Butba, however, did not take offense. “Mas,” he said calmly, “I respect your opinion. But I’d like to know on what basis you declare that I’m pottering around.”
“I believe what I see,” the miller muttered.
“No, that’s no proof, Mas. If you intend to criticize my actions or the way I’m thinking, please do so rationally. Empty accusations do nothing to enhance a man’s arguments if the people involved are serious people. You accuse me of pottering which is a serious accusation. I could reply to it in all seriousness if my opponent’s arguments were fully rationalized.”
“We’ve been looking for you all day. Three people looking for one man a whole day. Do you understand the meaning of this, Andrey?”
“No, I don’t. Today is Sunday and I may avail of myself anyway I please.”
“True, true,” the miller admitted. “But you’ve got no right to worry us.”
“Worry you? Why?”
“What do you mean why? There you go running off …”
“Do you consider the fact of my being here running off? It doesn’t concern anybody but me.”
The miller spat out. Saat decided it was his turn to enter into the conversation. “Andrey,” he said, “excuse me for addressing you by your first name. You are younger and therefore I take the liberty. Tomorrow they may seize you down in the village. What can we tell everybody?”
The janitor’s argument seemed to have hit the mark. The principal became pensive.
“Well, Saat,” he finally answered, “tell them that Bowba will teach mathematics.”
“Why Bowba?” wondered the secretary of the village Soviet.
“Why not,” Andrey replied. “And what about you?”
“What about me?”
“Have you taken a leave of absence or something? Or have you willfully decided to retire?”
“You’re guessing wrong, Matamey.”
“That’s not right, Andrey,” Saat resumed. “Why do you refuse to explain your conduct to us? I’d advise you to come home with us.”
“Home!” Butba repeated convincingly in all seriousness. “Home is a concept that can be stretched. In this cosmic age of ours Earth is home. I’d even say it is no more than a little house. So, I am home.”
“What do you mean you’re home?” Matamey demanded. “As the secretary of the village Soviet I officially order you to resume your duties.”
“I can’t,” Butba replied, raising his voice. “You may kill me but I won’t. Can’t you see, I’m crowded, cramped. I’m suffocating!”
“That’s all nonsense, Andrey,” Saat reasoned.
“Aren’t you crowded?” The principal asked with a smile. “Is it possible that you don’t have that suffocating closed-in feeling? We’ve been cheated, you and I. We’ve been misled into believing that we were born on a roomy planet but all we’ve got here is a spot the size of a ruble. Two steps from one end to the other. And you call this home?”
“A good home at that,” Matamey asserted.
“Wrong!” Butba exclaimed. “A tragic mistake! You’re living in a cell. You’ve acquiesced to that annihilating closed-in feeling while just next to you there’re vast spaces to be had.” His arm swept the sky, from horizon to horizon.
It’s useless to argue with him, Matamey thought.
He’s out of his mind, Mas told himself.
That man is finished, Saat decided.
“There’s no mystery here,” Butba stuck his papers under his opponents’ noses. “No more than half an hour to the east, west, north or south. Yet you’d like to remain on this miserable little globe. It’s sheer insult to a thinking man.”
It wasn’t apparent what it was that had possessed him—the faith of an apostle, self-confidence of a fanatic, or both?
“Andrey, you’ll come down now with us and we’ll finish the argument in school,” the miller suggested. “We’ve got to take him away from here by force,” he whispered to Matamey and Saat.
“What are you whispering about?” Butba asked in a threatening voice. “Kindly leave me in peace. I feel much better here than down there below. A lot more air to breathe here.”
The miller took a step forward.
“Don’t you dare,” Andrey shouted. “Don’t you dare come closer.”
Poor man, Andrey! Matamey was the first to withdraw. The others followed his example. What came next was a tedious, purposeless siege—Butba, however, was always on the alert, watchfully eyeing each of his three adversaries. Although his means of retreat were cut off, he showed no desire to surrender. They sensed it. He looked like a mountain buck driven into a corner.
“Please come down from that rock,” the miller pleaded. “If you want me to, I’ll beg you on my knees.”
