‘BESTSELLER’, or “Omozolelov’s Passions”

© Nicolas Bokov [translated by Sophie Lund. New Writing and Writers 17, John Calder, London 1980~Samizdat, Moscow 1973 <>Revised by the author, Paris 2005] In Memory of Wladimir Polikarpov The First Half ‘But, Dimitri Petrovitch, can it be that you... Please understand.’ The man to whom this remark was addressed did not look up at his interlocutor. He stared at the pavement, at the scrap of newspaper resting against his left shoe. His head was bent low, his interlocutor could see only his forehead. ‘So how about it, Dimitri Petrovitch?’ He tried to make out the remains of a word on the scrap of paper. ‘Pro…’ ‘I’m waiting for your reply.’ ‘Pro…’ mused D.P. ‘Probable. Proto. Proteus. Of course.’ ‘I need time to think,’ he announced heavily, and looked around. He had long ago forgotten what that impatient individual wanted from him. He lifted his head. His interlocutor peered into his eyes. Let us peer with him. Black pupils on a field of grey. A well)shaped brow, just the tiniest bit socratean. The nose, slightly Roman, but the cheeks, oh the cheeks! The cheeks are fully in keeping with nose, and the smooth, almost non existent, chin. If you were to make a friendly caricature of Dimitri Petrovitch, you would end up with a straight horizontal line. But where, the millions of prototypes (pro, here it is!) of this friendly caricature might suddenly ask, where are the nose, mouth, (incidentally, his mouth is large, the lips, we might as well mention while we are about it, fleshy, the teeth of middling size and widely spaced which predicts, they say, a happy destiny, the tongue yellowish and only just about able to fit into the afore-mentioned mouth, the palate rough, the larynx not too bad at all, the tonsils – spell r, please! somewhat reddish, the throat… but let us stay on the threshold of Dimitri Petrovitch’s interior world, partly because we are not surgeons, and partly because he is still alive), where are the eyes, dammit, where is the forehead, in the disquieting flatness of the horizontal line? We shall immediately shinny up a tree and yell: ‘That’s the way we see it!’ D.P.’s interlocutor had already glanced at his watch, not once but twice. Meanwhile, D.P. wrestled with his thoughts, which had flung themselves in two opposing directions: eastwards – what word begins with PRO? Westwards – what question had the man standing before him asked? A third direction appeared: who in fact was this man who had asked him whatever it was that he had asked him. And then, to his horror, a northerly direction presented itself: what, the devil take, was the meaning of life? Salvation came in the guise of a random phrase. He pronounced it. ‘Ring me tomorrow evening. But let’s be clear about this. If I say yes, then I’m agreed. If I say no, then it’ll more likely than not mean that I’ve no objection.’ ‘Very well. Goodbye.’ His interlocutor ran off to where the tram car stopped. Harlamov fled after him. Dimitri Petrovitch hurried to the trolley bus. Caught up in the crowd, his interlocutor lost control of his actions. All of a sudden he began to fight his way out. Maybe he had remembered that he did not know D.P.’s telephone number, or that D.P. did not in fact possess a telephone. It would seem that this was the reason why he turned his head and shouted: ‘Omozolelov!’[1] The cry sounded unconvincing. Shuffling and cursing, the crowd swept the man into the tram. His name is lost to us. He is irrelevant because he did not managed to telephone Dimitri Petrovitch Omozolelov. And not only for the reason that he did not know the number to dial. Not one single stroke exists of the interlocutor’s likeness. He can be recognized, of course, by the caricature, but what if he possessed of a different nose? Or mouth? Or chin? Or something else? But no, the components of his physiognomy are the same. His coat? However, is new, and his briefcase made of the real skin of a real imported pig. Clearly, the non-existence of any written description, (in any case in our narrative; there are others where the lack of sketch – at the very least in words – constitutes not only a disadvantage, but a veritable sabotage), is occasioned by another circumstance, which the astute reader will already have guessed for himself, and the inattentive, since we shall forbear to chastise him, will now learn from us. On December 17th, Dimitri Petrovitch Omozolelov’s interlocutor was killed by an automobile. That’s why he did not ring, and why we have not set down his description. Speak well of the dead, or say nothing. Why all this lengthy discussion, the foreigner asks. And here, we’ll exchange glances, you and I, and nod our heads. The poor foreigner! He’ll never be able to understand in what cause so many words have been expended. He’ll