She had noticed this smile for the first time when she had told them she was working as an interpreter at the Center. Alexei’s mother smiled absently, stirring her coffee with a little spoon. Meanwhile his father grinned broadly and exclaimed in somewhat theatrical tones: “Ha! You don’t say!” And they exchanged rapid glances.
“Do they know exactly what my work is?” wondered Olya, in torment. “Of course they do. But maybe they don’t give a good goddamn? Or do they put up with me on account of Alyosha? Because they don’t want to upset him? Surely even he must know.
Of late this marriage had become an obsession with her. It seemed to her that if she succeeded in getting Alexei to marry her it would not only be a new era but a completely different life. Good-bye to snow-covered Yassenievo, good-bye to that room in the system-built apartment building! Now it would be downtown Moscow and a prestige building and an entrance hall with a caretaker and her husband’s official car parked under the window. All this assembly line espionage would come to an end; Alexei’s parents would find her honorable employment in some export trade department. And perhaps Alexei would be posted abroad, to an embassy; she would go with him and it would be her turn to pass through those customs barriers at Sheremetevo, from beyond which her clients generally waved her good-bye. Or rather not through the same barrier but straight in at the diplomats’ entrance.
She had talked to Svetka about all this one day in winter. The latter, spinning her hula hoop furiously, said to her: “The main thing, Olya, you know, is not to let yourself go. You haven’t got there yet. Do you remember Chekhov’s story, ‘The Eel’ …? There it is, already caught by the gills but it gives a flick of its tail and, presto! it heads for the open sea…. Now, listen carefully to my advice: get them to invite your father. He’s a Hero, after all. Get him to put on all his medals and take him along to your future parents-in-law. So it’ll be a bit like a family gathering already…. Well, what’s embarrassing about that? The only embarrassing thing in the whole world is trying to put your pants on over your head. Go for it! I know them, these little diplomats … they’re as slippery as eels. Don’t believe it’s happened till you’ve got the stamp on your passport.”
She stopped spinning and the hula hoop slipped lazily to her feet. Picking up the tape measure she measured her waist.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake! I just can’t work off all those goodies from the New Year! That’s right, laugh. Go ahead and make fun of a poor, sick old woman. I find you a fiance and you don’t even thank me! Once you’re married you won’t know me anymore. You’ll be driving around in a limousine with your little spouse. But I don’t care. By then my Vovka will have become a general in Afghanistan. We’ll be just as good as you…. Right, I must get spinning again, otherwise the capitalists won’t love me anymore.”
In the morning Olya went off to work and Ivan spent the whole day strolling about Moscow. He felt like an impressive retired officer ambling with a measured tread along the springtime streets. The passersby eyed his Gold Star and people gave up their seats to him on the subway. Sitting on a bench in the park he would have liked to get into conversation with someone and quite by chance mention his daughter. Here’s how it had happened. The two of them had been simple workers and their daughter was such a highflier that now she was working with foreign diplomats.
He would have liked to tell how they had bought his suit, talk about her future parents-in-law, about the leather wallet she had given him. Within its fragrant folds he had found a hundred-ruble note. “That’s for your meals, Dad,” Olya had explained. “I don’t have time to cook lunch for you.
One day walking past the Bolshoi Theater, he had overhead a conversation between two women who had a provincial look about them.
“No chance, I’ve asked. Because of Victory Day they’re only selling tickets to veterans. And foreigners, of course, who pay in currency.”
“Maybe you need to grease the administrator’s palm,” said the other one.
“Oh sure. Then he’ll sell us some! You bet. I guess he’s desperate for our crumpled old rubles!”
Near the Bolshoi box office, across the square from the Kremlin, Ivan saw an enormous buzzing crowd, seething angrily. It began in the tunnel leading from the subway, stretched up the staircase and spilled out into the open toward the glass doors of the box office.
“It’s always like this,” grumbled one woman. “You come to Moscow once in a lifetime, and what happens? All the tickets go to the veterans!”
“What do you mean —- the veterans?” someone else cut in. “Everything’s put on one side, to be sold at three times the price.”
