Envy

by Yuri Olesha

  They went through some gates and up a wooden staircase to a glassed-in gallery that was deserted but made cheerful by its abundance of windows and the view of the sky through the lattice of windowpanes.

  The sky was broken up into layers of varying blueness and proximity to the spectator. One window in four was smashed. The green tendrils of some plant climbed up of the gallery wall and in through the bottom row of windows. Everything here had been calculated for a cheerful childhood. Rabbits are raised in galleries like these.

  Ivan headed for the door. There were three doors in the gallery. He was walking toward the last.

  As he walked, Kavalerov felt like plucking one of the green tendrils. No sooner did he tug, though, than the entire invisible system outside was pulled by the tendril, and somewhere some wire entangled in the life of this ivy moaned, or the devil knows what (as if this were Italy, not Moscow … ). Pressing his temple against the window and straining, Kavalerov saw a yard surrounded by a stone wall. The gallery was high up, halfway between the third and fourth floors. From that vantage he glimpsed before him, on the other side of the wall (more Italy), a view of a strange green yard.

  When he stepped onto the stairs he heard voices and laughter. They came from that yard. Before he could figure out what was what, Ivan pulled him away. He knocked at the door. Once, twice, again …

  “No one’s here,” he bellowed. “She’s already there …”

  Kavalerov’s attention was still on the broken window above the lawn. Why? After all, so far nothing surprising had passed before his eyes. After turning toward Ivan’s knock, he picked up just one patch of colorful movement, one stroke of gymnastic rhythm. It was simply that the green of the lawn, surprising after the ordinary yard, had been pleasant, sweet, and cool to the eye. More than likely, he later assured himself, he’d been gripped by the lawn’s spell from the very start.

  “She’s gone!” Babichev repeated. “Please …”

  And he looked out one of the little windows. Kavalerov did not hesitate to do the same.

  What he’d thought was a lawn turned out to be a small yard grown up with grass. The main green impact came from the tall, heavily crowned trees around its sides. All this greenery was flourishing under the building’s massive, blind wall. Kavalerov was an observer from above. In his perception the yard was cramped. Everything around it stretched out beyond his high observation point and piled up above the yard, which lay there like a mat in a room full of furniture. Strangers’ roofs revealed their secrets to Kavalerov. He saw a life-sized weathervane, dormer windows no one below even suspected, and a child’s ball that had once flown too high and rolled under a gutter, never to be retrieved. Buildings bristling with antennae retreated up the steps from the yard. A church dome freshly painted in red lead popped up in an empty patch of sky, as if it had been flying around until Kavalerov caught it with his glance. He saw the rocking shaft of a trolley mast from a street at the back of beyond, and some other observer, who had stuck his head out of a distant window and was sniffing or eating something, vanquished by the view, was practically leaning on that rocking shaft.

  But the yard was the main thing.

  They went downstairs. In the stone wall that separated the big and little yards, the boring deserted yard from the mysterious lawn, there turned out to be a breach. A few stones were missing, like loaves pulled from an oven. Through this embrasure they saw everything. The sun seared the top of Kavalerov’s head. They saw vaulting exercises. A rope had been strong between two columns. A youth flew up, carried his body over the rope sideways, almost sliding, stretched out parallel to the obstacle—as if he didn’t jump but rolled over the obstacle, like over a mound. And as he rolled over it he kicked his legs out and they moved him along like a swimmer pushing at the water. In the next split second his distorted, thrown-back face flashed by, flying down, and then Kavalerov saw him standing on the ground. Moreover, when he hit the ground, he emitted a sound, sort of an “oof”—not quite a truncated exhalation, not quite his heels striking the grass.

  Ivan pinched Kavalerov’s elbow.

  “There she is … look …” (in a whisper).

  Everyone was shouting and clapping. The vaulter, who was nearly naked, stepped to one side, favoring one leg, probably an athlete’s way of showing off.

  It was Volodya Makarov.

  Kavalerov was distraught. He was overcome by shame and fear. Volodya revealed a full, gleaming gearbox of teeth when he smiled.

