The Suitcase

by Sergei Dovlatov

  Yevgeny Eduardovich sat high behind the wheel. His old leather jacket shone. His eyes were covered with celluloid glasses. A wide-brimmed cap completed his unique look.

  By the way, he was practically the first Russian car driver. He had started driving in 1912. For a while he was Mikhail Rodzyanko’s personal chauffeur. Then he drove Trotsky, Lazar Kaganovich and Andrei Andreyev.* He ran the first Soviet driving school. He ended the war as a commander of an armoured tank division. He had received numerous government awards. Naturally, he spent time in prison. In his declining years, he took up restoring antique cars.

  His production was shown at international fairs. His models were used for domestic and foreign films. He corresponded in four languages with innumerable car magazines.

  When his cars took part in movies, their owner accompanied them. Film directors noticed Yevgeny Eduardovich’s impressive mien. First they used him in crowd scenes. Then he got bit parts: Mensheviks, noblemen, old-time scientists. He became something of an actor as well.

  I spent two days in Yelizarovskaya. My notes were filled with interesting details. I couldn’t wait to start writing.

  I came back to the office. I learnt that Bezuglov was on a business trip. And he had told me that the travel funds were used up.

  All right… I went to Borya Minz, the executive secretary of the newspaper. Told him about my plans. Told him the most exciting details.

  Minz said, “What’s his last name?”

  I pulled out Yevgeny Eduardovich’s card. “Holiday,” I replied. “Yevgeny Eduardovich Holiday.”

  Minz’s eyes grew round. “Holiday? A Russian handyman named Holiday? You’re joking! What do we know about his background? Where did he get a name like that?”

  “You think Minz is any better? Not to mention your background…”

  “It’s worse,” Minz agreed. “Without a doubt. But Minz is a private individual. Nobody’s writing articles about Minz for Russian Efficiency Day. Minz isn’t a hero. No one’s writing about Minz…”

  (I thought to myself: don’t write yourself off!)

  He added, “Personally, I have nothing against the English.”

  “I should think not,” I said.

  I suddenly felt nauseated. What was happening? Everything was not for publication. Everything around us was not for publication. I don’t know where Soviet journalists got story ideas!… All my projects were unrealizable. All my conversations were not for the phone. All my acquaintances were suspicious.

  The executive secretary said, “Write about a Heroine Mother.* Find an ordinary, modest Heroine Mother. And with a normal last name. And write two hundred and fifty lines. Material like that will always get through. A Heroine Mother is like a no-lose lottery…”

  What else could I do? I was a staff journalist, after all.

  I started calling my friends again. A pal said, “Our janitor has a whole horde of kids. Terrible hooligans.”

  “That doesn’t matter.”

  I went to the address.

  The janitor’s name was Lydia Vasilyevna Brykina. No Mr Holiday there! Her living quarters were a horrible sight. A rickety table, a couple of torn mattresses, a stifling stink. Ragged, messy kids everywhere. The youngest yowled in a plywood cradle. A girl of fourteen grimly drew on the window pane with her finger.

  I explained the aim of my visit. Lydia Vasilyevna grew animated. “Go ahead and write, dearie… I’ll try. I’ll tell the people everything about my dog’s life.”

  I asked, “Doesn’t the state help you?”

  “It does. And how! I get forty roubles a month. Well, and the medals and ribbons. There’s a jar full of them on the sill. I’d rather exchange them for tangerines, four to one.”

  “What about your husband?”

  “Which one? I’ve had a whole troop of them. The last one went out to buy a bottle of rotgut and never came back. Over a year ago…”

  What could I do? What could I write about that woman?

  I spent a little time there and left. Promised to drop by next time.

  I had no one to call. I was thoroughly disgusted. I wondered if I should quit again, find work as a stevedore.

  My wife said, “A cultured lady lives across the way. Walks children in the morning. She has about ten of them… Find out… I’ve forgotten her name, starts with Sh…”

  “Shvarts?”

  “No, no, Shapovalova… Or Shaposhnikova… You can get her name and number from the building office.”

