I say: "But they'll just send me to you."
He says: "Well, then, write me a declaration."
I say: "What should I write?"
He says: "Write the following: *On this day an overshoe was lost...' And so on. You see, I'll add a note that you've lived here all along, until the matter's cleared up."
I wrote the declaration. The following day I received a formal verification.
With this verification I went to the Lost and Found. And there, just imagine, without any trouble and without any red tape they gave me back my overshoe.
It was only when t put on my overshoe that I began to feel thoroughly moved. "Here," I think, "real people are at work! Why, would they ever have spent so much time on my overshoe anywhere else? Why, they would have just tossed it out of the trolley. But here a whole week hasn't made any difference— they gave it back."
The only trouble is that during this week while all the fuss was going on, I lost my first overshoe. All that time I was carrying it around in a package under my arm, and I don't remember where I left it. The main point is that it wasn't in a trolley. That's the awful part, that it wasn't in a trolley. Well, where to look for it?
For all that, I still have the other overshoe. I've put it on my bureau. If things ever get gloomy again, why, I'll just look at the overshoe and they'll seem brighter. There, I'll think, an office is marvelously at work.
I will keep this overshoe for remembrance. Let posterity admire it.
THE ECONOMY CAMPAIGN
How the economy campaign is making out in other cities, comrades, I don't know.
But here in the city of Borisov, this campaign has turned out quite profitably.
In the space of one short winter, in just one of our institutions, fifty feet of pine firewood was economized.
Is that bad?!
Ten years of such economy—that's five hundred feet right there. And in a hundred years you could easily economize three cords. In a thousand years you could just open up shop with firewood.
And what were the people thinking about before this? Why wasn't such a profitable campaign introduced earlier? Why, it's a shame!
Now, we started this particular campaign last fall.
Our manager is just like one of the boys. He consults with us about everything and talks to us as he would to his relatives. He even shoots cigarettes at us.
So then this manager comes up to us and announces: "Well, there you are boys, it's begun . . . Pull yourselves together. Economize on something over there . . ."
But how and on what to economize is not known. He hadn't been told, and couldn't think of anything right off, so he turned to us.
We began to talk it over, on what to economize. Maybe don't pay that gray devil, the bookkeeper, or something like that.
The manager says: "If you don't pay the bookkeeper, boys, that gray devil will wind up kicking up a fuss in the trade union. That won't do. We need to think of something else."
Here, thank you, our cleaning maid Niusha brings the woman problem to our attention.
"Since that's the way things are," she says, "then," she says, "it's possible, for example, not to heat the toilet. Why waste fuel for nothing there? It isn't a living room!"
'True," we say, "let the toilet stay cold. We would save maybe fifty feet. And if it gets a little chilly, that's not so bad. Maybe a nip of frost would keep the public from holding back. It might even lead to increased productivity."
So that's what we did. We stopped heating the toilet. We started underwriting economy.
Actually, we economized fifty feet. We were just starting to economize more when spring struck.
That was just too bad!
And if it hadn't been, we were thinking, for that damn spring, we might still have economized half a cubit.
Spring pulled a fast one on us. Even so, fifty feet, thank you, that's not just mud pies.
And if some kind of pipe there seems to have snapped from frost, this could be explained by the fact that this pipe had been installed back in the tsarist regime. In general, it is necessary to pull such pipes out by the roots.
Well, we managed very well without the pipe till fall. And in the fall some cheapish kind of pipe might have been installed. It isn't a living room.
True, our friend the plumber says: "You see," he says, "the very cheapest pipe is going to cast you more than what you saved on firewood."
That, if he's not lying, is the rub.
No, it seems this economy campaign needs to be carefully thought over. Otherwise, it turns itself away.
THE ACTOR
This is a true story. It happened in Astrakhan. An amateur actor told me about it.
Here it is as he told it.
