The Naked Year
Page 12
“Comrade J-an!…”
Comrade Laitis got stuck in raspberry bushes, again went out to the pond, already from the other side–the moon was reflected in the water transparently and palely and again–silence, mist, trees.
“Olka Zemyonovna!…”
Silence.
“J-an!…”
Cherry tree, apple trees, a lime grove. Silence and the mist. And somewhere close by:
“J-an!…”
Comrade Laitis broke into a run, stumbled, jumping, against the little fence, did not notice how he hurt his knee. Behind the little fence, in the summer house, someone mightily snored. The clock struck two quarters. And again in the distance:
“J-an!…”
“Olka Zemyonovna!…”
And silence, only the snapping of the branches from Comrade Laitis’s running. And silence. And mist. And trees. And nobody was calling Comrade Jan any more. The moon grew pale, latched onto the tops of the trees. Comrade Laitis for a long time smoked cigarette after cigarette, and his cheekbones were pressed tight–Olenka Kuntz was already lying in bed next to her girl friend (every week Olenka had a new girl friend for secrets and confidences). The chimes beat out the quarters over and over again. A crimson ribbon lay across the East, the mists began to creep upwards. In the morning frost the leaves began to rustle, and the frog shouts were borne more distinctly.
By the monastery gate stood a sentry, damp and gray in the mist.
“Iv a lady comes, pring her to me.”
“Yes, sir.”
And in the cathedral:
“Dong, dong, dong!…”
In the monastery, in Mother Superior’s cell, in the small room, where Comrade Laitis slept–Comrade Laitis took off his coat. Comrade Laitis put the clock into the slipper by the bedhead; emroidered in gold, this slipper, like the rug by the bed, like the bedroom slippers also, like the socks also–had been knitted by Comrade Laitis’ mother in his Livonian province. Comrade Laitis put on the slippers, the ones his mother knitted, picked up the violin and, standing by the window, played long and very sad. Through the window, beyond the cloisters, beyond the monastery wall, the East flared up. Comrade Laitis took the keys and through the winter cloister walked to the winter church. In the church it was silent, scarcely noticeable was the smell of incense and mold, and on the cupola appeared the golden sparks of the first rays.
The day had come, the one like a soldier’s wife in a sarafan, at thirty years.
THE MONASTERY Vvedenyo-na-Gore
By the monastery gate stood the sentry. Across the East lay the crimson ribbon of the dawn, the mists crept upwards toward the sky; the moon grew pale. For a few minutes the world and the town of Ordinin –churches, houses, road surfaces–were green, like water, like a creek (in these minutes the monastery resembled the decor of a theater). Then the world and town of Ordinin became yellow, like the fall. And the sun rose like a golden crown out of the night. At this hour–in the monastery cells, in the stuffy rooms with vaulted ceilings, with empty ikon cases and busy-lizzies in the red corners, on soft monastic feather beds slept the soldiers.
By the monastery gate stood the sentry. The sun rose like a golden crown. Then the soldiers came up to the sentry in turn, and past the sentry in line walked the sleepy, tired women, for the curfew hour had ended.
Oh, Olenka Kuntz! About her purity and virginity the poets Semyon Matveev Zilotov and Comrade Laitis dreamed, each with an aching passion and each in his own way. Then–why did the poets Semyon Matveev Zilotov and Comrade Laitis not know what everyone in the town knew, that Olga Kuntz herself did not keep particularly hidden–that there was in Ordinin town an ensign Cherep-Cherepas. Cherep-Cherepas, going off to the front, to Kolchak, somewhere in the direction of Kazan town, took Olenka Kuntz troika riding, then in his hotel room plied her with the hard stuff, and Olenka Kuntz surrendered herself to him–just as easily as all her girl friends surrendered themselves. And this was repeated more than once and not only with Cherep-Cherepas–the ensign Cherep-Cherepas was killed somewhere near Kazan town, in a soldier rebellion.
And still…
Olenka Kuntz at work sat in a small cell, as clean and bright as Olenka Kuntz herself. In the cell in the open windows basked geraniums and busy-lizzies, and through the windows in the garden the sparrows chirped. Olenka Kuntz clattered on the typewriter. To Olenka Kuntz every quarter of an hour came Comrade Laitis. Olenka Kuntz looked triumphant.
