The Complete Works of Isaac Babel Reprint Edition by Isaac Babel, Nathalie Babel, Peter Constantine

by Nathalie Babel, Peter Constantine Isaac Babel

  “Ivan Platonovich, I place all my hopes in you,” Vasilyev said to Tolmazov. “All it will take is a single word from you!”

  “And I will say that single word,” Tolmazov answered in a voice as loose-fitting as the suit he was wearing. “I will say that word, Seryozha. We wont let these people here snatch you away from our institute!”

  Murashko appeared at the door.

  “Please come in, Ivan Platonovich!”

  • • •

  Murashko sat at his desk, Tolmazov in the armchair.

  “One sees you so seldom nowadays, Ivan Platonovich,” Murashko said.

  “But this time around, I am the one who is coming for a favor,” Tolmazov replied, with almost more coquetry than an academic can permit himself.

  “All the luckier for us,” Murashko let slip.

  Tolmazov looked at him in surprise.

  “Having the opportunity, I mean, of doing you a favor,” Murashko quickly added. “It would be a great pleasure. There aren’t that many pleasures left to us.”

  The professor smiled.

  “That is very kind of you,” he said. “I have come to you on account of Vasilyev, one of my students at the institute. He defended his dissertation just recently—a wonderful defense! It was on the subject of my vortex theory.”

  Murashko nodded sympathetically.

  “Vasilyev combines his deep knowledge of aerodynamics with a great meticulousness and exactitude in his work.”

  Murashko nodded again.

  “And then we suddenly find out that Vasilyev is taken away from the institute as a member of the Komsomol and assigned to your Airship Construction Project! I hope, Comrade . . . um . . .” “Murashko,” Murashko prompted him.

  “. . . Comrade Murashko, that you will not object to him remaining on our faculty at the institute.”

  “But I do object!” Murashko said. “To be perfectly honest with you,

  I did have some misgivings at first about his coming to us, but after the splendid reference you have just given him . . . Well, you’ll simply have to let our Airship Construction Project have him.”

  A shadow flashed over Professor Tolmazov’s face. He got up.

  “I have no option but to address myself to a higher authority.” Suddenly Zhukov, disheveled, came tearing into the office. “Comrade Murashko, how could you do that? What a blockhead! On the launch pad, we again have—”

  Tolmazov, taken aback, stepped to the side, but Zhukov had already seen him. Both men froze.

  “Hello, Ivan Platonovich,” Zhukov said after a few moments of silence in an unexpectedly high-pitched voice.

  Tolmazov bowed. Then Zhukov bowed too, but bolts of lightning were already flashing in his eyes.

  “As you can see, I am alive and have not gone insane.”

  “Judging by your last article, one might well—”

  Zhukov came bounding forward. “You disagree with my position?” Tolmazov nodded. “I completely and utterly disagree.”

  “I cant believe you didn’t even try to understand what I was saying!” Zhukov shouted, marching toward Tolmazov.

  Tolmazov turned to Murashko and explained in a condescending tone, “Pyotr Nikolayevich and I have been arguing for some twenty years now.” “I am aware of that,” Murashko said.

  “I am trash, that’s what I am! Worthless!” Zhukov began yelling, almost in delirium. “While you, you have been blossoming! Handsome! A handsome youth! A handsome man! A handsome old man! A god! Yes, Ivan Platonovich is a god!”

  Zhukov squirmed, waved his arms, and ran in circles around the office.

  Professor Tolmazov grimaced.

  “Are you also here visiting Comrade Murashko?” Tolmazov asked, in an attempt to change the subject.

  “Visiting! I’m here because of the airship!” Zhukov sputtered furiously.

  “Pyotr Nikolayevich is the chief engineer of our Airship Construction Project,” Murashko said, leaning forward slightly.

  “Ah,” Tolmazov said, visibly shaken.

  “Ah, indeed!”

  Zhukovs eyes flashed with boyish fire and he ran out of the office, muttering under his breath.

  “A dangerous decision,” Tolmazov said, completely dropping his official tone. “He is a dreamer, an autodidact! A dangerous man indeed!”

