“But that’s fine with me,” said the teacher. “I’ve made my peace with it—no complaints. And I only ate your bread out of habit, not out of hunger.”
Lukerya Petrovna sat there with her hands folded on her apron, laughing. She sensed that the teacher was stretching the truth and was about to snap it altogether. Staring at the teacher with undisguised curiosity, she awaited something completely out of the ordinary.
While Boris Ivanovich kept listening, shaking his head and muttering something.
“What can I say?” the teacher asked, again grinning for some unknown reason. “Things change. Today they get rid of calligraphy, tomorrow it’s drawing, and then, before you know it, they’ll come after you.”
“Now wait, hold on a minute,” Kotofeyev said, somewhat breathless. “After me? But I’m in the arts…I play the triangle.”
“So what?” the teacher said scornfully. “Science and technology, they’re going great guns these days. They’ll think up an electric whatchamacallit—that there instrument—and it’s the end of the road…Jig’s up.”
Kotofeyev, again somewhat breathless, looked at his wife.
“Man’s right,” his wife said. “If science and technology keep going…”
Boris Ivanovich suddenly rose and began pacing the room nervously.
“Alright, if that’s how it is, so be it,” he said. “So be it.”
“Easy for you to say,” his wife responded. “I’m the one footing the bill. You’ll be a weight around my fool neck, Pilate-martyr.”
The teacher fidgeted in his chair and said, in a conciliatory tone:
“That’s how it goes: today it’s calligraphy, tomorrow it’s drawing…Everything changes, your lordships.”
Boris Ivanovich approached the teacher and bade him farewell. After asking his guest to join them, at the very least, for dinner the following day, he offered to see him to the door.
The teacher rose and bowed. Stepping into the hallway, he repeated, gaily rubbing his hands:
“Don’t you worry, young man—today calligraphy, tomorrow drawing, and then you’ll get yours.”
Boris Ivanovich closed the door behind Kotofeyev, went into the bedroom, sat down on the bed, and hugged his knees.
Lukerya Petrovna came into the room in worn felt slippers and began to tidy up for the night.
“Today it’s calligraphy, tomorrow it’s drawing,” Boris Ivanovich kept muttering, swaying slightly on the bed. “That’s life—our whole life.”
Lukerya Petrovna glanced at her husband, furiously spat on the floor without saying a word, and began to untangle her matted hair, brushing out bits of straw and wood chips.
Boris Ivanovich looked up at his wife and suddenly spoke in a melancholy voice:
“Really, Luka, what if they do invent electronic percussion instruments? Imagine—a button on the music-stand…The conductor pokes it—and ding…”
“Oh, it’s simple,” said Lukerya Petrovna. “Clear as day…A weight around my neck…I can feel it already!”
Boris Ivanovich moved from the bed to a chair and sank into thought.
“Down in the dumps, are you?” Lukerya Petrovna asked. “Thinking, are you? Picking at your brain…Where would you be without a wife and home? Eh, you tramp? Say they drum you out of the orchestra?”
“The trouble isn’t my getting drummed out, Luka,” Boris Ivanovich said. “The trouble is that it’s all wrong. Accidental…For some reason, Luka, I play the triangle. Just think…If they take that away from me, how would I live? What, besides the triangle, can I hold onto?”
Lukerya Petrovna lay in bed and listened to her husband, trying in vain to unravel the meaning of his words. Sensing in them an insult to her person and a claim to her property, she reiterated:
“A weight around my neck—I can feel it, you Pilate-martyr! Oh, you son of a bitch.”
“I won’t weigh you down,” Kotofeyev said.
Breathless again, he rose from the chair and began pacing the room.
He was seized by terrible anxiety. Wiping his head with his hand, as if trying to brush off some vague thoughts, Boris Ivanovich again sat down in his chair.
And he stayed there, perfectly stationary, for a long time.
