Soon I was better. Within a month I signed out. And now when I get sick, it's at home.
A HAPPY GAME
Not long ago, I was eating in a restaurant and afterwards I looked into the billiard room. I wanted, as the saying goes, to see how the balls were clicking there.
No words—an interesting game. It's absorbing and distracts man from his sufferings. There are some who even find that the game of billiards develops manhood, sharp-sightedness, and aggressiveness. And doctors maintain that this game is a very useful corrective for touchy men.
I don't know. I don't think so. I once knew a touchy man who got so tanked up on beer while playing billiards that after the game he could scarcely slide home. So I doubt that it's much of a corrective for the nervous and distraught.
And whether it reinforces sharp-sightedness—how is one to tell? There was a fellow from our house—his partner was taking aim and banged him in the eye with the cue. Although he didn't go blind, he did slightly lose the sight of one eye. That much for the development of sharp-sightedness. And if they manage to get to his other eye, now, the man will be entirely deprived of sharp-sightedness.
So as far as usefulness is concerned, as the saying goes, it's an old wives' tale.
But, certainly, the game is entertaining. Especially when they play "for stakes"—it's quite diverting to watch.
Of course, they rarely play for money now. But they think up something original instead. Some arrange it so that the loser has to squat under the billiard table. Others arrange it so he has to treat, with a couple of beers. Or he has to pay for the game.
But when I entered the billiard room this time, I saw a very laughable picture.
One winner had ordered his mustachioed partner to crawl under the billiard table with all the billiard balls. He crammed the balls into his pockets, gave him a ball to hold in each hand, and, to top it all off, shoved one ball under his chin. And in this manner, the loser crawled under the billiard table amidst the laughter of all.
After another round the winner again loaded the mustachioed one with balls, and, to top it off, ordered him to take the cue in his teeth.
And that poor bastard had to crawl again, amidst the Homeric laughter of those assembled.
By the next round they didn't know what to think of next.
The mustachioed one says: "Make it something a little easier. You've exhausted me."
And his mustaches really were hanging down: that's how bushed he was.
The winner says: "Why, thanks to these punishments, you fool, I'm teaching you to play a splendid game of billiards."
The winner had a friend of his with him. This one says: "I've got it. If he loses, let's do it this way: let him crawl under the table, loaded with billiard balls, and we'll tie a cask of beer to his foot, to top it off. Let him crawl under like that."
The winner says, laughing: "Bravo! That's the way!"
The mustachioed one says in an offended tone: "If the cask is going to be full of beer, then I won't play. It'll be tough enough crawling with an empty cask."
In all, he lost again. And here, amidst general laughter, they loaded the mustachioed one up with billiard balls again, put the cue in his teeth, and tied a cask to his foot. To top it off, the winner's friend began to pull the mustachioed one by the cue so that he'd proceed more rapidly on his route of march under the table.
The winner was laughing so hard he collapsed on a chair and gasped from lack of breath.
The mustachioed one crawled out from under the table, no longer himself. He stared dully at all the assembled, and for some time he didn't even move. Then he unloaded the billiard balls from his pockets and began to untie the cask of beer from his feet, saying that he wasn't going to play any more.
The winner was laughing so hard, tears were rolling down his cheeks. He said: "Come on now, Egorov, golubchik, let's play another round. I've thought up another entertaining bit."
This one says: "Well, what did you think up now?"
Stifling with laughter, the winner says: "Come on, Egorov, iJet's play for your mustache. For a long time now I haven't gone for that fluff. If I win, I cut off your mustache. All right?"
The mustachioed one says: "No, for the mustache I won't play. Or else give me a forty-point lead."
In all, he lost again. And no one managed to remember how the winner seized a table knife and began to remove the fluffy mustache from his ill-fated partner.
In the room, they were dying of laughter.
Suddenly, one of those present goes up to the winner and says to him, like this: "It's likely your partner is a fool, agreeing to penalties like that. And you go and take advantage of this and mock a man in a public place."
