Treasury of Russian Short Stories 1900-1966

by Wassner, Selig O. ;

  Modesty! How many times did it leave me in the lurch? Now see, it stopped me from uttering the decisive words. I had to leave without having had my say.

  Won’t the reader challenge me on this: Why was I leaving my mother-in-law’s house? I suppose he will. But let me tell him that everything has a reason and all the reasons will be given later. The story of my love being unusual, it contains many mysterious pages.

  “A jigeet who loves a girl ought to understand her,” Altin-Oy told me on parting. “You ought to do the same.”

  I see, she wants me to understand her. I her, but she me—no. A respectable man, an accountant, a kolkhoz V.I.P. next to the chairman ought to subject his convictions to a woman’s fancies? Doesn’t she demand a little too much, my Altin-Oy? Sure I love her, but ….

  “So long,” I uttered sadly, trudging away into the darkness.

  Yes, it was dark, everything had become dark as far as I was concerned. The whole world, the stars, not even mentioning the sun. Because the sun will not rise on me anymore. Some man full of enthusiasm once said, “Love makes one blind.” He was wrong. When I loved, everything around me was full of brilliance, now in my bitterness everything looks black. Not even a single ray of light ahead of me.

  The next morning I couldn’t make out any ledger entry. I signed documents without looking at them. A crime? Yes, it was a crime. For the first time in my life did my hands move with mechanical aimlessness, without sense, although there might have been a mass of significance in the papers. I was lucky, though, because there were no dishonest people around me.

  About ten in the morning I could stand it no longer. I said to the cashier, “I think I better go out and check on the stacks of hay we have on hand.” In fact, I never cared much about hay, least of all that day. What I wanted was to see Altin-Oy.

  She wasn’t in her old section. There were only a few tractors ploughing the fall fallow. As I might have expected from a stubborn person, Altin-Oy had risen at dawn and taken over Rozya’s work team. All the girls were cleaning up cotton stubble and two jigeets were carting fertilizer.

  Stop! I wanted to shout. Instead I moaned softly. Too late, there was Altin-Oy running her new job at full steam. There was no retreat for her now. She waved her kerchief at me, inviting me closer. What for? A meeting of two people with no joy between them is like a day without sunshine.

  “See,” she called out, “we’re on our way up.” Yes, there they were, just starting. She could have been at her goal by now. How cruel! Did she realize how much pain she caused me with these inane words? Nobody ever rose to any heights from this field. Who else but me should know the most about this team after five years of keeping its accounts?

  I decided to ride by pretending I wasn’t the least interested in Altin-Oy or her girls. “I’m in a hurry,” I said. “I’ve come to check on the hay.”

  “Why have you become worried about hay so early in the morning?” Altin-Oy laughed. “Besides, the stacks are way yonder.”

  The other girls had laughed, too; young people always like to bare their teeth. Youth don’t know yet the meaning of hurt pride. To them life is light and simple, a holiday. That’s why I frowned when I retorted, “Like some people I too have got it into my head to reach what I want in a roundabout way.”

  Altin-Oy had stopped laughing; my barb had apparently hit a sore spot. “People of courage don’t take the roundabout way but the difficult one,” she parried my blow. “They are not both the same.”

  Sharp was my beloved’s tongue. A duel with her was spiked with dangers. What was there to do? I spurred my horse and started trotting away. On the trot I managed to have my last word: “People of courage storm to victory and don’t fence themselves off from it with hurdles. This is where the truth lies, My Esteemed.”

  Thus we parted. That is, I rode away and she stayed on her miserable field.

  As you may guess, my love was not permitted to bloom luxuriously under such conditions. It felt smothered. In order to save it I made one more attempt, trying to talk reason into Altin-Oy. I decided to ask our agronomist’s advice, especially since I saw him coming in my direction. “Dear Egrash-Aka,” I asked him frankly, “please stop Altin-Oy from her irrational act. Instead of glory, which has been right on the threshold of our kolkhoz, we are going to garner ridicule.”

  Our horses stood side by side and I was able to see every feature on Egrash-Aka’s face. After I had spoken, it seemed to have changed, the edges of his moustache had pulled up and a rosy blush had spread on his cheeks.

