I Had Raised Dust: Selected Works

by Daniil Kharms

  I lie on the couch with my eyes open and I can't get to sleep. I remember the old woman with the clock whom I saw today in the yard and feel pleased that there were no hands on her clock. Only the other day in the second-hand shop I saw a revolting kitchen clock and its hands were made in the form of a knife and fork.

  Oh, my God! I still haven't turned off the electric oven! I jump up and turn it off, and then I lie down again on the couch and try to get to sleep. I close my eyes. I don't feel sleepy. The spring sun is shining in through the window, straight on to me. I start to feel hot. I get up and sit down in the armchair by the window.

  Now I feel sleepy but I am not going to sleep. I get hold of a piece of paper and a pen and I am going to write. I feel within me a terrible power. I thought it all over as long ago as yesterday. It will be the story about a miracle worker who is living in our time and who doesn't work any miracles. He knows that he is a miracle worker and that he can perform any miracle, but he doesn't do so. He is thrown out of his flat and he knows that he only has to wave a finger and the flat will remain his, but he doesn't do this; he submissively moves out of the flat and lives out of town in a shed. He is capable of turning this shed into a fine brick house, but he doesn't do this; he carries on living in the shed and eventually dies, without having done a single miracle in the whole of his life.

  I just sit and rub my hands with glee. Sakerdon Mikhailovich will burst with envy. He thinks that I am beyond writing anything of genius. Now then, now then, to work! Away with any kind of sleep and laziness! I shall write for eighteen hours straight off!

  I am shaking all over with impatience. I am not able to think out what has to be done: I needed to take a pen and a piece of paper, but I grabbed various objects, not at all those that I needed. I ran about the room: from the window to the table, from the table to the oven, from the oven again to the table, then to the divan and again to the window. I was gasping from the flame which was ablaze in my breast. It's only five o'clock now. The whole day is ahead, and the evening, and all night is . . .

  I stand in the middle of the room. Whatever am I thinking of? Why, it's already twenty past five. I must write. I move the table towards the window and sit down at it. A sheet of squared paper is in front of me, in my hand is a pen.

  My heart is still beating too fast and my hand is shaking. I wait, so as to calm down a little. I put down my pen and fill my pipe. The sun is shining right in my eyes; I squint and light up my pipe.

  And now a crow flies past the window. I look out of the window on to the street and see a man with an artificial leg walking along the pavement. He is knocking loudly with his leg and his stick.

  -- So -- I say to myself, continuing to look out of the window.

  The sun is hiding behind a chimney of the building opposite. The shadow of the chimney runs along the roof, flies across the street and falls on my face. I should take advantage or this shadow and write a few words about the miracle worker. I grab the pen and write: 'The miracle worker was on the tall side.'

  Nothing more can I write. I sit on until I start feeling hungry. Then I get up and go over to the cupboard where I keep my provisions; I rummage there but find nothing. A lump of sugar and nothing more. Someone is knocking at the door.

  -- Who's there?

  No one answers me. I open the door and see before me the old woman who in the morning had been standing in the yard with the clock. I am very surprised and cannot say anything.

  -- So, here I am -- says the old woman and comes into my room.

  I stand by the door and don't know what to do: should I chase the old woman out or, on the contrary, suggest that she sit down? But the old woman goes of her own accord over to my armchair beside the window and sits down in it.

  -- Close the door and lock it -- the old woman tells me.

  I close and lock the door.

  -- Kneel -- says the old woman.

  And I get down on my knees.

  But at this point I begin to realise the full absurdity of my position. Why am I kneeling in front of some old woman? And, indeed, why is this old woman in my room and sitting in my favourite armchair? Why hadn't I chased this old woman out?

  -- Now, listen here -- I say -- what right have you to give the orders in my room, and, what's more, boss me about? I have no wish at all to be kneeling.

  -- And you don't have to -- says the old woman. -- Now you must lie down on your stomach and bury your face in the floor. I carried out her bidding straight away . . .

