Fourteen Little Red Huts and Other Plays

by Andrei Platonov

  BOS: Greetings, greetings! You live well here! Well, how are things with your second Five-Year Plan? All correct, I hope?!

  OFFICIAL GREETER: Pardon! You speak Russian? You know our difficult language of the proletariat?

  BOS (with irritation): Yes, yes…Of course I know Russian! What don’t I know? I no longer remember how much I know. Russian, Indian, Mexican, Yiddish, astronomy, psychotechnics, hydraulics…I’m a hundred and one years old, and you, a boy (with more and more irritation)—a mere boy!—dare to address me in French.

  OFFICIAL GREETER: Excuse me. Has your companion also labored at the Russian language?

  BOS: Boy! Don’t irritate my state of spirit on this irritated land! Interhom, say some of your piffle to him in Russian.

  INTERHOM: Down with antihaymaking tendencies!

  BOS: What? What’s that? Do you know Russian better than I do, Miss A Grader? Repeat it at once. I’m dumbfounded—can’t you see?

  INTERHOM: Down with antihaymaking tendencies! I’ve read Soviet newspapers, I’ve learned from them. “Antihaymaking tendency” is Russian for “sorrow.” It means “ennui,” it’s not socialism.

  BOS: That’s radiant!

  INTERHOM: Wrong. You should say, “That’s brilliant!”

  BOS: Pardon! Brilliant! What’s the matter with me—forgetting nonsense like that? Boys and girls, children, make me a stick from a graveyard cross, so I can walk to the wretched beyond!

  INTERHOM: You, Grandpa, are a counterfool.

  BOS: What? What’s that?

  INTERHOM: You’re a counterfool—which means “clever.”

  BOS (with concentration): That remains to be seen, Interhom.

  STATIONMASTER (to BOS): Congratulations on your safe arrival. I wish you a happy journey across this most great, and to you still most alien, of lands.

  BOS: Most alien? No: to me all countries are equally alien and unwelcoming. I thank you.

  The STATIONMASTER takes his leave and walks away.

  OFFICIAL GREETER: Greetings to you, Mister Johann Bos, great philosopher of weakening capitalism, brilliant master of opportunistic ploys, and may I wish that you—

  INTERHOM: Become an infant, a preschool child, a Young Pioneer, an Octobrist of the new world.3

  OFFICIAL GREETER (to INTERHOM, dourly): Far from true. (To BOS) I welcome you—in the name of the laboring people making happiness and truth for both you and themselves—to this still unknown, gigantic country. We are happy to meet you here in our common home!

  BOS: I doubt if I will make you happy. (Brief pause.) I haven’t yet made anyone happy or merry. (With a nod toward Interhom) Probably, only her.

  INTERHOM: Yes, Johann, your love has made me awfully happy.

  BOS: I know, I know…Forwards you’re a woman, afterwards you’re a human being.

  INTERHOM: Forwards and backwards, I’m a woman all around.

  BOS: You’re counterclever, Interhom…Ah, my little mademoiselle, I’m sick and tired of living in my organism, in this life, in the ennui of current facts—give me some milk! I’m bored, mademoiselle, of having conscious feelings. Milk!

  INTERHOM (takes a small bottle of condensed milk from her suitcase and gives it to BOS): There you are, Grandpa, don’t fret, don’t do any thinking. You’ve got such a weak stomach…And for the love of God, Grandpa, don’t leave a drop on the bottom, I love you.

  BOS (drinks up the milk and returns the bottle): And now for something chemical, something caustic!

  INTERHOM (rummages in her little suitcase): Here you are. I don’t know what it is. Something chemical—it tastes horrible.

  BOS: Give it to me—I must swallow. (Takes a pill from INTERHOM, swallows, and immediately turns to the GREETER.) Where can I see socialism? Show it to me at once. Capitalism irritates me.

  OFFICIAL GREETER: I am in a position to immediately demonstrate individual elements of our social order. Here you are! To your right you will see the mother-and-child room.

  INTERHOM: We thank you. Show us, for God’s sake, the room for the poorest old men, and show us what they do there.

  OFFICIAL GREETER (embarrassed): I’m sorry. It’s being refurbished.

  BOS: Don’t rush, Interhom. There are no old men here—everyone dies on time. (To the OFFICIAL GREETER) Leader, Comrade, you can stop refurbishing the old room for the old men. It will stay empty anyway.

  OFFICIAL GREETER: I exaggerated, Mister Bos. We have no such room.

