A School for Fools

by Sasha Sokolov

  Poor Akatov; this was so unexpected for him; you upset the old man a little bit; it would have been probably better if you had prepared him for a conversation of this kind—for example, you could have written two or three warning letters to him, announced your arrival beforehand, called or something of this sort; I’m afraid you behaved tactlessly and, besides, it’s not decent to do such things: you had no right to ask for the hand of Veta Arkadievna alone, without me; I will also never forget her and everything that grows and flies inexplicably links me to her too, everything that grows and flies is also common to both of us, to me and to her, you know it yourself, but you, of course, told Akatov nothing about me, about the one who is so much better and more deserving than you and I hate you for that and I will tell you how someone, impossible to make out in the darkness of the hotel corridor, leads our Veta to his room and there, there. . . . No wait I’m not guilty at all you got lost admiring the lilac petals you were copying an article I left the house of my father accidentally I didn’t think I’d succeed it could have gone wrong I only wanted to see Akatov about butterflies I would have told him for sure everything about you about your enormous superhuman feeling that as you yourself know I respect so much I would have said I’m not alone there are two of us that’s what I was telling him first I would have said sir yes I love your daughter but there is a person who being incomparably more deserving and better than I loves her a hundred times more passionately. And even though I’m grateful to you for a positive solution of the problem, it seems that this man ought to be invited too, you’ll undoubtedly like him better, if you want, I’ll call him, he’s here, not far, in the nearby settlement, he was planning to come but was a little busy, he had things to do, an urgent copying assignment (Is he a copyist? No, no, what a question, there are simply people, more precisely, one person, who is making him copy some things from newspapers; it’s necessary, without it he would have a difficult time living in that house), furthermore, he got lost looking at the lilac petals and I didn’t have the courage to distract him, let me call him now—I would have told the academician if the solution of the problem turned out to be negative. Are you saying that Akatov refused you? Only tell me the whole truth, don’t lie or I’ll start hating you terribly and I’ll complain to the mentor Savl: dead or alive, he never could tolerate prejudice and cunning. I swear to you on this name, inflaming our hearts, that from this day on, I, student so-and-so of the special school, the student nicknamed Nymphaea Alba, a man of lofty aspirations and intentions, fighter for eternal human joy, hater of callousness, egoism, and sadness, regardless of their manifestations, I, the inheritor of the best traditions and sayings of our pedagogue Savl, I swear to you that my lips will never be defiled by a single word of lies and I’ll be pure like a drop of dew born on the shores of our breathtaking Lethe early in the morning—born and airborne to spray the forehead of the chalk girl Veta who is sleeping in such-and-such orchard many years onward. Oh, keep speaking! How I love these statements of yours, full of power and eloquence, inspiration and passion, daring and intelligence. Speak, rushing and swallowing the words; we still have to discuss many different problems and there’s so little time, probably not more than a second, if I correctly understand the meaning of that word.

  Then Akatov (no, no, I myself thought that he’d start laughing, that he’d make fun of my, more precisely, my father’s hat and of the fact that I’m not particularly handsome—even more, I’m ugly, and in spite of that I’m asking for the hand of such an incomparable woman) just looked at me, bowed his head, and stood, contemplating something—most likely, our conversation, my confession. At the same time, if before my last words he resembled a small stooping tree, now—right before my eyes—he turned into a small stooping tree that dried up and stopped feeling even the touch of the grass and the wind. Akatov was thinking. Meanwhile, I was reading newspaper headlines on his triangular hat and scrutinizing his lab coat—wide and free flowing, from which, like a clapper from a bell, hung Akatov’s thin and venous legs, the legs of a thinking and ambitious man. I liked the lab coat and I thought that if I had an opportunity to buy it, I would gladly wear one like that. I would wear it everywhere: in the orchard or in the garden, at school and at home, across the river and into the trees, and in the long-distance postal stagecoach, when it’s raining outside and the villages that float by, covered with straw, bristle like wet hens, and my soul is wounded by human suffering. But until—until I become an engineer, I don’t have a lab coat and at school and at home I’m wearing regular pants with cuffs, converted from the hand-me-down pants of my prosecutor father, plus a four-button double-breasted jacket and shoes with metal buckles. Sir, why are you silent, have I offended you in some way or perhaps you doubt the sincerity of my words and feelings for Veta Arkadievna? Believe me, I could never