“Have dignity for your gray hair, Mas.”
“If you want we’ll all beg on our knees.”
“You better leave. If you like that cell of yours, that’s your business. Had you come for me with a flying rocket, I’d have gone with you. But you have nothing to offer other than your tiny globe full of people swarming like ants …”
“Yes, we have something to offer,” the janitor coaxed. “A magnificent supper with wine.”
Butba deprecatingly waved his arm. “Don’t disturb me,” he suddenly shouted. “I’m preparing my annual balance sheet.”
The three travelers were dumbfounded. As twilight was moving in they had to decide on a course of action. Without delay! A lone man must not be left by himself in the mountains.
All three of them, their intentions obvious, moved in on the principal.
For a brief moment it appeared that Butba had given in. Abruptly, however, he darted up, set one foot over the rock, into the chasm. A little breeze could have blown him down. Another word and he might be gone. Saat cast a glimpse into the precipice shrouded with a light mist. He pointed his head and the others glanced too …
Butba’s eyes flashed like sunbeams. Those were the eyes of a man possessed, a man unbridled. It was amazing how he held his balance on the edge of the precipice!
The three travelers gave up. They stepped back—soundless, tight-lipped. “We have lost him,” Mas whispered.
They were gone. And Butba, he still stood on one foot, for a while held fast by the force of gravity.
10
The three men were stupefied. Just think, a man almost made a buck’s leap into the chasm right in front of their eyes. Was it all a delusion? Was it possible that the principal was now calmly sitting in his room, working on his calculations?
“I feel lousy,” the miller somehow recovered from the shock. “In heavens’ name, tell me it was all a bad dream.”
“I wish it were a dream.” The secretary of the village Soviet was completely crushed. As the representative of the authorities and at the same time a human being, he found his burden doubly heavy. “Saat,” he asked, “do you remember what the doctor told us this morning?”
“No, I don’t.”
“He called this sickness geophobia.”
“Is that fear?”
“Yes, fear of the planet; fear of Earth … It’s a new sickness.”
Saat felt sorry for the principal. He isn’t an inhabitant of this earth any more, he thought. But after all the exhausting experience Saat also felt ravenously hungry, as hungry as a winter wolf. He had to put something in his mouth, be it even a clump of earth, or he’d lose his mind. “I’m dying from hunger,” he voiced an elementary cry.
“How can you think of food at a moment like this?” Matamey asked.
“I can and I ought to,” Saat shouted. “I’m about to gnaw the bark off that tree.”
They descended lower and walked along the cliff edge. The only thoughts the janitor had were about food. His hunger pangs were so strong that he chewed up a few leaves. “If we hurry,” he said, “we may be able to forage some berries. It’s not too far from here. I marked the place in my mind.”
“Let’s go.” They moved down faster, as fast as it was possible t
o lumber down on the narrow path winding between stones and bushes.
“Please, wake me up,” the miller moaned. “We couldn’t have seen the last of Andrey. Isn’t it possible, perhaps, that a man may fly and still be rational? Please, isn’t it?” He was almost in tears. Were it not for Saat, he’d have punched himself in his forehead.
“What are you trying to do to yourself?” the janitor scolded. “Take pity on your poor head. It’s not your fault—the man was incurably sick. Better ask me or my woman, or the doctor who explained the sickness to us. It’s like this, a man grows out of his diapers, so to say, feels drawn to the sun, moon and all those damn spots, and instead of digging in the garden like me, he starts to climb walls. It’s not your fault, or Matamey’s or mine.”
“We ought to save him,” Mas implored.
“Impossible!” Saat was positive. “Don’t you see, there’s no cure for it. Writing numbers on papers is one thing, but trying to jump off a rock—that’s something else.”
“I can see that too,” Mas wailed. “But listen, maybe he’s really preparing his annual balance sheet?”
Matamey spread his arms.
“And I tell you a man is born to the earth,” the janitor insisted. “He’s bound to it by a navel cord and whoever tries to cut it will end where Andrey did. A few more steps and I’ll treat you all to nice berries. I’m dying from hunger.”
