leave me alone."

"All right, tell us then if you know."

"Well, they're sort of . . . like . . . snakes."

"Yes, of course, right as usual. You think a wild-goat's saddle is

served at table together with the spurs."

"I never said that," cried Trubetskoi. . .

"You didn't say it, you wrote it. Napernikov told me you tried to palm

off some doggerel on Gerasim and Mumu, supposed to be about the everyday

life of hunters. Honestly, Lapis, why do you write about things you've never

seen and haven't the first idea about? Why is the peignoir in your poem

'Canton' an evening dress? Why?"

"You philistine!" said Lapis boastfully.

"Why is it that in your poem 'The Budyonny Stakes' the jockey tightens

the hame strap and then gets into the coach box? Have you ever seen a hame

strap?"

"Yes."

"What's it like?"

"Leave me alone. You're nuts!" ,

"Have you ever seen a coach box or been to the races?"

"You don't have to go everywhere!" cried Lapis. "Pushkin wrote poems

about Turkey without ever having been there."

"Oh, yes. Erzerum is in Tula province, of course."

Lapis did not appreciate the sarcasm. He continued heatedly. "Pushkin

wrote from material he read. He read the history of the Pugachov revolt and

then wrote about it. It was Entich who told me about the races."

After this masterly defence, Persidsky dragged the resisting Lapis into

the next room. The onlookers followed. On the wall hung a large newspaper

clipping edged in black like an obituary notice.

"Did you write this piece for the Captain's Bridge!"

"Yes, I did."

"I believe it was your first attempt at prose. Congratulations! 'The

waves rolled across the pier and fell headlong below like a jack.' A lot of

help to the Captain's Bridge you are!' The Bridge won't forget you for some

time!"

"What's the matter?"

"The matter is . . . do you know what a jack is?"

"Of course I know. Leave me alone."

"How do you envisage a jack? Describe it in your own words."

"It. . . sort of. . . falls."

"A jack falls. Note that, everyone. A jack falls headlong. Just a

moment, Lapis, I'll bring you half a rouble. Don't let him go."

But this time, too, there was no half-rouble forthcoming. Persidsky

brought back the twenty-first volume of the Brockhaus encyclopaedia.

"Listen! 'Jack: a machine for lifting heavy weights. A simple jack used

for lifting carriages, etc., consists of a mobile toothed bar gripped by a

rod which is turned by means of a lever' . . . And here . . . 'In 1879 John

Dixon set up the obelisk known as Cleopatra's Needle by means of four

workers operating four hydraulic jacks.' And this instrument, in your

opinion, can fall headlong? So Brockhaus has deceived humanity for fifty

years? Why do you write such rubbish instead of learning? Answer!" "I need

the money."

"But you never have any. You're always trying to cadge half-roubles."

"I bought some furniture and went through my budget." "And how much

furniture did you buy? You get paid for your pot-boilers as much as they're

worth-a kopek." "A kopek be damned. I bought a chair at an auction which-"

"Is sort of like a snake? "

"No, from a palace. But I had some bad luck. Yesterday when I arrived

back from-"

"Hina Chlek's," cried everyone present in one voice. "Hina! I haven't

lived with Hina for years. I was returning from a discussion on Mayakovsky.

I went in. The window was open. I felt at once something had happened."

"Dear, dear," said Persidsky, covering his face with his hands. "I

feel, Comrades, that Lapis's greatest masterpiece has been stolen. 'Gavrila

had a job as doorman; Gavrila used to open doors.'"

"Let me finish. Absolute vandalism! Some wretches had got into the

apartment and ripped open the entire chair covering. Could anyone lend me

five roubles for the repairs?"

"Compose a new Gavrila for the repairs. I'll even give you the

beginning. Wait a moment. Yes, I know. 'Gavrila hastened to the market,

Gavrila bought a rotten chair.' Write it down quickly. You can make some

money on that in the Chest-of-Drawers Gazette. Oh, Trubetskoi, Trubetskoi!

Anyway, why are you called Trubetskoi? Why don't you choose a better name?

Niki for Dolgoruky. Or Nikifor Valois. Or, still better, Citizen Niki-for

Sumarokov-Elston. If ever you manage to get some easy job, then you can

write three lines for Gerasim right away and you have a marvellous way to

save yourself. One piece of rubbish is signed Sumarokov, the second Elston,

and the third Yusupov. God, you hack!"

CHAPTER THIRTY

Date: 2015-01-02; view: 883