And Other Stories Of Communist Russia

by Zoshchenko,Mikhail.

  The letter was disconnected and confused—apparently the shock had reacted strongly on this lady, who was, after all, no longer young.

  Around this time, quietly and unexpectedly, Michel's mother ended her life, without managing even to say farewell to anyone or to make her last dispositions.

  All this acted strongly on Michel, who became a kind of quiet, timid, and even timorous man. Tears were shed, but this event was soon followed by another.

  Simochka gave birth to a rather puny, but sweet child, and the new feeling of paternity, never experienced before, seized Michel, at least to some extent.

  However, this did not last long; once again, he began to speak of departure, and now more realistically and decisively.

  And, in the fall, having received another letter from Auntie Maria, which he showed to no one, Michel rapidly began to pack,

  saying that he was leaving all his movable property to his wife and child, leaving it in their full possession.

  As formerly, and perhaps even more, the young lady was in love with her spouse and heard his words with terror, but did not dare to detain him, saying that he was free to act as he wished.

  She loved him as formerly, and come what might, and he should know that here in Pskov there was someone who remained true to him and ready to follow in his footsteps, whether to Leningrad or into exile. Fearing that she might insist on accompanying him to Leningrad, Michel tried to lead the conversation around to other themes, but the young lady, weeping, continued to speak of her love and self-sacrifice.

  Yes, she was not a match for him, she had always known that, but if he would sometime grow old or lose his legs, if he would become blind sometime or get sent to Siberia—then he could call on her, and she would respond with joy to his invitation.

  Yes, she might even wish him catastrophes and misfortune— that would make them more equal in life.

  Tormenting himself with pity and cursing himself for lack of spirit and for conversations like that one, Michel began to hasten the preparations for his departure.

  During this time of explanations and tears, Michel wrote a new poem, "No, Detain Me Not, Young Maid," and began rapidly and hastily packing his trunks.

  It was not for long that he tasted family happiness, and one fine morning, having secured official permission for his departure, he set out for Leningrad with two small trunks and a straw basket.

  A WEAK CONTAINER

  Nowadays, bribes aren't taken. Formerly, it was impossible to move a step without either giving or taking.

  But nowadays human nature has changed very much for the better.

  Bribes really are not taken.

  Lately, we've been dispatching goods from the freight station.

  There we are, standing at the station, and this is the kind of picture we see, in the spirit of Raphael:

  The office for receiving freight. A line, naturally. Decimal metric scales. The weigher behind them. The weigher, an employee of the highest and most noble type, spouts numbers rapidly, takes notes, applies the weights, pastes labels, and issues explanations.

  Only his friendly, likeable voice is audible.

  "Forty. A hundred and twenty. Fifty. Take it away. Take this. Step aside . . . Don't stand there, idiot, stand on this side."

  Such a pleasant picture of labor and rapid tempos.

  Only suddenly we notice that, for all the beauty of his work, the weigher is still very demanding about the rules. He watches the interests of his fellow citizens and the state very closely. Not to everyone, but to every third or fourth person, he refuses to accept their freight. The container is a bit loose—he won't take it. One has only to look and one sympathizes.

  Those with the loose container, of course, they hem and haw and feel badly.

  The weigher says: "Instead of feeling badly, reinforce your container. There's a man loafing somewhere around here with some nails. Let him reinforce it for you. Let him knock a couple of nails through somewhere or other and let him tie some wire around it. And then come on up here at the head of the line— I'll take it."

  Really, truly, a man is standing behind the office. In his hands Jie holds nails and a hammer. He works by the sweat of his brow and reinforces weak containers for whoever wishes. And those

  who are refused, they look at him with a prayer and offer their friendship and money for doing this.

  But then comes the turn of a certain citizen. He's a certain blond type, in glasses. He's not an intellectual, just nearsighted. It seems he has trachoma in his eyes. Then he puts on his glasses, so it was even worse to look at him. Maybe, though, he works at the optics plant and they issue glasses there for free.

  Then he puts his six boxes on the decimal metric scales.

  "Weak container. Won't go. Take it back."

  The one with the glasses, as soon as he hears these words, his heart drops. But before his heart drops, he pounces on the weigher, so he was almost close enough to brush his teeth.

  The one in the glasses yells: "What are you doing to me anyway! I," he says, "won't take my boxes away. I," he says, "take state boxes from the optics plant. Where am I to poke around with my boxes? Where will I find transportation? And from where will I get a hundred rubles to take them back? Answer, or I'll make a cutlet out of you!"

  The weigher says: "How should I know?" And at the same time, makes a gesture with his hand at his side.

  The other one, because of his nearsightedness and because his lenses had gotten a bit misty, takes this gesture for something else. He flushes, remembers something long forgotten, fishes in his pocket, and digs out five rubles' worth of money in single ruble notes. And he wants to give them to the weigher.

  Then the weigher turns purple at the sight of this money.

  He yells: "Is this how you get it? A bribe you want to give me, you four-eyed horse?"

  Of course, the one in glasses grasps right away the complete shamefulness of his position.

  "No," he says, "I just pulled out the money for this reason: I wanted you to hold it while I took the boxes off the scales."