lie to you, a man beyond compare, father of the woman I adore, don’t doubt me, please, and don’t be silent, otherwise I’ll turn around and leave to fill the emptiness of our dacha settlements with my shout—with the shout about your rejection. Oh no, lad, don’t leave, I will be lonely, you know, I accept without hesitation every word you said and if Veta agrees I won’t have any objections. Talk to her, talk, after all, you haven’t yet revealed your feelings to her, I guess she has not been suspecting anything until now, and what can be decided without her agreement, do you understand? Nothing can be decided. Pensively choosing words with difficulty choosing words beforehand searching for them with his gaze on the grass where it is dry the crickets are hopping dissatisfied by something and each of them has a green party tailcoat green conductors choosing words in the grass. I won’t deny it, sir, it’s true that I haven’t declared my love to Veta Arkadievna, there simply was no time, even though we meet quite often, our conversations usually deal with something else, we talk more about scientific matters and have a lot in common; it’s natural: two young biologists, two research scientists, two compromising scholars. But in addition to that —on both sides—matures—already matured—something completely special, the commonality of interests is augmented by another kind of commonality. I understand you perfectly, lad, when I was your age, something very similar happened to me too, to me and to a certain woman, we were naïve, handsome, and we lost our heads. Dear Arkadii Arkadievich, I’m going to admit to you one more thing. You see, I’m not completely sure Veta Arkadievna likes me as a potential mate, perhaps in your daughter’s case the commonality that I mentioned is based exclusively on philanthropy, I mean she loves me only as a human being, I’m not asserting but only assuming this out of concern to not appear foolish, I wouldn’t want to find myself in a delicate situation. And since you are Veta Arkadievna’s father and you know her tastes and character much better than I do, I dare to ask you: Am I worthy, in your opinion, of your daughter’s consideration as a man too? Somehow I have an uneasy feeling she considers me slightly boring. Take a good look, pay close attention to determine whether it’s really true or not. Are my features so monstrous that even the loftiest feelings accessible to us do not improve my face and figure? But, for God’s sake, don’t hide the truth, I implore you. What nonsense, answers Akatov, you are completely normal, completely, I believe many young women would agree to walk with you through life hand in hand—and would never be sorry. The only thing I would advise you as a scholar would be to use your handkerchief more often. It’s just a convention—but how it ennobles, elevates, and raises the person above the crowds of contemporaries and circumstances. To be honest, at your age I also didn’t know that, but instead I knew a lot of other things; I was getting ready to defend my first dissertation and marry the woman who later became Veta’s mother. By that time I was already working; I was working a lot and I was earning good money—and you? Yes, by the way, how do you suppose to build your family life, on what foundations, are you aware what kind of responsibility will fall on you when you are the head of the family? It’s very important. Sir, I had to anticipate you’d ask such a question and I was ready for it long before I came to visit
you. I understand well what you mean, I already know everything because I haven’t stopped reading. I learned about some things earlier, even before the conversation with our geographer Norvegov, but after we met once in the bathroom and discussed all this thoroughly, almost everything became clear to me. Besides, Savl Petrovich gave me a book to read in my spare time and when I read some of it, I understood everything fully. And what did you understand?—asks Akatov—share it with me.

  Savl Petrovich is sitting on the windowsill with his back to the painted glass and with his face to the stalls; the bare bottoms of his feet rest on the radiator and his knees are raised so high the teacher comfortably rests his chin on them. Ex libris, book after book. Looking at the doors of the stalls covered with obscene words: How unpleasant, how ugly it is in our bathroom, how inadequate are our feelings for women, how cynical we, the people of the special school, are. We don’t know how to love tenderly and passionately, no—we don’t know how. But, dear Savl Petrovich—I interrupt, standing on the stinking tiles in front of him in white tarpaulin slippers—despite the fact that I don’t even know what to think and how to calm you down—the best teacher in the world, I consider it necessary to remind you that you yourself passionately and tenderly love one girl from my class, the chalk girl Rose. Oh, Rose of the Wind—you told her one time—precious girl, sepulchral flower, how I desire your untouched body! And you whispered: One night of the summer confused by its own beauty, I am waiting for you in a little house with a weather vane, on the other side of the sapphire river. And also: What will happen to us this night will resemble a flame consuming the icy desert, a shower of stars reflected in a piece of a mirror