  “Poor fellow,” he devastatingly shook his head. “I sincerely sympathize with you. With a wife like that you’ll never have peace.”

  He was right. Peace was out of the question. By her reckless actions Altin-Oy was capable of aggravating any man. Although I had considered Egrash-Aka a rival, I felt compelled to express to him my thanks for his comments. “So why don’t you help me?” I implored.

  Here again his face seemed to have transformed. It became pale, the edges of the moustache dropped. “No,” he said waveringly, “I cannot help you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Don’t ask, please.”

  Losers are always poor sports and will always try to take revenge for their defeats in love. I decided to ram it right into Egrash-Aka’s throat. “Do you love Altin-Oy?” I demanded.

  Again he blushed deeply. “In the first place because of that, and in the second …”

  I bristled. What could the second be? Did he, too, have the intention of becoming Moucarram-Bibi’s son-in-law? How insidious can a rival be?

  “… and in the second place,” Egrash-Aka continued, “I wholly approve of her remarkable step.”

  So that was where the catch was! So that was where the heart-poisoning venom came from! Now was my turn to do some face-changing. I changed so visibly that Egrash-Aka became frightened. “Don’t you feel well, Esteemed?” he mumbled. “Hadn’t you better dismount?”

  “No!”

  Only the horse could help me. I spurred it and galloped away into the kishlak. I had to think of something fast if I wanted to save my happiness.

  The mechanic Rassoul was riding out in my direction. I stopped in my hustle and addressed him, completely forgetting that he, too, was my rival. “Do something, pal,” I pleaded. “Let’s save a human being. We are losing our best team leader, and with it we are bungling away our only candidacy for a Heroine. Altin-Oy is on the brink of a precipice.”

  First Rassoul had opened his eyes wide in fear, but when he guessed what I was talking about he began to laugh. He laughed with such gusto that his whole body shook and even the horse under him quivered. Rassoul was the biggest man in the kishlak, sizewise and weightwise; even our large office door was too narrow and low for him. His horse had to be the strongest animal in the kolkhoz, even so it had trouble carrying him. Only a tractor never broke under his weight and that’s probably why he became a mechanic.

  “Ha, ha, ha,” Rassoul gasped from laughing. People began to look back and watch us, some astonished, some curious.

  “What strikes you so funny?” I asked after glaring at him for a while. “A human being is about to go down in shame and you’re bursting from happiness. You better help me do something to save Altin-Oy from being pushed down to her degradation while there’s still time.”

  But Rassoul laughed and laughed. Finally he choked out the words: “That’s me, didn’t you know?”

  “What’s you?”

  “I’m the one who has been pushing her. …”

  I was panic-stricken. Everybody, it seemed, was in collusion to send Altin-Oy to her doom and deprive me of my happiness. How terrible my rivals’ revenge turned out to be! I could listen no more to Rassoul. I took off, hoping to find salvation somewhere else. It was my bitter fate, however, to drain the cup of sorrow to the bottom. As I reached the office I heard someone call my name.

  It was Karim, a team leader. “Congratulations, congratulations,” he exclaimed joyously, as if it
were my birthday and he was about to raise a toast in my honor. “Altin-Oy’s act radiates welfare on you, too. …”

  It was obvious, Karim was making fun of me. This rival of mine had chosen the most diabolical way of revenge, praising my dishonor. But friends, I thought, you’re celebrating too soon. The respectable kolkhoz accountant is not licked yet. He is going to have the last laugh on you.

  I waved Karim away. He was too young to merit my attention. Let him first grow a moustache and become a crew steward at least before he has the audacity to address mature people.

  I galloped by the office, by Karim, toward the house of my mother-in-law. She was my last hope. If she doesn’t understand me nobody will, I thought.

  “Where’s the fire?” the old woman swung her skinny arms as my horse came to an abrupt halt at the wicket. “Don’t keep me in suspense, talk fast!”

  “Where’s the fire,” I repeated in her pitch of voice, “as if you don’t know yourself where the fire is. Where did Altin-Oy go this morning?”