  He gets really mixed up, tries some out-and-out nonsense, is about to excuse himself, and it seems even consents that they should abuse him verbally.

  The weigher says: "For shame! Bribes are not taken here. Take your six boxes off the scales—they literally chill my soul. But seeing as they're state boxes, take them to that there worker and he'll reinforce your weak containers. And as far as the money is concerned, you can thank your lucky stars I don't have time to tangle with you."

  Nevertheless, he calls over still another employee and says to him in the tone of a man who has just undergone a grave insult: "Do you know, just now somebody wanted to give me a bribe. Remember such nonsense? Fm sorry I was in a hurry and didn't take the money to show. Now, it's hard to prove."

  The other employee answers: "Yes, it's too bad. You should have done it to advance history. Let them not think our blossoms are out for pollinating as they were in the old days."

  The one in the glasses, who had quite crumbled away, drags off with his boxes. They are reinforced for him, brought back in a Christian manner, and once again are being weighed on the scales.

  Just then it begins to dawn on me that I also have a weak container.

  And since it isn't yet my turn in line, I approach the worker and ask him in any case to reinforce my dubious container. He asks me for eight rubles.

  I say: "You're kidding. Eight rubles" I say, "for three nails!"

  He says to me in an intimate tone: "It's true, I'd do it for you for three, but," he says, "put yourself in my delicate position—• I have to share up with this crocodile."

  Now I'm beginning to grasp the whole mechanism.

  "In other words," I say, "you share up with the weigher?"

  Now he gets a little embarrassed that he let the cat out of the bag, babbles a lot of nonsense and non sequiturs, mutters about his small salary and the high cost of living, gives me a big discount, and sets to work.


  Then comes my turn in line.

  Admiring the sturdy container, I put my box on the scales.

  The weigher says: "Container a bit weak. Won't go."

  I say: "What do you mean? I just now had it reinforced. That guy over there with the tongs reinforced it."

  The weigher answered: "Ah, pardon me, pardon me! I'm sorry. Now your container is sturdy, but it was weak. That's eternally clear. Pardon me means pardon me."

  He takes my box and writes the invoice.

  I read the invoice, and there it says: "Weak container."

  "What the hell," I say, "are you gizmoes up to? With an invoice like that," I say, "they'll undoubtedly tear the whole package apart along the way and pick it clean. And with that invoice, I

  can't collect the insurance. Now," I say, "I'm wise to this whole gizmo combination."

  The weigher says: "Pardon me means pardon me, I'm sorry." He crosses out the invoice—and I go home, meditating along the way on the complex psychic organization of my fellow citizens, on the reconstruction of character, on slyness, and on that reluctance with which my fellow citizens fulfill their appointed tasks. Pardon me means pardon me.

  BATHHOUSE AND PEOPLE

  In our time, we have written something about bathhouses. We warned of the dangers. That is, the problem of a naked man hanging onto his tickets, and so on.

  Since then, a number of years have passed.

  The problem touched on by us has called forth heated discussions in the bath and washhouse trust. As a result of this, special lockers have been installed in some bathhouses, where every passenger may store his clothes, whatever they might be. After this, the locker is locked with a key. And the passenger may hasten to wash himself, rejoiced in spirit. And he may tie this key around his neck. Or, in an extreme case, he need not let it out of his hands. And thus he may wash himself.

  Speaking briefly, in spite of this, you still have the kind of events that unfolded in one of our Leningrad bathhouses.

  A certain technician of ours, wanted, after having washed himself, naturally, to get dressed. And suddenly he notes in terror that his entire wardrobe has been stolen. Only the thief, a kindly soul, has left him his vest, his cap, and his belt.

  He sobbed right out, this technician. And he stands there beside his locker with nothing on—and right away he loses all perspective. He stands beside his locker wearing the suit in which his mother bore him, and makes despairing gestures with his hands. He is stunned.

  But he is a technician. Not without education. And he simply cannot imagine how he will be able to go home now. He just sways on his feet.

  But then he angrily puts on the vest and cap, takes the belt in his hands, and in what you might call an abstracted manner walks blankly along the corridor of the bathhouse.

  Some of the public are saying: "Thieves are stealing something in this bathhouse every day."

  Our technician, his head spinning, begins to speak with a kind of old-regime intonation, using words like "sirs." Most likely, due to his great agitation, he had lost certain qualities of his newer personality.

  He says: "The main thing that interests me now, sirs, is how I'm going to get home."

  One of the as-yet-unwashed says: "Call the manager over here. Got to give him something to think about."

  The technician says in a weak voice: "Sirs, call the manager for me."

  Then the bath attendant in one of the stalls runs out and soon appears with the manager. And at this point all those present suddenly note that this manager is a woman. The technician, having removed his cap, says pensively: "Sirs, what kind of a business is this anyway! This tops it! At this point we were all presuming to see a man, but suddenly, just imagine, a woman walks in. This," he says, "that in a man's bathhouse there are such managers—this simply," he says, "is a kind of Kursk anomaly."

  And, having covered his manhood with his cap, he sits down on the divan exhausted.

