The Naked Year

by Boris Pilnyak

  Opposite the house are the monastery gates, on the right, Cathedral Square, worn down by the centuries and enervated by many heat waves, beyond the Cathedral Square lies the Ordinin house, also of lackey design (formerly–the Popkov merchants’!), behind is a ravine, densely wooded with copper-boled pine trees. Down from the gates on the hill the river Vologa can be seen, beyond the river, beyond the waterways and creeks in the distance in the woods can be seen: the white steeples of Redenevo, and others. And beyond the wood, in the new hills the black chimneys stand out: the factory’s–that is something else.

  The scorching sky pours down a scorching hot mist, in the evening the dusk will be yellow–and in the evening below the hill the camp fires will burst into flame: this will be the hungry folk heating their soup, those folk who crawl by the thousands into the steppes for bread, from the bottom of the hill sad songs float up. The town will already be asleep; the town fell into neglect under martial law. By night up from the water-meadows and creeks mists will drift. By night vigilantes will roam through the town, rattling their rifles. By night–by night the ordinary citizen Sergey Sergeyevich will go downstairs to see Semyon Matveev Zilotov, in just his clean underwear, and he will sit, bachelor fashion, on the window-sill with his swollen legs folded under him and he will talk about sauce mayonnaise and veal cutlets.

  “Dong, Dong, Dong–” ring out the chimes in the cathedral.Other days. The present century.

  The cobbler, Semyon Matveev Zilotov, wizened with rheumatism, has a wizened face which leans to one side. Winking his squinting eye he says “Now we’re in the year Two thousand nine hundred and nineteen!” and he adds with a grin “You don’t believe me? Check it! I swear it! Hell! The Pentagram!”

  In Semyon Matveev Zilotov’s basement window, in addition to the cardboard shoe boxes and just opposite the sign board:

  People’s Police Department Ordinin Branch

  A notice is pasted up. Tamotoes Sold Here. And a drawing of a red tomato.

  The stones burn. In the Kremlin a desert. Other days. A day dream. In the afternoon Olenka Kuntz will come home from her work at the People’s Police Department; she will sing ballads and in the yellow dusk she will go to the “Venice” cinema with her girl friends.

  The chimes ring out

  “Dong! Dong! Dong!

  Tamotoes Sold Here

  OLENKA KUNTZ AND THE WARRANT

  Day faded into yellow dusk, by night gray mists were forming. In the morning, in her office in the monastery, Olenka Kuntz was running arrest-warrants through a “Reneo” copier. In the small cell it was just as before, at the time of the nuns, clean and light, in the open window geraniums and balsamine were basking in the sun and in the monastery garden the birds were singing. Olenka Kuntz kept on turning:

  WARRANT:

  The bearer, Comrade, has the right to conduct a search at

  Count’s house and, if necessary, to place him under arrest.

  Chief of Police..................................

  Secretary .........................................

  Clerk................................................

  And under the word “clerk” Olenka Kuntz filled in her ungainly signature, over and over again, but still adding a little flourish.

  “O. Ku.” and dashes and a flourish.

  In the morning, by the monastery, in the Executive Committee room (balsamine basked by the windows here too), the Executive Committee had assembled–a sign of the times–leather people in leather jackets (Bolsheviks!),–all the same size, each one a leather beauty, each one strong, with curls in ringlets under his peaked cap pushed back on his head; each had, more than anything else, will power in his protruding cheek-bones, in the lines around his mouth and in his lumbering movements–and audacity. Of Russia’s rough, crumbly nationhood–the best slice. It’s just as well they wear leather jackets– you won’t wet them with the lemonade of psychology, this is what we have stated, this is what we know, this is what we want, and–that’s all there is to it! Incidentally, none of them has ever read Karl Marx, surely. Peter Oreshin, the poet, said about them (about us!): “It’s either–freedom to the poor, or–in the field on a pole!” Arkhip Arkhipov has been sitting since dawn in the committee room writing and meditating–day found him ashen-browed, over a sheet of paper, with eyebrows knitted and his beard somewhat dishevelled–but the air around him (which was not always so after the night) was pure, because Arkhip didn’t smoke. And when his comrades came, and when Arkhip handed over his sheet of paper, among other words the comrades read the intrepid words:

  “TO BE SHOT.”