A friend of the loser says: "What the hell business is it of yours? He agreed to it of his own free will."
The winner says to his partner in a sepulchral voice: "Egorov, come here. Answer to the group. Did you agree of your own free will to these penalties or did you not?"
His partner, hanging on to the half-cut mustache with his hand, says: "Of my own free will, if s well known, Ivan Borisovich."
The winner says, turning to the public: "Somebody else might let his chauffeur wait in the cold for three hours. But I deal humanely with people. This is our institution's chauffeur, and I always bring him in where it's warm. I don't treat him at all snootily—I play billiards with him in comradely fashion. I instruct him and punish him only a little. And now they're reproaching me—I really don't get it."
The chauffeur says: "Maybe there's a barber in the audience. If so, I'd appreciate it if he'd trim my mustache."
A man emerges from the crowd and says, taking a scissors out of his pocket: "I am sincerely delighted to trim your mustache. If you wish, I can fix it like Charlie Chaplin's."
While the barber was working on the chauffeur, I approached the winner and said to him: "I didn't know he was your chauffeur. I thought he was a friend of yours. I wouldn't have let you pull such tricks."
The winner, somewhat taken aback, says: "And what kind of a bird are you?"
I say: "I'm going to write an article about you."
The winner, getting scared, says: "I won't tell you my name."
I say: "I'll only describe the facts and add that this was a square-shaped reddish-haired man called Ivan Borisovich. Of course, you may get away with this little trick of yours, but if
you do get away with it, at least let your rotten soul tremble before the printed lines.''
The winner's friend, when he heard this business about the article, right away took to his heels and disappeared from the building.
The winner swaggered around for a long time and drank beer, shouting that he spat on everyone.
The chauffeur had his mustache trimmed and began to look a bit younger and handsomer. So I even decided to write a sketch of not too ferocious a character.
And when I got home, as you see, I wrote it. And now you are reading it, and it's likely you're surprised that such passionate gamblers exist and that one sometimes comes across such unappealing redheaded men.
A LAST UNPLEASANTNESS
This time, allow me to tell of a dramatic episode in the lives of people who are now dead.
And because this is all fact, we will not permit ourselves in our exposition to let too much laughter or too many jokes in, so as not to offend those still left among the living.
But inasmuch as this story is, to a certain degree, a comic one, and laughter, as the saying goes, may rise up of itself, we wish to beg the reader's pardon to begin with, for any involuntary tactlessness in regard to the living or the dead.
Of course, the fact in itself in its original sense has nothing of the comic about it. On the contrary, a man died, a certain unimportant worker, an individual not at all noteworthy in the brilliance of our days.
And, as often happens, after his death some intense conversations began: "You see, he perished at his post." "Ah, whom have we lost?" "There was a man for you." "What a pity we've been deprived of him.
"
Well it's completely and absolutely clear that during his lifetime no one said such unique things about him, and he himself, so to speak, had set out on the long journey without suspecting the image that would be made of him in the fantasy of his acquaintances.
Of course, if he hadn't died, it still wouldn't be known how this fantasy came about. Most likely these very same persons would have, as the saying goes, taken him for a toboggan ride.
But inasmuch as he had meekly died, they attributed him with something close to divinity.
On the one hand, friends, it's nice to die; on the other hand— merci 9 better not. We'll manage to get along somehow without your emotional gratitude.
Speaking briefly, a discussion took place in the hours after work in the institution where he had labored, and in this discussion various touching episodes from the life of the deceased were recalled.
Then the manager himself took up the word. And under the impetus of the oratorical art he worked himself up to such a frenzy that he easily burst into tears. And after bursting into tears, he praised the deceased beyond all measure.
At this point, passions become decisively overheated. And everyone competed in trying to show that he had lost a true friend, a son, a brother, a father, and a teacher.