Now you're asking me, citizens, if I was an actor? Well, I was. I played in the theater. I used to fiddle around with this art. But it was simply nonsense. There is nothing outstanding in it.
Certainly, if you think about it a little more deeply, there is much that is good in this art.
You go out on the stage, let's say, and the audience is watching. And in the audience there are friends, your wife's relatives, acquaintances from your house. You look—they are signaling down there in the orchestra—as much as to say, "Buck up, Vasia, don't be shy." And you, you see, signal back—as much as to say, "Stop worrying, citizens. We're all right. We're with it."
But if you think about it a little more deeply, there is nothing at all good in this profession. It just causes a lot of bad blood.
So once we put on the play, Who Is To Blame? Prerevolu-tionary. It's a very powerful play. In this play, in one act, bandits rob a merchant right in front of the audience. A very natural scene. The merchant, you see, is screaming and kicking out with his feet. But they rob him. A frightening play.
So we were putting on this play.
But just before the performance one of the cast who played the part of the merchant got drunk. And he was in such a state, the bum, we see he won't be able to play the part. And as he goes out on stage, he gives the footlights a kick with his foot, on purpose.
The director, Ivan Palych, says to me: "It won't do," he says, "to let him out in the second act. The son of a bitch, he'll smash all the footlights. Maybe," he says, "you could take his place? The audience is dumb—they won't catch on."
I say: "Citizens, I can't," I say, "go out on the stage. Don't ask. I just ate," I say, "two melons. No good will come of it."
But he says: "Help me out, brother. Just for one scene, Maybe this artiste here will sober up after that. Don't," he says, "tear down the work of cultural enlightenment."
In any case, they persuaded me. I went out on the stage.
And I went out while the play was going on, just as I am, in my own jacket and pants. All I did was stick on a false beard. And I went out. The audience may have been dumb, but they recognized me right away.
"Ah," they say, "Vasia's come out! Don't be shy," they say, "buck up . . ."
I say: "This is no time to be shy, citizens. Right now," I say, "is a critical moment. The artiste," I say, "has really tied one on, and he can't come out on the stage. He's blotto."
We started the scene.
In this scene I play the merchant. I scream, you see, and kick out at the bandits with my feet. And it seems to me as if one of these amateurs is really going through my pockets.
I huddled into my jacket. And I sidled off from the artistes.
I try to keep them off. I even hit them in the mug. God almighty!
"Keep away," I say, "you swine, I'm asking you like a gentleman."
But they creep up and creep up all around me, just as they're supposed to do in the play. They removed my wallet (eighteen chervontsi notes) and they are reaching for my watch.
I cry out in a voice not my own: "Help, citizens, they're robbing me for real."
And this produces a full dramatic effect.
The dumb audience goes wild and claps and cries out: "Attaboy, Vasia, attaboy. Let 'em have it, old boy.
Hit the devils over the head!"
I cry out: "It won't help, brothers!"
And I lash out, right across their snouts.
I see one amateur is bleeding, but the others, the bastards, just got mad and pressed me closer.
"Brothers," I cry out, "what is all this? Why bring on all this suffering?"
Then the director speaks up from behind the scenes.
"Good man, Vasia," he says. "You're playing that part beautifully. Keep it up."
So I see that crying out won't help. Because no matter what I cried out, it would fit into the play.
So I got on my knees.
'"Brothers," I say, "Director," I say, "Ivan Palych. I've had it!
Drop the curtain. They're filching my last penny," I say, "for real."
Then a number of theatrical specialists see that the words are not in the play, and they come out from behind the scenes. The prompter, too, thank you, climbs out of his box.
"Citizens," says he, "looks as if they really did pinch the merchant's wallet."
They dropped the curtain. They brought me some water in a ladle. We drank.
"Brothers," I say, "Director," I say, "Ivan Palych. What's it all about?" I say. "In the course of this here drama," I say, "someone lifted my wallet.. ."