  Up above, in the gallery, someone was knocking at the door again. Kavalerov turned around. It had been very foolish to stop here, by the wall, to peep. Someone was walking through the gallery. The windows dismembered the walker. The parts of his body were moving independently. It was an optical illusion. The head was overtaking the torso. Kavalerov recognized the head. Andrei Babichev was sailing through the gallery.

  “Andrei Petrovich!” Valya shouted on the lawn. “Andrei Petrovich! Over here! Over here!”

  The terrible visitor vanished. He was leaving the gallery, searching for the way to the lawn. Various barriers hid him from Kavalerov’s eyes. Time to flee.

  “Over here! Over here!” Valya’s voice rang out.

  Kavalerov saw Valya standing on the lawn, her legs planted firmly and widely apart. She was wearing black trousers rolled up high; her legs were very bare, the whole structure of her legs was on display. She was wearing white sports shoes on bare feet, and because the shoes had flat heels her stance seem even firmer and solider—not a woman’s but a man’s or a child’s. Her legs were spattered, tanned, gleaming. These were the legs of a girl that had felt the effect of air, sun, falling on hummocks, on grass, and blows so often that they were coarsened, covered with waxy scars from scabs pulled off too soon, and their knees were rough, like oranges. Their possessor’s age and quiet confidence in her physical wealth gave her the right to be careless about her legs: she didn’t spare them or pamper them. But higher, under her black trousers, the purity and softness of her body showed how lovely the possessor of these legs would be as she matured and became a woman, when she did pay attention to herself and did want to adorn herself—when the scabs heeled, all the roughness fell away, and the sunburn evened out into a tan.

  He pushed back from the embrasure and ran away along the blind wall, soiling his shoulder on the stone.

  “Where are you going!” Ivan called him. “Where are you going! Where are you off to, wait up!”

  “He’s shouting loudly! They’ll hear!” Kavalerov was horrified. “They’ll see me!”

  Indeed, it became abruptly quiet on the other side of the wall. They were listening. Ivan caught up to Kavalerov.

  “Listen, my dear man … Did you see? That’s my brother! Did you see? Volodya, Valya … Everyone! The whole camp … Wait up, I’m going to climb the wall and give them a piece of my mind … You’re all dirty, Kavalerov, like a miller!”

  Kavalerov said softly, “I know your brother very well. He’s the one who drove me out. He’s the important person I’ve been telling you about … Our fates are analogous. You said I should kill your brother … What should I do?”

  Valya was sitting on the stone wall.

  “Papa!” she exclaimed, gasping.

  Ivan grabbed her by her feet, which were dangling from the wall.

  “Valya, poke my eyes out. I want to be blind,” he said, gasping. “I don’t want to see anything: no lawns, no branches, no flowers, no knights, no trousers. I need to be blinded, Valya. I was wrong, Valya … I thought the emotions had perished—love and devotion and tenderness, but it’s all still here, Valya … Only not for us, all that’s left for us is envy and more envy … Poke out my eyes, Valya, I want to go blind …”

  His arms, face, and chest slipped down the girl’s sweaty legs, and he fell with a thud at the base of the wall.

  “Let’s drink, Kavalerov,” said Ivan. “Let’s drink, Kavalerov, to the youth that’s past, to the conspiracy of emotions, which has failed, to the machine, which nev
er was and never will be …”

  “You’re a son of a bitch, Ivan Petrovich!” Kavalerov grabbed Ivan by the collar. “My youth isn’t over! No! Do you hear me? That’s not true! I’ll prove it to you … Tomorrow—hear me?—tomorrow at the soccer match I’m going to kill your brother …”

  8

  NIKOLAI Kavalerov took his seat in the stands. Up top, to his right, in a wooden box, between the panels, a sign in giant type, the short flights of stairs, and the crisscrossed boards, sat Valya. Young people were filling the box.

  The day was bright and breezy, and the wind was whistling from all directions. The huge field was green with trampled grass that gleamed like lacquer.