From amidst the general hubbub, one shout broke through decisively, to the effect that they should arrange the most ardent possible funeral, so that other employees might also strive in this direction. And, seeing this, they might straighten themselves out a bit and try to earn for themselves a funeral like this one.
They all said: "That's right." And the manager added: "Let the union post it on the bulletin board—the funeral will be conducted at treasury expense."
Then someone else got up and said that such remarkable people, generally speaking, had to be buried to music, and not carried silently along empty streets.
At this point, tears rolling down his face, a relative of the deceased rises from his place, his blood nephew, a certain Kolesnikov. He speaks as follows: "My God, how many years was it I lived in the same aparttnent with my uncle! I won't say that we cursed each other out often, but anyway our life didn't always go smoothly since I didn't realize the kind of man my uncle was. But now, when you tell me about all this, your every word falls on my heart like white-hot metal. Ah, why didn't I make life comfortable for my uncle! Now this will torment me all the rest of my life.
"No, I won't be too lazy now to take off for a certain place I know, where there's a big band with six brasses and one drum. And we'll invite this band to play something special for my uncle."
They all said: "That's right, invite this band—this will in part make amends for your boorish behavior in regard to your uncle."
Speaking briefly, a funeral was arranged within two days. There were many wreaths and a mass of people. The musicians really played not at all badly and attracted the attention of passers-by who asked now and then: "Who's being buried?"
On the way, this uncle's nephew himself quietly approached |he manager and said to him quietly, like this: "I invited this band, but they insisted on one condition—they be paid immedi-
ately after the funeral, since they have to leave right away for a guest performance in Staraya Russa. How are we going to manage to pay them without a special squeeze?"
The manager says: "But weren't you going to pay for the band?"
The nephew was surprised and even frightened. He says: "You said yourself that the funeral was at treasury expense. / just ran to ask the band!"
"Be that as it may, the band wasn't taken into account. Correctly speaking, the man who died was a small, insignificant person, and all of a sudden, willy-nilly, we've asked a band to play for him! No, I can't go along with it—the union would put me on the spot."
Those who were walking along beside the manager also said: "In the final analysis, an institution cannot pay for each of its deceased workers. You should be grateful that we paid for the hearse and all the funeral doings. As for the band, pay yourself, since it was your uncle."
The nephew says: "Are you nuts or something? Where am / going to get two hundred rubles from?"
The manager says: "Why don't you try getting together with your relatives, and then maybe you can get out of this jam somehow."
The nephew, beside himself, ran along the procession to the widow and informed her of what had occurred.
The widow wept still more, and refused to pay a thing.
Kolesnikov pushed his way through the crowd to the band and told them to stop blowing their horns, since the whole matter had gotten into a tangle and nobody knew now who would pay them.
In the ranks of the band, which was marching in formation, some confusion occurred. The leader said: "We won't stop playing, we will play to the end, and then we'll go to court to get the money from the man who gave us the commission."
And clashing his cymbals together, he put an end to the discussion.
Then Kolesnikov again pushed his way through to the manager, but the latter, anticipating unpleasantness, had sat down in an automobile and silently departed.
The hue and cry evoked surprise in the ranks of the procession. The manager's departure and the widow's loud moaning struck those present all the more. Discussions began, interrogations and
whisperings; the more so, since someone had passed along a rumor that the manager had broached the problem of lowering wages.
In all, they arrived at the cemetery in complete disorder. The burial itself took place at an extremely rapid tempo and without speeches. And everyone dispersed, feeling little satisfied. And several insulted the deceased, recalling now one incident, now another, from his petty life.
The following day, the nephew of the deceased uncle pressed the manager so hard that the latter promised to discuss the matter with the union. But at the same time he expressed doubts that it would pass, since the union's task was to concern itself with the living and not to mess around with the dead.
One way or another, Kolesnikov, meanwhile, sold his overcoat in order to get out of the clutches of the band members who really would have stopped at nothing to get their "honorarium."