Saat walked ahead, followed by Mas and Matamey. The setting sun was in their eyes, lying in long stalk-like shades of yellow on each leave, each pebble, and each grain of sand.
I hope we meet that shepherd boy again, Saat thought. He might have something to chew. He, too, is a little queer, not a bad fellow, though. A picture of health! No doubt keeps a nice supply of food on hand. A few berries in the meantime won’t hurt. “Stop!” he suddenly roared out, as if he were leading a whole regiment. “Stop and look to your right. Ought one pass by that berry clump?”
“One ought,” Mas decided.
“One should,” Matamey seconded.
“You oddballs,” Saat remonstrated. “Wait a minute and I’ll treat you. A man alive needs food. Kindly arm yourselves with patience.” The janitor pressed his chest against the thorny bush and fearlessly reached for the berries. He brought out a handful.
The miller categorically refused. He couldn’t get down a swallow, he said. Matamey tried a few.
Saat kept forcing himself against the pricky bushes like a fearless he-goat, stuffing in his mouth berries almost with their stems, stilling his hunger like an animal. Mas and Matamey still overcome by disbelief paid him no attention. “Maybe Andrey will soar into the very heaven like an angel and repeat the evangelical miracle,” the miller said. “No, I don’t believe it, I don’t believe,” he added. Matamey felt depressed by guilt: he shouldn’t have let down a human being, especially a sick one.
“Have you had enough,” he called out to the janitor.
“Oh, those berries, they’re delicious,” the janitor’s response came back from amid the greenery. “Black and ripe, simply out of this world! First I’ll fill my belly full, then I’l cram my pockets full and then, so you see, we might stay here an hour and maybe two …”
“What shall we do?” Mas pulled Matamey aside. They needed and couldn’t do without each other.
“Let’s get away from here. I can’t look at that glutton. He won’t stop until he bursts.”
“And leave Andrey on that rock?”
“What can we do?” Mas rubbed his forehead. “He won’t listen to us.”
Matamey shrugged his shoulders. He still had no idea what explanation they were going to give to the people in the village. Something, no doubt, would have to be said.
To say nothing, was not possible.
1961
One Too Many
by Yuri Kachayev
Yuri Grigoryevitch Kachayev, born in 1937, graduated from the Institute of Foreign Languages in Moscow in 1959. Taught English for several years before working as the manager of the literary department of the magazine Pioner. His works include, In The White, White April (1963), In The Open Sea, (1966) and other books for children.
He had a good, strong name: Prokhor. But as far as Vadim was concerned it had a prehistoric ring to it; to Rita it had the sound of an approaching storm.
“I’m Prokhor Zarubin,” he had said, pulling down the tent flap behind him as he came in.
“Have you brought the theodolite?” Rita asked.
“I did. Also some chow.”
“Thank God. We’ve been sitting here for three days, doing nothing. They put us down here and told us to wait …”
“We’ll start today,” Prokhor said, taking off his maroon tarpaulin windbreaker and tossing it into a corner. “You’ve fixed yourselves nicely, I see. Only too much grass—it makes the place too humid, and that’s what attracts mosquitoes.”
“He knows everything,” Vadim shook his head suspiciously.
Prokhor glowered at him for a few seconds but made no reply.
“So you’ll be the third one,” Rita smiled.
“That’s right, Rita. You don’t like it?” Prokhor asked.
“No, on the contrary,” she said.
“You don’t address strangers by their first names,” Vadim stated pompously.
“You’re a grouch,” Prokhor laughed, getting up. “I’ll come back later.”
“ ‘No, on the contrary,’ “ Vadim scoffingly imitated Rita after Prokhor left. “You better stop that funny business.”
“Why?” she asked. “He’s cute, and discreet, too. Not like you.”
“How can one be discreet here,” Vadim growled. “Haven’t had a good night’s sleep since we came. That beastly cold in the mornings, and those mosquitoes! And this is supposed to be summer!”
“You’ll get used to it, darling. It’s always hard at the beginning,” Rita moved closer and embraced Vadim’s neck. “Don’t be angry,” she whispered. “Kiss me.”