  “And yet we have found a counterbalance for him,” Murashko said, glancing at Tolmazov. “I received a phone call today. A council of scientists has been appointed to oversee our Airship Construction Project, and it is to be headed by the highly esteemed Professor Tolmazov.”

  “Me? Youre joking!” Tolmazov said.

  “No, I’m not joking,” Murashko answered. “The main thing for us is to send them up.”

  “Send who up?” Tolmazov asked.

  “The Soviet airships.”

  7.

  A panoramic view of the airship dockyard: hangars scattered over its vast area, gas reservoirs, a mooring mast. Some of the buildings were ready, some were being finished, others were still surrounded by scaffolding. A gigantic excavator was tearing at the earth with its prehistoric jaws and then moving on, tirelessly hacking a path for itself.

  The office buildings, the aerodynamics laboratory, and the new mess hall.

  The design department. Hot shafts of light were falling onto the drafting tables and the heads of the young women working there.

  In the corner stood a desk with a sign above it: “Chief Engineer of Fledgling Bird.”

  Fate had thrown Natasha Maltseva into a train compartment together with Comrade Murashko, and now this twenty-six-year-old woman with chestnut hair neatly parted in the middle was occupying the position she deserved—that of chief engineer of operations.

  • • •

  A brightly lit corridor. The shine of the walls, and a hospitallike silence.

  Disheveled Zhukov hurried down the corridor with the chief bookkeeper at his heels.

  “Comrade Zhukov! Your cleaning woman has sent a request for an advance on her pay!

  “Aksinya . . . oh, yes, she’s a good woman. A very good woman! Give her five thousand!” Zhukov stammered as he hurried on.

  The chief bookkeeper was on the brink of extending his stubby little wings and bouncing into the air.

  “Comrade Zhukov, shes only asking for eighty rubles!”

  But Zhukov had already disappeared behind the doors of the design department.

  Natasha Maltseva raised her calm, intent eyes to Zhukov, and without saying a word handed him a large blueprint with the heading: “High-speed airship USSR 1, designed by Zhukov.” She made a sign to one of the cleaning women. “Get me Comrade Vasilyev!”

  Zhukov quickly riffled through a pile of supplementary blueprints lying on a nearby desk. Then he caught sight of an outline sketch of the cross-section of the airship.

  “A fabulous piece of work!”

  “Brilliant,” Natasha said, with the same calm, intent stare fixed on Zhukov.

  Zhukovs spectacles sparkled angrily. “Girlish enthusiasm!”

  Natasha shrugged her shoulders. “It s obvious enough that it’s brilliant.”

  Vasilyev entered the office. Zhukov turned to him energetically: “What we need now is your okay to launch this baby!”

  “As you can see, Comrade Vasilyev, we have reached the stage of aerodynamics computations,” Natasha said quietly. “And thats your field.”

  Vasilyev walked over to the blueprints and bent over them.

  “I don’t quite understand this. You are intending to put the gondola—”

  “To hell with the gondola!” Zhukov shouted. “Everyone will be inside! Forget the gondolas! Get inside!”

  “The fuel tanks—” Vasilyev continued.

  “There are no tanks! There is no fuel! There’ll be hydrogen engines .. . running on their own gas.”

  “You see, Comrade Zhukov’s basic idea is—” Natasha began.

  “I know Comrade Zhukov’s basic ideas,” Vasilyev interrupted her.

  “Neve
rtheless, I would still like to know where the ships steering system is!”

  Zhukovs eyes flashed beneath his spectacles.

  “Well, Tm sorry, but you wont find one!”

  “In that case, I would be grateful if you would enlighten me as to how you intend to steer the ship,” Vasilyev asked with undisguised derision.

  Zhukov came tearing forward, but the drafting table cut off his path.

  “You’re still living in the eighteenth century! I’m going to install a ring at the tail of the ship which will replace the steering system— the ring will be eight meters in diameter. It will control the ships direction, speed, and mobility!” And looking at his watch he suddenly shouted, “Good God, its past four already! And God Almighty, Im sure, is waiting impatiently. ... So, Comrade Vasilyev, get working!”

  And he rushed off. “A-e-ro-dy-na-mic!” he shouted in a voice that ran from declamation to cocks crow.

