The Suitcase

by Sergei Dovlatov

  The jacket was tight. The hat smelt of fish. I almost burnt the beard lighting a cigarette. I waited for silence and said, “Hello, kids! Do you know who I am?”

  “Lenin! Lenin!” they cried from the first rows. I laughed, and my beard came unglued…

  And now Schlippenbach was offering me a leading role.

  Of course, I could have refused. But for some reason I accepted. I always responded to the wildest proposals; no wonder my wife says, “You’re interested in everything except conjugal obligations.” By “conjugal obligations” my wife means sobriety, first and foremost.

  So, we went down to Lenfilm. Schlippenbach called some guy named Chipa, in the props department, and got a pass.

  The room we came to was jammed with cupboards and crates. I smelt mildew and mothballs. Fluorescent lights blinked and crackled overhead. A stuffed bear reared up in the corner. A cat strolled down the long table.

  Chipa came out from behind a curtain. He was a middle-aged man in a striped T-shirt and top hat. He stared at me a long time and then asked, “Did you use to serve in the guards?”

  “Why?”

  “Remember the isolation cell in Ropcha?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Remember the convict who strung himself up on his belt?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “That was me. They pumped me for two hours, the bastards.”

  Chipa treated us to some watered grain alcohol and was generally complaisant. He said, “Here you go, Chief!” and laid out a pile of junk on the table: tall black boots, a brocade waistcoat, a frock coat, a broad-brimmed hat and a sword. Then he got out a pair of gauntlets, like the ones early car enthusiasts used to wear.

  “What about trousers?” Schlippenbach reminded him.

  Chipa opened a crate and lifted out a pair of velvet breeches with gold braid. I pulled them on with great difficulty. They wouldn’t fasten. “They’ll do,” Chipa said. “Use twine.”

  As we were leaving, he suddenly said, “When I was inside, I wanted out. But now, if I have a few drinks, I start missing the camp. What people! Lefty, One-Eye, Diesel!”

  We put the stuff in a suitcase and took the elevator down to make-up.

  By the way, this was my first visit to Lenfilm. I thought I’d see lots of interesting things – creative bustle, famous actors, maybe Chursina trying on a French bikini and Tenyakova standing next to her, dying of envy.* In reality, Lenfilm was like a gigantic government office: plain women carrying papers through the corridors, the rattle of typewriters from everywhere. We never did run into any colourful individuals, except maybe Chipa with his striped T-shirt and top hat.

  The make-up woman, Lyudmila Alexandrovna, sat me down at a mirror and gazed into it from over my shoulder for a while.

  “Well?” Schlippenbach demanded.

  “The head’s not great – C-plus – but the overall look is fantastic.”

  Lyudmila Alexandrovna touched my lip, pulled at my nose, brushed her fingers over my ear. Then she put a black wig on me. She glued on a moustache. With light strokes of a pencil, she rounded my cheeks.

  “Amazing!” Schlippenbach was delighted. “A typical tsar!”

  Then I suited up and we called for a taxi. I walked through the studios dressed as the great emperor. A couple of people turned to look – not many.

  Schlippenbach dropped by to see one other pal. This one gave us two black boxes of equipment – for money this time.

  “How much?” Schlippenbach asked.

  “Four roubles and twelve copecks,” was the answer. The price of a bottle.

  “I heard you switched to white wine.”

  “And you believed that?”

  In the taxi Schlippenbach explained: “You don’t need to read the script – everything will be built on improvisation, like in Antonioni. Tsar Peter finds himself in modern Leningrad. Everything is disgusting and alien. He goes into a grocery store. He starts shouting, ‘Where’s the smoked venison, the mead, the anise vodka? Who bankrupted my domain, the barbarians?’ That kind of thing. We’re going to Vasilyevsky Island now. Galina is waiting for us with the van.”

  “Who’s Galina?”

  “From supplies at Lenfilm. She has a company van. Said she’d meet us after work. Incredibly cultured woman. We wrote the screenplay together. At a friend’s apartment. Anyway, let’s go to Vasilyevsky. Do the first shots. The Tsar heads from the Rostral Column towards Nevsky Prospekt. He’s in shock. He keeps slowing down and looking around. Get it? You know – be scared of cars, look puzzled at signs, shy away from phone booths… If someone bumps into you, draw your sword. Go with it – be creative.” My sword lay on my lap. The blade was filed off, inside the scabbard: I could draw about three inches of it.

