“No! No! It’s bad! You read this one,” he pulled out of the pile “The Wolf and the Seven Kids.” My Lord, I thought, here’s the same kind of dramatic tension, the terrible wolf devouring all those little kids and even though things turn out well in the end, how am I going to read it all to Whale, the little painter of reality?
In the meantime Whale had been leafing through the pages, looking at the pictures. “Here’s Mama-goat,” he told me, “she’s bringing milk. And there the kiddy-goats, they’re playing.”
What an idyllic situation, and how Whale loved it! In his naive ignorance of the cannons of dramaturgy he turned over to the next page on which the ferociously painted wolf was about to devour a poor kid. I froze.
“There’s Daddy-goat,” Whale said, pointing to the wolf. “He’s playing with the kiddy-kid.”
Very calmly Whale was organizing a goat family.
“Whale, you’re mistaken,” I cautiously suggested. “This isn’t Daddy-goat; this is the nasty grey wolf. He’s about to eat up the little kid. … But don’t worry, everything is going to turn out well; the wolf will be punished. This is the art of drama, my little Whale.”
“No,” he shouted, almost in tears. “This isn’t a wolf, this is Daddy-goat—he’s playing. You don’t know anything, Tolya.”
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe I was wrong,” I hastily agreed. “You are right. This is the daddy-goat.”
“Vanyusha,” his mother called. “Time to go to sleep.” He left carrying away with him into his dreams the family of heavenly bears, the little family of buses, the goat family, as well as the parasol of the “pretty auntie,” the good monsters of “The World of Phantasy” and … my cap, which of course, would grow during the night to the size of an airplane and fly him to the North Pole, into the kingdom of good animals.
After settling Whale, the wife returned and sat on a chair facing me. We smoked. Usually this was a pleasant time when we smoked together at the end of a day—not now. Now the smoke didn’t taste good.
“Who was that ‘auntie’ Ivan mentioned to me?” my wife asked.
“She’s from headquarters, a legal consultant.”
“I see. What do you intend to do now?”
“I don’t know.”
“What is going to come out of it now?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
“I see,” she said.
“My Lord, I wish winter would come,” I thought aloud.
“What good is winter going to do?”
“My vacation comes up in winter. I’ll do some skating.”
“Oh, sure,” she said derisively. “You’re such a good skater!”
“Stop it.”
“No, really. You’re a first-class skater. Everybody knows it,” she bit on her lip to keep from crying. I pulled up the telephone and in one stroke I dialed that damned number.
While the receiver was humming with those long, interspaced rings, I envisioned him: tossing his legs down from the couch, slowly walking up to the phone, maybe reading one of his books on the way. Maybe he was rubbing his back or the seat of his pants, maybe he was thinking—who in hell is calling? Could it be that miserable character with his asinine requests? There he was taking off the receiver.
He talked to me in a low, confidential voice, “Listen, I was told you couldn’t bring yourself to call me. I’ve been waiting for your ring. Really, why all those fears and formalities? Obviously there was some misunderstanding. At our last meeting apparently you understood me wrong. I believe everything will result in a positive way. You may stop worrying. I’m with you all the way, with every fibre, every nerve, my heart, liver, and spleen; my dignity, honor, my loyalty, sincerity, love, and everything that is sacred to humanity, with the ideals of all generations, the axis of the earth, the solar system, the wisdom of my beloved writers and philosophers, history, geography, and botanies, the red sun, the blue sea, the seventh kingdom. … I do swear to be your faithful servant, your shield-bearer, and page.”
I hung up, bathed in perspiration.
“You see,” the wife told me. “Everything is so simple, nothing to be afraid of. You only have to want it. …” She gave me a beautiful smile.
I rose, went to the bathroom, washed, and after coming into the bedroom I took a look at Whale. He was asleep; he slept like a little hero, arms and legs astraddle. His babyishness hadn’t completely disappeared yet, it was still there in his dimples and his chubby paws. He was smiling slyly in his sleep, no doubt being in the process of making some dearly funny changes in his kingdom.