  Kavalerov watched the box without ever lowering his eyes. He strained to see, and staring, put his imagination to work, trying to catch what he couldn’t make out from that distance. He wasn’t the only one. Many of those sitting close to the box, even though they were excited by the extraordinary spectacle to come, were drawn to the enchanting young woman in the pink dress, almost a girl, as careless as a child about the way she sat and moved, who at the same time possessed a look that made everyone want to be noticed by her, as if she were a celebrity or the daughter of a famous man.

  Twenty thousand spectators crowded the stadium. This would be an unprecedented event—the long-awaited match between the teams of Moscow and Germany.

  In the stands people were arguing, shouting, picking fights. The stadium was bursting with all the people. Somewhere a railing broke with a ducklike cry. Kavalerov, tangled up in other people’s knees and in search of his own seat, saw a distinguished old man in a cream-colored vest lying on the track at the foot of the stands, breathing heavily, his arms thrown back. People were winding their way past him, giving him little thought. His alarm was intensified by the wind. Flags beat against the towers like lightning.

  Kavalerov’s entire being strained toward the box. Valya was seated above him, catercorner, about twenty meters away. His vision was playing tricks on him. He thought their eyes met. Then he half rose. He thought he saw a medal flash on her. The wind was having its way with her. From time to time she grabbed onto her hat. It was a bonnet made of shiny red straw. The wind was blowing her sleeve all the way up to her shoulder, baring her arm, which was as slender as a flute. A poster flapped its wings, flew away from her, and fell into the thick of things.

  As much as a month before the match people had been assuming that the German team would bring the famous Goetske, who played center forward, that is, the principal player of the five attackers. And indeed, Goetske had come. As soon as the German team came onto the field to the strains of a march and before the players could spread out over the field, the public (as always happens) recognized the celebrity, even though the celebrity was walking with the other visitors.

  “Goetske! Goetske!” shouted the spectators, experiencing a special pleasure at the sight of the famous player and clapping for him.

  Goetske, who turned out to be a short, swarthy-faced, round-shouldered little man, stepped off to one side, stopped, raised his arms over his head, and shook his clasped hands. This novel foreign greeting thrilled the spectators even more.

  The group of Germans, in their vivid, richly colored clothes—about eleven of them—positively shone on the green, in the purity of the air. They were wearing tan, almost golden, jerseys with green stripes down the right side of the chest and black shorts. Their shorts were flapping in the wind.

  Volodya Makarov, shrinking from the freshness of his newly donned soccer shirt, looked out the window of the soccer players’ building. The Germans had reached the middle of the field.

  “Shall we go?” he asked. “Shall we?”

  “Let’s go!” the team captain commanded.

  The Soviet team ran out in their red shirts and white shorts. The spectators were draped over the railings, stamping their feet on the boards. The roar drowned out the music.

  The Germans had to play the first half of the game with their backs to the wind.

  Our team not only played and tried to do everything they could to play their best, but also never stopped being spectators, watching the Germans’ play, or professionals, assessing their game. The game lasted ninety minutes, with a short break at the forty-fifth minute. After the break the teams would switch halves of the field. Given the windy weather, it was more advantageous to play into the wind when you were fresh.

  Since the Germans were playing with the wind and the wind was very strong, all through the game the ball kept blowing toward our goal. It almost never left the Soviet end of the field. Our backs kicked strong “candles,” that is, high parabolic kicks, but the ball, skidding along the wall of wind, would spin around, shiny yellow, and find its way back. The Germans were attacking ferociously. The famous Goetske turned out to be a dangerous player, indeed. All eyes were riveted on him.

  When Goetske got the ball, Valya, sitting up top, would scream, as if she were about to see something horrible and criminal any second now. Goetske broke through to the goal, leaving our backs laid flat by his speed and force, and kicked it at the goal. Then Valya, swaying toward her neighbor, grabbed her neighbor’s hand in both of hers, pressed her cheek to it, and thinking only of one thing—hiding her face and not seeing the horrible thing—continued to watch through squinting eyes the terrifying movements of Goetske, who was black from running in the heat.