  Schlippenbach waved his arms with inspiration. But the driver was unmoved. As he dropped us off, he asked in a friendly way, “So, what zoo did you escape from, pal?”

  “Terrific!” Schlippenbach cried. “We can use that line! Ready art!”

  We got out of the taxi with the boxes. A minivan stood across the street. A young woman in jeans was pacing near it. My appearance did not interest her.

  “Galina, you’re a marvel,” Schlippenbach said. “We start in ten minutes.”

  “You are the bane of my existence,” she replied.

  They puttered with the equipment for about twenty minutes. I walked up and down in the slush in front of the Kunstkamera. Passers-by examined me with interest. A cold wind blew from the Neva River. The sun kept ducking behind clouds.

  At last Schlippenbach said we were ready. Galina poured some coffee for herself from a thermos. The cover squeaked revoltingly.

  “Go way over there,” Schlippenbach told me, “around the corner. When I wave my arm, start walking along the wall.”

  I crossed the street and stood behind the corner. By then my boots were soaked. Schlippenbach kept delaying: I noticed Galina hand him a glass of coffee. Meanwhile, I was wandering around in wet boots.

  At last Schlippenbach waved. He held the camera like a halberd beside him. Then he stooped behind it.

  I put out my cigarette, came around the corner and headed for the bridge. It turns out that when you’re being filmed it’s hard to walk. I did my best not to trip. When the wind gusted, I had to hold on to my hat. Suddenly Schlippenbach yelled something. I couldn’t hear what he said because of the wind, so I stopped and crossed the street to him.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “I couldn’t hear you.”

  “What didn’t you hear?”

  “What did you shout?”

  “I shouted, ‘Brilliant!’ That’s all. Go on back, do it again.”

  “Want some coffee?” Galina finally asked me.

  “Not now,” Schlippenbach said. “After the third take.”

  I came out from around the corner again. Headed for the bridge again. And once more Schlippenbach yelled something. This time I paid no attention.

  I walked all the way to the parapet. I looked back; Schlippenbach and his girlfriend were inside the van. I hurried over.

  “Just one comment,” Schlippenbach said. “More expression. You should be absolutely amazed by everything you see. Look at the posters and signs in astonishment.”

  “There aren’t any signs along there.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’ll edit them in later. Just look amazed. Every three yards, stop and throw your hands in the air.”

  Schlippenbach made me do it seven times. I was exhausted. My breeches kept slipping down under the waistcoat. It was hard to smoke with the gloves on.

  But finally my suffering ended. Galina handed me the thermos, and we drove to Tavricheskaya Street.

  “There’s a beer stall there,” Schlippenbach said. “More than one, I think. Winos all over the place. It’ll be terrific – the monarch among the scum.”

  I knew the place – two beer stands and a vodka window, not far from the Theatre Institute. It really was loaded with drunks.

  We parked
the van in a courtyard and set up there.

  Schlippenbach whispered excitedly, “The scene is simple – you approach the counter. You look indignantly at all these people standing in line for a drink. Then you make an address.”

  “What am I supposed to say?”

  “Whatever you want. The words don’t matter. The important thing is your expression, your gestures.”

  “They’ll think I’m an idiot.”

  “That’s great, say whatever you want. Ask about the prices.”

  “They’ll really think I’m an idiot then… Who doesn’t know the price of beer?” “Then ask who’s last in line. Just so your lips move. We’ll record the soundtrack later and dub it to match. Go to it.”

  “Here, have a drink for courage,” Galina said. She got out a bottle of vodka and poured it into my coffee glass.

  My courage did not increase. However, I got out of the van. The show must go on.

  The beer stall, painted green, was on the corner of Rakov and Mokhovaya. The line stretched back across the lawn to the Central Food Council building. People were jammed up near the counter; the crowd thinned out farther away. At the end it was just a dozen grim and grumpy people.