Not waiting for him, she closed her eyes and kissed his hard, stubborn lips.
A branch crackled outside next to the tent and Prokhor’s gay voice announced, “All right, people. Come out, you hear? No first names this time.”
When Vadim and Rita came clambering out of the tent, Prokhor stood at a huge heap of thick-needled silver fir twigs. Later, while the two of them threw the grass out of the tent, replacing it with the aromatic needle litter, he drove two piles into the ground, brought a kettle of water, and made the fire. With hungry eyes they watched him pry open a can of meat with an axe, their mouths watering for a change of menu after three days of nothing but “concentrates.”
Afterwards they gulped spoonfuls of the piping-hot meat broth straight from the kettle, leaving the noodles for the end. Following the meal Vadim relaxed, and the hard look in his eyes softened. “Here,” he offered Prokhor a cigarette. “A Moscovite! Only a few left.”
Prokhor hungrily drew in several puffs before throwing away the cigarette and crushing it with his heel. “Well, as they say, since everybody’s full, drunk, and up to his nose in smoke, it’s time to do some work,” he announced. “Here’s the general task—by the third of August we have to clear a roadway up to the eighty-sixth kilometer. The order starting tomorrow is this: reveille at four o’clock in the morning; from twelve to sixteen when the swelter’s the hottest we break off for dinner. Quitting time is at eight in the evening, and we’ll take turns in making breakfasts, dinners and suppers.”
“What are you proposing, a twenty-hour work day?” Vadim asked, without looking up at Prokhor.
Prokhor hitched his shoulders. “We’re short on people. We have to double up.”
“And pay?”
“Pay’s also double.”
The finished route ended near the tent. It was a narrow, thin slice of a roadway in a dark ocean of woods along which steel posts of high-voltage lines would extend toward the north several months from now.
On the way Prokhor cut up a bunch of thin birch stakes and g
ave them to Vadim. Then he began to set up the theodolite in the clearing, turning the eyepiece, trying to get a correct fixation from the last two stakes set up by their predecessors. The extreme stake had been driven into a small, smoothly rounded post, darkened by the rains while its whittlings, smelling moist and moldy, had yellowed and teemed with minute ants the size of tobacco grains.
“Take the axe and saw and go ahead,” Prokhor ordered Vadim and Rita, lifting his face from the eyepiece. “When I raise my arm you drive in the stake. That shrubbery in the way of the track will have to be shaved off.”
The first real obstacle in Vadim and Rita’s way was an old pine tree on which somebody had left a tin funnel for the sap. The hewing guide notches were wide and sprawling, like the feathers of a giant arrow. Vadim craned his neck and gave a dejected whistle. Then he sighed and made ready with the axe. But whether from trying too hard or from lack of experience, he couldn’t make any headway.
“May I try?” Rita asked, feeling sorry for him.
He glowered at her with eyes red from anger and kept up his travails. Prokhor was getting impatient and walked up to watch them. Angered by his stare, Rita shouted at him in a thin, unfeigned voice, “You get away from here. Nobody asked your help.”
“Phew, you crazy?” Prokhor reeled back in surprise. “I haven’t come to laugh at you. Give it to me,” he stepped up to Vadim. “You grip the end of the handle like this,” he showed. “Then you get an honest blow. The blade must enter the wood at an angle, like this. You understand?”
Vadim’s perspired, flushed face turned a deeper red. “Come on, forget your pride,” Prokhor told him amicably. “Nobody’s born a master, you know …” With a few short accurate swings of the ax he bit into the pine tree and reached for the saw. “Grab an end, fella,” he ordered Vadim.
The saw cut softly into the wood, almost as noiselessly as if it were cutting butter. Five minutes later the tree began to sway, gave a painful groan, and thudded onto the ground, sweeping under a young birch with its body.
“A-a-a-outch!” A late echo shouted back in fright.
“See, that’s all there’s to it,” Prokhor said, getting up onto the stump and examining the tree. “Too bad such a beautiful tree’s going to rot. Ten steres of wood easy!”
Treasury of Russian Short Stories 1900-1966 Page 26