translate them into his native tongue, will try to work them out, will call on psychoanalysis for help. He’ll smash his car, blow up his cottage, vote for the best party in the land, (which in our case is the only one). He’ll slaughter his pet dog and then pit his cat! So that none of this should occur, we will smile and tell the truth. It is not for the sake of the narrative itself that so many words have so lavishly been squandered. Not for the sake of a bigger fee – after all, this story will never appear in print because… but enough, we are not writing for the foreigner. Thanks to the above superfluous but wide-ranging material we have learned the surname of Dimitri Petrovitch. And how much time and money is spent nowadays in tracking down a person’s surname. How much paper is used up, and how many pairs of boots. How much cloth is made. How much wire manufactured, and how much, dammit, employed. And all because of the surname. The address is nothing. The address even you and I can uncover. Not every address of course. But the surname! It can be compared to a hall-mark. It can be compared to the number on a cloakroom ticket, or to any other number. After all, should you require to take your coat off the hanger, you must first submit your number. Omozolelov’s coat, for instance, which, after jumping out of the trolley bus and rushing into the building, he had handed in at the cloakroom, spent the entire day as number 953. By announcing a man’s name, you enable them to give him the same treatment that the cloakroom attendant metes out to your coat – and no matter how old, worn, fit only at times for the rubbish heap, it may be, it will still protect you against winds and frosts. Omozolelov pushed the ticket into his pocket, and went up to the department. His colleagues glanced at him reproachfully – he was fifteen minutes late. They too would have like to have arrived late, but had not dared to do so. He had dared, however, or rather it had so happened that an interesting conversation had prolonged itself, and made him late. D.P. sensed their animosity and hurried to his work station. This was by the window, a fact which occasioned the just envy of his fellow workers. The rest, in its monotony and tedium, elicited no feelings of any kind6 a square drawn on the floor with white paint, a red box for the finished product, a black one for that which was half-finished. D.P. chose several suitable half-finished items, and started to work on them. It seemed as if he intended to fulfil his daily norm before lunch, and afterwards to double it. This conclusion was reached by his workmates who had noticed the energy with which Omozolelov applied himself to his task. Their surprise gave way to an unspoken vexation. ‘Did Peredreev buy those trousers?’ asked Pavel Andreevitch, irritably. ‘Yes, yes, he did!’ Larissa Ilinichna confirmed, thinking of Dimitri Petrovitch with revulsion. ‘He says if it’s cold this winter, he’ll put them on’, said Pavel A., concluding his train of thought. ‘I just don’t understand it – did you see his wife the night of the Navy party? Buying trousers when your wife’s back is all bare!’ said Anna Ivanovna. ‘Oh! All bare!’ repeated little Lisa, and was instantly covered in confusion. ‘That’s the fashion’, began Pavel A., trying his shoelaces. ‘Where are you going for dinner, Larissa Ilinichna?’ asked Ivan Sergeevitch. His eyes grew oily. ‘Fashion should be not carried too far’. ‘Don’t argue. A naked woman is not exiting. Go to the museum and see for yourself.’ ‘Why don’t we go to the spaghetti place.’ ‘Before our time, people went around naked, and thought nothing of it.’ ‘Archimedes,’ said Pavel A., and spat with skill. ‘Euclid,’ said Omozolelov, butting in. ‘As for you, Dimitri Petrovitch, you’ve got yourself into a pretty funny sort of situation.’ ‘Little Lisa, you look like a sweet little fish!’ ‘Did Archimedes really go about in the nude?’ ‘You bet!’ D.P.O. looked out of the window. Snow was falling, there even appeared to be something of a blizzard. He remembered that when evening came there would be a meeting. With whom exactly? Could it be with little Lisa? No, not with her. He thought of where this meeting was to take place, and decided that whoever it was would have no difficulty to recognize him, and would make themselves known. D.P. look out of the window, and saw the following. To all intents and purposes, a young woman was running along the slippery path. It’s difficult to determine gender at such a distance, especially as even close up it’s not always apparent. O. remembered one occasion when someone in the uniform of a major had run past him. It would seem safe to assume that a major needs to be a man. D.P. had judged accordingly. Yet, on closer inspection, the major had turned out to be a pretty redhead