  And moreover–on the same morning in the monastery, in a remote cell beyond the balsamine, by a corner tower overgrown with moss–

  colloquially moss covered Archbishop Sylvester was writing an essay about “Great Russia, Religion and Revolution.” The former cavalry officer and prince, the moss-covered gray-haired priest in a black cassock, the Archbishop Sylvester was sitting at a little table piled with papers and on the little table amidst the papers lay a hunk of black bread and spring water stood in a tall jug. A window stood high amidst the balsamine and by the door sat a “black” cloistered monk, alone and incongruous in the nunnery. The priest, covered in moss, was writing quickly and the little monk, absent-mindedly, hummed old Russian folk-songs, sweltering in the scorching heat.

  O. Ku................(and dashes, and a flourish)

  After work Olenka Kuntz went to a diner and told one of her girl friends about a new acquaintance she had made in the finance department, then dragged her friend off to her room. From the wicker gate to the rear entrance–along the boards, through the grass, stretching across the wilderness of a yard, they ran, their heels clicking, up the rickety staircase, past the chokingly malodorous toilet and up to the attic where they flung the windows wide open and burst out singing.

  In the garden where you and I met,

  The chrysanthemum bush …

  Soon they ran outside again and walked into the garden, eating raspberries. The day had faded into yellow dusk, and at dusk Olenka Kuntz went to the “Venice” cinema; there Vera Kholodnaya “was playing.” In the “Venice” the Head of the People’s Police Department, Comrade Jan Laitis, approached Olenka Kuntz,–in the darkness, when Kholodnaya “was playing,” Comrade Laitis squeezed Olenka’s hand. Afterwards Olenka Kuntz and Laitis went to the ravine, at the bottom of the ravine in the mist burned the campfires of the hungry folk, the mists were descending already and the town was silent–amid the forests and amid the marsh lands–under martial law: Olenka Kuntz guffawed when the vigilante asked to see her pass, and as she laughed she clung childishly to Laitis. Comrade Laitis, wearing a velvet jacket, talked of music, of Beethoven, of the violin and the clarinet.

  Olenka Kuntz said goodbye to Comrade Laitis by the garden gate, went home by way of the garden; for a minute a light flashed in the attic and the house died. The night was dark, and out of Porechye oozed the damp gray mists.

  And then someone rang the gate bell sharply (where the striped sentry box stood). The bell tinkled plaintively. Comrade Laitis was standing by the gates with a detail of soldiers. Andrei Volkovich unlocked the gate. Comrade Laitis asked:

  “Where’s the officer-nobleman student Volkovis’ apartment?”

  Andrei Volkovich answered nonchalantly, “Go round the house and up the stairs to the first floor.”

  So saying he yawned, stood for a moment by the gate lazily and lazily went back into the house and round to the front door. Comrade Laitis, with the detail, in single file, over the planks laid through the courtyard grass, went round to the rear entrance. The staircase led them up to a door which had been boarded up

  “Not here.”

  “Smash the door in.”

  They smashed the door in, behind the door broken furniture was strewn about, a billiard table was still standing. Through a new door they went into a decaying gallery, and the gallery creaked under the weight of the bodies, in the half-lig
ht of the smoking lighters, gray shadows flitted about in the hall, the white wash began to flake off the walls:

  “Not here! The staircase there on the landing!”

  The mezzanine reeked of the bitter smell of night and habitation. On Sergey Sergeevich’s door hung a visiting card. Sergey Sergeevich appeared in the doorway, in just his underwear, with a candle, he was swollen and shaking like an aspen, the light from his candle spread around, flickering.

  “Where’s Volkovich’s apartment?”

  “He’s not here! He’s downstairs! Second room on your left as you come in through the front door.”

  “Search everywhere! Surround the house!”

  Andrei Volkovich was no longer in the house.

  Comrade Laitis showed Sergey Sergeevich the order, signed by himself and authorizing himself to conduct searches and make arrests–and also there–the signature–of Olenka Kuntz:

  O. Ku. (and dashes and a squiggle).

  They rapped at Olenka Kuntz’s door! Olenka Kuntz was in tears. Comrade Laitis came in to see her.

  “This is bad, this is bad! I’m not dressed!–goes away!”

