Envy

by Yuri Olesha

  “Let me through, Comrade!” I repeated, touching the soldier on the sleeve, and in reply I heard: “I’m going to remove you from the airfield.”

  “But I was there! I only went away for a minute. I’m with Babichev!”

  I had to show an invitation. I didn’t have one. Babichev had just taken me along. Of course, I didn’t care if I got onto the field. Here, behind the barrier, was an excellent spot for observing. But I insisted. Something more important than the simple desire to see everything up close made me want to jump the fence. And it suddenly became very clear to me how much I didn’t belong with these people who had been called together on this great and important occasion, the utter irrelevance of my presence among them, my irrelevance to everything great that these men had done—whether here in freedom or elsewhere, in other places.

  “Comrade, I’m no ordinary citizen.” I couldn’t come up with a better phrase for sorting out the jumble that was my mind. “What am I to you? A philistine? Be so good as to let me through. I’m from there.” I waved my hand at the group of people meeting the military commissar.

  “You’re not from there,” the soldier smiled.

  “Ask Comrade Babichev!”

  I formed a mouthpiece with my hands and shouted. I rose on my tiptoes.

  “Andrei Petrovich!”

  Just then the orchestra stopped playing. The last beat of the drum trailed off with a subterranean rumble.

  “Comrade Babichev!”

  He heard. The military commissar turned around, too. Everyone turned around. The pilot raised his hand to his helmet, picturesquely warding off the sun.

  I was terror-stricken. I was shifting from one foot to the other here behind the barrier, a potbellied little man in trousers that were too short. How dare I distract them? And then silence ensued when they, still not sure who was calling one of them, froze in expectant poses—I found the strength inside me to call out one more time.

  But he knew, he saw, he heard me calling him. One second—and it was all over. The group’s participants resumed their former poses. I was ready to cry.

  Then I rose up on tiptoe again, and through the same mouthpiece, drowning out the soldier, I sent a ringing howl to that inaccessible side: “Sausage-maker!”

  And again: “Sausage-maker!”

  And then several more times: “Sausage-maker! Sausage- maker! Sausage-maker!”

  I saw only him, Babichev, in his Tyrolean hat, towering over the rest. I remember feeling like shutting my eyes and sitting down just outside the barrier. I don’t remember whether I shut my eyes, but if I did, I still managed to see what was most important. Babichev’s face turned toward me. For one tenth of a second it was turned toward me. It had no eyes. It had two blind, mercurially gleaming pince-nez disks. Fear of some immediate punishment sent me into a dream-like state. I was dreaming. I was asleep, or so it seemed to me. And the most terrifying part of this dream was the fact that Babichev’s head had turned toward me on a stationary torso, on its own axis, like on a screw. His back never turned.

  10

  I LEFT the airfield.

  But the noisy celebration still drew me. I stopped on a green bank and stood, leaning against a tree, covered in dust. I was surrounded by a hedge, like a saint. I was breaking off the plant’s tender, slightly sour twigs, sucking them and spitting them out. I was standing with my pale, good-natured face upturned, looking at the sky.

  A machine took off from the airstrip. It soared overhead with a terrible purring, yellow in the sun, slanted like a dash, almost stripping the leaves off my tree. Higher, higher—I followed it, tramping along the bank of the stream: it was being carried off, first glinting, then black. The distance was changing, and it was taking on the shapes of various objects: a breechblock, a penknife, a trampled lilac blossom …

  The triumph of the new Soviet machine’s takeoff went ahead without me. War had been declared. I had insulted Babichev.

  Now they were pouring out of the airfield gates in a throng. The drivers had already stepped lively. There was Babichev’s blue car. Alpers, the driver, saw me and signaled. I turned my back on him. My shoes got caught in the green tangle of grass.

  I had to talk to him. He had to understand. I had to explain to him that it was his fault, not mine. His fault! He wasn’t alone when he came out. I had to talk to him eye to eye. He was going from there to the administration. I decided to head him off.

  At the administration they said he was at the construction site now.

  “The Two Bits? To the Two Bits then!”