that suddenly fell out of its frame to warn its master about the approaching death, it’ll resemble the shepherd’s pipe and the music that has not been written yet. Come to me, Rose of the Wind, don’t you cherish your old dead teacher who is walking along the valleys of nonexistence and the hills of suffering? And even more: Come to calm the trembling of my loins and to quench my sorrows. Yes, my dear, I told her or perhaps I’ll only tell her these or similar words, but do the words prove anything? Only don’t think I was hypocritical (will be hypocritical), it’s not like me, I don’t know how, but it happens— and you’ll confirm it one day yourself—it happens that people lie not even suspecting they do. They are convinced they’re telling the truth and that they’ll do what they promised to do, but they tell lies and will never do what they promised. This happens to people when they’re in the grip of passion because passion is like madness. Thank you, I didn’t know, I’ll figure this out, I only suspected this—this and many other things. You understand, I’m scared about one circumstance and today, here, after classes, when the streets are damp and windy, and the second shift of the future engineers has gone home, finishing chewing the sandwiches squashed in their briefcases (they have to eat the sandwiches so as not to upset their patient mothers), I’m planning to make for you, Savl Petrovich, an announcement that you’ll probably consider unbelievable: it may force you to become disappointed in me. I was planning for a long time to ask for your advice, but every day I postponed the talk: there are many quizzes, the homework is exasperating, and even though I’m not doing the homework, the feeling of duty weighs me down and lies heavily on my shoulders. It’s tiresome, Savl Petrovich. But now comes the moment when I want to and can make this announcement. Dear teacher! In the cabins lost in the forests and fields, in the long-distance postal stagecoaches, by the comforting smoke of the fires, on the shores of Lake Eire or—I don’t remember exactly—Baskunchak, on ships of the Beagle type, on the roofs of European omnibuses and in the Geneva Tourist Bureau of Propaganda and Campaign for a Better Family Life, in the midst of heather and religious sects, in parks and gardens with no free seats on the benches, raising a jug of beer in the mountain tavern Cat’s Den, at the front lines of the First and Second World War, racing in a sled along the green ice of the Yukon gripped by gold fever, and in other places— here and there, dear teacher, I considered what a woman is and what to do when the time to act comes, I thought about the nature of conventions and particularities of the carnal in man. I considered what love, passion, and faithfulness are, what it means to give in to yearning and what it means not to give in, what desire and lust are, I was contemplating the details of intercourse, I dreamed about it, since from books and other sources I knew it brought joy. But, unfortunately, neither here nor there nor anywhere even once in my entire life did I happen to be, in other words, using a vulgar expression, to sleep with a woman. I simply don’t know how it’s done, I probably would be able to, but I don’t have any idea how to begin all this and—most important—with whom. Obviously a woman is needed, and it would be best if she were an acquaintance, someone you knew for a long time, someone who would give you a hint just in case, in case something did not work out right away, quite a good woman is needed, I heard a widow would be the best, yes, for some reason they say a widow, even though I don’t know a single widow, except Tinbergen; however, she is, after all, an assistant principal and she has her Trifon Petrovich (but only I have the record player), and there are no other women I know—only Veta Arkadievna, but I would not want to do it with her because I love her and I intend to marry her, those are different things; I’m absolutely never thinking, I’m forcing myself not to think about her as a woman, I realize she is too beautiful, too decent to allow herself anything with me before the wedding—am I right? It is true that I also know some girls from class, but if I started courting one of them, for example the one who recently died from meningitis and we took up a collection to buy a wreath for her, I’m afraid Veta Arkadievna wouldn’t like it very much, such things are immediately noticed: in a small collective, in sight of classmates and teachers, everything would become obvious right away, Veta would realize I intended to cheat on her and she would hold a justifiable grudge, and then our marriage would fall apart, all hopes would be destroyed, even though we nourished them for so long! Several times, Savl Petrovich, I’ve tried to get acquainted with women on the street, but I probably don’t have the right approach, I’m not elegant, I’m not dressed well. In short, nothing came of it, they chased me away, but I won’t hide—because I can’t hide anything from you, dear mentor—I won’t hide that once I almost managed to strike up an acquaintance with an interesting young woman and while I won’t be able to describe her because I haven’t remembered either her face, her voice, or her walk, I’ll go as far as to claim she was uncommonly beautiful, like most women.