  Olenka Kuntz made up her own rules of grammar and thought it impolite to use the plural of the verb when addressing individuals politely. Olenka Kuntz used to say “Do you loves me,” and not “Do you love me?”

  Olenka Kuntz was sitting on her bed, her legs folded under her, in her night-dress, and the violet dawn shone distantly through the window near her bed. The night-dress didn’t cover Olenka Kuntz completely so that, even when Olenka Kuntz folded her arms on her breasts, Comrade Laitis firmly fixed his eyes on Olenka Kuntz’s breasts and then let them wander nimbly over her shapely knees. Olga’s lips, with crying, were pursed provocatively, like cherries.

  “This is bad, bad! I’m not dressed. I’m sorry for Andrei. Goes away!”

  Comrade Laitis left. Sergey Sergeevich was running all over the house, sinking down heavy on each foot, helping out. They didn’t find Andrei Volkovich. The Head of the People’s Police went away. Sergey Sergeevich saw him off. Through the streets stalked the damp fog, in the distance the dawn shone violet.

  Olenka Kuntz was crying in the gray dawn dirty murkiness, as if insulted Olenka Kuntz was crying: she felt sorry for Andrei Volkovich and she enjoyed having a cry.–And in the gray dawn dirty murkiness a mighty guffaw bellowed through the whole block: now it was Sergey Sergeevich guffawing. Sergey Sergeevich was treading heavily, sinking down onto each foot, down the stone staircase to Semyon Matveev Zilotov’s basement. Semyon Matveev was standing near the stove, the stove was blazing, in little jars potions of some description were heating by the fire.

  “Did you see?” said Sergey Sergeevich maliciously, and laughing out loud, holding his stomach.

  Semyon Matveev answered, “The pentagram, not pentagon!”

  “Not bad, eh! I opened the door myself and–out the back way, eh?–Ho, Ho! Look for the wind in the field. Ho! Ho!”

  “It’s just a pity he’s Russian. By Hell. But:–you see this sign?–the foreigner is found.”

  “Did you see? Ho, Ho!… You still cooking? You must have burned that pork cutlet by now… Ho. Ho. You’ll not buy another one!”

  In a gray dirty murkiness the dawn broke, and the damp mists crawled along the streets. At dawn, in the mist, a shepherd began to play his pipe, sorrowfully and softly, like the Permian northern dawn.

  Sergey Sergeevich sat down tailor fashion, on the window sill, his swollen legs folded under him. In the stove, just out of reach of the flames, glues of various sorts were heating in crucibles and from behind the stove had been pulled out a small table with open books, in which the Russian letter Ш looked more like a T and the B like a П and a globe, on which Russia was painted in red. Semyon Matveev Zilotov, carefully carrying the crucibles from the stove to the table, walked with a gait resembling the gait of an ancient hound.

  Semyon Matveev Zilotov took from the table a pentagonal piece of cardboard, in the center of which was the word “Moscow,” circled and in the corners–Berlin, Vienna, Paris, London and Rome. Silently he approached Sergey Sergeevich, Semyon Matveev folded the corners of the pentagon:–Berlin, Vienna, Paris, London and Rome now came together. After unfolding the corners again Semyon Matveev remade the pentagon. Berlin, Vienna, Paris, London and Rome leaned towards Moscow and the piece of cardboard began to resemble a tomato, painted red from the bottom upwards.

  “See this sign?” said Semyon Matveev Zilotov very sternly–“The foreign towns, once they had come together, bowed down to Moscow town. But Moscow has remained humiliated.”

  Semyon Matveev went over to the stove and poured out a liquid from one crucible into another, a bluish smoke rose up, there was a hissing sound and the smell of burning sulphur.

  “The pentagram,” said Semyon Matveev standing by the table leaning a hand on the globe.

  “Swear: the pentagram, Hell’s bells! And I’ll reveal a great secret. You see what’s happening in Russia?”

  “It’s well known. Boorocracy, hunger, plundering. That’s what’s going on!”–answered Sergey Sergeevich. “Pork’s seventy five! What’s happening?! Russia’s walking on her hind legs,” Sergey Sergeevich smiled. “Just you run along and buy me some salami. Ho, ho!”–Sergey Sergeevich became maliciously joyful: “Ho, Ho!… Andrei, Andrei then, what! Go up to the first floor! Ho-Ho!… Did you see?! Ho-Ho!”