Later, when Lukerya Petrovna’s breathing turned into a light snore with a faint whistle, Boris Ivanovich got up from his chair and left the room.
He found his hat, clapped it onto his head, and went out into the street in a state of some sort of extraordinary agitation.
4
It was only ten o’clock.
A lovely, quiet August evening.
Kotofeyev was walking along the avenue, swinging his arms wide.
He couldn’t shake his strange, vague sense of anxiety.
Having paid no attention to where he was going, he found himself at the train station.
He ducked into the buffet, drank a glass of beer, and then, feeling breathless again, went out into the street.
Now he walked slowly, deep in thought, with his head sadly bowed. But if you were to ask him what he was thinking, he wouldn’t tell you—he himself didn’t know.
He kept moving away from the train station, then came to a mall near the city garden, sat down on a bench, and removed his hat.
A broad-hipped maiden in a short skirt and light-colored stockings passed by Kotofeyev once, then passed by him again, and then finally gave him a look and sat down on the bench.
Boris Ivanovich returned the girl’s look, shuddered, shook his head, and quickly walked away.
And suddenly Kotofeyev felt that everything was terribly disgusting and intolerable. All of life seemed boring and stupid.
“What on earth was I living for?” Boris Ivanovich muttered. “I’ll show up tomorrow and they’ll tell me it’s invented. They’ve got it, they’ll say—they’ve got their electronic percussion instrument. Congratulations, they’ll say. Go find another job.”
A severe chill seized Boris Ivanovich’s entire body. He walked faster now, almost at a run, then stopped when he reached the church fence. He fumbled with the gate, opened it, and went into the churchyard.
The cool air, the quiet birches, and the gravestones somehow calmed Kotofeyev immediately. He sat down on one of the stones and sank into thought. Then he said aloud:
“Today it’s calligraphy, tomorrow it’s drawing. That’s life—our whole life.”
Boris Ivanovich lit a cigarette and began to contemplate how he would live if something should happen.
“I’ll go on, alright,” Boris Ivanovich muttered. “But I won’t go to Lukerya. I’d rather throw myself at the people’s feet. Citizens, I’ll say, before you, I’ll say, is a dying man. Don’t leave me in misery…”
Boris Ivanovich shuddered and rose to his feet. Tremors and chills seized his body once more.
Suddenly Boris Ivanovich got the idea that the electric triangle had been invented long ago—that they were keeping it hidden, like a terrible secret, so as to bring him down with a single blow.
Boris Ivanovich nearly ran out of the churchyard in some kind of anguish and quickly shuffled off down the street.
The street was quiet.
A few belated passersby were hurrying home.
Boris Ivanovich stood on the corner for a while, and then, almost without realizing what he was doing, approached a passerby, took off his hat, and said in a hollow voice:
“Citizen…Please help…A man might be dying before your eyes…”
The passerby gave Kotofeyev a frightened glance and quickly moved on.
“Ah!” Boris Ivanovich cried out, sitting down on the wooden sidewalk. “Citizens! Help me…In my misfortune…In my trouble…Give whatever you can!”
Several passersby surrounded Boris Ivanovich, staring at him in fear and bewilderment.
A policeman approached, anxiously patting his holster, and tugged at Boris Ivanovich’s shoulder.
“He’s drunk,” someone in the crowd announced with pleasure. “Got a load on, the
devil—and on a workday, too. Thinks he’s above the law!”
The curious crowd surrounded Kotofeyev. A few compassionate fellows tried to lift him to his feet. Boris Ivanovich tore free from them and jumped aside. The crowd parted.
Boris Ivanovich looked about distractedly, gasped, and suddenly took off running without a word.
“Get ’im, boys! Grab ’im!” someone shrieked.
The policeman issued a shrill, piercing whistle. Its trill riled the whole street.
Boris Ivanovich didn’t look back. He ran at a quick, even pace, keeping his head down.
People ran after him, whooping wildly, their feet slapping in the mud.