Comrade Laitis said to Olenka Kuntz:
“You koing dome to night?”
“Yes, so what?”
“Please come and fisit me. It’s my pirthday totay.”
“Who else will you be inviting?–Congratulations!”
“I wanted you…”
“Then I’ll phone my friend Katya Ordinina, a princess.
“B-b-but…”
Olenka Kuntz smiled triumphantly, like a conspiratress:
“Don’t be alarmed! They’re having a romance–they won’t disturb us. Only you get some sweets and wine.”
Comrade Karrik answered into the telephone receiver:
“Katya and Olga?–I’ll come!–I’ll bring her!…”
The telephone receiver sang in a passionate ringing, and Comrade Laitis every quarter hour called in to see Olenka Kuntz, to remind her again and again.
The day incinerated with its scorching heat, the scorching hot sun’s rays melted the air, in the monastery garden the sparrows called. In the cell of the Mother Superior, in a small room, where Comrade Laitis slept–Comrade Laitis had a little basket. In the little basket lay all that was dear, his memory of his homeland and mother. From the little basket Comrade Laitis took a little silk pillow, embroidered by his mother’s hands, different woolen colors. From the little basket Laitis took a satin blanket, quilted by his mother’s hands. And the pillow and blanket Comrade Laitis took to the winter church.
And yet.
Must one speak?
Must one speak about what was as simple as a glass of tea?–Comrade Laitis dreamed about a violin, and there was no violin. Comrade Karrik brought with him the hard stuff. Olenka Kuntz and her girl friend Katya Ordinina came, linking arms and in headscarves, lowered over their eyes.–Must one speak?–the ancient monastery was silent; in the cell with vaulted ceilings, where out of the windows the monastery cloisters could be seen, the churches and walls–Comrade Karrik carefully plied the young ladies with the hard stuff, and very soon Katerina Ordinina moved from the armchair onto Comrade’s Karrik’s knees.
And at this very hour, in a distant monastery corner, another Ordinin–Archbishop Sylvester–was writing the chapter about the town. In the dark cell with stone walls, on a cramped table, burned the lamps, lay the bread; and the gray little priest was bowed over the table, leaning like a coffin, his skull, overgrown with moss, like the cell. The window stood high amidst the busy-lizzies, into the cell came only the night, and July did not come, and by the door, hunched up, slept the black monk–lay brother. In the silence the shaggy priest wrote:
“… Forest, copses, marshes, fields, the quiet sky, country roads. Sometimes the country roads merge into the highway, along the highway went the Rebellion. Near the highway there ran a railway. The railway went off to the towns, and in the towns lived the others, who had wearied of walking along the country roads, who laid the highways in lines, penetrating into the granite and iron. And to the towns the people’s country road Rebellion brought–death. In the town, in nostalgia for the past, in fear of the people’s Rebellion–all worked and wrote out papers. Everyone, to a man, worked in town, in order to serve themselves, and everyone, to a man, in town wrote papers, to get entangled in them–papers, paper money, cards, maps, posters. In the town bread disappeared, in the town the lights went out, in the town the water ran dry, in the town there was no heat–in the town even dogs, cats went missing (and mice were born, to eat what had been put by)–and even the nettles on the outskirts of the town disappeared, which the urchins plucked for the cabbage soup. In
the eating-houses, where there were no spoons, old men crowded in bowler hats and old women in hats, with bony fingers convulsively snatching the leftovers from the plates. At the crossroads, by the churches, by the sacred places the rogues sold, for fearful amounts of money, moldy bread and moldy potatoes–by the churches, where people brought the corpses in their hundreds, which they had not had time to bury, although officially registering the funeral. Through the town roamed hunger, syphilis and death. Along the avenues raced silenced cars, languishing in death pangs. People went wild, dreaming about bread and potatoes, people went hungry, sat without light and froze–people pulled up fences, wooden buildings, in order to heat up the dying stove and writing offices. Red blooded life went out of the town, as if it had never been there, let’s assume–there came white paper life–death. The town was dying, without giving birth. And it was terrifying in spring, when on the streets, like incense at a funeral, the smoky fires smoldered, burning the carrion, enveloping the town with a deathly breathlessness–on the streets–plundered, torn asunder, covered in spittle, with broken windows, with houses boarded up, with flayed pediments. And the people who had dispersed earlier with courtesans to the restaurants, who had loved women without children, who had hands without callouses but had TB by the age of forty, dreaming of Monaco, with the ideals of Paul de Kock, with the schooling of the Germans–wanted more and more to flay, plunder the town, the corpse, in order to take the stolen goods away into the country, to exchange it for bread obtained by calluses, not to die today, having postponed death for a month, again to write their papers, to love now by right without children and longingly await rotted old age, not daring to understand, that only one thing remains to them–to stink of death, to die–and that longed-for old age is death too, the road to death…
And out of town, on the outskirts a new cold crimson sunrise flared up…”
Thus the as hen priest was writing in his brick cell behind the little monk and busy-lizzies, bending his coffin skull to the table with a crust of bread and sheets of paper.