“That’s all poppycock. What they’re after is foreign currency. There’s no oil left, so they’re selling culture!” shouted a third from the heart of the throng.
Unbuttoning his raincoat so his Star could be seen, Ivan threaded his way toward the box office. “I’ll give Olya a surprise,” he thought happily “I’ll come home and say in an offhand way: ‘Why don’t we go to the theater this evening? To the Bolshoi, perhaps?’ She’ll be amazed. ‘But how? We’ll never get any tickets.’ And then, with a wave of my wand, ‘Never get any?’ says I. ‘Look, here they are.’”
Outside the crowd was pressing against a metal barrier, beside which stood three militiamen. Seeing the Hero’s Gold Star, they opened the barrier a little and let Ivan through toward the box office. There, in front of the doors that were still shut, a few dozen veterans had gathered. Ivan studied the rows of decorations on the lapels of their jackets and even noticed a couple of Gold Stars on one of them. Several of them looked as if they had been waiting for a long while and, to pass the time, they were telling one another about their war experiences. The sky had been overcast since the morning and now damp snow was falling, brought on by an icy wind. People shivered, turned up their coat collars. Near the door stood a disabled man in a worn overcoat, all hunched up, supported on his single leg.
“Hey there, old guard!” called out Ivan. “What are we waiting here for? Aren’t there any more tickets?”
“We’re waiting to be called,” came the reply. “At midday they’ll count us again and let us in.”
And indeed at noon precisely the door opened and a sleepy woman with a discontented air announced: “There are a hundred and fifty tickets on sale. The rule is two tickets per person, which means one for the veteran and one for a member of his family. Those who’ve got numbered tickets form a line. The others, go to the back.”
Large snowflakes were falling and a bitter wind was blowing. Not far away, emerging from the gates of the Kremlin, came a cavalcade of official cars, as long and gleaming as pianos. And there stood the crowd, thrust back by the barriers and the militiamen, a crowd awaiting a miracle and eyeing the veterans with fierce jealousy, as they formed into line.
“Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three … mumbled the drowsy woman in haughty tones.
And the old men, giving a start, bustled up and hastily took their places in the column.
“Is this what we spilled our blood for?” called out a mocking voice in front of Ivan.
Looking more closely Ivan saw the face of a man of the people crinkled up in a smile. It was the disabled man who stood several places in front of him. The face struck him as familiar.
Ivan ended up as number sixty-two. He received two tickets for The Stone Guest. Emerging from the crowd, he went into the tunnel and headed for the subway. Passing a dark corner near some broken-down vending machines, he once more noticed the disabled veteran. Confronting him were two smartly dressed young men passing remarks at him while interrupting each other. Ivan stopped and pricked up his ears. Grasping the old man by the lapel, one of them barked at him sneeringly: “Listen, Pops, don’t try to get smart with us. We don’t want the prices to go sky high, do we? You always sell them for five rubles. Why are you screwing us around? Take ten and fuck off and buy a bottle. You’re never going to find a anyone who’ll give you fifteen, you old crook. They’re not ev
en in the orchestra.”
“Well, in that case, I’m not selling them. You can take it or leave it,” replied the veteran.
He swung around on his crutches and tried to move away. But one of them pushed him toward the vending machines and seized his collar.
“Now listen to me, you goddamned Hero of Borodino. I’m going to smash your goddamned crutches for you. You’ll have to crawl home.”
Ivan went up to them and asked in conciliatory tones: “Now then, what’s going on? Why are you young fellows badgering this old soldier?”
One of the fellows, rolling his chewing gum around in his mouth took a step toward Ivan.
“Are you looking for a pair of crutches, too, Grandpa?”
And he gave Ivan a careless shove with his shoulder.
“That’s enough. Leave it, Valera!” the other one intervened. “Let them go to hell, them and their Victory! Look, that one’s a Hero of the Soviet Union. Let’s go. Here come the cops.”