in an advanced state of pregnancy. Under the window, a woman was running. To begin with, she was dressed only in her shift, and secondly, her mouth was held open in the manner of someone who is showing their tongue to the doctor, and saying a-a-a. behind the woman, ran a man with some kind of, it would seem, since he was dressed in an overcoat, non-amorous intent. And in any case the freezing weather was not conducive to dalliance. Having, in so far as one could make her out, caught up with woman, the pursuer took hold of her shift, and pulled hard. The woman rocked back on her heels. The stuff, too delicate to hold, split. At which point, the man hit the woman on the nape of her neck, and then, for some reason, in the back. She fell onto her side in the cold snowdrift, its white peak assumed a rosy tinge. To D.P.’s amazement, the man was breathing heavily. He stepped back a pace, pulled something out of the – it goes without saying – woman’s back, and ran away in the direction from which he had come. D.P. placed the finished paper disc in the box, and picked up a fresh, half-finished one. But suddenly everyone began to shout, to run about: it was the lunch break. Claudia came up to the window and took a pocket mirror, a lipstick, and a little brush for her eyelashes out of her bag. She destroyed the expression of innocence on her face, and all of a sudden gave a frown. She noticed a spot on the bridge of her nose. She examined it closely, although there were spots on her forehead which merited the same attention. There were spots, pimples even, on her cheeks as well. And were she to remove her little jacket…! But that is not the point. The spot on the bridge of her nose was a new one, ripe and juicy as an apple. Claudia was upset and glanced out of the window. ‘Look, look!’ she shouted, with such a lack of affectation that her colleagues all rushed up and pressed themselves against Omozolelov. They gazed at the almost naked body of the woman lying below with concentration, and for a considerable length of time, as if in anticipation of further developments. ‘And you didn’t say anything!’ Larissa Ilinichna pronounced with gentle reproach. ‘Did you see?’ asked Dobrolubov. ‘From the very beginning,’ D.P. answered, and was immediately conscious of having misled his colleague. The very beginning he had not seen, he had managed to see only the start of that which was now before their eyes, and even then only in part. ‘So! You saw it, and not a word. While your workmates toil, life exists solely for your benefit, comrade Omozolelov. That is something my mind cannot encompass!’ ‘Because you’re as stupid as a bunch of radishes,’ D.P. thought to himself, daringly. ‘We’ll ask them to transfer him behind the cupboard,’ said Guivy. ‘Right! And by the window we’ll place a comrade who is happy to share all there is to be seen!’ D.P. went to lunch alone. When he came back, the head of the department took him by the hand, and led him to the semi-obscurity of the corner behind the cupboard. ‘I am delighted, Dimitri Petrovitch,’ said the chief, wiggling his ears. ‘I am delighted to be able to comply with your request. You’ll be more comfortable here.’ D.P. raised his head in order to say thank you, but did not see the face of his chief, because his chief has already gone. Next to him laboured a colleague by the name of Ivan Sergeevitch who had come, some two months ago, of his own free will, from Smolensk. At home, D.P. lay down on the sofa, and studied the torn off page of the calendar for that day, the eighth of the month. He found nothing particularly surprising in the information pertaining to the moon, or even to the rising and setting of the sun. He read the poem written by someone or other by the name of Marshak – birds, tiny birds, they sing so sweetly – only because he was about to throw out the page. But he was intrigued by a recipe for preparing pike. He went to the kitchen to make sure that in the shopping bag which dangled outside the window, in order to preserve the freshness of the provisions it contained, there was no such fish. There was no fish of any kind. Be that as it may, the recipe began with the words: ‘Slice the pike evenly and lay the slice in a casserole together with…’ The rest was meaningless. However, D.P. was in a position to accomplish the second part of the receipt: ‘…cover with water, and set in the oven.’ He placed a saucepan beneath the tap, which hr then proceeded to turn on. The tap wheezed and snorted. There was no water. Only then did D.P. catch sight of the message pinned to the kitchen door, and recognized the hand of the pensioner, Castikoff. ‘There will be no water. The electrician has been.’ He understood why all his neighbours’ tables were covered by an assortment of vessels filled with water – jars, bottles, saucepans, jugs, vases, buckets and jerricans, cups and ladles. D.P. sighed and made as if to settle the saucepan back on its shelf, but here he caught sight of a luminous sparkle at its enamelled base. He held the saucepan up to the light. His heart sank: there was a perfect round hole the size of a farting in the bottom. And it was not the only one. The sides and bottom were entirely covered in holes. ‘It’s Harlamov,’ D.P. said, out loud. ‘He fetched back a drill from the factory, and spent the whole night drilling away at something or other.’ He decided that he could not actually swear on his life that Harlamov had spent the entire night drilling, because, being a heavy sleeper, he had only heard the appropriate buzzing noise towards early morning. He resolved to save up and bye a new saucepan§ and to employ the transfigured one in the capacity of a colander. He was, nevertheless, keen to have a bite of something to eat. D.P. made up his mind to boil up some coffee in the tin mug given to him by Claudia, at the time of their mutual passion. The passion had died on the subsequent day. Unfortunately, there is no way of knowing how their relationship might have developed had D.P. been made aware of the mug’s origins. Claudia had taken it away from a blind man begging for alms at the station. Having spent the small change, collected in this parasitic manner, on a new purse for herself, she had, in one of those bursts of love which come so naturally to a woman, presented D.P. with the mug. In order to make coffee, you need water, and indeed, the coffee itself will be found to be necessary. D.P. prepared to borrow some water from Harlamov. He dilated his nostrils, stepping softly and silently, like a leopard in the jungle. None of this was lost on the sharp eye which glittered at the keyhole of the built-in cupboard. He poured some water from Harlamov’s bottle. It had an unpleasant smell, and was rusty in colour. He knew that this was the way water always went just before the supply was disconnected. In the jar, where only yesterday there had been D.P.’s cache of Brazilian coffee, lay some wood shavings, too large and to moist to be other than pine. He made some tea, and carried it off to his room. There he allowed himself to weaken. He stretched out on the divan. Retrieved a paper bag full of white bonbons from beneath of it, and, with enjoyment, drank his fill of the tea. Oh, if only he had known of the conspiracy against him! Alas, how much misery humanity has had to bear through ignorance. What grief and pain still lie ahead. When they built their walls, men knew nothing of gunpowder. With the appearance of wire, walls lost their meaning. But the labour, the cosmic labour, expended on the making, the firing, and, dammit, on the laying, of those bricks, can never be truly repaid. Knowledge is apparently strength, but then so is ignorance, with the difference that knowledge does not lessen ignorance, but perhaps, to the contrary, increases it. Omozolelov knew nothing about the conspiracy. He most probably guessed, but a guess is not knowledge. The bottles, jars, saucepans, jugs, pitchers, vases, buckets, jerricans, cups, ladles, and the bath-tub, were all filled with urine. The neighbours had miscalculated. They had not foreseen that D.P. would drink his tea with a bonbon in his mouth, and one which was not a creamy, aromatic, melting-on-the-tongue, bonbon at that, where the contrast might have alerted Omozolelov. Luckily, the sweetmeat was a good match for the tea. He glanced at the clock and, as if he had been hit in the eye by an awl, leapt to his feet. His meeting was to take place in twenty minutes time. He threw on his coat, and dashed off in his stockinged feet. The cold of the marble floor quenched our ageing Lovelace’s fire. He returned to his flat and spent a long time searching for his shoes, and then trying to mend a broken shoelace. Six minutes were lost in this way. At any other time this would be a mere nothing, the eight hundredth part of a working day, but if a man’s destiny is being decided, then even a few minutes will sometimes constitute a fatal loss. He remembered that a delay of six minutes in arriving at theatre could cost him two months in hospital. His colleague, Givy, had, by six minutes, missed the aeroplane which was to have taken him on holiday to the Crimea with his parents – the powerful engine crashed right there in front of him. Fortunately, Givy managed, in searching among the corpses, to uncover his father’s wallet containing the promissory notes of a three percent loan. Times passes quicker, for some reason, if one is engaged in thought. D.P., standing beside the statue of some renowned personality of the past, was unaware of beginning to wait for some rendezvous. Someone was coming towards