  The men wore grey jackets and vests. They were aloof and apathetic, as if at a stranger’s grave. Some had brought jars and teapots for their beer. There were only a few women, five or six. They were noisier and more impatient. One of them kept nagging, “Let me go ahead of you, out of respect for an old woman and mother!”

  When they got their mug in hand, people would move aside in anticipation of bliss. Grey foam flecked the ground. Everyone had a small personal fire inside; once it was extinguished, people grew animated, lit up cigarettes, looked for a conversation. The ones still in line asked, “How’s the beer, OK?” “Seems OK,” the others answered.

  I wondered how many beer counters like this there were all over Russia. How many people died and came to life again like this every day?

  As I approached the crowd, I felt afraid: why had I ever agreed to this? What was I going to say to these people – exhausted, grim, half-mad? Who needed this ridiculous masquerade?

  I joined the end of the line. Two or three men glanced at me without the slightest curiosity. The rest simply paid no attention at all.

  In front of me was a Georgian or an Armenian in a railroad-uniform shirt. To my left stood a bum in canvas shoes with the laces untied. Two steps ahead, an intellectual was breaking matches trying to light his cigarette. He gripped his skinny briefcase between his knees.

  My situation was getting more and more ridiculous. No one said a word to me, no one was the least bit curious, no one asked me any questions – what could they ask? Their only concern here was getting the hair of the dog. And what could I say to them – ask them who’s last in line? I was.

  I realized I had no money on me – I had left it in my regular, pedestrian trousers.

  I saw Schlippenbach waving his fists from the courtyard, directing me. I could see that he wanted me to follow the plan – he was hoping it would make someone hit me over the head with a mug.

  I just stood in line, and quietly moved along to the counter. I heard the railroad man explain to someone, “I’m behind the bald guy. The Tsar’s behind me. And you come after the Tsar.”

  The intellectual spoke to me. “Excuse me, do you know Sherdakov?”

  “Sherdakov?”

  “Aren’t you Dolmatov?”

  “More or less.”

  “Glad to see you. I still owe you a rouble. Remember, we were leaving the Sherdakov’s house together on Cosmonaut Day? And I asked you for a rouble for a taxi? Here.”

  I had no pockets; I stuck the crumpled rouble note into my glove.

  I actually did know Sherdakov – a specialist in Marxist-Leninist aesthetics, an assistant professor at the Theatre Institute. A habitué of the vodka bar. “Give him my best,” I said.

  I saw Schlippenbach approaching. Galina followed, sighing.

  By now I was almost at the counter. The crowd grew denser. I was squeezed in between the bum and the railroad man. The end of my scabbard was pushed against the intellectual’s hip.

  Schlippenbach shouted, “I don’t see the scenario! Where’s the conflict? You’re supposed to antagonize the masses!”

  The line grew wary: here was some busybody with a camera trying to get people riled up.

  “Excuse me,” said the railroad man to Schlippenbach. “You’re jumping the line.”

  “I’m on duty,” Schlippenbach replied, thinking fast.

  “We all are,” mumbled someone in the crowd.

  The dissatisfaction grew, the voices got more aggressive. “There’s all kinds of wise guys and jokers around here.” “They take your picture and then they use you as a bad example, like ‘Another Troublemaker’.” “We’re just getting a drink in a perfectly civilized way, and he comes here stirring shit.” “A bum like that should be locked away.”

  The crowd’s energy was close to the bursting point. But Schlippenbach was angry himself.

  “You’ve boozed Russia away, you vipers! You’ve lost the last remnants of your conscience! Up to your eyeballs in vodka from morning till night!”

  “Yura, enough! Yura, don’t be an idiot, let’s go!” Galina tried to pull Schlippenbach away.

  But he resisted. And then came my turn at the counter. I took the crumpled rouble out of my glove and asked, “How much should I get?”

  Schlippenbach calmed down immediately. “Get me a large one, warmed up. And a small for Galina.”

  Galina said, “I do not indulge in beer. But I’ll drink it with pleasure.”

  There was little logic in her words.

  Someone complained, but the bum explained to the disgruntled one, “No, the Tsar was in the queue, I saw him. And that fag with the camera is with him, so it’s OK, it’s legal!” The winos grumbled a bit more and quieted down.