  Vasilyev stared after him until the door fell shut.

  “I dont know who one should contact first, the psychiatric ward or the NKVD,”1 he said to Natasha. “Is he insane or a saboteur?”

  “He is a genius,” Natasha said.

  “One that denies that two times two equals four.”

  “Does two times two equaling four have anything to do with Professor Tolmazov’s vortex theory?” Natasha asked archly.

  Vasilyev furiously grabbed the table with both hands.

  “No, my highly esteemed Comrades,” he shouted, as if he were addressing the committee of scientists. “No, Comrades, science plays no role whatsoever here! This is now a matter for the Party to decide!”

  “Everything is decided by our Party,” Murashko said, appearing suddenly in the doorway. “Calm down, young man.”

  “Young man? Why, are you old or something?” Aksinya mumbled from a corner.

  “Comrade Murashko!” Vasilyev said, drawing himself up. “I am speaking for my whole group when I tell you that we will not attempt to work our way through these ravings. I demand that an expert be brought in.”

  “As in Professor Tolmazov?” Natasha asked, narrowing her eyes.

  “Do you know of anyone who is more of an authority in this field?” Vasilyev answered, barely able to contain his anger.

  8.

  The aerodynamics laboratory of the Airship Construction Project. Airship models hung from the ceiling. A sleek, silver, cigar-shaped model, suspended from a wire, was swaying gently, the gondola and engine within it. Next to it, near the aerodynamics air pumps, stood the airship design commission: Tolmazov, Zhukov, Murashko, Vasilyev, Maltseva, Polibin, and the engineers from the design department. The engines of the air pumps were droning. All heads were turned to the indicator panel.

  Maltseva switched off the machine.

  Tolmazov walked over to where the models were hanging, and the rest followed him. He stood by the wall, and checked the notes in his notebook.

  “Now to the air pump results. I accept the hydrogen engine, it is a risk worth taking. I admit that it does offer a chance for a slight increase in speed.”

  “A slight increase?” Zhukov interrupted him. “You call going from fifty kilometers an hour to three hundred a slight increase in speed?”

  “As for the rest,” Tolmazov continued, turning to Zhukov, “I will remind you of some basic facts that every schoolboy knows. The way you have designed the ring that is to replace the steering system, it will inevitably stall in the contiguous stratum of air. In other words, the airship will be unnavigable. I would like to refer you to the handbook issued by the Armstadt Firm in Mannheim.”

  “I see what you are saying!” Zhukov snapped. “Even the moon was invented by the Germans!”

  “Youre the one who is aiming for the moon, Comrade Zhukov!” Tolmazov retorted.

  “One day well even get that far,” Zhukov muttered.

  Seeing that the discussion was veering from its scientific course, Polibin stepped in.

  “I think one could go so far as to say,” he began in his mellifluous voice, “that there might be a touch of dilettantism in the model of our highly esteemed Comrade Zhukov....”

  “You’ll have to get rid of that ring, Comrade Zhukov!” Tolmazov said roughly.

  “I must say that my inclination is to agree with Comrade Tolmazov on this point,” Polibin’s voice purred.

  Zhukov sat down in an armchair, clasped his head in his hands, and shut his eyes.

  “Years,” he whispered, jumping up. “A whole decade ... pitfalls ... desperation . . . Am I to be tormented, tormented all my life?”

  His thin body began to shake and his eyes filled with pain.

  “High priests of science! Archimandrites!” he shouted. “Two fingers, three fingers . . . Old Believers! Followers of Nikon!”*

  “Are these the arguments you are proffering?” Tolmazov asked him coldly.

  Zhukov closed his eyes and fell silent.

  “My argument,” he said with unexpected clarity, “is that the airship we are building, I am building, she is building”—he pointed at Natasha Maltseva—“she over there is building”—he pointed at the cleaning woman—“will fly above your damn clerics’ heads! It will fly higher, faster, and farther than any other airship has ever flown before!”

  Tolmazov shrugged his shoulders.

  “That’s poetry, not science. In my opinion, the possibility of launching this airship in its present design is completely out of the question.”