him. He looked into the face of the approaching woman, and tried to remember who she was. She was smiling. Dimples played in her rosy cheeks. She came nearer, eyes shining, completely unblinking. D.P. began to tremble. To begin with, he was being approached with such love! He felt that any moment his life would change, would become filled with the tender melancholy of a lavender spring evening. He took a step forward, clenching her thin fists, gloved in suede against the freezing weather. He felt the living warmth of gentle hands, and pressed his lips to the silken lips of, surely, Zenaïde. The blow to the back of his head deafened him slightly. D.P. seemed to lose his balance, and then was shoved forward. Zenaïde stood beside him, but there was also a man in a leather coat, and with a felt on his head, a fact which astonished D.P.: fancy wearing a felt hat in this degree of frost! ‘Swine!’ said the man. ‘Who is he, Nadine?’ ‘My little Zenaïde!’ screeched the gallant. ‘It’s me, Dimitri Petrovitch Omozolelov!’ ‘Before my very eyes. You sod, ’ he was informed harshly, and received a slap across the face from a superlative pair of gloves. The officer’s code of honour, abolished, alas, by the revolution, would have come in handy here. To wash away the insult by the blood of the offender! To the barricades, whispered D.P., recalling a film about bygone days. He couldn’t unfortunately, bring to mind its name. He rocked back and forth, as if he were an actor, or worse, a clown performing his role on the deck of a destroyer. ‘Dimitri’, he heard someone say. The meeting came to pass. ‘Dimitri, ’ repeated the girl, with cheeks so sunken that she might well have spent all her nights with two billiards balls strapped to her face. She did not have much forehead, but unhappily this was not the case with her nose. D.P. was taken into a bony embrace, teeth clattered against teeth. He could not have sworn that he was acquainted with this young lady. It’s not easy to recognize people, especially in the times we live in. Omozolelov could not remember her name. They exchanged passionate kisses, and gazed into each others’ eyes. Well, actually, O. gazed over his lady friend’s shoulder at the drunk who lay in a puddle, struggling to slide a sheet of newspaper under his back. The girl was contemplating a taxi driver who was making covert signs of a very specific nature in her direction. ‘Which way shall we walk?’ asked D.P. with the emphasis on the word walk, as if they could just as easily have flown. He was trying to resolve a most difficult question which had arisen at the moment of their disturbing meeting: which direction? And, in truth, one cannot approach it topographically. There is direction and direction. The road, for example, to good, may indeed sometimes lead to it, and a man may find himself in possession of quite a decent flat and first rate furniture. ‘Let’s go to my place, Dimitri. There’re showing Persian carpets on television, and? In the second programme, meat!’ ‘Fresh meat?’ ‘No, stewed pork.’ ‘We’ll go to your place, ’ D.P. said, slightly disappointed. ‘You know, Dimitri, comrade Pavel Andreevitch came up to me today, and said, ‘‘Irene…’’ ’ ‘Irene!’ exclaimed Omozolelov D.P. with satisfaction, remembering the girl’s name. ‘Yes, ‘‘Irene’’ he says, ‘‘I should like to come and see you’’.’ ‘‘Why, Pavel Andreevitch?’’ asked Irene, and looked at her watch. ‘‘Oh!’’ said P.A., surprised, ‘‘Just in case. But you mustn’t think, Irene…’’ ‘‘Don’t think that just anyone can come up to my place. You won’t think that will you?’’ ‘‘Never!’’ ‘‘You’re an honest man, Pavel Andreevitch, but I love another. Let go of my hand. Let me go, I want to get up.’’ ‘Do you live alone?’ asked D.P. ‘Alone.’ ‘Swear.’ ‘I swear. Only there’s Elisabeth. And Larissa Ilinitchna.’ ‘What about Ivan Sergeevitch?’ ‘He lives alone.’ ‘And that other one, what’s his name…’ ‘Dimitri, on my word of honour.’ It took Omozolelov a moment to realize that they were no longer moving, that they were standing still. A puddle lay before them, spreading out from beneath a gate, and running into a snowdrift. The outline of the puddle recalled that of the Mediterranean sea. The snowdrift formed a barrier between the pavement and the street, and it took D.P. only a few seconds to grasp the situation: there was no way of climbing over. From the puddle, which did not seem to have a natural cause, rose a cloud of steam. It may be that someone had emptied out a large quantity of warm water, or that the pipes had burst. O D.P.! We are willing you not to take that step. O D.P., go back the way you came, and spend another fifteen minutes or so avoiding the snowdrift. Don’t do that which you have done. Is it really necessary to expose yourself to such risks in order to surmount a puddle? He took