Comrade Laitis was about to start playing the violin–and Comrade Karrik interrupted him: “It’s not worth pulling a cat by the tail!”
Olenka Kuntz said:
“Let’s go, let’s go for a stroll.”
But when they collided in the doorway, when in Comrade Laitis’s brains everything flew to the Devil’s mother–there were no longer any words–
By the monastery stood a sentry.
In pale strips lay the moonlight. Over the earth over the monastery moved the circular, full moon, enveloping the world and monastery in velvets and satins. The dawn winds began to rustle, the frogs finished croaking to the world. It grew green, and in a golden crown the sun rose.
Then in line the soldiers approached the sentry, and past the sentry in line walked the sleepy tired women for the curfew hour had ended. And past the sentry walked Olenka Kuntz and her girl friend Princess Katya Ordinina, linking arms, with headscarves lowered over their eyes, chewing sweets.
FIRE–LATORS*
And all those…
The Kremlin and cathedral square are of stone. In the desert of day chime the bells in the monastery with a glassy tone, in dreams in melted scorching heat.
“Dong! dong! dong!” chime the bells, and the windows in the houses are wide open. In Semyon Matveev Zilotov’s kitchen garden the tomatoes are ripening.
In Sergey Sergeevich’s office, in the savings bank, the assistant, dealing the cards (Sergey Sergeevich and his assistant were playing preference with the dunderhead)–the assistant, dealing the cards, said:
“And do you know, your Olga Semyonovna–you know! Last night she spent the night with the communists in the monastery, took refuge with Laitis. The village girls said–they saw.”
And all–and all the same…
At home, having returned from the office, Sergey Sergeevich went down into the cellar to see Semyon Matveev Zilotov–he walked, sinking down onto each foot, and still stepping from the first step, Sergey Sergeevich guffawed mightily:
“Ho-Ho! Olga Semyonovna! Took refuge with Laitis in the monastery at night! Ho-Ho! I contrived it!”
Semyon Matveev was lying on the stove. Semyon Matveev climbed down from the stove. Semyon Matveev Zilotov’s keeling-to-one-side face appeared somewhat absent-minded and helpless, which dejected him. Semyon Matveev squatted down, his sinewy legs tucked under, and whispered:
“Swear! The Pentagram? Hell’s Bells?”
“I swear! The Pentagram! Hell’s Bells!”
“On the altar?”
“On the altar.”
“Well, what then… Now go, Sergeich! Let me stay…” Semyon Matveev’s face appeared pitiful and helpless, and not getting off his haunches, like a chained-up dog, Semyon Matveev crawled onto the stove. “Now go, Sergeich… Let me remain alone.” Semyon Matveev said quietly and sorrowfully. “Let me stay!”
And that’s all–and all the same…
Returning from the office, with a girl friend, Olenka Kuntz–from the wicket gate to the rear entrance–along the boards, laid out through courtyard grass–ran, clicking her heels. And both were singing.