  The other men say: "That the manager is a woman—that really is a Kursk anomaly."

  The manager says: "For you, perhaps, I am a Kursk anomaly. But jwhere I am across the hall is the ladies' section. And there," she says, "I am far from being a Kursk anomaly."

  Our technician, having wrapped himself more tightly in his jacket, says: "We did not mean to offend you, madame. That you should get on your high horse. It would be better," he says, "if we considered instead what I will be going home in now."

  The manager says: "Naturally, before me, the managers here were men. And in this male half here they were very good at their job; but in the ladies' section—everybody was going off their rocker. These managers had been dropping around too often there. So now it's rare that a man is appointed to this job. More and more it goes to women. And as far as I'm concerned, I'll damn well come over here when I have to, or when anything's been taken, and it doesn't hurt me a bit. But if I'm always going to run up against insults here and everybody who takes a bath is going to be calling me a Kursk anomaly, then I warn each and every one of them that if he insults me while I'm doing my duty, I'll have him carted off to the police . . . Now what was it happened to you?"

  The technician says: "Sirs, why is she getting on her high horse? To hell with her. I am at a loss to see how I will get home

  without pants, and she does not allow me to call her a Kursk anomaly. And she threatens to haul me off to the police. No, it would be better if the manager were a man. At least he'd be able to lend me a spare pair of pants. The fact is the manager's a woman—and that little fact will finish me off once and for all. I am now convinced, sirs, that it will be some days before I get out of this bathhouse—just look."

  The bystanders say to the manager: "Listen, madame, maybe you have a husband here in the bathhouse. And maybe he has an extra pair of pants. Then let him have them to wear for awhile. Because people are getting awfully excited. And they don't grasp how he's going to make it home now."

  The manager says: "In the ladies' section I have complete peace and quiet, but in this half, every day, things happen, like it was a volcano blowing up. No, sirs, I am refusing to be the manager here. My husband is working in Viatka. And no pants of his can be brought into the picture. What's more, this is the second time there's been a robbery here today. It's a good thing that the first time only little things were stolen. And who would supply me with pants again? Then this is the way it stands, sirs: if there is anyone who has any spare pants, let him have them, and I won't even look. I'm beginning to get a migraine from all these things going on."

  The bath attendant says: "All right, I'll give my spare pants again. But of course it will be necessary to sew them up a bit because they are government issue. There's a lot of stealing around here and this month they've taken away my pants. First one takes them, then another. But these are my very own."

  Here the bath attendant gives our technician chintz trousers, and one of the customers gives him a jacket and bedroom slippers. And soon, our friend, restraining himself from tears only with difficulty, is arraying himself in this museumlike costume. And in this absurd manner he emerges from the bathhouse, little conscious of anything.

  Immediately after his exit someone yells: "Look, there's some sort of extra vest lying there and one sock."

  Then they all crowd around these discovered objects.

  One says: "Probably the thief dropped this. Take a good look at the vest, see if there's anything in the pockets. Lots of people keep documents in their vests."

  They go through the pockets and immediately they find con-

  firmation there. There is a pass in the name of Selifanov, an employee in the central tailoring shop.

  Now that the thieves' tracks have been uncovered, everything is beginning to come clear.

  Then the manager efficiently calls the police and within two hours investigators arrive at this Selifanov's place.

  Selifanov is awfully surprised and says: "Why, sirs, you have gone out of your minds. I myself had my things stolen in the bathhouse today. And I even
submitted a report about it. And as far as this vest of mine is concerned, undoubtedly the thief dropped it."

  So everybody apologizes to Selifanov and they say to him: it's a misunderstanding.

  But suddenly the manager of the tailoring shop where this Selifanov works says: "Yes, I am persuaded that you yourself came to grief in the bathhouse. But tell me: where did you get this piece of drape that's lying on the chest? This drape is from our shop. It's missing from our place. And you undoubtedly took it. It's a good thing I was curious and came along with the investigators."

  Selifanov begins to stammer disconnected words, and soon he admits he stole this drape.

  So right away, they arrest him. And with this, our bathhouse story comes to an end and other matters begin. We shall pass over them in silence, so as not to confuse two different themes.

  In general, both our bathhouses and the people who wash themselves in them, it would seem, could brace themselves up a bit these days and look more efficient. It could be that some special thought should be given to bathhouses on this account, so people wouldn't be able to steal property in such places of responsibility.

  But here, compared with other institutions, there is still considerable lagging to the rear.

  And that is too bad.

  A ROMANTIC TALE

  A certain young poet, of fairly attractive and determined appearance, the author of a book called Towards Life, fell in love at a health resort with a certain miss who wasn't a bit foolish either.

  She was not a poetess but she had always had an inclination for poetry, and it was because of this that our poet quite melted away on her account.

  Moreover, to clinch it, she pleased him as a type. That is, her appearance corresponded to his ideals.

  She was a blonde at a time when, as he put it, brunettes predominated in the south where they were—and these evoked no poetic emotions in him. All the more since he was a lyricist, and, as he put it, a singer of the revolutionary everyday. As a result of which, he fell in love with