Читать книгу The Suitcase / Чемодан. Книга для чтения на английском языке - Сергей Довлатов, Сергей Донатович Довлатов - Страница 5

I must begin with a confession. I practically stole these shoes…

Two hundred years ago the historian Nikolai Karamzin[26] visited France. Russian émigrés there asked him, “What’s happening back at home, in two words?”

Karamzin didn’t even need two words. “Stealing,” he replied.

And they really are stealing. On a broader scale every year.

People carry off beef carcasses from meat-packing plants. Carders from textile factories. Lenses from photographic firms. They swipe everything – tiles, gypsum, polyethylene, electric motors, bolts, screws, radio tubes, thread, glass.

Often this takes on a metaphysical character. I’m talking about completely mysterious thefts without any rational goal. That can happen only in the Russian state, I’m convinced.

I knew a refined, noble and educated man who stole a pail of concrete from his job. Along the way the concrete set, of course. The thief threw away the rock-hard lump not far from his house. Another friend broke into a propaganda office and removed the ballot box[27]. He brought it home and promptly lost all interest in it. A third friend stole a fire extinguisher. A fourth stole a bust of Paul Robeson[28] from his boss’s office. A fifth, the poster column from Shkapin Street. And a sixth, a lectern from an amateur theatre club.

I, as you will see, acted much more practically: I stole good-quality Soviet shoes, intended for export. Of course, I didn’t steal them from a store. Soviet stores don’t carry shoes like that. I swiped them from the chairman of the Leningrad City Executive Committee – otherwise known as the mayor of Leningrad. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves.

After the army, I took a job with a factory newsletter. I spent three years there. I realized that ideological work was not for me. I wanted something more direct, posing fewer moral doubts.

I remembered that I had attended art school a long time before (the same one, incidentally, which graduated the famous artist Shemyakin[29]). I had retained a few skills.

Friends with pull[30] got me into a DPI, a decorative and applied arts studio. I became an apprentice stone-cutter. I decided to “find myself” in monumental sculpture.

Alas, monumental sculpture is a very conservative genre. The cause is the monumentality itself. You can secretly write novels and symphonies. You can secretly experiment on canvas. But just try to hide a twelve-foot-high sculpture!

For work like that you need a roomy studio. Significant support systems. A whole staff of assistants, moulders and loaders. In short, you need official recognition. And that means total dependability. And no experimentation…

Once I visited the studio of a famous sculptor. His unfinished works loomed in the corners. I quickly recognized Yuri Gagarin, Mayakovsky, Fidel Castro[31]. I looked closer and froze – they were all naked. I mean, absolutely naked. With conscientiously modelled buttocks, sexual organs and muscles. I felt a chill of fear.

“Nothing unusual,” the sculptor explained. “We’re realists. First we do the anatomy, then the clothes.”

But our sculptors are rich. They get paid most for depictions of Lenin. Even Karl Marx’s labourintensive beard doesn’t pay as well.

There’s a monument to Lenin in every city, in every regional centre. Commissions of that sort are inexhaustible. An experienced sculptor can do Lenin blind – that is, blindfolded. Though curious things do happen.

Once, for instance, in the central square of Chelyabinsk, opposite the city hall, they were going to erect a monument to Lenin. A major rally was organized. About fifteen hundred people showed up. Solemn music played. Orators gave speeches.

The statue was covered with grey cloth.

And then the moment of truth. To the sound of a drumroll, the bureaucrats of the local executive committee pulled down the cloth.

Lenin was depicted in his familiar pose – a tourist hitching a ride on the highway. His right arm pointed the way to the future. His left was in the pocket of his open coat.

The music stopped. In the ensuing silence someone laughed. A minute later, the whole crowd was laughing.

Only one man did not laugh: the Leningrad sculptor Viktor Dryzhakov. The look of horror on his face was gradually replaced with a grimace of indifference and resignation.

What had happened? The poor sculptor had given Lenin two caps, one on the leader’s head, the other one clutched in his fist.

The bureaucrats hurriedly wrapped the rejected statue in grey cloth.

In the morning the statue was unveiled once more to the crowds. The extra cap had been removed overnight…

We have been sidetracked once again.

Monuments are born this way: the sculptor makes a clay model. The moulder casts it in plaster. Then the stone-cutters take over.

There is the plaster figure. And there is the formless hunk of marble. Everything extra has to be removed. The plaster prototype must be copied with absolute accuracy.

There are special machines for that, called dotters. They make thousands of chips in the stone. In this way the contours of the future monument are determined.

Then the stone-cutter arms himself with a small perforator. He removes crude layers of marble. Picks up the hammer and chisel. All that’s left is the finishing stage, the filigree, very demanding work.