“In that garden where you and I met
The chrysanthemum bush…”
In the evening Olenka Kuntz went to the “Venice” cinema, there Vera Kholodnaya “was playing.” In the evening over the world, the town of Ordinin and over the monastery rose the moon. In the evening Semyon Matveev was at Archbishop Sylvester’s and brought him a tomato. Semyon Matveev folded the pentagram in different ways–Berlin, Vienna, London, Paris, Rome bowed towards Moscow, and a red tomato appeared. Archbishop Sylvester, in a black cassock, was standing sternly and looking sullenly and exclaimed finally:
“Delusion! Delusion! Heresy! Remember the folk songs, chesty, strong, the wood demon, the witch! The wood demon set to work, strong, industrious. Ivanushka the Fool, stupidity–away with them. Leather jackets. With axes. With cudgels. The muzhik! Without a dream!–Heresy! But for the little tomatoes–thanks!”
And when Olenka Kuntz was returning from the “Venice” cinema, over the monastery flared the red glow of a fire. Like red roosters the fiery tongues twirled, the red roosters seized, enveloped the monastery cloisters and cells. After a long silence the monastery bells began to sound the tocsin–like the red roosters of the fire, the tocsin began to rush about. With bells a-jingling and a-rattling along the cobbles of the road, the fire brigade came dashing without any water and the firemen, after lingering, tore down with their boat hooks the red signboard with the red star–
People’s Police Soviet Department. Ordinin Branch
the one which is just opposite the advertisement:
TAMOTOES SOLD HERE.
Showers of sparks were carried up to the sky. Out of the cloisters, out of the windows jumped the soldiers and women (it was already the curfew hour). One cloister collapsed: the one which led from the Mother Superior’s cell to the winter church. It was already the curfew hour, but as a fire is always beautiful, always unusual, always sinister–nobody asked for passes, and around the monastery walls a crowd crowded.
The monastery Vvedenyo-na-Gore was seen from seventy versts away, burning. The showers of sparks were carried up to the black sky, dispersed in the black abyss. One cloister collapsed, and another. A flame gripped the whole main house. Finally. The monastery perished–it was seen from seventy versts away, burning.
And suddenly they noticed: on the roof in a dormer window appeared Semyon Matveev Zilotov. With his emaciated gait, like an old hound, Semyon Matveev Zilotov walked up to the edge, stood before the flame, shouted something wild and, pressing his hand to his face, jumped–he fell down, into the smoke, into the shower of sparks, into the flames. And immediately on the stone wall appeared two monks–a young, black one, hung on the edge and jumped safely into the crowd, but the other, ashen colored, having thrust his head out from behind the wall twice, again disappeared behind it.
Semyon Matveev Zilotov. Si
nce his quiet youth God had en-downed the great Bible reader, Semyon Matveev Zilotov, with a passionate and tender love for books. His days flowed by in Ordinin. But the last time Ordinin lived was seventy years ago, and in Ordinin there was a single bookshop (buying and selling)–Varygin’s locker in the stalls, where the very same books, in leather covers and smelling of bedbugs, were sold and re-bought. The names of these books:
“The Pentagram, or Masons’ sign, translated from the French.” “Optimism, i.e., the very best light, translated from the French.” “An intelligent existence or a moral look at the achievements of life, translated from the French, a publication of the Professor of Logic and Metaphysics, Andrei Bryantsev.” “The Black Magic of Papuce.” “The Masonic Lodges, or the Great Masons, translated from the French.”
The dead days of the dead town were adorned by Papuce. Semyon Matveev Zilotov’s youth–in the house of the Volkoviches, in the cellar–was adorned by the bookish wisdom of the translations from the French, and the scorching heat of the scorching hot Julys dried up Semyon Matveev Zilotov’s passionate brain. Oh, books!
The war flared up like scorching hot July, like forest fires, Semyon went off to the front as a private. The war burned with the Revolution, and on account of his great learning Semyon Zilotov was elected from the S. R.’s to the Soviet of Soldiers’ Deputies, into the Cultural-Educational Dept. The Revolution burned in speeches–Semyon Matveev Zilotov traveled about with lecturers on staff motor cycles, to speak to the soldiers–in any landowner’s farm–about law, about brotherhood–about the state, about the Republic, about the French Commune and about Grishka Rasputin.