The nephew sold his coat for two hundred and sixty rubles. So that after he settled accounts with the bank, he still had some "fat" left over, sixty rubles worth. With this money, the nephew of this uncle made the third day's libations. And this circumstance informs us that the institution with the manager at its head was not at its full complement.
Having gotten thoroughly soused, the nephew of this uncle came to me and, wiping away the tears with his sleeve, told me about this whole petty unpleasantness of his, which was for him, of course, far from being the last.
For his uncle, however, this petty unpleasantness was the last. And that's just as well.
AN INSTRUCTIVE STORY
Here is what a certain worker of the city transport told me.
All in all, the little story he told is instructive not only for the transport. It is also important for all other participants in our life.
For this reason we decided to trouble the attention of our worthy readers with this little tale in the form of a short sketch.
So, once, in a certain administration, a certain rather large worker named Ch. was employed.
In the course of twenty years he occupied solid positions in the administration. Just think, at one time he was the head of the local committee. Then he was moved to the position of administrative director. Then he was made the boss of something else.
Briefly speaking, all twenty years saw him at the summit of his life. And everyone got used to this. And no one was surprised at it. And many thought: 'That's the way things are."
Of course, Ch. was not an engineer or a technician. A specialist's education he did not have. And even in general, it seems, his education was rather on the weak side.
Anything special, he did not know how to do. He didn't even have a very good handwriting.
Nevertheless, everyone reckoned w
ith him, respected him, wished him well, and so forth.
When meetings occurred, he was especially indispensable. Here, as the saying goes, he gave off steam as a god in the clouds. He molded various speeches, pronounced words, aphorisms, coined slogans. He opened every meeting with an introductory speech about this or that. And everyone thought that without him the world would revert back to the devil.
All his speeches, of course, were taken down in shorthand for posterity. And for his twentieth anniversary in office, he even thought up the idea of publishing his speeches as a separate brochure. But inasmuch as paper had recently been assigned to the increasing production of plates and cups for ice cream, there wasn't enough paper for his brochure. Otherwise, we would have read his original speeches with interest and expressed our surprise at the way people are.
One way or another, it was decided to make quite a celebration out of his twentieth anniversary. And a briefcase was even purchased with a metal plate on which were engraved the words: "You are this and that . . , twenty years . . . And so forth . . . We regard you ... You are for us ... Merci.. . And so forth ... And et cetera."
Something along this line, all told.
However, this anniversary did not take place because an event occurred that notably lowered the significance of the proposed celebration.
This is what happened at the last meeting.
Our Chu had just made a speech. He had made a burning and passionate speech: /"The workers, that is ... labor . . . they're working . „. alertness ... solidarity . . ."
And exhausted by his speech, he took his seat beside the chairman amidst a thunder of applause, and he began to doodle distractedly on a sheet of paper.
And suddenly, just think, a certain worker gets up, one of the motormen. He's dressed exceptionally neatly in a gray jacket, with a forget-me-not in his buttonhole.
So he gets up and he talks like this: "Now that we've heard the convincing speech of Comrade Ch., I would like to ask him— well, what is it he wanted to say? We've been hearing his tenor voice for twenty years: 'Ah, workers, ah, labor, ah, et cetera . . .' But let us ask: What does this Ch. contribute to our work? What is he—a technician, an engineer, or an opera star sent here for our entertainment? Or is there something he knows how to do? The point is that he doesn't know how to do anything. He only makes empty speeches. But, just think, in twenty years we've outgrown this. Many of us have had an education in the seven-year school. And some of us have finished the ten-year school. And maybe they could even teach a thing or two to our respected Comrade Ch., since driving a trolley isn't what it used to be. In former times the driver only knew how to turn the lever for the motor, while at the present moment a driver is a specialist in his own way, one who can draw a diagram of the motor, or make a political speech, or give our orator Ch. a lesson in trigonometry."
And Other Stories Of Communist Russia Page 19