Well, they conducted a search among the amateurs. But they didn't find the money. But someone found the empty wallet backstage behind the scenery.
The money vanished. As though it had been burned.
Art, you say? I know! I was an actor once myself!
RACHIS [ PARIS]
The other day they dismissed from service the old postal specialist, Comrade Krylyshkin.
For thirty years this man received foreign telegrams and noted them down in a special book. For thirty years this man served according to his powers and capacities. So there you are! His enemies conspired against him, removed him from his accustomed place, and shook him from the service, because he didn't know foreign languages.
It's perfectly true, of course, that Comrade Krylyshkin didn't know these foreign languages. As far as languages are concerned, you know the saying, "he couldn't get them through his teeth." Be that as it may, the postal service and the foreigners did not suffer the least little drop because of this fact.
It happens that a certain telegram arrives with a foreign heading; without losing his grip in-the least, Comrade Krylyshkin goes over to a certain desk, to a certain girl there, to a certain Vera Ivanovna.
"Vera Ivanovna," he says, "what is this anyway? I've gone," he says, "quite weak in the eyes. Be so kind," he says, "as to tell me what this jumble is."
Well, so she tells him: from London, for example.
He takes it and writes it down.
Or he brings the telegram to a certain intellectual-type worker.
"Well," says he, "handwriting has gone to pot nowadays. Chickens," he says, "can write better with their feet. So try and guess what's written down here. I bet you can't guess."
Well, they'd tell him: "from a certain place called Munich."
"Right," he'd say, "and I thought only specialists could figure it out."
Or another time, when there was a rush, Comrade Krylyshkin would turn directly to the public: "Pssst . . . young man, come over here to the window, take a look at this—what's this scratching on here? There's a sharp argument going on among us employees. Some say one thing, others something else."
For thirty years that hero of labor, Comrade Krylyshkin, sat at his post, and there you are, they fired him.
And it was a petty reason for which Peter Antonovich Krylyshkin flunked out. You could say it was an unlucky accident. He wrote down just a little bit inaccurately the name of a city from which a telegram had arrived. This telegram arrived from the city of Paris. And on it was written in French: "Paris." Peter Antonovich, from the purity of his heart, simply interpreted it in Russian script—from the city Rachis.
Afterwards, Peter Antonovich said: "I was licked, my dear fellow. The thing is, that name struck me as Russian through and through—Rachis. And that's how the old man got into trouble."
Nevertheless, they took Peter Antonovich Krylyshkin and they fired him.
And I feel very sorry for him! Well, where are you going to get an old-time specialist in foreign languages nowadays? Should have let him stay on!
THE CRISIS
Not long ago, citizens, they were hauling a load of bricks along the street. God almighty!
My heart, you know, fluttered with joy. Because, citizens, we are building. They're not hauling these bricks just for nothing. It means a little house is being built somewhere. It's been started— spit twice and keep the evil eye off!
Maybe in twenty ^ears, maybe even less, each citizen will probably have a whole room to himself. And if the population doesn't make the mistake of increasing too rapidly, and if they let everyone have abortions, maybe even two rooms. And maybe even three per person. With bath.
That's how we're going to be living then, citizens! In one room, let's say, sleep, in another, entertain guests, in the third, something still different . . . Isn't that something! There'll be things to do in a free life like that!
Well, for the time being, it's a bit difficult on account of the space ration, which is limited in view of the critical situation.
I was living in Moscow, brothers. I just came back from there. I experienced this crisis at firsthand.
I arrived, you know, in Moscow. I'm walking along the streets with my things. That is, nowhere in particular. It isn't as though I had a place to stay—a place to put my things.
For two weeks, you know, I wandered around the streets with my things—I grew a beard and gradually lost my things. Well, so, you know, it's easier walking without my things. I'm looking for a place to stay.
Finally, there's a house where one guy on the staircase lets me in.