  “What do you mean where? Into the field, where else?”

  “Into which field?” I asked.

  “Rozya’s. …”

  I sighed gravely. The old woman didn’t understand the danger hanging over her house. “You know what kind of field that is?” I said. “Apart from crabgrass nothing ever grows there. They call it luck if a cluster of cotton crops up here and there. They sow hope and harvest tears. And her team—each girl is lazier than the next, they do nothing but eat pancakes and drink tea the whole day.”

  “Oy, boy,” the old woman wailed. “So why did she go there?”

  “That’s exactly what I’d like to know, why? A person who isn’t about to commit suicide doesn’t put a rope around her neck.”

  Moucarram-Bibi wiped tears off her face. “You’re right, son of mine,” she whispered. “Why does our Altin-Oy need a rope? She’s young and pretty, we’ve got light and welfare in our home. Why should she run from good to bad?”

  “So why don’t you stop her?” I urged. “You’re her mother, and a mother’s word ought to be a daughter’s law.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” the old woman agreed. “If a child errs it’s her mother’s duty to straighten her out. Don’t worry, Sonny, I’ll bring Altin-Oy back to her senses.”

  I wouldn’t be truthful in saying that my mother-in-law’s words flooded my heart with serenity; still, a germ of hope did sprout in it. I thanked the old woman and went back to the office—there was work to be done. Love is love but ledger sheets are ledger sheets. If Altin-Oy was going to collect tears instead of cotton in her section, to whom will it behoove to support her? At least my labdays will have to suffice to maintain our home.

  I could hardly wait till evening. Once more the familiar wicket, once more the shuffling of rubbers on the walk. “Son of mine,” my mother-in-law groaned as she let me into the yard, “you were right. A person who isn’t about to commit suicide must not tighten a noose around her neck. But … Altin-Oy is right too. She’s not thinking of any rope; have a talk with her yourself.”

  So. My last ally had capitulated. My mother-in-law, as was expected from any mother-in-law, had sold out her son-in-law. Oh, justice, how blind thou art! I’m alone, alone with nowhere to go!

  My feet dragged reluctantly along the path leading to the house. Never before had that path appeared so long and tiring. No! I couldn’t reach the end of it. “I better wait here,” I told the old woman. “Let Altin-Oy come out onto the terrace.”

  My mother-in-law nodded and went inside. A minute later the gleam of a silken kerchief stroked my eyes and Altin-Oy noiselessly floated down to me. She felt nimble, my beloved, her hand touched my shoulder. “Please, don’t be angry with me,” she whispered.

  Altin-Oy knew how to say things to make your head swim. But I remained cold and stern. “When a man’s head is hit by a stone,” I said, “he doesn’t think of his disheveled hair. Our happiness is at stake.”

  We walked out into the orchard and sat down with our backs against the wind on a cool stone bench strewn with fallen leaves. I talked, Altin-Oy listened. I carefully presented to her all my doubts, all my anguish and fear that had accumulated during that worrisome day. “Now, it’s your decision,” I concluded.

  As I finished there was silence for a few minutes. Then Altin-Oy whisked off with her hand a bunch of leaves, as if trying to brush away my arguments, and said, “You’ve weighed the labdays, but you haven’t weighed my feelings. You just don’t understand me.”

  That was the limit! Who in the family is supposed to understand whom, a man his wife or a wife her husband? Besides, who is the more mature, the more experienced, and the more farsighted? Who is she to know? So I knocked my fist on the bench, almost breaking a bone, and uttered the same phrase with which I had opened my story, “It is either I or …”

  Once again there was a long pause, during which I’d managed to count almost all the stars in the sky. Then I heard Altin-Oy’s soft, soft voice, “All right, have it your way …”

  At last! At last reason has triumphed! Happiness has returned to me, love will be allowed to bloom and prosper again. I wanted to kiss my beloved when I noticed tears in her eyes. “My dearest, why the tears?” I asked.

  “I’m so afraid,” she whispered.

  “Why? I’m right beside you.”

  “But you’re going to leave. …”

  “Why should I?”

