“Don’t mix,” Likhachev suggested, “you’re in fine shape already.”
“What do you mean, don’t mix?” Tsypin demanded. “Why not? I’m doing it intelligently. Scientifically. Mixing vodka and beer is one thing. Cognac and champagne is another. I’m a specialist in that area.”
“I can tell,” the foreman said grimly, “judging by the epoxy.”
A minute later everyone was talking. Tsypin was embracing director Konstantinov. The station chief was courting the mayor. Plasterers and masons, interrupting one another, were complaining about the lowered rates.
Only Likhachev was silent. He was thinking about something. Suddenly he spoke harshly and unexpectedly, addressing Dudko, the weightlifter. “I knew a Jewish woman. We hooked up. She was a good cook…”
I was watching the mayor. Something was bothering him. Tormenting him. Making him frown and strain. A suffering grimace played on his lips from time to time.
Then, suddenly, the mayor moved closer to the table. Without lowering his head, he bent down. His left hand abandoned a sandwich and slipped under the tablecloth.
For a minute the honoured guest’s face reflected intense concentration. Then, after emitting a barely audible sound, like a tyre deflating, the mayor cheerfully leant against the back of his chair. And picked up his sandwich in relief.
Then I lifted the tablecloth imperceptibly. Looked under the table and straightened immediately. What I saw astounded me and made me gasp. I quivered with secret knowledge.
What I saw were the mayor’s large feet in tight-fitting green silk socks. His toes were moving, as if he were improvising on the piano.
His shoes stood nearby.
And here, I don’t know what came over me. Either my suppressed dissidence erupted, or my criminal essence came to the fore. Or mysterious destructive forces were at play.
This happens once in every lifetime.
I recall subsequent events in a fog. I moved to the edge of my seat. Stretched out my leg. Found the mayor’s shoes and carefully pulled them towards me.
And only after that froze in fear.
At that moment the station chief rose and said, “Attention, dear friends! I invite you to a brief ceremony. Honoured guests, please seat yourselves on the rostrum!”
Everyone stirred. Director Konstantinov adjusted his tie. The weightlifter Dudko hurriedly buttoned the top button of his trousers. Tsypin and Likhachev reluctantly put down their glasses.
I looked at the mayor. Anxiously, he was feeling around under the table with his foot. I didn’t see it, of course, but I could guess from the expression on his bewildered face. I could tell that the radius of his search was increasing.
What else could I do?
Likhachev’s briefcase was next to my chair. The briefcase was always with us. It could hold up to sixteen bottles of Stolichnaya. It became my job to carry it around.
I dropped my handkerchief. I bent over and stuffed the mayor’s shoes in the briefcase. I felt their noble, heavy solidity. I don’t think anyone noticed.
I locked the briefcase and stood up. The other guests were standing, too – everyone except Comrade Sizov. The bodyguards were looking in puzzlement at their boss.
And here the mayor showed how clever and resourceful he was. Holding his hand to his chest, he said softly, “I don’t feel well. I think I’ll lie down for a minute…”
The mayor quickly removed his jacket, loosened his tie, and lay down on a nearby sofa. His feet in their green socks stretched wearily. His hands were clasped on his stomach. His eyes were shut.
The bodyguards went into action. One called the doctor. The other gave orders.
“Clear the room! I said, clear the room! Hurry it up! Start the ceremony!… I repeat, start the ceremony!”
“Can I help?” the station chief asked.
“Get out of here, you old fart!” came the reply.
The first bodyguard added, “Leave everything on the table! We can’t rule out an assassination attempt! I hope you have the names of all the guests?”
The station chief nodded obsequiously. “I’ll give you the list.”
We left the room. I carried the briefcase in trembling hands. Workmen moved amid the columns. Lomonosov, thank God, was still on the wall.
The ceremony was not cancelled. The famous guests, deprived of their leader, slowed down near the tribunal. They were ordered to go up. The guests settled under the marble slab.
“Let’s get out of here,” Likhachev said. “What is there for us to see here? I know a beer joint on Chkalov Street.”
“It would be good to know that the monument hasn’t collapsed.”
“If it does,” Likhachev said, “we’ll hear it in the bar.”
Tsypin added, “We’ll hear the laughter…”
We went upstairs. The day was cold but sunny. The city was decorated with holiday flags.