  “I suggest we call a meeting of our committee of scientists,” Murashko said in his usual, calm voice.

  “A complete waste of time, if you ask me,” Tolmazov said, getting up and pushing away his chair.

  “This is the first time I find myself in agreement with the highly esteemed Professor,” Zhukov said.

  Murashko slowly looked at the others.

  “As the results of the aerodynamics experiment were inconclusive,” he said in a completely offhand manner, “we will conduct further experiments once the airship is airborne.”

  “In that case, I have a question,” Vasilyev said, dashing toward Murashko. “I have only one very simple question: who will you send up in this flying coffin?”

  9.

  “The test-flight crew of the airship USSR 1 reporting for duty! Present are: Eliseyev, captain; Friedman, altitude pilot; Petrenko, navigational pilot; Bityugov, airship engineer; Alexeyev, navigator; Asparyan, radio operator; Gulyayev, first flight engineer; and Borisov, second flight engineer!” Eliseyev, the test pilot, announced, saluting Murashko. Lined up next to Eliseyev outside the closed gates of the hangar stood eight men in Aeroflot uniforms.

  A bright July morning. The airfield. A formation of airplanes in the

  sky.

  “Greetings, Comrades!” Murashko said.

  “Greetings!” the flight crew replied.

  “Which one of you is Friedman?”

  Eliseyev took Murashko to a blue-eyed giant.

  “This is our altitude pilot Lev Friedman.”

  “I see our little boy here has grown into quite a man!” Murashko said.

  Friedman blushed.

  “I hope my mom hasn’t been kicking up a fuss again,” he said.

  The immense gates of the hangar parted. The silver airship USSR 1 hung suspended from girders.

  The assembly crew, its foreman the feisty girl with the unruly mop of curls in front, stood by the airship. Next to her stood Natasha, struggling to contain her excitement. Zhukov was sitting in a chair near the stern of the ship.

  The pilots walked around the airship, their eyes filled with hungry curiosity. Friedman furtively shook Mop-heads hand as he walked past. Murashko and the pilots walked over to the front of the ship.

  “Go on, Natasha, show them the ropes,” Zhukov called out to Maltseva, waving to her to come over. “Im bound to make a mess of things!”

  “Comrades! You see before you the airship USSR ly designed by Engineer Zhukov!” Natashas unexpectedly powerful voice rang out. “This design is b
ased on a new concept that will guarantee a considerable increase in speed, range, altitude, and, most importantly, safety and ease of navigation.”

  Zhukovs face, as he listened with closed eyes.

  • • •

  The new mess hall bathed in light. Starched tablecloths, scrubbed

  floors, an abundance of flowers.

  Raisa Friedman, never missing an opportunity to hold a production meeting: “What would you suggest as a first course?” she asked the chief bookkeeper. “Chopped herring or chopped liver?”

  “Cabbage soup, my dear Mrs. Raisa!” the bookkeeper said to her with fervor. “When will you make us some plain and simple cabbage soup?

  • • •

  The sun stood high in the sky. The test pilots and construction crew crossed the airfield and walked toward the mess hall. Murashko and Eliseyev, who were both from the same town, were walking next to each other.

  “Have you been back home recently?”

  “I was just there,” Eliseyev said.

  “Hows everyone doing?”

  “They re blossoming,” Eliseyev said. “Fedya Kostromi is now secretary of the District Committee.”

  “Amazing!”

  “ Vitka is a machine tool operator. Word has it that he has managed to produce several times the required quota.”

  “What about Varyukha?” Murashko asked.

  “She got married. A good fellow, except for Saturday evenings.” “He hits the bottle?”

  “And how.”

  “What about Ponomaryev?”

  Behind them, Mop-head and Friedman, walking next to each other: “If you really want to go out with me,” she said in a didactic tone, “you dont have to come up with anything fancy. Just figure out how you can get your hands on two Anna Karenina tickets, and on Sunday I want to go to Khimki.”2

  Petrenko, a young pilot, and Agniya Konstantinovna walking together: “Personally, I disagree with Volodya Kokkinaki on the speed issue. But when it comes to range, the airship is a winner. Thats what I said to Volodya. . . .”