  “Stop it!” exclaimed Semyon Matveev Zilotov, rapping the globe with his hand. “Russia against the whole world? In Russia isn’t there hunger, sedition and murder?–and there will be for twenty years!… Swear–you’ll learn the secret!…”

  Sergey Sergeevich became maliciously joyful.

  “Well then, what?!–I swear!”

  “Swear: Hell’s bells, the pentagram!”

  “I swear: Hell’s bells, the pentagram! Well then, what?!

  Semyon Matveev began making awkward movements, squatted down, found his balance and whispered:

  “In twenty years Russia will find her salvation. In the monastery, from the Father Superior’s cell–Laitis, Comrade, is there now–there’s a warm passage to the winter church. On the altar!”

  “What are you on about?”

  “The foreigner–Laitis, Comrade! On the altar! Twenty years from now there will be a saviour. Russia will cross breed with a strange nation. The Saviour will surrender to the Arabian magi. I’ll educate…”

  “What are you on about?”

  “Olga Semyonovna Kuntz–with the foreigner Laitis. A beauty. A virgin. Crimson with blood the altar will run. And then everything will burn–and the foreigner–into the fire!”

  “What are you on about? Do you want to avenge Volkovich”–Sergey Sergeevich asked quietly and seriously.

  “No, to save Russia!”

  (… And then around the corner watching like soldiers’ buttons; China, the Heavenly kingdom)…

  “Well, where does Olga Semyonovna fit in?”

  “Olga Semyonovna is a virgin! A beauty.”

  “What are you on about now? Is it from hunger or what? You should be cooking cabbage soup instead of potions!.. It’s time!..”

  “Listen! Look!”

  Semyon Matveev Zilotov lifted a thick book from the table and began to read.

  Who dares to deliver us from the crimes which shame our age, from all those vices which have spread injury throughout our lands, from all disorders, shared and private, which make our society gasp?–from the depths of the earth up to the majesty of the day star, everything points to the recognition of an independent Prime Mover, controlling the chain of creatures and who alone is their beginning. Everything prophesies at the same time to the soul and the mind, and especially to the inner sentiment which never deceives the enquirer. The more we gather our thoughts the more conscious we are of the sign of the infinite power, that mark of greatness, visible everywhere and in all things!

  Semyon Matveev lived like a hermit crab and his basement flat was shell-like: Semyon Matveev on
ly had to shake a foot whilst sitting over the stove–and his legging would fly into the corner, he only had to shake his second foot–and his second legging would also take its stand in the corner next to the first; Semyon Matveev had only to make one wrong move when sitting over the stove and the dried out brickwork would begin to crumble, and this never happened, because even in his sleep, Semyon was used to lying like an unusual question mark; –if Semyon Matveev suddenly wanted to have “The Pentagram, or the Mason’s Sign, translated from the French” near him–he had only to hang down over the stove and without ever misjudging, lift “The Pentagram” from the table, and know by touch the correct page.

  The gray dawn murkiness lifted away from the earth, the day warmed up, bright and hot. The gray mists drifted up into the sky. Sergey Sergeevich went upstairs to his room. Olenka Kuntz was already up, splashing water over herself, splashing as she was about to sing.

  “In the garden, where you and I met…

  But she remembered about Comrade Laitis and fell silent, embarrassed. Sergey Sergeevich was making some burned-rye coffee in a little pot and, closing the door more securely, took a small lump of sugar and a piece of cheese from some secret hiding place; after spreading a napkin on the table, he drank the coffee. After the coffee, and then a cigarette, Sergey Sergeevich shaved and put on a silk jacket with sweat-rotted arm pits; then went to his work in the savings bank, where on the first of every month he would write in the “Bulletin” that “no transactions took place this month” or “no deposits received.” Before work, Sergey Sergeevich stopped off at a little house where they exchanged cuff links for butter; in the office, in the stifling heat, the flies buzzed and Sergey Sergeevich, covered in sweat, would play “preference” with a clerk–a dunderhead; after work Sergey Sergeevich would drop in at a state cafeteria, take a meal home in a dinner-can and eat at home, laying out the napkin again, after dinner he would sleep and at dusk would go for a stroll along the boulevard.