I looked at him and as always my heart filled with joy, light and goodness. I felt like raising a toast to the happy life of the seven goat-kids.
1965
Fifty-Fifty
by Victor Slavkin
Victor Yosifovitch Slavkin, born in 1935, is a humorist. Graduated from the Railroad Institute in 1958, worked for the magazine The Soviet Screen and in 1967 took over the department of humor and satire at the magazine Yunost’. Writes for screen, radio, and television. His story Fifty-Fifty was set for the screen in 1965.
“We’ve got to separate,” my wife and I decided. “A life of togetherness is not for us. We better part our ways and live each his own life. Each for himself.”
“Just wonder how they are going to split,” people asked. In fact, however, we had no trouble splitting things.
The simplest was to split the room. I took a piece of chalk and drew a nice, thick line through the middle—from wall to wall. Starting today she’d live to the right of it and I to the left. Next I split the chalk in two—one piece for me, one for her.
We didn’t fool around with the books either. I got all the read volumes, she took the unread. A volume of the Little Soviet Encyclopedia which was left over became her property. While yielding on that point I nonetheless observed, “I read my part anyway. It’s your turn now to wise up.”
“And all the words starting with ‘S’ won’t help you any,” she replied.
The splitting business had worn us down a little. We sat at the table, I took the deck of cards, shuffled it and dealt. What exasperatingly miserable luck—not a single ace! She got all of them.
“So what,” I said, tossing my share of the cards into my corner, “I’ll get along without aces.”
“And you will never stop being a knucklehead,” she said, stacking up her cards on her part of the table.
Next was the turn of the table. I sawed it into two equal parts. The table had trouble standing on two legs, but I didn’t mind—those were my legs.
After that we took care of the television set. I obtained the rights to turn the contrast knob and the horizontal, she got the on-and-off switch, volume, and all the rest.
Gradually we split every little thing we had. At last it came to the name: Ivanov. We wrote it down on a slip of paper, tore the paper into two and put them into a hat. I closed my eyes and stuck my hand into the hat. I pulled out a slip—the last three letters! From now she will be Comrade Iva, and I, Comrade Nov.
Thus our new life had started. Next day I came home from work and lay down to relax on my part of the couch. I reached to the shelf for my favorite novel: War and Peace. I opened the book, and there—on the first inside page—I read: Part Two.
She had the first part!
I gingerly cleared my throat in the direction of the chalk line. “Comrade Iva,” I said, “would you mind letting me have the first volume of War and Peace?”
“Yes, I would,” she replied. “Even if I weren’t reading it right now.”
I turned to face the wall and began reading my own volume—from the middle.
Considerable time elapsed. A coughing and hemming started on the other side of the chalk line.
“Comrade Nov,” she uttered. “Would you mind exchanging books? I finished my half.”
“Not interested.”
“So who cares,” she said. “The movie of it will be out soon anyway. I can wait till then to see what happened.”
Then she began fiddling with the television set—on her side. I did the same on mine. There was a ballet on, Romeo and Juliet, our favorite program. Now, however, neither of us derived any pleasure from the show.
We became mad at ourselves and each began turning and twisting his set of knobs. Suddenly there was a snap, a crack and then—the lights went out. Mine as well as hers. Short circuit!
We were doomed to darkness because the day before we had divided the matches in the most idiotic way—the sticks to her, the boxes to me. …
I began darting from corner to corner (my corners) and she was doing the same. That was how we spent the night.
Then as the first sunrays hit the floor a terrible picture struck our eyes. The floor was covered with hundreds and hundreds of chalk tracks. And our nice, thick chalk line? Not a trace left!
“Listen, you,” she said to me, “take a rag and wipe off the floor.”
I was about to explode.
“… while I go to the kitchen to prepare breakfast,” she concluded.
On second thought, I thought, since we’ve divided everything fifty-fifty why not divide our duties the same way?
I grabbed a rag.