  Where did I meet her? Probably at the movies or in the park, and, most likely, at the post office. The woman sat there, behind a little window, and was stamping envelopes and postcards. It was the Day of the Goatsucker Protection. That day in the morning I made a decision to collect stamps. And although at home I found no stamps, I found a matchbox label with the representation of some bird we all should protect. I realized this was nothing else but the Goatsucker and I set out to the post office to get it canceled. I immediately liked the woman who was sitting there, behind a little window. You told our teacher you can’t describe that woman, so describe at least the day when your meeting took place, tell what was going on in the street and what kind of weather was outside, if it isn’t too difficult for you, naturally. No, no, there’s nothing difficult in it and I’ll comply with your request with pleasure. The clouds that morning moved in the sky faster than usual and I saw the white-cotton faces appearing quickly and dissolving in each other. They bumped and floated into each other, and their color changed from golden to lilac. Many among those whom we call the passersby smiled and, squinting from the diffused but still-strong light of the sun, observed the movement of the clouds as I did and as I did they felt the approaching future, the messengers of which were these unlearnable clouds. Don’t correct me, I didn’t make a mistake. When I go to school or to a post office to have the matchbox label representing the Goatsucker canceled with a postal stamp, it is easy for me to find in my memory things and phenomena surrounding me—
I really like to think about them—that can neither be assigned as homework nor learned. No one is capable of learning the sound of rain, the aroma of matthiola, the premonition of nonexistence, the flight of the bumble-bee, Brownian motion, and many other things. All this can be studied but never learned. The clouds, billows full of anxiety and future storms, also belong here. Besides the cloudy sky, that morning featured a street with some kind of cars driving by, some kind of people in them, and rather hot weather. I heard how uncut grass grew on the lawns, how children’s carriages squeaked in the yards, the covers of trash bins slammed, how in the apartment entrances the doors of the elevator shafts rattled and in the school yard the students of the first shift ran headlong in a fortifying cross-country race: the wind carried the beating of their hearts. I heard how somewhere far away, perhaps at the other end of the city, a blind man in black eyeglasses, with lenses reflecting not only the dusty foliage of the weeping acacias but the rushing clouds and the smoke crawling out of the brick chimney of the offset printing factory, asked the passersby to help him cross the street, but they had no time and nobody would stop. I heard how in the kitchen—because the window facing the narrow street was open—two old men, talking (they were discussing the New Orleans fire of 1882), were cooking cabbage soup with meat: It was the day when pensions are delivered; I heard the bubbling in their pot and the meter counting out the cubic centimeters of burned gas. In other apartments of this and of the nearby houses I heard the pounding of typewriters and sewing machines, flipping of the pages of journals and mending of socks, blowing of noses and laughing, shaving and singing, closing eyes or, having nothing else to do, tapping fingers against the tightly stretched glass, imitating the noise of the rain hitting the window at an angle. I heard the silence of the empty apartments, whose owners have gone to work and will return only around evening or won’t return because they have gone into eternity. I heard the rhythmical swinging of the pendulums in the wall clocks and the ticking of the watches of various makes. I heard kisses and whispers and the sultry breathing of men and women unknown to me—you’ll never learn anything about them—doing screak and I was jealous of them and dreamed of getting acquainted with a woman who would allow me to do the same thing to her. I was walking down the street reading the signs and ads on the houses one after another even though I’ve known them all by heart for a long time; I learned every word of this street. The left side: REPAIR OF CHILDREN’S CONSTRICTORS. In the window—a poster boy dreaming about becoming an engineer; he’s holding in his hand a large model of a glider. FURS OF THE POLAR REGION. In the window—a stuffed polar bear with an open maw. MOVIE–LEAF FALL–THEATER. One day we’ll come here together, Veta and I: Which row do you prefer, I’ll ask Veta, the third or the eighteenth? I don’t know, she’ll say, it makes no difference, take any. But she’ll add at once: And yet, I like to be closer, take the tenth or the seventh, if it’s not too expensive. And I’ll say reproachfully: What kind of nonsense is this, my dear, who’s talking about money, I’m ready to give away everything just to make you feel good and comfortable. BICYCLE RENTAL. After the movies we’ll definitely rent two bicycles. When the girl who rents the bicycles, blond and smiling, with a wedding band on her right hand, sees us, she laughs happily: Finally we have customers; it’s strange—such warm weather outside but no one wants to go for a ride, it’s simply strange. It’s not strange at all, I’ll say joyfully, in such weather the entire city left the city, after all, today is Sunday, all people are at