  I see before me accurately traced squares. Discomfort in my shoulder and in my right hip forces me to change position. I had been lying face down and now, with great difficulty, I get up on to my knees. All my limbs have gone numb and will scarcely bend. I look round and see myself in my own room, kneeling in the middle of the floor. My consciousness and memory are slowly returning to me. I look round the room once more and see that it looks as though someone is sitting in the armchair by the window. It's not very light in the room, because it must be the white nights now. I peer attentively. Good Lord! Is it really that old woman, still sitting in my armchair? I crane my neck round and have a look. Yes, of course, it's the old woman sitting there and her head's drooped on to her chest. She must have fallen asleep.

  I pick myself up and hobble over towards her. The old woman's head is drooping down on to her chest; her arms are hanging down the sides of the armchair. I feel like grabbing hold of this old woman and shoving her out of the door.

  -- Listen -- I say -- you are in my room. I need to work. I am asking you to leave.

  The old woman doesn't budge. I bend over and look the old woman in the face. Her mouth is half open and from her mouth protrudes a displaced set of dentures. And suddenly it all becomes clear to me: the old woman has died.

  A terrible feeling of annoyance comes over me. What did she die in my room for? I can't stand dead people. And now, having to mess about with this carrion, having to go and talk to the caretaker and the house manager, to explain to them why this old woman was found in my place. I looked at the old woman with hatred. But perhaps she wasn't dead, after all? I feel her forehead. Her forehead is cold. Her hand also. Now what am I supposed to do?

  I light up my pipe and sit down on the couch. A mindless fury is rising up in me.

  -- What a swine! -- I say out loud.

  The dead old woman is sitting in my armchair, like a sack. Her teeth are sticking out of her mouth. She looks like a dead horse.

  -- What a revolting spectacle -- I say, but I can't cover the old woman with a newspaper, because anything might go on under the newspaper.

  Movement could be heard through the wall: it's my neighbour getting up, the engine driver. I've quite enough on my plate without him getting wind that I've got a dead old woman in my room! I listen closely to my neighbour's footsteps. Why is he so slow? It's half-past five already! It's high time he went off. My God! He's making a cup of tea! I can hear the noise of the primus through the wall. Oh, I wish that blasted engine driver would hurry up and go!

  I pull my legs up on to the couch and lie there. Eight minutes go by, but my neighbour's tea is still not ready and the primus is making a noise. I close my eyes and doze.

  I dream that my neighbour has gone out and I, together with him, go out on to the staircase and I slam the door behind me on its spring lock. I haven't got the key and I can't get back into the flat. I shall have to knock and wake up the rest of the tenants and that is not a good thing at all. I am standing on the landing thinking what to do and suddenly I see that I have no hands. I incline my head, so as to get a better look to see whether I have any hands, and I see that on one side, instead of a hand, a knife is sticking out and, on the other side, a fork.

  -- So -- I am saying to Sakerdon Mikhailovich, who for some reason is sitting there on a folding chair -- So, do you see -- I say to him -- the sort of hands I have?

  But Sakerdon Mikhailovich sits there in silence and I can see that this is not the real Sakerdon Mikhailovich, but
his clay semblance.

  At this point I wake up and immediately realise that I am lying in my room on the couch and that by the window, in the armchair, sits a dead old woman.

  I quickly turn my head in her direction. The old woman is not in the armchair. I gaze at the empty armchair and I am filled with a wild joy. So, that means all this was a dream. Except, where did it start? Did an old woman come into my room yesterday? Perhaps that was a dream as well? I came back yesterday because I had forgotten to turn off the electric oven. But perhaps that was a dream as well? In any case, it's marvelous that I don't have a dead old woman in my room and that means I won't have to go to the house manager and bother about the corpse!

  But still, how long had I been asleep? I looked at my watch: half-past nine; it must be morning.

  Good Lord! The things that can happen in dreams!

  I lowered my legs from the couch, intending to stand up, and suddenly caught sight of the dead old woman, lying on the floor behind the table, beside the armchair. She was lying face up and her dentures, which had jumped out of her mouth, had one tooth digging into the old woman's nostril. Her arms were tucked under her torso and were not visible and from under her disordered skirt protruded bony legs in white, dirty woollen stockings.