  I went to the building office. Spoke to Mikheyev. He was a friendly and kindly man. He complained, “I got twelve jokers working for me, but I got no one to send for a bottle of booze…”

  When I began talking about the lady, Mikheyev grew wary .

  “I don’t know, talk to her yourself. Her name is Galina Viktorovna Shaporina. Apartment twenty-three. There she is out with the kids. Only I got nothing to do with it. It’s none of my concern.”

  I headed for the park. Galina Viktorovna turned out to be a good-looking, respectable woman. In Soviet movies that’s how the people’s assessors* look.

  I introduced myself and explained what I wanted. The lady grew tense. She began talking just like our building manager. “What’s the matter? What’s the problem? Why me?”

  I was getting sick of this. I put away my pen and said, “Why are you so scared? If you don’t want to talk, I’ll leave. I’m not a hooligan.”

  “It’s not hooligans I’m afraid of.” She continued, “You seem like a cultured man. I know your mother and I knew your father. I think you can be trusted. I’ll tell you what it is. I really don’t fear hooligans. I’m afraid of the police.”

  “But why are you afraid of me? I’m not a policeman.”

  “But you’re a journalist. In my position, drawing attention to myself would be the height of stupidity. Naturally, I’m no Heroine Mother. And the children aren’t mine. I’ve organized something like a nursery school. I teach the children music, French, read poems to them. In state day care the children get sick, and they never get sick here. And I charge moderate fees. But you can imagine what would happen if the police learnt about it. It’s a private school, basically…”

  “I can imagine,” I said.

  “Then forget I exist.”

  “All right,” I said.

  I didn’t even bother calling the office. I figured I’d tell them I had writer’s block, if they asked. My fees for December would be symbolic, anyway. Around sixteen roubles. Forget about the suit. Just so they didn’t fire me…

  Nevertheless, I did get a suit from the newspaper. A severe, double-breasted suit made in East Germany, if I’m not mistaken. This is how it happened:

  I was at the typing pool. The red-haired beauty Manyunya Khlopina said, “Why won’t you invite me to a restaurant? I want to go to a restaurant, but you don’t invite me!”

  I offered a weak excuse, “I don’t sleep with you, either.”

  “Too bad. We’d listen to the radio together.”

  At that moment a mysterious stranger appeared. I had noticed him earlier that day.

  He was wearing an elegant suit and tie. His moustache blended into his low sideburns. A miniature leather bag hung from his wrist.

  Running ahead, I’ll tell you he was a spy. We simply had no clue. We thought he was from the Baltics. We always took elegant men for Latvians.

  The stranger spoke Russian with a barely noticeable accent.

  He behaved matter-of-factly and even a bit aggressively. He slapped the editor on the back twice. He talked the Party organizer into a game of chess. He leafed through the technical guidelines in Minz’s office for a long time.

  Here I’d like to digress. I am convinced that almost all spies behave incorrectly. For some reason they hide, lie, pretend to be ordinary Soviet citizens. The very mysteriousness of their activities is suspicious. They should behave much more simply. First of all, they should dress as flashily as possible. That instils respect. Secondly, they shouldn’t hide their foreig
n accent. That instils sympathy. And most importantly, they should act as unceremoniously as possible.

  Say a spy is interested in a new ballistic missile. He meets a famous rocketry man at the theatre. He invites him to dinner. It’s stupid to offer the man money. He wouldn’t have enough. It’s stupid to try to work the man over ideologically. He knows all that without anyone’s help.

  He has to use a completely different tactic. They should drink. Then he puts his arm around the man’s shoulders. Pats him on the knee and says, “So how’s it going, old man? I hear you’ve invented something new. Why don’t you scribble down a couple of formulas for me on this napkin, just for fun?…”

  That’s it. The missile’s as good as in his pocket.

  The stranger spent the whole day at the office. We got used to him, even though people gave each other meaningful looks.

  His name was Arthur.

  So Arthur drops by the typing pool and says, “Excuse me, I thought this is being the bathroom.”

  I said, “Come with me. We’re headed the same way.”