And then they swaggered off toward the subway
Ivan held out his hand to the man on crutches. Shaking his hand in return, the latter, half embarrassed and half mischievously, said: “Well, I recognized you right away, just now in the line, but I didn’t make myself known to you. My, my. You’ve gone up in the world with your necktie and your Star…. You must be a colonel at least, Vanya….”
“You’re joking! I’m a general, old friend! Now … I remember your surname well enough. But I’ve forgotten your first name. Sasha? Yes, of course. Alexander Semyonov. It comes back to me now. As if I could forget those great big ears of yours. Do you remember? We were always pulling your leg about them. We said you’d have to have a gas mask made to measure. And then the sergeant used to tease you: ‘Could you just tune in with your radar, Sasha, and find out if the Fritzes are coming over on a bombing raid?’ But what about your leg? Where did you lose it? If I remember correctly, it wasn’t serious, just a scratch. Back in the ranks we even used to say you’d done it yourself]”
“You’ve got no right to say that, Vanyusha. Look, what happened to me I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. I’ll tell you about it, but come to my place. We’ll have a chat over a glass or two. I can’t stay here long, all the militia know me. They keep moving me on, as if I had the plague! Don’t worry, you’ll have time to get back to your Yassenievo. Come on. It’s my treat. I live in a kommunalka just around the corner.”
In the little room there was a touching sense of order.
“Look, Vanyush, they’d hardly finished butchering me when my wife left me. The way it happened … you see … was it all started with one toe. It was smashed up by a bit of shrapnel. They applied a tourniquet, but good God, it was so cold — do you remember? — minus forty, and the leg froze. Then gangrene set in. They amputated my foot…. They look again and it’s already gone black farther up. Then they cut it below the knee and it’s started to rot above the knee. They cut it still higher, just leaving a stump they can fix an artificial leg to. It didn’t work. So then they took it back just below the stomach…. But what’s the good of dredging all that up? Come on, Vanya, let’s drink to the Victory!”
“Well, what do you know! The guys used to tell all kinds of stories about you…. You see, there we were in the trench frozen to the bone. Your name would come up and we’d say things like: 6Just think, that bastard Semyonov … his toe was buggered up and now he’s snug in bed with his wife under a warm quilt….’ So that was the truth of it….”
“Yes, Vanyush. Believe me, I’d rather have had five years in the trenches than this. And I’d have been happy to spend all my life single. From the age of twenty … And now that’s it. It’s all over. You know, at the hospital they were bringing us in by the wagonload, in whole trainloads. They had just enough time to disembark us. And of course they were hacking us about in double-quick time. Do you know, they severed all the nerves at the base of my stomach? It was just as if they’d castrated me. What woman would have wanted me after that?”
Semyonov switched on the television.
“Oh, look. Misha Gorbachev’s on again. I like him a lot, that joker. He’s a smooth talker and it’s all off the cuff. Now Brezhnev, toward the end, was almost tongue-tied; you couldn’t help feeling sorry for the guy. Even though, when all’s said and done, he was an absolute son of a bitch. When you think, he made himself a Hero of the Soviet Union three times over! All those medals he stuck on himself. While all I’ve got is one medal — for the defense of Moscow — plus all that anniversary ironware. And my pension’s eighty rubles … !
“So how on earth do you survive?” asked Ivan in amazement.
“I survive because I’ve got the knack for it. I’ve a strong enough grip to make me the envy of anyone at all. It just happened to be today that I got myself stuck with those two idiots. Normally it goes like clockwork. If you’re a veteran, especially one on crutches, they give you tickets without your having to stand in line. You’ve hardly walked away from the box office and people come running after you. ‘Sell us your tickets.’ They’ll take them off you at any price you like. And I owe something else to Gorbachev. He passed the dry law, but how can people do without vodka? After seven in the evening people will part with twenty-five rubles for a ten-ruble bottle without batting an eye. Most of the hotel doormen know me: I do a good trade with them. Take a look at my stock, Vanya.”
Semyonov bent over on his chair and dragged a great dusty suitcase out from under the bed. Inside it, tightly packed together, were rows of bottles of all shapes and sizes, with labels of many colors.