Our Lomonosov was taken down after two months. Leningrad scientists wrote a letter to the paper, complaining that our sculpture demeaned a great man. The complaints were directed against Chudnovsky, of course. So we were paid in full.
Likhachev said, “That’s the main thing.”
A Decent Double-Breasted Suit
I
’M NOT DRESSED TOO WELL right now, and I used to dress even worse. In the Soviet Union I dressed so badly that I was rebuked for it. I remember when the director of Pushkin Hills* told me, “Comrade Dovlatov, your trousers ruin the festive mood of our area.”
The editors of places where I worked were also frequently unhappy with me. At one newspaper the editor complained, “You’re compromising us, clear and simple. We sent you to the funeral of General Filonenko, and I have been informed that you showed up without a suit.”
“I was wearing a jacket.”
“You wore some old cassock.”
“It’s not a cassock. It’s an imported jacket. And incidentally, it was a present from Léger.”*
(I really did get the jacket from Fernand Léger. But that story is to come.)
“What’s a layjay?” the editor asked with a grimace.
“Léger is an outstanding French artist. Member of the Communist Party.”
“I doubt it,” said the editor, and then blew up. “Enough! You’re always getting sidetracked! You’re never like anyone else! You must dress in a manner befitting an employee of a serious newspaper!”
So I replied, “Then let the newspaper buy me a jacket. Or better yet, a suit. Naturally, I’ll take care of the tie myself…”
But the editor was not being straight with me. He didn’t care in the least how I dressed. That wasn’t the point. There was a simpler explanation: I was the biggest one at the office. The tallest. That is, as the bosses assured me, the most presentable. Or, in the words of Executive Secretary Minz, “the most representative”.
If a celebrity died, the newspaper delegated me to represent them. After all, coffins are heavy. And I approached these assignments with enthusiasm. Not because I liked funerals so much, but because I hated newspaper work.
“You’re pushing it,” the editor said.
“Not at all,” I said, “it’s a legitimate request. Railroad workers, for instance, get uniforms. Watchmen get warm jackets. Divers get diving suits. Let the newspaper buy me my special clothes. A suit for funerals.”
Our editor was a kind man. With his big salary, he could afford to be. And the times were comparatively liberal then.
He said, “Let’s compromise. You give me three socially significant articles by the New Year, three articles with broad socio-political resonance, and your bonus will be a modest suit.”
“What do you mean by modest? Cheap?”
“Not cheap, but black. For formal occasions.”
“OK,” I said, “we’ll remember this conversation.”
A week later, I arrived at work. Bezuglov, head of the propaganda department, called me into his office. I went down a flight of stairs. Bezuglov was talking on two phones at the same time.
“A Belorussian won’t do. Loads of Belorussians. Give me an Uzbek, or at least an Estonian… Wait, wait, I think we have an Estonian… The Moldavian is doubtful…
What?… The labourer gets dropped, we have enough proletarians… Give me an intellectual or someone from the service sector. Best of all, career military. Some sergeant… Well, get going!”
Then he picked up the other phone. “Hello… I urgently need an Uzbek. Any quality, even a parasite… Try, be a pal, I won’t forget it.”
I greeted him and asked, “What’s with the ‘International’?”
Bezuglov said, “It’s almost Constitution Day, so we decided to do fifteen sketches. One for each republic. Encompass representatives of various nationalities.”
He took out his cigarettes and went on. “Let’s say there’s no problem with Russians. Plenty of Ukrainians too. Found a Georgian at the medical academy. An Azerbaijani at the meat-packing plant. Even located a Moldavian, a teacher at the regional Komsomol.* But there’s a real problem with Uzbeks, Kyrgyzes and Turkmen. Where am I going to get an Uzbek?”
“In Uzbekistan,” I prompted.
“What a genius! Of course in Uzbekistan. But I have deadlines. Not to mention the fact that our travel allowance has been used up… So listen, do you want to make fifty roubles?”
“Sure.”
“I thought you would. Find me an Uzbek, I’ll give you fifty. I’ll call it a bonus for dangerous working conditions.”
“I have a Tatar friend.”
Bezuglov grew angry.