The stone-cutter works on the marble surface. One wrong move and it’s the end. Because the structure of marble is like that of wood. Marble has fragile layers, hard spots, cracks. There are structural clots, something like knots in wood. Many traces of other ores are mixed in. And so on. In general, this is exacting and difficult work.

I was put into a team of stone-cutters. There were three of us. The foreman’s name was Osip Likhachev. His helper and friend was called Viktor Tsypin. Both were masters of their craft and, of course, confirmed drunkards.

Likhachev drank daily, while Tsypin suffered from chronic binges. Which did not keep Likhachev from having an occasional binge or Tsypin from having hair-of-the-dog[32] at any opportunity.

Likhachev was grim, severe and taciturn. He said nothing for hours and then suddenly pronounced brief and completely unexpected speeches. His monologues were continuations of complex inner thoughts. He would exclaim, turning sharply to whoever happened by, “And you say capitalism, America, Europe! Private property!.. The lowliest darkie has a car!. But the dollar, let me tell you, is falling!”

“That means it has somewhere to fall,” Tsypin responded merrily. “That’s not so bad. But your shitty rouble has nowhere to fall.”

But Likhachev, plunged once more into silence, did not react.

Tsypin, on the contrary, was talkative and friendly. He liked arguing.

“The car’s not the point,” he said. “I like cars myself… The point is that under capitalism you have freedom. If you want to, you can drink from morning till night. If you want to, you can slave away around the clock. No ideological education. No socialist morality. Magazines with naked babes wherever you look. And then there’s the politics. Let’s say you don’t like some minister – fine. You write to the editor: the minister is full of shit! You can spit in any president’s kisser. To say nothing of the vice-president’s. But a car isn’t such a rare thing here, you know. I’ve had a Zaporozhets[33] since 1960, and so what?”

And Tsypin had indeed bought himself a Zaporozhets. However, since he was a chronic drunkard, he didn’t drive it for months at a time. In November the car was covered with snow. The Zaporozhets turned into a small snow hill. The neighbourhood kids were always around it.

In the spring the snow melted. The Zaporozhets was as flat as a sports car. Its roof had been squashed by the kids’ sleds.

Tsypin seemed almost relieved. “I have to be sober at the wheel. But I can get home drunk in a taxi…”

Those were my teachers.

In due time we received a commission, a rather lucrative rush job. We were supposed to hack out a relief depiction of the great writer and scientist Mikhail Lomonosov[34] for a new metro station. The sculptor Chudnovsky quickly prepared the model. The moulders cast it in plaster. We came to take a look at this business.

Lomonosov was shown in a suspicious-looking robe. In his right hand he held a rolled paper. In his left, the globe. The paper, as I understood it, symbolized creativity, and the globe, science.

Lomonosov himself looked well fed, feminine and unkempt. He resembled a pig. In the Stalin years, that’s how they depicted capitalists. Apparently, Chudnovsky wanted to reaffirm the primacy of the material over the spiritual.

But I liked the globe. Even though for some reason it showed the American side to the viewers.

The sculptor had diligently modelled miniature Cordilleras, Appalachians and Guiana Highlands[35]. He hadn’t forgotten the lakes and rivers, either – Huron, Titicaca, Manitoba…

It looked rather strange. I doubt that such a detailed map of the Americas had existed in Lomonosov’s era. I mentioned this to Chudnovsky. The sculptor grew angry.

“You talk like a tenth-grader! My sculpture isn’t a visual aid! Before you is Bach’s Sixth Invention[36], captured in marble. Rather, in plaster. The latest thing in metaphysical syntheticism!”

“Short and sweet,” said Tsypin.

“Don’t argue,” Likhachev whispered. “What’s it to you?”

Unexpectedly, Chudnovsky softened. “Maybe you’re right. Nevertheless, we’ll leave it as is. Every work must have a minimal dose of the absurd…”

We started work. First we worked at the studio. Then it turned out that it was a bigger rush. The station was going to be opened during the November holidays.

We had to finish up on-site. That is, underground.

Lomonosovskaya Station was in its completion stage. Stoneworkers, electricians and plasterers were at work. Innumerable compressors created a fiendish din. It smelt of burnt rubber and wet lye. Bonfires burned in metal barrels.

Our model was carefully lowered underground. It was set up on enormous oak scaffolds. A four-ton marble slab was suspended next to it on chains. You could make out Lomonosov’s approximate contours on it. The most delicate part of the work lay ahead.

And here an unexpected complication arose. The escalators were not working yet. To go up for vodka meant climbing six hundred steps.

The first day, Likhachev announced, “You go. You’re the youngest.”

I’d never known that the metro was so deep, especially in Leningrad, where the soil is damp and friable. Twice I had to stop to catch my breath. The Stolichnaya I brought back was consumed in a minute.

I had to go up again. I was still the youngest. That day I went up six times. My knees hurt.