  BOS: Don’t be embarrassed: I know that to a certain extent you are…(mumbles indistinctly) boasters, whereas we, on the other hand, are scoundrels all the way through. Communist greetings! (Addressing the whole group) We should look at it this way, comrades. They have a mother-and-child room—that’s piffle. They have only a few old men and there isn’t a room for them—that’s success. Am I not right, gentlemen?

  THE THREE WRITERS (tensely, simultaneously, almost in unison): Greetings! Bravo! À jour! Gut! As a matter of principle! Merci!

  OFFICIAL GREETER: You are deeply mistaken, gentlemen! We have a slogan: “Toward a Healthy Soviet Old Man! Toward a Cultured and Still More Fruitful Old Age!” Look! (Points to the slogan on the wall.)

  INTERHOM: Johann, do Bolshevik old men also love women as much as you do?

  BOS: I doubt it.

  INTERHOM: What if they catch up with and surpass you?4

  BOS: Then you’ll go and join them, and I’ll marry a young Komsomol girl who’s younger than you are.

  INTERHOM: That’s awful, Johann!

  BOS: It’s my technique. Aren’t you aware of it?

  INTERHOM: I certainly am. My body is progressing from your passion.

  BOS: It’s also wilting, Interhom. Your body, I mean. But my experience is gaining in rationality.

  OFFICIAL GREETER (embarrassed): Mister Bos, our country awaits you.

  BOS: Yes, yes, we shall now set out into the space of Russia, into the fresh air, into the green grove, to the kolkhoz stove of the new world, into the nonsense of Nature!

  OFFICIAL GREETER: Mister Bos, the motor car has been started for you, it’s been ready for a long time. Let us know your itinerary!

  BOS: Into the anonymity of history, into Asia, into the emptiness of the East. We want to gauge the candlepower of the dawn you claim to have lit.

  LATRINOV: May I learn from Mister Worldwide Thinker his point of view on some matter of worldwide historical importance?

  BOS: And who are you—a worker?

  LATRINOV: I am the prosaic Russian writer Pyotr Polikarpovich Latrinov. I presume that you know my books: Poor Tree, A Year of Profit, A Most Specific Figure, Eternally Soviet, and other works of mine?

  BOS: Don’t presume. I don’t know your books.

  LATRINOV: Other nations are aware of my international activity to strengthen the defenses of my motherland.

  BOS: Excuse my ignorance. What form has this activity of yours taken?

  LATRINOV: At the moment of the threat of intervention from England I married a famous Englishwoman. At the time of the Japanese threat I became engaged to a Japanese lady from an ancient family.5

  BOS: Very sensible. The interventions, as we know, did not take place—your contribution has been invaluable. But whom did you marry during the Civil War?

  LATRINOV: The highly educated daughter of an esteemed Russian general.

  BOS: Excellent. You, Comrade Latrinov, are far from stupid—as fools go.

  LATRINOV: In accordance with the finest traditions of my motherland, in accordance with the heartfelt friendliness of our most gracious and most grateful, most excellent and superior country, let us exchange a kiss—in order for this moment to become truly cultured and historical.

  BOS (pointing to INTERHOM): You can kiss her on the cheek. She’s in charge of my feelings.

  INTERHOM offers her cheek, puffing it out, and LATRINOV politely brushes it with his lips.

  OFFICIAL GREETER: Two more writers wish to be introduced to you, Mister Bos: Mechislav Glutonov and Gennady Fushenko.
r />   BOS: Yes, but be quick about it. I need reality, not literature.

  MECHISLAV GLUTONOV slowly comes right up to BOS and smiles silently and a little shyly.

  INTERHOM: Johann, why does he have the face of a happy root plant? I’ve forgotten the Russian word.

  FUSHENKO: In Russian we say “vegetable,” Mademoiselle.

  LATRINOV: Not just “vegetable”—he has the face of a pumpkin!

  INTERHOM: A happy pumpkin!

  Pause. GLUTONOV remains silent.

  OFFICIAL GREETER (to BOS): He can’t speak. He has ten dependents to support. But he’s glad to see you.

  FUSHENKO (quietly but insistently): Mister Bos, I am a member of the Board of the Writers Union. I write stories from Turkish life.

  BOS ignores FUSHENKO.

  OFFICIAL GREETER: Could Mister Bos comment in more scientific terms on the purpose of his journey into the land where socialism is being constructed?