  In the can the spy looked in horror at our editorial towel. He took out his handkerchief.

  We got to talking. Decided to go down to the canteen. From there I called my wife and went to the Kavkazsky restaurant.

  It turned out we both liked Faulkner, Britten and paintings of the Thirties. Arthur was a thinking and competent man. In particular, he said, “Picasso’s art is merely drama, while Magritte’s work is a catastrophic spectacle.”

  I asked, “Have you been in the West?”

  “Of course.”

  “Did you live there long?”

  “Forty-three years. Until last Tuesday, to be precise.”

  “I thought you were from Latvia.”

  “Close enough. I’m Swedish. I want to write a book about Russia.”

  We parted late at night near the Evropeyskaya Hotel. We made a date for the next day.

  In the morning I was called into the editor’s office. A stranger, a man of fifty or so, was there. He was thin, bald, with just a dull-coloured wreath of hair over the ears. I wondered if he could comb his hair without taking off his hat.

  The man was in the editor’s armchair. The owner of the office sat in a hard-backed visitor’s chair. I sat on the edge of the couch.

  “Let me introduce you,” the editor said. “A representative of the KGB, Major Chilyayev.”

  I rose politely. The major, without a smile, nodded. Evidently he was burdened by the imperfection of the world around him.

  In the editor’s behaviour I observed – simultaneously – sympathy and gloating. He seemed to be saying, Well? Now you’ve done it! You’re on your own now. I told you so, didn’t I, you fool?”

  The major spoke. His harsh voice was at odds with his weary demeanour.

  “Do you know Arthur Tornstrom?”

  “Yes, we met yesterday.”

  “Did he ask you any suspicious questions?”

  “I don’t think so. He didn’t ask me any questions at all, I don’t think. I can’t remember any.”

  “Not one?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “How did you strike up an acquaintance? Rather, where and how did you meet?”

  “I was in the typing pool. He came in and asked — ”

  “Ah, he asked? Then he did ask questions? What did he ask, if it’s not a secret?”

  “He asked where the toilet was.”

  The major wrote it down and said, “I suggest you be more precise…”

  The rest of the conversation seemed absolutely meaningless. Chilyayev was interested in everything. What did we eat? What did we drink? What artists did we talk about? He even wanted to know if the Swede went to the men’s room often.

  The major insisted I recall all the details. Did the Swede abuse alcohol? Did he have an eye for the ladies? Did he appear to be a latent homosexual?

  I replied thoroughly and conscientiously. I had nothing to hide.

  The major paused. He rose partly out of his chair. Then he raised his voice a bit. “We are counting on your conscientiousness. Even though you are rather frivolous. The information we have on you is more than contradictory: indiscriminate personal life, drinking, dubious jokes…”

  I wanted to ask where the contradiction was, but I controlled myself. Especially since the major pulled out a rather voluminous folder. My name was written large on the cover.

  I stared at the file. I felt what a pig might feel in the meat section of a deli.

  The major continued. “We expect total frankness from you. We are counting on your help. I hope you understand the importance of this mission?… Most importantly, remember, we know everything. We know everything ahead of time. Absolutely everything…”

  I wanted to ask, then how about Misha Baryshnikov?* Did they know ahead of time that Misha would stay in America?

  The major asked, “What arrangements did you make with the Swede? Are you supposed to meet today?”

  “We’re supposed to,” I said. “He invited the wife and me to the Kirov Theatre. I think I’ll call, apologize, say I’m sick.”

  “Not on your life,” the major said, rising up in his seat. “Go. Definitely go. And remember every detail. We’ll call you tomorrow morning.”

  I thought to myself: just what I need!

  “I can’t,” I said. “I have good reasons.”

  “Such as?”

  “I don’t have a suit. You need appropriate clothes for the theatre. Foreigners go there, by the way.”

  “Why don’t you have a suit?” the major demanded. “That’s ridiculous! You work for a major organization.”

  “I have a small salary,” I replied.