Boris Ivanovich rushed around the corner, reached the church fence, and jumped over it.
“That-a-way!” howled the same voice. “There he goes, brothers! Get ’im! Grab ’im…”
Boris Ivanovich ran up onto the church-porch, gasped quietly, glanced back, and leaned on the door.
The door gave way, creaking open on its rusty hinges.
Boris Ivanovich ran inside.
He stood motionless for a moment, then clutched his head and bounded up some rickety, dry, squeaky steps.
“That-a-way!” shouted the eager pursuer. “Get ’im, friends! Grab ’im any which way you can…”
Hundreds of passersby and townsfolk rushed through the fence and burst into the church. It was dark.
Then someone struck a match and lit a wax stub of a candle on a huge candlestick.
The bare high walls and the pitiful church plate were suddenly illuminated by a meager, flickering yellow light.
Boris Ivanovich was nowhere to be seen.
But just when the crowd, shoving and droning, began to rush back in some kind of fear, a booming tocsin sounded from the bell tower.
The chimes—at first sparse, then more and more frequent—swam through the quiet night air.
That was Boris Ivanovich Kotofeyev, swinging the heavy brass clapper with great effort and ringing the bell, as if deliberately trying to wake everyone in town.
This went on for a minute.
Then the familiar voice howled again:
“That-a-way! Can’t let ’im run free, brothers! He’s up there in the bell tower! Grab the bum!”
A few people rushed upstairs.
By the time Boris Ivanovich was taken out of the church, a huge crowd of half-dressed people, a police patrol, and the local fire squad had gathered at the fence.
Boris Ivanovich, supported under the arms, was led silently through the crowd and hauled off to the police station.
He was deathly pale and trembling all over, and his feet dragged disobediently along the pavement.
5
Subsequently, many days later, when someone would ask Boris Ivanovich why he had done all that—why, in particular, he had climbed into the tower and rung the bell—he would either shrug his shoulders and remain angrily silent or say that he didn’t remember the details. And if someone should remind him of the details, he would wave his arms in embarrassment, pleading for them to stop.
On the night of the incident, Boris Ivanovich had been kept at the police station until morning. Then, after drawing up a vague, foggy report, they sent him home, under a pledge not to leave town.
Boris Ivanovich came home that morning, all limp and yellow—his coat ragged, his hat gone.
Lukerya Petrovna wailed loudly and pounded her chest, cursing the day of her birth and her whole miserable life with the human refuse that was Boris Ivanovich Kotofeyev.
But then, that very night, Boris Ivanovich was back in the depths of the orchestra, wearing, as usual, a clean, neat frock coat and giving his triangle sad little jangles.
Boris Ivanovich was, as usual, clean and kempt, and there was nothing to indicate the terrible night he had lived through.
It was only that two deep wrinkles now descended from his nose to the corners of his mouth.
Those wrinkles hadn’t been there the previous day.
And the stoop in Boris Ivanovich’s shoulders—that too was new.
But it’ll all come out in the wash.
Boris Ivanovich Kotofeyev will live for a long time yet.
Hell, dear reader, he’ll probably outlive us both.
1925
WHAT THE NIGHTINGALE SANG
1
I can just hear them laughing at us three hundred years from now! What strange lives, they’ll say, these trifling folks lived. Running around with something called money, passports—registering so-called acts of social status, measuring out living space in square meters…
Well, let them laugh!
But one thing really gets my goat: the devils won’t understand the half of it. And how could they? They’ll be living the kind of life we’ve probably never even dreamed of!
The author doesn’t know or wish to guess what kind of life they’ll be living. Why rattle one’s nerves and ruin one’s health in vain? Chances are, the author won’t even live to see this wondrous future life come to full flower.
And will it really be that wondrous, this future life? That’s another question. For the sake of his own peace of mind, the author chooses to believe that this future life will be just as full of nonsense and rubbish as the one we’re living.