  The devil if I knew what to do; a certain word I needed to say to him had been on the tip of my tongue but had slipped away, and I was chasing it, racing, afraid I wouldn’t catch up, afraid I’d lose it and forget it.

  The construction site looked like a yellowish mirage hovering in the air. There it was, the Two Bits! Behind some apartment buildings, far away—individual wooded tracts merged into one mass that swarmed in the distance like the brightest of hives.

  I was getting close. Clatter and dust. I’d gone deaf and had a cataract. I walked along the wooden planking. A sparrow flew down from a stump, the boards gave way a little, making me laugh about childhood memories of skating and overbalancing. I was walking, smiling at the way the shavings were settling and turning shoulders gray …

  Where could I find him?

  A truck was blocking my way. It just couldn’t get in. It was bashing around, rearing up and nosing down, like a beetle climbing from a horizontal to a vertical plane.

  The paths were confusing, I felt like I was walking through fish soup.

  “Comrade Babichev?”

  They pointed: that way. Somewhere they were knocking out barrel bottoms.

  “Which way?”

  “That way.”

  I was walking across a gully over an abyss. I was balancing. It looked like a ship’s hold yawning below.

  Immense, black, and cool. All in all, it reminded me of a wharf. I was in everyone’s way.

  “Which way?”

  “That way.”

  He was slippery.

  I caught a glimpse of him once: his torso was passing over some wooden planking. He disappeared. And then he reappeared above, far away—there was a huge void between us, everything that would soon be one of the building’s courtyards.

  He’d been delayed. Several men were still with him: peaked caps, aprons. I didn’t care, I’d call out to him, to say one thing: Forgive me.

  They pointed out the shortest route to the other side.

  There was only a staircase left. Already I could hear voices. Just a few more steps …

  But here’s what happened. I had to bend over, otherwise he’d sweep me away. I bent over and grabbed the wooden step. He flew over me. Yes, he flew through the air.

  At a wild angle I saw a figure flying yet stock-still—not a face, I only saw the nostrils: two holes, as if I were looking up at a monument.

  What was that?

  I rolled down the stairs.

  He’d vanished. Flown away. Flown somewhere else on an iron wafer. A grated shadow accompanied his flight. He was standing on a piece of iron that described a semicircle with a clank and a howl. Not only that, there was a technical contraption, a crane. A platform made of girders, crisscrossed. Through the spaces, through the squares, I even saw his nostrils.

  I sat down on a step.

  “Where is he?” I asked.

  The workers around me laughed, and I smiled in every direction, like a clown who’s finished his opening number with a hilarious pratfall.

  “It’s not my fault,” I said. “It’s his.”

  11

  I DECIDED not to go back.

  My former quarters already belonged to someone else. A lock hung on the door. The new lodger was out. I remembered: the widow Prokopovich’s face looked like a hanging lock. Was she really going to come back into my life?

  My night was spent on the boulevard. The loveliest of mornings lavished itself overhead. A
few other homeless men were sleeping nearby on benches. They lay, curled up, their hands slipped into their sleeves and pressed to their bellies, looking like Chinamen tied up and beheaded. Aurora tapped them with her cool fingers. They moaned and groaned, shook themselves, and sat up without opening their eyes or unfolding their arms.

  The birds woke up. I heard little sounds: the little voices of the birds and the grass conversing. Pigeons had started to play in a brick niche.

  Shivering, I got up. A yawn shook me like a dog.

  (Gates were being opened. A glass was being filled with milk. Judges were issuing sentences. A man who had worked through the night walked to the window and was amazed, not recognizing the street in its unfamiliar lighting. A sick man asked to drink. A boy ran into the kitchen to see whether a mouse had been caught in the mousetrap. The morning had begun.)

  That day I wrote Andrei Babichev a letter.

  I was at the Palace of Labor on Solyanka eating Nelson croquettes, drinking beer, and writing:

  Dear Andrei Petrovich,

  You took me in. You let me get close to you. I slept on your amazing sofa. You know how lousily I’d been living up till then. A blessed night fell. You pitied me and took in a drunk.