  But Volodya Makarov, goalkeeper for the Soviet team, caught the ball. Before he could finish his kick, Goetske elegantly exchanged this motion for another one he needed in order to turn around and run, so he turned and ran, bending his back, which was tightly swathed by the jersey black with sweat. Valya immediately resumed her natural pose and started laughing—first from relief that they hadn’t kicked the ball in against our side, and second because she remembered how she’d been screaming and grabbing her neighbor’s hand.

  “Makarov! Makarov! Bravo, Makarov!” she shouted along with everyone.

  Every minute the ball was flying toward the goal. It struck the goalposts, they moaned, and lime sprinkled off them … Volodya would catch the ball in midflight, when it seemed mathematically impossible. The entire audience, the entire living slope of the stands seemed to get steeper; each spectator was halfway to his feet, impelled by a terrible, impatient desire to see, at last, the most interesting thing—the scoring of a goal. The referees were sticking whistles into their lips as they walked, ready to whistle for a goal … Volodya wasn’t catching the ball, he was ripping it from its line of flight, like someone who has violated the laws of physics and was hit by the stunning action of thwarted forces. He would fly up with the ball, spinning around, literally screwing himself up on it. He would grab the ball with his entire body—knees, belly, and chin—throwing his weight at the speed of the ball, the way someone throws a rag down to put out a flame. The usurped speed of the ball would throw Volodya two meters to the side, and he would fall like a firecracker. The opposing forwards would run at him, but ultimately the ball would end up high above the fray.

  Volodya stayed inside the goal. He couldn’t just stand there, though. He walked the line of the goal from post to post, trying to tamp down the surge of energy from his battle with the ball. Everything was roaring inside him. He swung his arms, shook himself, kicked up a clump of earth with his toe. Elegant before the start of the game, he now consisted of rags, a black body, and the leather of his huge, fingerless gloves. The breaks didn’t last long. Once again the Germans’ attack would roll toward Moscow’s goal. Volodya passionately desired victory for his team and worried about each of his players. He thought that only he knew how you should play against Goetske, what his weak points were, how to defend against his attacks. He was also interested in what opinion the famous German was forming about the Soviet game. When he himself clapped and shouted “hurray” to each of his backs, he felt like shouting to Goetske then: “Look how we’re playing! Do you think we’re playing well?”

  As a soccer player, Volody
a was Goetske’s exact opposite. Volodya was a professional athlete; the other was a professional player. What was important to Volodya was the overall progress of the game, the overall victory, the outcome; Goetske was anxious merely to demonstrate his art. He was an old hand who was not there to support the team’s honor; he treasured only his own success; he was not a permanent member of any sports organization because he had compromised himself by moving from club to club for money. He was barred from participating in play-off matches. He was invited only for friendly games, exhibition games, and trips to other countries. He combined art and luck. His presence made a team dangerous. He despised the other players—both his side and his opponents. He knew he could kick a goal against any team. The rest didn’t matter to him. He was a hack.

  By the middle of the game it was clear to the spectators that the Soviet team was not giving in to the Germans. They couldn’t carry off a proper attack. Goetske was preventing it. He was a spoiler, wrecking their plays. He was playing only for himself, at his own risk, neither taking nor giving help. When he got the ball, he drew all the play to himself, squeezed it into a lump, let go, and struck it, switching from one side of the field to the other—according to his own plans, which were unclear to his partners, relying only on himself, on his running and his ability to get around his opponent.

  From this the spectators concluded that the second half of the game, when Goetske would run out of breath and ours would get the wind at their backs, would end in a rout of the Germans. If only ours could hold on now and not let a single ball into the goal.

  But this time the virtuoso Goetske prevailed. Ten minutes before the end of the first half he broke right, brought the ball along with his torso, then stopped short, cutting off the pursuit which, not expecting him to stop, ran ahead and to the right. He turned with the ball toward the center and crossed an open space, getting around just one Soviet back, and drove the ball straight at the goal, glancing back and forth at his feet and then at the goal, as if estimating and calculating the speed, direction, and timing of the kick.