A minute later I could smell from the kitchen the beautiful aroma of frying ham and eggs.
1965
Klara: A Painter’s Tale
by Yuri Bondaryev
Yuri Vassilyevitch Bondaryev, born in 1924. During the war he served as gunner. His first short story was published in 1949. His novel On The Great River, published in 1963, received wide acclaim in the Soviet Union. His short story The Silence was translated into English.
My job makes me travel all over the country. I like to get off the train on some wooded little station, stand on the deserted platform, listen to the sighs of the locomotive moving farther and farther away into the evening, and hear the echo rolling on and on through the sleeping forest like a sound in an empty hallway.
I like to amble in a dark forest. I like to amble along an unfamiliar dusty road, listen to the noises, to the birds shouting out in their sleep, to the peeping of snipes at nearby lakes, and watch distant lights on a mountain slope, warm in the summer, but seeming to blink and quiver in the autumn night wind when Orion glows coolly in the black vortexes of the hollow-echoed lakes.
I’d usually settle down in a village for a whole summer. Every day I’d get up at dawn and wade all the day through clearings and meadows. …
I love to have night fall upon me when I’m far away from the village—somewhere at a quiet lake. I love to see the birth of night: the dense, bluish dusk crawling out of the motionless thicket of trees, the fog spreading over the water and lulling it to sleep, the reddish glow lingering on the west and glistening at the shore pebbles, the darkness moving in fast from the east, and, at last, the green stars that by now are afloat in the blackened, chilly lake. The air becomes brisk and still. Sometimes a flock of wild ducks come whistling down by the last strip of the glow fading over the forest, and settle in the water with a soft splash.
I like to wake up on a hayloft where I usually sleep deep and sound … wake up right before daybreak and by feeling chilly know that the morning glow is about to set in. The cracks in the roof would be full of moonight, and in the predawn stillness I’d be able to hear the tireless chirping of crickets until my ears begin to ring from their clicking. The hayloft would be redolent with fragrance, a strong, dewy-fresh aroma wafting in from the orchard which would be flooded by a moon-made quivering bluish mist.
I love those scenes! Being a painter of nature I never spend the summer in town. I love the country!
One summer, however, instead of leaving for the country I had to go South to a sanatorium. I don’t care for the hot South with all its decorative palms and stuffy dark nights. The South stifles me. I’m used too much to the northern woods, to the bitter-sweet scent of clover, to the dreamy bluebells in the meadows, and to the cool forest streams where sixteen-pound pikes dash their tails against the sunset-bathed surface.
The only thing I like about the South is the sea. It is an astounding spectacle! In the mornings it is pink, smooth as a pane of glass, exuding a light vapor. At noon it becomes dazzlingly blue, and by evening as it has rapidly darkened, the sunset glows flare up on the horizon where first the smokes of little white steamers fade away, then the ships themselves vanish in the flaming west.
I was pining away in the South, I was lonely without my forests. I couldn’t work. …
I woke up one morning in a grouchy mood. My room was flooded with hot sun air; only a light breeze played with the white balcony curtain. I lay for some time, watching the easel on which I had a painting started of the evening sea. How little I cared this morning for the painting I’d done less than twelve hours ago! I got myself a smoke. “This won’t do,” I said to myself angrily. “I’ve got to leave for the North.” And then I heard a flapping of wings and thought I saw something black and ruffled drop onto the balcony.
Puzzled, I rose and went out to have a look. A crow was sitting on the railing. It tilted its head, watching me carefully with one eye. Where did it come from, I wondered? The sanatorium park was below and farther back was the beach and the sea.
“Why have you come here?” I asked.
The crow was not frightened. It looked at me with the other eye, shook its head and uttered a sound: “Kla-ra!” As if it wanted to get acquainted with me.
I smiled and made a few steps toward it. The crow still didn’t fly away. I reached out, the crow stretched its head toward me and I stroked it. “You there,” I said, “where have you come from?”