  Schlippenbach put the camera in his left hand and picked up his mug. “Let’s drink to the success of our film! True talent will always make its way.”

  “My fool,” said Galina.

  When we were backing out of the courtyard, Schlippenbach said: “Those people! Those are some people! I was even scared. It was just like — ”

  “The battle of Poltava,” I finished for him.

  It was hard changing in the van, so they brought me home, still in the emperor costume…

  The next day, I ran into Schlippenbach at the cashier’s desk. He told me he wanted to get involved in human rights. So the film-making was over. The tsar costume lay around my house for two years. A neighbour’s boy took the sword. We polished the floor with the hat. Our extravagant friend Regina wore the waistcoat as a spring jacket. My wife made a skirt out of the velvet breeches. I brought the driving gauntlets along when I emigrated; I was sure I’d buy a car first thing.

  I never did get round to it. Didn’t want to. I have to stand out somehow! Let all Forest Hills know me as “that crazy Dovlatov, the guy who has no car!”

  Instead of an Afterword

  THE SUITCASE IS ON THE KITCHEN TABLE: a rectangular plywood box, covered with green fabric, with rusted reinforcements on the corners.

  My Soviet rags lie around it. The old-fashioned double-breasted suit with wide trouser cuffs. A poplin shirt the colour of a faded nasturtium. Low shoes shaped like a boat. A corduroy jacket still redolent of someone else’s tobacco. A winter hat of sealskin. Crêpe socks with an electric sheen. Gloves that are good if you need to cut a hungry Newfoundland hound’s hair. A belt with a heavy buckle, slightly bigger than the scar on my forehead…

  So what had I acquired in all those years in my homeland? What had I earned? This pile of rubbish? A suitcase of memories?…

  I’ve been living in America for ten years. I have jeans, sneakers, moccasins, camouflage T-shirts from the Banana Republic. Enough clothing.

  But the voyage isn’t over. And at the end of my allotted time I will appear at another gate. And I will hav
e a cheap American suitcase in my hand. And I will hear: “What have you brought with you?”

  “Here,” I’ll say. “Take a look.”

  And I’ll also say, “There’s a reason that every book, even one that isn’t very serious, is shaped like a suitcase.”

  Notes

  p. 3, But even like this… precious to me: From a 1914 poem ‘Greshit’ besstydno, neprobudno’ (‘To sin shamelessly, ceaselessly’) by Alexander Alexandrovich Blok (1880 – 1921), a leading figure of the Symbolist movement.

  p. 5, OVIR: The Russian Office of Visas and Registrations, which issued legal documents for those wishing either to enter or leave the Soviet Union.

  p. 6, Rocky Marciano, Louis Armstrong, Joseph Brodsky, Gina Lollobrigida: Rocky Marciano (1923 – 69), Italian-American undefeated champion heavyweight boxer; Louis Armstrong (1901 – 71), famous American jazz musician; Joseph Alexandrovich Brodsky (1940 – 96), Russian Nobel Prize-winning poet and close friend of Dovlatov; Gina Lollobrigida (b.1927), Italian actress mostly active in the 1950s and 60s.

  p. 17, Karjalainen, perhaps: An unclear reference since Karjalainen is a common Finnish surname. One possibility is the children’s author Elina Karjalainen (1927 – 2006), who wrote a series of books about a teddy bear called Uppo-Nalle.

  p. 18, Maybe Mantere: Again, the reference is unclear, but it may allude to the singer Eeki Mantere (1949 – 2007), a popular Finnish musician of the 1970s.

  p. 23, the historian Nikolai Karamzin: Nikolai Mikhailovich Karamzin (1766 – 1826), prominent conservative Russian historian and writer.

  p. 23, Paul Robeson: Paul Robeson (1898 – 1976) was an African-American civil-rights activist, singer and actor who received the International Stalin Prize in 1952. His political leanings and outspokenness caused him tremendous problems in America.

  p. 24, the famous artist Shemyakin: Mikhail Mikhailovich Shemyakin (b.1943), a painter who studied at the Repin Academy in Leningrad (now St Petersburg) and, after frequent clashes with the KGB, left the Soviet Union in 1971.