The next day we tried a different plan. To wit, we brought six bottles with us. But it didn’t help: our supplies attracted the attention of the men around us. Electricians, welders, painters and plasterers came by. In ten minutes the vodka was gone. And I went upstairs again.

By the third day my teachers had decided to quit drinking. Temporarily, of course. But the other men were still at it, and they treated us generously.

On the fourth day, Likhachev announced, “I’m no punk! I can’t drink on other people’s money any more! Who’s the youngest among us, boys?”

And I went upstairs again. It was easier this time. My legs must have become stronger.

So basically it was Likhachev and Tsypin who did the work. Lomonosov’s image was getting clearer. And, I must add, more repulsive.

Occasionally the sculptor Chudnovsky stopped by offering guidance and making some changes as he went.

The workers were also interested in Lomonosov. They asked questions like: “What’s that supposed to be, a man or a woman?”

“Something in between,” Tsypin replied.

The holidays approached. The detailed work was coming to an end. The Lomonosovskaya Metro Station was taking on a festive and solemn look.

The floor was tiled with mosaics, the arched vaults ornamented with cast-iron sconces. One of the walls was intended for our relief. A gigantic welded frame was set up. A bit higher hung the heavy blocks and chains.

I cleaned up the garbage. My teachers were putting on the final polish. Tsypin was working on the lace jabot and shoelaces. Likhachev was polishing curls on the wig.

On the eve of the opening we slept underground. We had to hang our ill-starred relief. That meant lifting it with a tackle[37], putting in what they call pitons, and finally pouring epoxy over the fastening to make it sturdier.

It’s rather complicated lifting a slab like that four yards into the air. We spent several hours doing it.

The blocks kept getting stuck. The pintles missed the holes. The chains creaked and the stone swayed. Likhachev kept shouting, “Keep away!”

At last the marble lump was suspended. We took down the chain and stepped back a respectful distance. From afar Lomonosov looked better.

Tsypin and Likhachev drank in relief. Then they prepared the epoxy.

We left near dawn. The formal unveiling was at one.

Likhachev came in a navy suit. Tsypin wore a suede jacket and jeans. I’d had no idea he was a dandy. What’s more, both were sober. That changed even the colour of their complexions.

We went underground. Well-dressed, sober workmen (although many of them had suspicious bulges in their pockets) strolled among the marble columns.

Four carpenters were quickly finishing off a rostrum. It was being set up under our relief.

Osip Likhachev lowered his voice and said to me, “There’s a suspicion that the epoxy has not hardened. Tsypin put in too much solvent. Basically, that marble fucker is hanging by a thread. So when the rally starts, stay to the side. And warn your wife.”

“But the cream of Leningrad will be standing there! What if the thing falls?”

“Might be for the best,” the foreman replied wanly.

The celebrated guests were to appear at one o’clock. The city mayor, Comrade Sizov, was expected. He was to be accompanied by representatives of Leningrad society – scholars, generals, athletes, writers.

The programme for the opening was this: first a small banquet for the select few. Then a brief rally. Handing out of certificates and awards. And then – as the station chief put it, “by preference” – some would go to a restaurant, others to an amateur concert.

The guests arrived at 1.20. I recognized the composer Andreyev, the weightlifter Dudko and the director Konstantinov. And, of course, the mayor.

He was a tall, middle-aged man. He looked almost intellectual. He was guarded by two grim, beefy guys, who were distinguished by a light air of melancholy, evidence of their clear readiness to get into a fight.

The mayor walked around the station and lingered in front of the relief. He asked softly, “Who does he remind me of?”

“Khrushchev[38],” Tsypin whispered to us with a wink.

The mayor did not wait for an answer and moved on. The station chief, laughing obsequiously, ran after him.

By then the rostrum was wrapped in pink sateen. A few minutes later the inspection was over. We were invited to sit down at the table.

A mysterious side door opened. We saw a spacious room. I hadn’t known it existed. This was probably intended as a bomb shelter for the administration.

The guests and a few honoured workmen took part in the banquet. All three of us were invited. Apparently, we passed for the local intelligentsia. Especially since the sculptor was not present.

There were about thirty people at the table: guests on one side, us on the other.

The first to speak was the station chief. He introduced the mayor, calling him a “firm Leninist”. Everyone applauded for a long time.

Then the mayor spoke. He read from a piece of paper. Expressed a feeling of profound satisfaction.

Congratulated everyone who worked on the project on beating the deadline. Stumbled over three or four names. And, finally, proposed a toast to wise Leninist management.

Everyone raised a cheer and reached for their glasses.

Then there were a few more toasts. The station chief drank to the mayor. Composer Andreyev to the radiant future. Director Konstantinov to a peaceful coexistence. And the weightlifter Dudko to the fairy tale that turns into reality before our very eyes.

Tsypin turned pink. He had a tall glass of brandy and reached for the champagne.

“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[39]. 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.”