  You wrapped me in linen sheets. The smoothness and coolness of the cloth seemed calculated to soothe my fevered state and ease my fears.

  A blanket cover’s bone buttons even came into my life, and in them—you just had to find the right spot—swam a ring of the rainbow. I recognized it right away. It had come back from a long-forgotten, very, very distant childhood corner of my memory.

  I found a place to lay my head.

  This very phrase was for me as poetic as the word hoopla.

  You gave me a place to lay my head.

  From the heights of well-being you brought down a cloud of a bed for me, a halo that clung to me with magical warmth, wrapping me in memories, bittersweet regrets, and hopes. I began hoping I’d regain much of what had been destined for my youth.

  You did me a great favor, Andrei Petrovich!

  Just think: a celebrated man took me in! A remarkable personage settled me in his own house. I want to express my feelings to you.

  Actually, I have just one feeling: hatred.

  I hate you, Comrade Babichev.

  This letter is being written to take you down a peg.

  From the very first days of my life with you I began knowing fear. You were crushing me. Sitting on me.

  You’re standing there in your drawers. The beery smell of sweat is spreading out. I look at you, and your face starts getting strangely bigger, your torso gets bigger—the clay of some sculpture, some idol, is blowing up, puffing out. I’m ready to scream.

  Who gave him the right to crush me? What makes him better than me? Is he smarter? Richer of spirit? More delicately organized? Stronger? More important? Better not only by virtue of his position but by his essence, too? Why do I have to admit his superiority?

  I asked myself these questions. Every day of observation gave me part of the answer. A month has gone by. I know the answer. And I’m not afraid of you anymore. You’re just a stupid official. And nothing more. You weren’t crushing me with the importance of your person. Oh no! Now I understand you perfectly, I can examine you, having put you in the palm of my hand. My fear of you has passed like a child’s fancy. I’ve thrown you off. You’re a phony.

  At one time I was tortured by doubts. “Was I nothing compared to him?” I thought. “If I’m so ambitious, maybe he really is my example of a great man.”

  But it turned out you’re just an official, ignorant and stupid, like all the officials who came before and will come after you. And like all officials, you’re a petty tyrant. Only petty tyranny can explain the hurricane you raised over a piece of mediocre sausage, or the fact that you brought a young stranger in off the street. And maybe it was out of petty tyranny that you took in Volodya Makarov, about whom I know only that he’s a soccer player. You’re a lord. You need jesters and hangers-on. I’ll bet this Volodya Makarov ran away from you because he couldn’t bear the ridicule. You probably made a fool of him systematically, the same way you did of me.

  You said that he lives with you like a son, that he saved your life, you even waxed poetic about him. I remember. But it’s all a lie. You’re embarrassed to admit your aristocratic tendencies. But I’ve seen the mole on your waist.

  At first, when you said the sofa belonged to him and that, when he came back, I’d have to get the hell out, I was insulted. But a minute later I realized you were as cold and indifferent to him as you are to me. You’re a lord and we’re spongers.

  But I’ll be bold and assure you that neither he nor I—we’re not coming back to you anymore. You don’t respect people. He’ll come back only if he’s stupider than I am.

  It’s been my destiny that I have neither hard labor nor a revolutionary past behind me. They wouldn’t assign me a job as important as manufacturing sparkling water or installing apiaries.

  But does this mean I’m a bad son of my era and you’re a good one? Does this mean I’m nothing and you’re a big shot?

  You found me on the street …

  How stupidly you behaved!

  On the street you decided: well, all right—he’s a non-entity, let him work. An editor, by all means, a proofer, a reader, fine. You didn’t condescend to a young man off the street. This showed just how smug you are. You’re an official, Comrade Babichev.

  What did you think I was? An endangered lumpen proletarian? Did you decide to support me? Thank you. I’m strong—do you hear that?—I’m strong enough to die and rise up and die again.