On the other hand, the nonsense of the future could be real trifling stuff. For example—and excuse the author’s poverty of thought—someone might spit on someone else’s head from a zeppelin. Or maybe there’s a mix-up at the crematorium, and instead of a dead relative, someone gets a perfect stranger’s worthless dust…Nothing to be done about that, of course—you’re bound to get petty troubles of that kind in the minor, day-to-day scheme of things. But the rest of life will probably be excellent, just terrific.
For all we know, there won’t be any money at all. Everything’ll be free, up for grabs. They’ll be foisting all sorts of coats and scarves on all comers at the Arcade…
“Take it, citizen,” they’ll say. “It’s a fine coat.”
And you’ll walk right past them. Your heart won’t even flutter.
“Not a chance,” you’ll say. “To hell with your coat, dear comrades—I’ve got six already.”
By gum, what a gay and appealing future life emerges before the author’s eyes!
But this deserves deeper thought. If you toss out monetary considerations and selfish motives, what amazing forms this life might take! What excellent qualities human relationships might acquire! Love, for example. Why, this most exquisite of feelings might blossom forth in absolutely remarkable ways!
Oh, what a life—what a life it will be! The author contemplates it with such sweet joy, even though he remains an outsider, who hasn’t the slightest guarantee of ever reaching it. But back to love.
Here the author must make a special comment. After all, many scientists and Party members generally dismiss the emotion of love. Excuse me, they say—what love? There’s no such thing as love. And there never has been. What you’ve got in mind, they say, is just another act of civil status—you know, like a funeral.
Here the author must disagree.
The author doesn’t wish to confess to the casual reader, nor does he wish to disclose his intimate life to certain critics he finds particularly repulsive. Nevertheless, looking back on that intimate life, the author recalls a young maiden from the days of his youth. She had this sort of silly white face—tiny little hands, pitiful little shoulders. And yet the author would go into such sappy raptures at the very sight of her! What emotional moments the author would experience, when, out of an excess of all manner of noble feelings, he would fall to his knees and kiss the ground like an idiot.
Now that fifteen years have passed and the author has grown a little gray due to various illnesses, upheavals, and worries about his daily bread—now that the author simply doesn’t wish to lie, and wishes, at long last, to see life as it is, without any falsehood or embellishment—he still insists, at the risk of appearing like a ridiculous person from the
last century, that scientists and public figures are greatly mistaken.
Penning these lines about love, the author already anticipates a number of cruel retorts from public figures.
“Your own case,” they’ll say, “is no example, friend.”
“What are you trying to prove,” they’ll say, “shoving your amorous intrigues in our faces?”
“Your personality,” they’ll say, “is out of step with our age, and, in general, has survived to the present day purely by chance.”
You hear that? By chance! Forgive me, but what the hell do you mean, “by chance”? What would you have me do, throw myself under a tram?
“That’s up to you,” they’ll say. “Under a tram, off a bridge…The point is, your existence is completely unjustified.”
“Just look,” they’ll say, “at the simple, unsophisticated people all around you, and you’ll see how differently they think.”
Ha! You’ll forgive the miserable little laugh, dear reader. Just the other day the author read in Pravda about a minor tradesman, a hairdresser’s apprentice, who, out of jealousy, bit off a female citizen’s nose.1
Well, if that isn’t love, I don’t know what is! I tell you, it’s nothing to sneeze at. You think he bit off that nose to stimulate his palate? Well, to hell with you! The author doesn’t wish to get upset and roil his blood. He still has to finish his tale, go to Moscow, and, on top of that, make a number of unpleasant visits to certain literary critics, asking them not to rush into print with all sorts of critical articles and reviews in connection to said tale.
And so, love.
People can think of this exquisite emotion however they wish. The author, recognizing his own insignificance and unfitness for life—and even acknowledging, devil take you, that there may be a tram in his future—holds fast to his opinion.
The author only wishes to inform the reader of a minor amorous episode that played out against the background of the present day.
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