their dachas since morning and there—in their sheds—they have their own bicycles; we were also planning to go to the dacha, we’ll go there on your bicycles, straight down the highway, at our own pace: in the electric train, despite ice cream, it’s probably stifling hot. Watch out, be more careful, the girl will warn us, it’s dangerous on the highway, keep close to the shoulder, observe the road signs, don’t exceed the speed limit, pass only on the left, watch for pedestrians, traffic is controlled by helicopters and radar. Of course, we’ll pay attention, it makes no sense to lose our heads, particularly now, a week after the wedding, we’ve nourished our hopes for so long. Ah, now I understand, the girl will smile, you are taking a honeymoon trip. Yes, we decided to take a short ride. When you entered, that’s exactly what I thought—newlyweds: you are a great match, congratulations, I’m so pleased, I also got married not long ago, my husband is a motorcycle racer, he has a wonderful motorcycle, we ride very fast. I also like the races, Veta will join the conversation, and I would like to have a husband who rides motorcycles too, but unfortunately he’s an engineer and we don’t have a motorcycle, we only have a car. Yes, I’ll repeat, unfortunately, only a car, and just a used one, but basically I could buy a motorcycle too. Definitely, buy one, the girl will smile, buy one and my husband will teach you how to ride, apparently it’s not too difficult, the main thing is to press the clutch in time and regulate the radiator. And then Veta will suggest: You know, why don’t you and your husband drop in to see us next week, come on the motorcycle, our dacha is close to the water, the second forest clearing on the left, we’ll have a lot of fun, we’ll eat lunch, drink some tea. Thank you, the girl will answer, we’ll definitely come, my vacation starts in a few days, just tell me what kind of cake you like: Geese’s Feet or Holiday; I’ll bring one to have with tea. Better bring the Holiday, yes, and if it isn’t too much to ask, at the same time buy about two kilograms of truffles, I’ll pay you back right away. What are you talking about, who cares about money! FISH-FISH-FISH. ZOO. Aquariums with tritons and green parrots on a perch. ETHNOGRAPHICAL MUSEUM. Be inquisitive, study your country, it’s useful. ACS. Agency of Covert Shipments. GLOVES. And I read the word gloves on the store as loves. FLOWERS. BOOKS. A book is the best gift, everything best in me I owe to books, book after book, cherish books—they ennoble and refine one’s taste, you look in a book but see gobbledygook, a book is man’s best friend, it enhances interiors, exteriors, and fox terriers. A riddle: Hundreds of gowns in stock and none under lock—what is it? Answer: A book. From an encyclopedia article “Bookmaking in Russia”: Book printing in Russia started at the time of Ivan Fedorov, whom the people nicknamed the foreprinter; he wore a long library duster and a round cap knitted from pure wool. And then a certain river cook gave him a volume: Here, read it. And through needles of the pine trees, falling down on pale-green moss, hail, resembling silver-hued peas, bounced and jumped, like it was tossed. And more: I was approaching the place of my destination—it was pitch-dark and windy everywhere. When the smoke dispersed, there was nobody on the ledge, but the engineer Burago was walking down the riverbank and the wind was fluttering his socks. I am saying only one thing, general, I am saying only one thing, general: Was Masha picking mushrooms? And I would often sound the alarm by firing our signal cannon. Towards the end of a sultry afternoon early in July a young man. And you’re saying—eh, you-u-u! Do you have any boletes? Yes we do. Four stiff-standers, four dilly-danders, two lookers, two crookers, and a wig-wag! Shine, shine, stars in the sky, freeze, freeze, tail of the wolf! Right side: BOOTS–UMBRELLAS–CANES, all in the same store, so one can quickly buy everything at once. FASHION DEN. Ned noihsaf. SAUSAGES. For some just plain sausages and for some hot sausages on a bun! LINENS–KNITS. PARK OF RECREATION. The fence stretches for nineteen and a half parsecs. And only after that is the POST OFFICE. Hello, can I cancel my stamp— more precisely, may I ask you to cancel my stamp, and even better this way: What should I do to have my stamp canceled, to have it extinguished with your assistance? Give it to me, show me, it’s not a stamp at all, boy, these are matches. I know, I simply thought you wouldn’t care, the Goatsucker is depicted here too, look. She looked and smiled: The label has to be steamed off. Fine, great, I’ll steam it off, I live close by, I think I’ll be able to convince my mother to allow me to put the teakettle on (Mama, can I put the teakettle on? Why, do you want tea? Since when do you drink tea before school, what tea can there be when it’s time for dinner? The thing is, Mama, I have to steam off a label. Steam it off? Yes, st
eam it off, that’s what I was told at the post office. Oh God, you invented something again, what post office, who told you, why, what label are you talking about, you’ll burn your face!), but I am not sure, couldn’t I do it here, at the post office; once I accidentally saw—the window was open— how you drink tea in the room filled with packages and parcels, you were using an electric teakettle, there were several women and one man in a coat, you were laughing. Yes, you’re right, she said, we do have one, come here, boy.