  I wonder what you’ll do when you read my letter. Maybe you’ll try to get me deported, or maybe you’ll put me in an insane asylum. You can do anything, you’re a big man, a member of the government. You did say about your brother that he should be shot. You did say, “We’ll lock him up at Kanatchikov.”

  I find your brother, who makes an unusual impression, enigmatic and incomprehensible. There’s a secret here, but I have no idea what it is. The name “Ophelia” is strangely upsetting. I think you’re afraid of it, too.

  Nonetheless, I’m constructing some hypotheses. Some things I can predict. I’m going to stand in your way. Yes, I’m almost certain of that. Nonetheless, I won’t let you. You want power over your brother’s daughter. I’ve only seen her once. Yes, it was her I told you about with the branch full of leaves and flowers. You have no imagination. You laughed at me. I heard the telephone conversation. You blackened me in that girl’s eyes the way you blackened him, her father. It doesn’t pay for you to admit that a girl you want to conquer, to make your very own fool, the way you tried to make idiots out of us—you want that girl to have a gentle, lyrical soul. You want to exploit her, the way you exploit (I use this word of yours intentionally) “sheep heads and feet with the ingenious use of electric drills” (from your brochure).

  But no, I won’t let you. Why should I! Such a tasty morsel! You’re a glutton. Would you really stop at anything for the sake of your physiology? What keeps you from seducing the girl? The fact that she’s your niece? You laugh at family, at kin. You want to subdue her.

  And that’s the reason for your rabid ranting at your brother. Anyone else after barely glancing at him would say that this is a remarkable man. I think he’s brilliant, and I don’t even know him. Brilliant at what—I don’t know … You’re persecuting him. I heard you banging your fist on the railings. You made a daughter abandon her father.

  But you aren’t going to persecute me.

  I’m going to stand up for your brother and his daughter. Listen, you blockhead, who laughed at a branch full of flowers and leaves, listen. Yes, that’s the only way, only that exclamation could express my ecstasy at the sight of her. And what words do you prepare for her? You called me a drunk only because I addressed a young woman in figurative language you don’t understand? I don’t know whether it’s laughable or scary. You’re laughing now,
but before long I’ll have you scared to death. And don’t think that’s just a figure of speech—I can think very realistically, too. All right! I can talk about her, about Valya, using ordinary words, too. So here, if you’ll allow me, I’ll quote several definitions that you can understand, on purpose, to rile you, to taunt you with what you’ll never get, esteemed sausage-maker.

  Yes, she was standing in front of me—yes, first I’ll tell you in my own way. She was lighter than a shadow. The lightest of shadows—the shadow of falling snow—might have envied her. Yes, first my way. She didn’t listen to me with her ear, she listened with her temple, her head slightly tilted. Yes, her face is the color of a nut—from the sun—and the shape of a nut: her cheekbones, rounded, narrow to her chin. Can you understand that? No? Then here’s more. Her dress was twisted from running, it had fallen open, and I saw that she wasn’t tan all over, on her breast I saw the light blue curve of a vein …

  And now—your way. The description of the one you want to feast on. Before me stood a young lady of about sixteen, still practically a girl, broad in the shoulders, gray-eyed, her hair cropped and tousled—an enchanting adolescent, slender as a chess piece (that’s my way!), not very tall.

  You won’t get her.

  She’s going to be my wife. I’ve dreamed of her all my life.

  Let’s fight! Let’s do battle! You’re thirteen years older than me. Those years are behind you and ahead of me. One or two more achievements in the sausage business, one or two more cheap cafeterias—that’s the limit of your career.

  Oh, I dream of something else!

  I’ll get Valya, not you. We’ll be a sensation in Europe, where they love fame.

  I’ll get Valya. She’ll be my reward for everything: the humiliation, the youth I never had, my dog’s life.

  I’ve told you about the cook. Remember how she washes up in the hallway? Well, I’m going to see something else: a room somewhere. One day it’ll be brightly lit by the sun, there’ll be a dark blue washbasin by the window, and the window will dance in the basin, and Valya will be washing up at the basin, shimmering like a carp, splashing, tickling the ivories of the water …