  -- What a swine! -- I shouted and, running over to the old woman, kicked her on the chin.

  The set of dentures flew off into the corner. I wanted to kick the old woman again, but was afraid that marks would remain on her body and that subsequently it might be decided that it was I who had killed her.

  I moved away from the old woman, sat down on the couch and lit my pipe. Thus twenty minutes went by. Now it had become clear to me that, come what may, the matter would be put in the hands of a criminal investigation and that in the bungling which would follow I would be accused of murder. The situation was turning out to be serious, and then there was that kick as well.

  I went over to the old woman again, leaned over and started to examine her face. There was a small dark bruise on her chin. No, nothing much could be made of that. What of it? Perhaps the old woman had bumped into something when she was still alive? I calm down a little and begin pacing the room, smoking my pipe and ruminating over my situation.

  I pace up and down the room and start feeling a greater and greater hunger. I even start shaking from hunger. Once more I rummage in the cupboard where my provisions are kept, but I find nothing, except a lump of sugar.

  I pull out my wallet and count my money. Eleven roubles. That means I can buy myself some ham sausage and bread and still have enough for tobacco.

  I adjust my tie, which had got disarranged in the night, pick up my watch, put on my jacket, go out into the corridor, painstakingly lock the door of my room, put the key in my pocket and go out on to the street. Before anything else I have to eat something; then my thoughts will be clearer and then I'll do something about this carrion. On the way to the shop, I keep on thinking: shouldn't I go and see Sakerdon Mikhailovich and tell him all about it and perhaps together we could soon think out what to do. But I turn this idea down on the spot, because there are some things which one has to do alone, without witnesses.

  There was no ham sausage in the shop and I bought myself half a kilo of saveloys. There was no tobacco, either. From the shop I went to the bakery.

  There were a lot of people in the bakery and there was a long queue waiting at the cash desk. I immediately frowned but still joined the queue. The queue moved very slowly and then stopped moving altogether, because some sort of a row had broken out at the cash desk.

  I pretended not to notice anything and stared at the back of a nice young lady who was standing in the queue in front of me. The young lady was obviously very inquisitive: she was craning her neck first to the right and then to the left and she kept standing on tiptoe, so as to get a better view of what was happening at the cash desk. Eventually she turned round to me and said: -- You don't know what's going on there, do you?

  -- I'm afraid I don't -- I answered as drily as possible.

  The young lady twisted herself from side to side and finally again addressed me:

  -- You wouldn't like to go up there and find out what's happening, would you?

  -- I'm afraid it doesn't concern me in the slightest -- I said, even more drily.

  -- What do you mean, it doesn't concern you? -- exclaimed the young lady -- you are being held up in the queue yourself because of it, aren't you?

  I made no reply and merely bowed slightly. The young lady looked at me with great attention.

  -- Of course, it's not a man's job to queue for bread -- she said. -- I'm sorry for you, having to stand here. You must be a bachelor?

  -- Yes, I am a bachelor -- I replied, somewhat taken aback, but automatically continuing to answer somewhat drily, with a slight bow at the same time.

  The young lady again looked me up and down and suddenly, touching me on the sleeve, she said: -- Let me get you what you need and you can wait for me outside.

  This threw me completely.

  -- Thank you -- I said. -- It's extremely kind of you but, really, I could do it myself.

  -- No, no -- said the young lady -- you go outside. What were you intending to buy?

  -- Well, then -- I said -- I was intending to buy half a kilo of black bread, only of the round sort, the cheapest one. I prefer it.

  -- Right, well that's fine -- said the young lady. -- So, go on, then. I'll buy it and we can settle up afterwards. And she even gave me a slight shove under the elbow.

  I went out of the bakery and stood right by the door. The spring sun is shining right in my eyes. I light up my pipe. What a delightful young lady! It's so rare these days. I stand there, my eyes screwed up from the sun, smoking my pipe and thinking about the delightful young lady. She has bright brown eyes, too. She's simply irresistibly pretty!