  BOS: In more scientific terms? Don’t irritate me. I’ve come here to enjoy merriment, the purpose of my journey is piffle.

  LATRINOV (solemnly): You are mistaken, Mister Bos. In our country, which covers one-sixth of the world’s dry land, where—

  FUSHENKO: Mister Bos, I—

  BOS: Don’t pretend to be serious, gentlemen. What you all want in your country is to have a laugh, but you keep trying to think! Better to laugh with fellow feeling!

  FUSHENKO: Mister Bos! I am orga—

  BOS: Good! Write stories. Play at fame.

  The noise of a train entering the station. Hubbub of passengers. It is clear from the sounds that this is an ordinary, poor man’s long-distance train, not an express.

  Some shabby-looking passengers enter the concourse by mistake, but the RAILWAY GUARD pushes them back out. Two passengers, however, manage to pass the GUARD and enter the concourse with sacks over their shoulders. A third passenger, FUTILLA, also walks past the GUARD, calmly and inadvertently. Her belongings are bundled over her shoulder: a tin mug and a sack of rusks on her back and a pile of books, tied with string, in front. FUTILLA is a swarthy, southern woman, now tired and dirty from traveling. She takes in both people and surroundings with surprised, somewhat sad eyes.

  BOS (observing FUTILLA): What a poor creation of Nature!

  FUTILLA: We are not rich. Which is the way out to the Kazan station? I need to travel to the desert.

  BOS (eyes her up without moving): What is your name, creature of God? Where are you hurrying to, Soviet child?

  FUTILLA: I’m not a child. I’m the chairman of the pastoral kolkhoz the Little Red Huts. I’m on my way home to the Caspian Sea.

  BOS: What a wonder of life—a child ruling a village kingdom.6 Where have you come from, my defenseless one?

  FUTILLA: I’m not defenseless—we have the kolkhoz, and I have a husband in the Red Army. I’ve been to Leningrad—I was given a library as a prize.

  FUSHENKO: Comrade Chairman, how many of your households have been collectivized? Is there activity on the part of the kulaks? Are there any crises in organizational and economic consolidation? Is there not an urgent need to dispatch to your kolkhoz a storming-and-liquidation brigade of writers? I am myself a member of a culture brigade.

  FUTILLA (thoughtfully): Writers? Are they clever people? We have fourteen little red huts. We had nothing to read, we’d read everything already, at night in the kolkhoz we read aloud. The lamp burns, the glass is cracked from the flame, and I read, and around me everyone thinks, and it’s dark everywhere, you can hear the sound of the Caspian Sea. We’d read all the books, they weren’t interesting anymore, it was boring living with only our own minds. Then I was given a library as a prize for the excellence of my register of workdays.7 They said they’d be sending the books, but the books never came. What does bureaucracy care about socialism? I went to collect the books myself—but now I need to find the way out to the Kazan station, to where you buy tickets without seat reservations.

  OFFICIAL GREETER: Here before you, Mister Bos, stands a small being of socialism.

  BOS: A huge being, my dear. The whole of God’s world is contained in this poor being. (To FUTILLA) Give me your hand, my happy one!

  Shyly, FUTILLA gives BOS her hand. BOS kisses it.

  FUTILLA: Now you should spit. My hand’s dirty. Hands aren’t for kissing, they’re for working and hugging.

  LATRINOV: She has completed the course in elementary hygiene.

  FUTILLA: Yes, I’m an assistant nurse and I can deliver babies.

  BOS: Have you tried giving birth yourself?

  FUTILLA: Yes, I’ve given birth.

  INTERHOM: Do you want some eau de cologne for your hands?

  FUTILLA: Not really. Why? Where’s the Kazan station?

  FUSHENKO: Allow me to get you a ticket without standing in line.

  FUTILLA: Is that possible? It’s against the law—I can see people standing in line. I’ve punished people myself for stealing a kilo of millet.8

  LATRINOV: It certainly is possible, my dear. Fushenko can get you a ticket all right. He even lives without standing in line—his turn passed by long ago, yet here the man is, still living his cultured life! Gennady, let’s kiss!

  FUSHENKO: Yes, Pyotr Polikarpovich! (They kiss.)

  INTERHOM (to FUTILLA): Do you want some milk?

  FUTILLA: I’ve drunk milk in the kolkhoz. Good-bye. I’ll join the queue for tickets—I’m afraid there’ll be none left. Why did those two kiss? It’s indecent of them.

  BOS: Wait. I’ll travel with you—don’t say no to an elderly man!

