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And Other Stories Of Communist Russia

Page 20

by Zoshchenko,Mikhail.


  Here a noise went up. Shouts. Exclamations.

  The chairman got a little scared. He didn't know how he was supposed to react to all this.

  But the exclamations go on: "Right!" "True, every word of it!" "Down with this Ch.!"

  Then one worker gets up and says: "No, it isn't necessary to fire our famous orator, especially since he's been on his job for twenty years. But better let him sit in the local committee and lick stamps there, rather than always be making moral speeches at our production meetings."

  At this point everyone shouted all over again: "Right! w

  But one worker, inclined to extremes, got up and said: "It's likely this Ch. thought up a slogan with himself in mind: 'No free loaders' And for this, he found himself at our head."

  Then the chairman interrupted the orator. He said: "It's not necessary to insult personalities."

  At this point, everyone looked for an instant at this Ch. Everyone expected to see a storm of indignation on his face, discomfort, and the tension of emotions. But no such thing was seen.

  Ch. got up, smiled, and, scratching the back of his head, said: "Properly speaking, what are you picking on me for? Because I'm here? But you put me here, and for my part I never ceased being amazed at it. Why, from the very beginning I told you I didn't know anything about your business. More than that, I began to boss you around, even though I've got little grammar. Why even now, I don't mind telling you, I make six mistakes every two lines."

  At this point, everybody laughed. And Ch. himself laughed too.

  He said: "Why, I'm really surprised at you myself. For twenty years I've been living in a kind of fairy tale."

  Then a conductor gets up and says: "It's like in Pushkin . , . He traded a brick and didn't get away with it. He was left with a cracked trough."

  The chairman, closing the meeting, said: "And this one was left with a cracked trough because he kept teaching for twenty years, and never learned anything himself."

  Kochergd (THE POKER)

  [In spite of his reluctance to scholasticize a joke, the translator must insert an explanation here. The word kochergd, which means "a poker," although common, is a strange one in Russian. It is of Tartar origin and follows an odd declension pattern. It should be added also that the numerals two, three, four, in Russian, govern the genitive singular, whereas the numerals from five on govern the genitiye plural. The abundant variety of diminutive forms in Russian is also a factor in this story.]

  An amusing event took place this last winter in a certain institution.

  One should say that this institution occupied a not very large separate house. At the same time, the house was of ancient construction. The usual vulgar stoves heated this building.

  A special man—the stoker—looked after these stoves. He went his melancholy way carrying a kocherga (a "poker") from floor to floor, poked the wood, adjusted the drafts, closed the pipes, and so forth, all in this vein.

  In the midst of contemporary technology, with hot water and steam heating, one can say that this picture had something almost unpleasant about it, an old-fashioned picture depicting the barbaric ways of our ancestors.

  This year, in February, the stoker, while making his way along the staircase, inflicted a slight burn on a certain employee, Nadia R., with his poker. The employee herself was partly to blame. She was scurrying along the staircase and bumped into the stoker. In the process, she stretched out her hand and unfortunately happened to touch the poker, which was fairly warm, if not to say red-hot.

  The girl gasped and shrieked. And the stoker also gasped. In all, this fussy girl's palm and fingers were slightly singed.

  Of course, this is a trivial and empty incident, unworthy to be spread out in the pages of creative literature. Nevertheless, the unexpected consequences of this event were quite amusing. And they have provided us with this little story.

  The manager of the institution called in the stoker and gave him a stern talking-to. He said: "So, you're going around with your poker diminishing the ranks of my employees. Better look out where you're going and not gawk around in all directions."

  The stoker, sobbing brokenly, answered that he had only one poker for six stoves, and with this one poker he had to go hither and yon. Now if only there were a poker for every stove, then there might be something to carp about. But under such circumstances he simply couldn't guarantee the untouchability of the employees.

  This simple idea—to have a kochergd for every stove—pleased the manager. And he, not being a red-tape bureaucrat, immediately began to dictate to his typist an order for supplies. Pacing the room, the manager dictated: ". . . Having only one kochergd to service six stoves, it is impossible to protect the employees from unfortunate accidents. For this reason, therefore, I request that you promptly issue to the bearer of this order five k . . ."

  But at this point, the manager broke off. He ceased dictation and, scratching his head, said to the typist: "What the devil. I've forgotten how you write five k . . . Three kochergi, clear. Four kochergi —understood. But five? Five what? Five kocher . . ."

  The young typist shrugged her shoulders and said that all in all she was hearing this word for the first time. In any case, she had never declined a word like that in school.

  The manager called his secretary and, with a troubled smile, told him of his difficulty.

  The secretary immediately began to decline this word: "Nominative— kochergd . . . Genitive— kochergi . . . Dative— kochergd . . ." But arriving at the plural, the secretary gulped and said that the plural number was spinning around in his head but he couldn't remember it now.

  Then he asked two other employees but they too did not succeed in shedding any light on the matter.