“So you see, Vanyush, there’s no need to hold back. Don’t be shy. I’ve enough here for a whole regiment!”
But Ivan was no longer drinking. He already felt a pleasant and joyful numbness: already all the objects in this modest room radiated a warm well-being. He became voluble, talked about Stalingrad, the hospital, Tatyana. Semyonov was an excellent listener, did not interrupt him, made comments at the right moment and at the right moment expressed astonishment. In his bitter and turbulent life he had contrived to learn how to listen to people attentively. Everyone can tell stories but listening intelligently and without upstaging the speaker … now that is an art in itself!
Finally and without managing to conceal his delight, Ivan remarked: “And as for me, Sasha, I’m not here in Moscow for the celebrations. I’m here to marry off my daughter. Yes, old friend, just that. ‘Come to Moscow, Dad. My fiance’s parents want to meet you.’ When you have to, you have to. ‘And their family’ she says, ‘is really top drawer: some in the diplomatic corps, others in ministries.’ She’s fixed me up very well, you see. I arrived here in an ancient suit I bought long ago in the days of old rubles.”
“And your daughter, Vanyush, where does she work?” asked Semyonov, neatly opening a can of sardines.
Unable to conceal his pride but with offhand joviality, Ivan replied: “Well, you know, my daughter’s a real highflier, Sasha. You could say she’s in the diplomatic world, too. It’s such a shame her mother didn’t live to see her married. It’d have been a real thrill for her. Where she works is the International Trade Center. You’ve heard of it?”
“Sure I know it! It’s over by the Trekhgorka textile works near the river. Gray skyscrapers, just like America. You’d think you were in New York. So what does she do there?”
“How can I explain? Well, let’s say an industrialist or a financier arrives, you see. He comes to sign a contract, to sell us some stuff; well, my daughter meets him, and translates everything our people say to him. In fact, she goes everywhere with him. And do you know how many foreign tongues she knows, Sasha?”
Ivan began to count them off but Semyonov was already listening somewhat absently, simply nodding his head from time to time and murmuring: “Mmm, mmm …”
“Of course, it’s a tiring job, that goes without saying,” continued Ivan. “Everything’s planned to the last minute: conversations, negotiations. And what’s more, night duty sometimes. But on th
e other hand, as I’m always telling her, you’re not forever being sprayed with sawdust and there’s no stink of gas. And the pay’s really good. I never earned that, not even when I was driving trucks long distance.”
Semyonov was silent as he absently poked with his fork at a little gleaming fish on his plate. Then he glanced uneasily at Ivan and, as if he were talking to someone else, muttered: “You know, Vanya, it’s a filthy business, if the truth be told.”
Ivan was dumbfounded.
“Filthy? What do you mean by that?”
“By that I mean, Vanyush, that… but don’t be angry … I have to tell you … it’s not their tongues those interpreters use for their work there. They use something else. That’s why they’re well paid.”
“Hey, Sasha! You shouldn’t have drunk wine after vodka. Mixing the two’s confused your brain. You’re talking nonsense. It’s laughable listening to you.”
“Don’t listen if you don’t want to. But the fact is I’m telling you the truth. And what’s more, I’m not drunk at all. Down there, buried in your countryside, you know nothing. But I traipse all over Moscow with my crutches, through all the entrance gates; so they can’t fool me. ‘Night duty’ Are you kidding? Those businessmen have their way with the interpreters. They’re there to service them!”
“That’s filthy gossip! So you are saying they’re all prostitutes?”
“You can call it what you like. There are prostitutes in business on their own account. The militia hounds them from pillar to post. And then there are the others, the official ones, if you like. They’re real interpreters, with diplomas, work permits, salary, the lot. By day they interpret and by night they service the capitalists in return for dollars.”
Semyonov was growing heated, he had a tousled and angry air. “He’s not drunk,” thought Ivan, “and suppose what he says were true …?”
With a forced laugh he said: “But Sasha, why the devil would the State go in for this nasty business?”
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