“What do I need a Tatar for? I’ve got Tatar neighbours on my floor. So what? They’re not a Union republic. Find me an Uzbek. I’ve divided up the Kyrgyz and the Turkmen
among the freelancers. Sashka Shevelyov seems to have a Tajik. Samoilov’s looking for a Kazakh. And so on. I need an Uzbek. Will you do it?”
“All right, but I’m warning you: the article will be socially significant, with broad socio-political resonance.”
“Have you been drinking?”
“No. Is that an offer?”
“Don’t be silly, it’s out of the question. I drink only in the evenings… Not before 1 p.m.”
I’d known Bezuglov a long time. He was a special man. Came from Sverdlovsk.
I remember I had been on my way to the Urals on a business trip, and I had to stop in Sverdlovsk. It was around the May holidays, which meant trouble getting hotel reservations.
I had asked Bezuglov, “Could I spend the night at your parents’ house in Sverdlovsk?”
“Naturally!” he’d shouted. “Of course! As long as you like! They’ll be very glad to have you. They have a huge place. My pop is a corresponding member of the Academy, my mother is an honoured worker in the arts. They’ll give you home-made
pelmeni
…* One condition though: don’t tell them you know me. Otherwise, forget it. I’ve been the black sheep of the family since I was fourteen!”
“All right,” I now said, “I’ll find you an Uzbek.”
I began. I flipped through my phone book. Called three dozen friends. At last, one acquaintance, a trumpet player, said, “We have a trombonist, Baliyev. He’s an Uzbek by nationality.”
“Terrific,” I said, “give me his phone number.”
“Write it down.”
I wrote it down.
“You’ll like him,” my friend said. “He’s a cultured guy, well-read, good sense of humour. Got out recently.”
“What do you mean, got out?”
“He served his term and got out.”
“You mean he’s a thief?” I asked.
“Why a thief?” My friend was insulted. “He was doing time for rape…”
I hung up.
Just then Bezuglov called. “You’re in luck,” he shouted. “We found an Uzbek. Mishchuk found him… Where? At Kuznechny Market. A small businessman – that’s even a good thing, it’s got unofficial support now. Private allotments, all that… So everything’s fine with the Uzbek.”
“Too bad,” I said, “I just got an excellent candidate. A cultured, educated Uzbek. Orchestra soloist. Just back from touring.”
“Too late. Save him for another time. Mishchuk brought in the article. I have a new assignment for you. It’s almost Efficiency Day. You have to find a modern Russian handyman. And do an article on him.”
“Socially significant?”
“You bet.”
“All right,” I said, “I’ll try.”
I had heard of a handyman like that. My older brother, who worked in newsreels, had told me about him.
The old man lived on Yelizarovskaya Highway, near Leningrad, in a private house. It was easier than I expected to find him. The first person I ran into showed me the way.
The old man’s name was Yevgeny Eduardovich. He restored antique cars. He dug out rusty, shapeless hulks
from garbage dumps. Somehow he managed to recreate the car’s original look. Then he
really
went to work: moulding, gluing, chroming…
He had restored dozens of antique models. There were Oldsmobiles and Chevrolets and Peugeots and Fords among his collection. Multicoloured, with glistening leather, brass and chrome, awkwardly refined: they created a smashing impression. And all the models worked. They vibrated, moved, honked. Rattling slightly, they passed pedestrians. It was an impressive sight, almost like a circus act.
Yevgeny Eduardovich sat high behind the wheel. His old leather jacket shone. His eyes were covered with celluloid glasses. A wide-brimmed cap completed his unique look.
By the way, he was practically the first Russian car driver. He had started driving in 1912. For a while he was Mikhail Rodzyanko’s personal chauffeur. Then he drove Trotsky, Lazar Kaganovich and Andrei Andreyev.* He ran the first Soviet driving school. He ended the war as a commander of an armoured tank division. He had received numerous government awards. Naturally, he spent time in prison. In his declining years, he took up restoring antique cars.
His production was shown at international fairs. His models were used for domestic and foreign films. He corresponded in four languages with innumerable car magazines.
When his cars took part in movies, their owner accompanied them. Film directors noticed Yevgeny Eduardovich’s impressive mien. First they used him in crowd scenes. Then he got bit parts: Mensheviks, noblemen, old-time scientists. He became something of an actor as well.