  The secretary said: "There is an excellent way out. Let us make two requests for supplies—one for three pokers, and one for two. That way we'll get five."

  The manager found this awkward. He said that sending two separate request slips would demoralize bookkeeping. They'd find ways of reproaching him for this. Better, when it came to that, to call up the Academy of Sciences and ask them how you write five koche . . .

  The secretary was about to call the Academy, but at the last moment the manager didn't permit him to do this. What if some smart-aleck scholar should chance to answer the phone, somebody who would write a sketch in the newspaper to the effect that the manager isn't too literate, to the effect that scientific institutions are being bothered with such nonsense. No, better proceed by one's own means. It might be a good idea to call the stoker again in order to hear the word from his lips. In any case, the man's been hanging around stoves all his life. Surely he ought to know how to say five koche . ..

  They called the stoker right away and began to probe him with leading questions.

  The stoker, assuming that they were going to chew him out again, answered all the questions in gloomy monosyllables. He muttered: "You see, we need five; then, you see, we can be more careful." Otherwise, if they wanted, they could take him to court.

  Having lost patience, the manager asked the stoker directly what they wanted to know.

  "You know yourselves," the stoker answered morosely.

  But at this point, under pressure from the secretary and the manager, the stoker at last pronounced the sought-after word. On the stoker's lips, however, thisf word did not sound anything like what they had expected, but something like this—"five koc-heryzhek"

  Then the secretary hastened to the legal department and brought an employee from there who excelled in knowing how to draft papers so skillfully they could pass over any reefs.

  They explained what was expected of him to this employee— he had to draft the necessary request in such a way that the word kochergd was not mentioned in the plural number while at the same time making sure that the institution would be supplied with five.

  After chewing his pencil a bit, the employee sketched the following draft: "Until the present time our institution, while it has had six stoves, has had in all
only one kochergti. In virtue of this, it is requested that five more be issued, so that each stove might have its own independent kocherga. Therefore, to be issued— five."

  They were just about to send this paper off to the supply warehouse, when, at this point, the typist came up to the manager and said she had just called her mother, a senior typist with thirty

  years' experience. And she had assured her that one had to write —five kochereg.

  The secretary said: "I thought so, too. Only I blanked out for the moment!"

  Right away the form was drafted and sent off to the supply warehouse.

  The funniest thing about this story is that the request form was soon returned with a note from the warehouse manager: "Refused, no kocherezhek in stock."

  By this time, spring has come. Soon it will be summer. It's a long way to winter. There's no point in thinking about the heating in the meantime. In the spring it is well to think of literacy, as it were, in connection with the spring tests in the middle schools. As far as the above-mentioned word is concerned, it really is a tricky one, worthy of the Academy of Sciences or a typist of thirty years' experience.

  All in all, it is necessary to transfer as rapidly as possible to steam heat. So that people can already begin to forget these old-fashioned words connected with wood heating.

  THE PHOTOGRAPH

  This year I needed a photograph for my pass. I don't know how it is in other towns, but with us on the periphery, having a picture taken is not a simple, ordinary matter.

  We have one artistic photographer's shop. But in addition to private citizens, this shop takes pictures of groups and enterprises. And perhaps that's why one has to spend such a long, long time waiting to have one's orders filled.

  Since I was more a private person than a group or an enterprise, I took pains to get there early and had the picture taken two months before I needed it.

  When they gave me my photographs, I was surprised at how unlike myself I seemed. Before me was a very old face of quite unattractive appearance.

  I told the girl who had handed me the photographs: "Why do you snap people like that? Lbok, there are lines and wrinkles all through my face."

  She says: "It was snapped as it usually is. Only it should be said that our retoucher is on sick leave. We didn't have anyone to touch up the defects of your unphotogenic appearance."

  The photographer who had been behind the portiere says: "What's he griping about now? Not satisfied?"

  I say: "You snapped it badly, honored sir. You disfigured me. Can it be I look like that?"

  The photographer says: "I snap opera stars, and they never get insulted. And now a fellow like this turns up—he's got too many wrinkles . . . When the objective is focused too sharply, everything comes out in relief . . . You don't know the technique, and here you're setting yourself up as a critic!"

  I say: "For what do I need to have my face in relief? Put yourself in my place. You should just snap me as I am," I say, "so one could look at it."

  The photographer says: "Ah, he needs to look yet! We snapped his picture and he wants to look at it yet. Caprice, at a time like this. Defects, he sees . . . No, I'm sorry I snapped you so well.

  Next time I'll snap you so you'll look at the photograph and groan."

  No, I didn't stop to argue with him. It doesn't matter, I think, what kind of photograph I have for my pass. Everybody can see what I really look like.

  And with these thoughts, I turn up at the department. The police sergeant began to fasten the photograph to my pass. Then he says: "In my opinion, that's not you on the photograph."

  "What do you mean," I say, "not me? I assure you, it's me. Ask the photographer. He'll confirm it."