  Altin-Oy sighed. “Because I’ve chosen the other ‘or,’ “ she said sadly.

  I couldn’t believe my ears. Did Altin-Oy reject me?! Oh, what gratitude!

  Hurt, anger, hate—all of it rose in me at the same time. “Goodbye,” I shouted and broke away from that house which had suddenly become a strange place for me.

  * * *

  It isn’t easy to talk about your own wife. It isn’t easy for a man to talk evil of any woman for that matter. There is a saying. … Oh, this is not the time for sayings. My wife! Sure you’ll ask me, why do you say “wife?” Your story doesn’t show it, does it? Why have you told so many strange things, why, for instance have you run away from your wife’s home? Wait a moment, when I tell you that Altin-Oy wasn’t my wife then, you’ll see things falling into their places. But what about now, you’ll ask?

  Now? My natural modesty makes it hard for me to say this word aloud. She is my wife. Almost the whole kolkhoz was at our wedding. … Many people came even from the neighboring kishlak. Everybody was congratulating me, everybody. … Only Egrash-Aka wasn’t. “Poor, poor man,” he said to me. “With a wife like her you’ll never have peace.”

  He was right, Egrash-Aka. I know of no peace. Altin-Oy hasn’t stopped vying, advancing, hustling toward her new peak. And I? I’m jittery, nervous, mad. But I don’t say anything. …

  After all, I love Altin-Oy. …

  1964

  Little Whale, the Painter of Reality

  by Vassily Aksenov

  Biographical information not available.

  “What did you bring?” Whale asked me.

  “Nothing, just a cap.”

  “Let me see it.”

  He took my new leather cap and began to study it curiously. In a matter of seconds his curiosity reached such intensity that he began to tremble. “Tolya, what is it?” he shouted.

  “It’s a special kind of cap,” I muttered.

  “A cap you put on to fly?” he asked louder, jumping up with the cap in his hands.

  I picked him up on that idea. “Yes, to fly. With this cap you and I will fly to the North Pole.”

  “Hoorah! To the white bears?”

  “Uh, huh.”

  “And the seals?”

  “Yeah, and the seals.”

  “And who else?”

  My head was still buzzing from a full day’s work in the course of which I had managed to get into a few arguments with office associates and smart from the manager’s tongue-lashing. My mood was nasty-nasty. Yet, I made an effort to conjure up the scant fauna of the Arctic Oce
an.

  “Also to the sharks,” I tried to bluff.

  “No, it isn’t true,” he objected heatedly. “There’re no sharks there. Sharks are bad, and all Arctic animals are good.”

  “You know, you’re right,” I hastily agreed. “All right, you and I will fly to the white bears, the seals, and the … ah …”

  “Whales,” he cued.

  “Yeah, the whales. And what else?”

  “The limpeduses,” he shouted with enthusiasm.

  “What is a limpeduse?”

  My question stumped him. He lay the cap on the couch, moved away to a far corner of the room and from there came a whisper, “It’s a … an animal.”

  “Oh, I see. How could I forget. Of course, a limpeduse! Such a slippery, little animal, of course!”

  “No,” Whale confidently disagreed. “It’s big and furry.”

  My wife entered the room. “Let’s go and do our business, Whale,” she ordered.

  They left together but then the wife returned. “Did you call him?” she asked.

  “Call who?”

  “Don’t play dumb. The whole day you found no time to call him?”

  “All right. I’ll call him right away.”

  She left, and for the first time today I was alone. It felt blissful to listen to the beautiful silence, like taking a bath or a shower, a shower of solitude after a whole day’s work filled to its brim with noisy people, friends and strangers.

  I sat at the empty desk and laid my hands on it. It was good to feel its cool blank surface devoid of any folders or papers, serving now only as a support for my heavy hands.

  Outside the window the sun had noiselessly overcome the yellow thicket of the nearby orchard and was rolling toward the corner of a many-storied building, a gigantic, towering six-sided prism which was still dark, seemingly lifeless.

  In the yard, on the room of the boiler room a gang of ten year olds was causing a pandemonium. From their wide-open mouths I could guess the clamor behind the window.