  -- Do you smoke a pipe? -- I hear a voice beside me. The delightful young lady hands me the bread.

  -- Oh, I'm forever grateful to you -- I say, taking the bread.

  -- And you smoke a pipe! I really like that -- says the delightful young lady.

  And between us the following conversation takes place.

  She: So, you buy bread yourself?

  I: Not only bread; I buy everything for myself.

  She: And where do you have lunch?

  I: Usually I cook my own lunch. But sometimes I eat in the bar.

  She: Do you like beer, then?

  I: No, I prefer vodka.

  She: I like vodka, too.

  I: You like vodka? That's wonderful! I'd like to have a drink with you sometime.

  She: And I'd like to drink vodka with you, too.

  I: Forgive me, but may I ask you something?

  She: (blushing furiously) of course, just ask.

  I: All right then, I will. Do you believe in God?

  She: (surprised) In God? Yes, of course.

  I: And what would you say to us buying some vodka now and going to my place? I live very near here.

  She: (perkily) Well, why not, it's fine by me!

  I: Then let's go.

  We go into a shop and I buy half a litre of vodka. I have no more money left, except a bit of change. We talk about various things all the time and suddenly I remember that in my room on the floor there is a dead old woman.

  I look round at my new acquaintance: she's standing by the counter and looking at jars of jam. I gingerly make off towards the door and slide out of the shop. It just happens that a tram is stopping opposite the shop. I jump on the tram, without even looking to see what number it is. I get off at Mikhailovskaya Street and walk to Sakerdon Mikhailovich's. I am carrying a bottle of vodka, saveloys and bread.

  Sakerdon Mikhailovich opened the door to me himself. He was wearing his dressing-gown, with nothing on underneath, his Russian boots with the tops cut off and his fur hat with the earflaps, but the earflaps were turned up and tied in a bow on top.

  -- Jolly good -- said Sakerdon Mikhailovich on seeing
that it was me. -- I'm not dragging you away from your work? -- I asked.

  -- No, no -- said Sakerdon Mikhailovich. -- I wasn't doing anything, I was just sitting on the floor.

  -- Well, you see -- I said to Sakerdon Mikhailovich -- I've popped round to you with vodka and a bite to eat. If you've no objection, let's have a drink.

  -- Fine -- said Sakerdon Mikhailovich. -- Come in.

  We sent through to his room. I opened the bottle of vodka and Sakerdon Mikhailovich put two glasses and a plate of boiled meat on the table.

  -- I've got some saveloys here -- I said. -- So, how shall we eat them: raw, or shall we boil them?

  -- We'll put them on to boil -- said Sakerdon Mikhailovich and while they're cooking we'll drink vodka with the boiled meat. It's from a stew, it's first-class boiled meat!

  Sakerdon Mikhailovich put a saucepan on to heat, on his kerosene stove, and we sat down to the vodka.

  -- Drinking vodka's good for you -- said Sakerdon Mikhailovich, filling the glasses. -- Mechnikov wrote that vodka's better than bread, and bread is only straw which rots in our bellies.

  -- Your health! -- said I, clinking glasses with Sakerdon Mikhailovich. We drank, taking the cold meat as a snack. -- It's good -- said Sakerdon Mikhailovich.

  But at that moment something in the room gave out a sharp crack.

  -- What's that? -- I asked.

  We sat in silence and listened. Suddenly there was another crack. Sakerdon Mikhailovich jumped up from his chair and, running up to the window, tore down the curtain.

  -- What are you doing? -- I exclaimed.

  But Sakerdon Mikhailovich didn't answer me; he rushed over to the kerosene stove, grabbed hold or the saucepan with the curtain and placed it on the floor.

  -- Devil take it! -- said Sakerdon Mikhailovich. -- I forgot to put water in the saucepan and the saucepan's an enamel one, and now the enamel's come off.

  -- Oh, I see -- I said, nodding.

  We sat down again at the table.

  -- Oh, to the devil with it -- said Sakerdon Mikhailovich -- we'll eat the saveloys raw.