  The sergeant says: "If I asked the photographer every time— what would come of it? No, on a photograph I want to see a given face, without having to call up the photographer. And here I can see, there's no resemblance. Looks like somebody sick with typhus. No meat at all around the cheekbones. Go take it over again."

  I run to the photographer's shop. I say to the photographer: "You see what a lousy job you did. They won't even stamp your product."

  The photographer says: "The product is quite a normal one. But, of course, you have to take into account that we weren't going to turn on full illumination just for you. We snapped the picture with one lamp. And that's why shadows fell across your face and darkened it. They didn't darken it completely, though. They didn't darken it so much that nothing could be seen. Just look how well your ears came out."

  "Well, all right," I say—"the ears. But the cheeks," I say, "where are they? Cheeks, too," I say, "are part of the human face."

  The photographer says: "I don't know. We didn't touch your cheeks. We have our own."

  "Then," I say, "where are they? I," I say, "have spent two weeks in a house of rest. I gained ten pounds. And you here, with just one picture, God knows what you've made of me."

  The photographer says: "Why, I suppose / removed your cheeks or something? Seems to me you were told quite clearly: a shadow fell on them. And that's why they didn't come out."

  I say: "And how can it be, without cheeks?"

  "Ah," he says, "as you wish. Snap it over again, I just won't. If I snapped them all over again I wouldn't fulfill my plan and

  I'd lose all the premiums. And, to me, the plan is more dear than your unphotogenic face."

  Customers say to me: "Don't get the photographer all worked up. Or he'll snap even worse pictures of people."

  One of the customers says to me: "Honored sir, run down to the market. There's a photographer there snapping pictures with an old-fashioned camera."

  I run down to the market. I find the photographer. He says: "No, I've got to have plates to snap a picture. Without plates, better not come to me; it's all the same, I just won't snap. But if you have a plate, I'll snap. And if you should happen to have a featherbed—then, too, I'll snap. My aunt just arrived from Barnaul and she hasn't got anything to sleep on."

  I wanted to leave, but at this point I hear some kind of salesman is calling me over. He says: "Come along to my store. I have the finished product."

  I look. He has spread out on a newspaper various kinds of ready-made photographs. About three hundred.

  The salesman says: "Pick out the one you like best and do with it as you please. You can even paste it on your forehead. If you like, I'll pick one out for you myself. How would you like it, by size or by likeness?"

  "By likeness," I say, "only," I say, "pick one that's got cheeks."

  He says: "Can be done with cheeks. But they cost five rubles more... Now, take this photograph here , .. You won't find anything better than that. And cheeks, it has. And nobody could say that there isn't any resemblance at all."

  I paid thirty rubles for two photographs and went to the department.

  The police sergeant began to attach my photograph. Then he says: "Why, but this is an old woman."

  "Where do you mean," I say, "an old woman? It's a man in a jacket."

  'Where the devil is it a man if he's wearing a brooch on his chest? From this brooch I can tell—it's a woman."

  I looked at the photograph, and I see it really is a woman. There's a marquisette blouse under the jacket. On her chest, a brooch with a landscape painted on. But a man's haircut. And my cheeks.

  The sergeant says: "You come here with real photographs. But if you show me a woman's or a child's photograph again, I'll have

  you hauled off because I won't be able to avoid the suspicion that you're trying to conceal yourself under somebody else's face."

  I spent a whole week as in a fog. I asked everyone where I might get a picture snapped. On the eighth day, while conversing with a photographer, I began to feel ill. Then they carried me out to the garden and stretched me out on the grass so that the fresh air might revive me. When I came to, I went to the department. I put my first photographs on the table—the ones without cheeks—and I said to the sergeant: "This is all I have, comrade chief.
And I can see no way of getting anything better."

  The sergeant looked at the pictures, and then at me. And he says: "There you are now, that's not bad. Likenesses."

  I wanted to say that I hadn't snapped them over again at all. Then I looked at myself in the mirror—and, really, I see, there is a certain resemblance now. It came through.

  The sergeant says: "Even though you look a little shabbier in the picture than in real life, still," he says, "I'd guess that in about a year it will equal out."

  "It'll equal out before that, since I still have to get snapped for a travel document, for my party card, and for sending some snapshots to my relatives."

  At this point the sergeant stamped my photograph and warmly congratulated me on my having received a pass.

  THE ADVENTURES OF AN APE

  In a certain city in the south, there was a zoo. It was a small zoo, in which there were one tiger, two crocodiles, three snakes, a zebra, an ostrich, and one ape, or in other words, a monkey. And, naturally, various minor items—birds, fish, frogs, and similar insignificant nonsense from the animal world.

  At the beginning of the war, when the Fascists bombed the city, one bomb fell directly on the zoo. And it exploded there with a great shattering roar. To the surprise of all the beasts.

  The three snakes were killed, all at the same time, not in itself a very sad fact perhaps. Unfortunately, the ostrich, too.

  The other beasts did not suffer. As the saying goes, they only shook with fear.

 

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