  The editor chipped in. “I’ll let you in on a small secret. As you know, the New Year festivities are approaching. We have decided to award Comrade Dovlatov a valuable present. In half an hour he can go to the accounting office, and then to the Frunze Department Store. And pick out an appropriate suit for about one hundred twenty roubles.”

  “But,” I say, “I’m not a regular size.”

  “Don’t worry,” the editor said. “I’ll call the store manager.”

  And so I came to own an imported double-breasted suit. Made in East Germany, if I’m not mistaken. I wore it about five times. Once when I went to the theatre with the Swede. And about four times when I was sent to funerals.

  My Swede was expelled from the Soviet Union for being a conservative journalist who “expressed the interests of the right wing”.

  Six years he had studied Russian. Wanted to write a book. And he was expelled. I hope without my participation. What I had told the major about him seemed perfectly harmless.

  Moreover, I even warned Arthur that he was being watched. Rather, I hinted that the walls had ears. The Swede didn’t understand. Anyway, I had nothing to do with that. The most amazing thing was that my dissident friend Shamkovich then accused me of helping the KGB!

  An Officer’s Belt

  THE WORST THING FOR A DRUNKARD is to wake up in a hospital bed. Before you’re fully awake, you mutter, “That’s it! I’m through! For ever! Not another drop ever again!”

  And suddenly you find a thick gauze bandage around your head. You want to touch it, but your left arm is in a cast. And so on.

  This all happened to me in the summer of ’63 in the south of the Komi Republic.

  I had been drafted a year earlier. I was put in the camp guards, and attended a twenty-day course for supervisors. Even earlier I had boxed for two years. I took part in countrywide competitions. However, I can’t recall a single time that the trainer said, “OK. That’s it. I’m not worried any more.”

  But I did hear it from our instructor, Toroptsev, at the prison-supervisor school, after only three weeks. And even though I was going to face recidivist criminals, not boxers.

  I tried looking around. Sunspots shone yellow on the linoleum floor. The night table was covered with medicine bottles. A newspaper hung on the wall
by the door – Lenin and Health.

  There was a smell of smoke and, strangely enough, of seaweed. I was in the camp medical unit.

  My tightly bandaged head hurt. I could feel a deep wound over my eyebrow. My left arm did not function.

  My uniform shirt hung on the back of the bed. There should have been a few cigarettes in there. I used a jar with an inky mixture in it for an ashtray. I had to hold the matchbox in my teeth.

  Now I could recall yesterday’s events.

  I had been crossed off the convoy list in the morning. I went to the sergeant. “What’s happened? Am I really getting a day off?”

  “Sort of,” the sergeant said. “Congratulations… An inmate went crazy in barracks fourteen. Barking, crowing… Bit Auntie Shura, the cook… So you’re taking him to the psych ward in Iosser, and then you’re free for the rest of the day. Sort of a day off.”

  “When do I have to go?”

  “Now, if you like.”

  “Alone?”

  “Who said anything about alone? Two of you, as required. Take Churilin or Gayenko…”

  I found Churilin in the tool shop. He was working with a soldering iron. Something was crackling on the workbench, emanating an odour of rosin.

  “I’m doing a bit of welding,” Churilin said. “Very fine work, take a look.”

  I saw the brass buckle with its embossed star. The inside was filled with tin. A belt with a loaded buckle like that was an awesome weapon.

  That was the style then — our enforcers all wanted leather officer’s belts. They filled the buckle with a layer of tin and went to dances. If there was a fight, the brass buckles flashed over the mêlée.

  I said, “Get ready.”

  “What’s up?”

  “We’re taking a psycho to Iosser. Some inmate flipped out in barracks fourteen. He bit Auntie Shura.”

  “Good for him,” said Churilin. “He obviously wanted some grub. That Shura sneaks butter from the kitchen. I’ve seen her.”

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  Churilin cooled the buckle under running water and put on the belt. “Let’s roll.”

  We were issued with weapons and reported to the watch room. About two minutes later the controller brought in a fat, unshaven prisoner. He was resisting and shouting, “I want a pretty girl, an athlete! Give me an athlete! How long am I supposed to wait?”