"For thirty rubles," he says, "I can set you up in the bathroom. A luxurious little apartment," he says . . . "Three toilets . . . Bath . .. In the bathroom," he says, "you can live all right. Even though," he says, "there's no window. There is a door. And water right at your fingertips. If you want," he says, "you can fill the feathtub full of water and dive under, even for the whole day."
I say: "Dear comrade, I am not a fish. I," I say, "don't need to dive. I'd just as soon," I say, "live on dry land. Take off a little," I say, "for the dampness."
He says: "I can't, comrade. I'd like to, but I can't. It doesn't depend entirely on me. It's a communal apartment. And our price on the bathroom has been very strictly set."
"Well," I say, "what can I do? O.K. Grab my thirty," I say, "and let me in right away. Three weeks," I say, "I'm pounding the pavements. I'm afraid," I say, "I might get tired."
Well, O.K. They let me in. I began to live.
But the bathroom really was luxurious. Everywhere, no matter which way you move—there's a marble bathtub, the water heater, and faucets. But there isn't much place to sit. Unless you sit on the side, and then if you slip, you fall straight down into the marble bathtub.
Then I built myself a plank of boards, and I'm living.
Within a month, among other things, I got married.
My wife, you know, was young and good-natured. She didn't have a room.
I thought that on account of this bathroom she'd refuse me, and I did not foresee any family happiness and comfort, but she didn't refuse at all. She only frowned a little, and she answers: "What of it," she says, "lots of nice people live in a bathroom. And if worse comes to worse," she says, "we can divide it off. In one place," she says, "we might make a boudoir, for example; and in another a dining room . . ."
"You can screen it off, citizen. But the tenants," I say, "the devils, won't let you. Even now they're saying: No remodeling."
Well, O.K. We take things as they are.
In less than a year a little boy is born to us.
We called him Volod'ka, and we go on living. We bathe him right here in the bathtub—and we live.
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br /> And, you know, it's even going pretty well. The boy, that is, is getting bathed daily and he doesn't even catch cold.
There's only one inconvenience—in the evenings the communal tenants pour into the bathroom to wash themselves.
At this time my whole family is pushed out into the corridor.
I even asked the tenants: "Citizens," I say, "bathe yourselves on Saturdays. You just can't," I say, "take a bath every day. When," I say, "are we supposed to live? Enter into our position."
But there are thirty-two of them, the bastards. And they're
all cursing. And in case I do anything, they threaten to smash me in the face.
So what is there to do—you can't do anything. We take things as they are.
After some time, my wife's mother from the province visits us in the bathroom. She settles down behind the water heater.
"I," she says, "have dreamt a long time of rocking my grandson. You," she says, "can't refuse me this pleasure."
"I'm not refusing you. Go ahead," I say, "rock. To heck with you. You can," I say, "fill up the bathtub and go diving with your grandson."
But I say to my wife: "Maybe, citizen, you have more relatives who are planning to visit us; if so, you better speak up right now, don't torment me."
She says: "Only a kid brother for the Christmas holidays . . ."
Since I hadn't expected any brother, I left Moscow. I am sending my family money by mail.
KITTEN AND PEOPLE
The stove I have works very badly. Sitting around it, my whole family is always stifling from the fumes. And that housing cooperative of devils refuses to make any repairs. They're economizing. On current expenses.
Recently they had a look at this stove of mine. They looked at the flues. They stuck their heads in inside.
"Nothing wrong," they say. "One can live."
"Comrades," I say, "it's downright shameful to utter words like that: one can live. We keep stifling from the fumes around your stove. Recently, even our kitten stifled from the fumes. Recently she even got sick at the bucket. But you are saying— one can live."
The housing co-operative of devils says: "In that case," they say, "we'll set up an experiment now and have a look whether your stove is really stifling. If we stifle now after turning it up— your luck—we'll repair it. If we don't stifle—we'll excuse ourselves for the heating."
And Other Stories Of Communist Russia Page 6