“Kla-ra,” was the crow’s reply. It looked at my hand and impatiently flipped its tail. I laughed and walked back to my room. “All right,” I said, “you want to come in?”
I had barely uttered my invitation when the crow hopped down from the railing, moved the curtain aside with its beak and entered the room, clattering its claws on the parquet floor. I was beyond myself from amazement. The crow suddenly skidded on the smoothly polished floor but managed to brace itself with its tail as it would have with a stick. “Kla-ra,” it cackled in annoyance.
Immediately I knew what I had to do. Quickly I got my shaving soap dish, set it on the floor, first crumbled into it some bread, then poured in some milk. The crow watched me, impatiently shaking its tail. Suddenly it pecked the floor, trying to hit a fly that had sat next to the soap dish.
“Here, eat,” I said gaily, walking aside to let my guest eat undisturbed. The crow walked up to the soap dish and began to twirl its beak in it, making milk spatter all over the floor.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Kla-ra,” the crow replied with a full beak, giving me a look of contempt—as if saying, “Come on, you know.”
“Oh, it’s Klara,” I said happily. Not asking any more questions I sat on a chair and watched my guest.
Klara finished eating, thought for a moment while scratching her head with her foot, then began pacing around the room. She saw the mirror, cawed joyously, and walked by it back and forth like a woman admiring herself. Next she noticed my bedroom slipper at the night stand, picked it up and tossed it under the bed. Finally she began dragging the soap dish toward the balcony door.
“That’s right,” I exclaimed, laughing. “Clean up the place.”
Klara glanced at me and then … she flew up onto my shoulder. I froze, not knowing what to expect next. Klara stretched out her neck, pecked me gently on my throat and began making whispering noises into my ear.
“I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me,” I smiled sheepishly, becoming aware that Klara was pulling the strap of my pocket watch. A few seconds later it dangled, its lid sparkling in the sun. Klara began to caw excitedly, stretching her neck toward the watch, as if wanting to listen to its ticking. Her eyes, I thought, gleamed with curiosity.
Suddenly I realized what she wanted. I remembered hearing stories about crows being fond of glistening objects. In my embar
rassment, not wanting to insult my guest, I swished the watch back into my pocket. Klara hopped onto my head, shifted from foot to foot, combed my hair with her beak, then began whispering into my ear again. A moment later she winged down onto the floor, walked up to the soap dish and looked back at me over her shoulder.
“Gr-rr-reat!” she cackled.
I knew she wanted to wheedle the soap dish away from me. “Wait a moment, Klara,” I argued, “how am I going to shave?”
Klara, apparently, took offense and stalked out into the balcony. I watched for some time as she flew around the park. Where has this tame crow come from? I began racking my brain. Never before had I seen a tame crow. They’d always seemed like an angry, somber kind of bird to me.
I decided to go out to the beach for a swim before breakfast. Later I lay in the warm sand, listening to the lapping of waves, to the gentle tinkle of pebbles rolled along the water line by the green sea.
In the North Klara would have never become so tame, I thought. There, in the forest expanse, in the vast fields, a crow can always find a nest somewhere on an aspen or birch. But here? And how did she ever get here?
Then I picked up a conversation between two people lying not far from me on the sand. “Don’t leave any cufflinks or watches lying around,” one was telling the other. “A terrible crow has showed up here, it steals everything. Yesterday it stole a tie pin from the fellow who sits next to me at the table.”
“They say it used to belong to a bird trainer who stayed here,” the other man said. “ He lived in room number twenty-two.”
“He left a long time ago, didn’t he?” the first man wondered.
Now I knew what Klara was doing here. Room number twenty-two was my room!
Next morning, as soon as I heard the flapping of wings on the balcony, I pulled the curtain aside and let Klara in. The same as yesterday, she politely tilted her head and allowed me to stroke her.
“Kla-ra,” she introduced herself once more.
“Pleased to meet you,” I bowed happily. “You may proceed to breakfast. Everything has been prepared for you.”
Treasury of Russian Short Stories 1900-1966 Page 31