  FUTILLA: You are old. And where we live there are no trees. If you die, we’ll have nothing to make a coffin from. We’ll lay you down in the sand.

  BOS: All agreed. Good-bye, gentlemen! Keep at it—write your works, greet visitors, meet international express trains, and stay in good health!

  BOS and FUTILLA make their way to the exit.

  INTERHOM (rushing after him): Johann! Where will I live? Johann? This is an alien country, without you I’ll die, Johann!

  BOS (stopping for a moment): Now what? Go on, go on, keep on irritating me! Release piffle from your body!

  INTERHOM (pressing herself against him): Johann, with your love you have consumed my whole youth.

  BOS: Yes, I have. I’m a man, Interhom!

  INTERHOM: You can’t leave me just like that! Drink up your milk, eat something chemical—we’ll go off to a hotel and forget ourselves…Take me to the desert—without you, I’ll wither away in Europe. (Cries.)

  BOS: Only angels live in deserts or die of love, Interhom. You’re a woman, you won’t be going to the desert. In an hour or two you’ll be smiling.

  FUTILLA: Old man, the trains for all the kolkhozes will soon be leaving. We’ll be left behind.

  BOS: In a moment. In a moment we’ll organize everything, my poor girls!

  INTERHOM (in tears): Where are you going to drink milk and eat your powder and pills? Who are you going to love now? I’ve studied you and figured you out, I’ve got used to feeling, and now I must forget!

  FUTILLA: I’m going to feed him from my knapsack. I’ve got rusks and crusts.

  BOS (to LATRINOV): Mister Writer! Interhom is Dutch Flemish, although she was born in Russia. I consider it of importance to improve politico-moral relations between your motherland and Holland. Take Interhom under your protection and love. Do a favor to the Dutch queen!

  INTERHOM: Oh Johann, I’m so sad! Kiss my hand!

  BOS: Calm down, Interhom. You know life’s not a serious matter anyway. Good-bye, my poor body! (Kisses INTERHOM on the forehead and leaves her, moving toward FUTILLA.)

  LATRINOV (to INTERHOM, offering her his arm): Madame, allow me to offer you the most cultured friendship and hospitality. My house is open to the whole of Europe!

  FUTILLA (to BOS): Quick, Grandpa, let’s go back to our village, my child’s crying there.

  BOS: Let’s go, dear creation of God. Give me a rusk from your knapsack to suck on.

  FUTILLA
: In a minute. You can guzzle once we’re on the train.

  OFFICIAL GREETER: Mister Bos, your Buick is ready and waiting. The motor’s been kept warm all this time, the car is on duty for you.

  BOS: Turn it off. I’m warming up on my own now—let the motor cool down.

  Goes off with FUTILLA.

  LATRINOV (with INTERHOM on his arm): You will live excellently and seriously in my home, my splendid and very dear Madame Interhom.

  Everyone disperses. LATRINOV takes both of INTERHOM’s hands.

  Ah, my very own Dutch girl! What a wonderful hydrotechnical motherland you have! You and I can write novels—and sketches! At home I have a dog called Makar,9 the beast will be delighted to see you!

  INTERHOM (smiling): Yes, Mister Latrinov, I love novels. And I love Makars too—they’re splendid!

  LATRINOV: Darling, I’m dying for some of that milk of Bos’s.

  INTERHOM takes a bottle of milk out of her little suitcase and hands it to LATRINOV.

  INTERHOM: There you are!

  LATRINOV (after drinking the milk): That scientific old man had cultured ways! But listen, my superlative one, how could you live with such a very ancient old man?

  INTERHOM (smiling): Oh Mister Latrinov, life really isn’t such a serious matter!

  ACT 2

  One end of a low wattle fence; the bare branches, rocked by the wind, of an emaciated tree; the distant sound of the Caspian Sea.

  Beyond the wattle fence—an extension to a hut, something like a large porch. Inside stands a writing table.

  All the above takes up the right-hand side of the stage. To the left you can see into the distance, into empty, blurred space. Front left is a column bearing a hammer and sickle and the inscription, “USSR. Agricultural Pastoral Collective of the XIV Little Red Huts. Height above sea level: 19.27 meters. Average annual precipitation: 140 mm. Mouths to feed: 34. Chairman: F. I. Garmalova.”

  Center stage stands a scarecrow, made of clay, straw, and bits of rag. The scarecrow resembles a stern man, one and a half times life size. The right hand is raised in a gesture of vague threat.10