a step into the clear, pure, stream. Carefully, in his arms, he carried the beautiful Lydia. She clung to Arthur, encircling his neck with her arms, there was a softness under the palms of his hands. He paused halfway across the stream, and marvelled at her tender knees: their rosiness, their voluptuousness, belonged to him, to Arthur. The greensward on the opposite bank awaited Lydia, as it awaited Arthur too, no doubt. She gave a little cry, and trustingly pressed herself against her beloved: beneath the water lay comrade Harlamov, eaten by crabs. He was prevented from floating to the surface by an oblong object attached round his neck. Arthur contrived to give Harlamov a kick, but regretted his action immediately; his foot had disturbed a large crab which had fastened itself to the massive Harlamovian nose. Arthur stepped onto the sandy shore. Stumbling, he almost dropped (one must assume) Irene. His breathing was laboured. His legs were shaking. The flabbergasted Irene noticed none of this and remained in anticipation of further events. Within her was awakened a quaintly out-moded opinion of men. D.P. did not resist when his lady friend pulled him up the stairs by the hand. He did not resist when they all but ran into the hall: the little hatch opened noisily, Ukikov looked out, and saw (we swear on the head of Dobrolubov) Irene accompanied by Omozolelov slipping into the hallway. The gallant swain understood the necessity of attaining the fourth floor as soon as possible. Unfortunately, his understanding was governed by reason, by his head, so with each step his strength was rather decreased than otherwise. ‘Faster, Dimitri!’ the woman whispered with agitation, opening the door to the flat, and waiting for the puffing friend. He made the last dash: from the top of the stairs, through the lobby, into the room. The locks clicked. Neither one of them heard the quick steps of Ivan Sergeevitch as he ran to the kitchen to tell Harlamov the news. Omozolelov lay down on an old settee, which had a wooden back enriched by inlaid brass snakes in the grip of a Hercules with features resembling those of Field Marshal Kutuzov, Napoleon’s victor. One corner of the room was screened of by a curtain: this was for changing your clothes, or performing other functions which are best veiled from the public gaze. A pre-revolutionary table, big enough to seat twenty, stood by the window. ‘I’d quite like to make some coffee,’ said Irene, and grew shy at the rapid glance thrown her way by Omozolelov. ‘Of course, do,’ he murmured. ‘Yes, yes,’ agreed Irene, hastily, and lit a small spirit-lamp. Discomfited, D.P. stared out of the window: the street light was almost touching the glass, as if it had been placed there on purpose. Close by, the snow covered roof of a neighbouring house drew the warmth out of the room. Irene panicked when she saw that her guest’s attention was fixed on a small navy box with tiny perforations along its upper edge. The colour was so dark that the box appeared to be almost black. However, she was wrong to worry, because her beloved was looking out of the window and not at the curious object. Nonchalantly, Irene threw a towel over the little black box, and carried it off to the hidden corner of the room. D.P. felt the cold creeping up his legs from his sodden footwear. He unlaced his shoes and placed his feet on the floor, which turned out to be colder still. He climbed up on to the sofa, and tucked his legs under him. ‘Irene, it’s not very warm in your place,’ he said, gazing about him, teeth chattering. ‘Why, what is it,’ said Irene. She unfolded a semi-decomposed cotton quilt and threw it over D.P. After a moment’s reflection, she covered him with his own overcoat, and a runner from the floor. Omozolelov sat in the dark, in a warm burrow, shivering. In despair, Irene added an old frock and a hat to his coverings. She tore the extensively moth-eaten lace curtains down from the window, and these too she flung over the freezing man. ‘Cold, fifteen… cold, sixteen!’ spoke Omozolelov from the depths. Irene grew afraid: could he be dying? Should your beloved be dying, it is imperative to shepherd him out into the street, or at the very least, to the front door. Were little Dimitri to pass away in her room all kinds of endless complications might ensue. ‘Dimitri!’ said Irene into the heap of rags. ‘Eighteen!’ cried Omozolelov. ‘Quiet, Dimitri, Harlamov will hear. And Anna Ivanovna too, she has perfect hearing.’ ‘Cold,’ came a voice from under the blanket. Irene took off her dress, and threw it over him. She searched for the entrance to the burrow. ‘Twenty,’ croaked the man. ‘I’m here, Dimitri.’ Irene slithered like a snake towards him. He suddenly felt the warmth and softness of the belly pressed against him. He no longer shivered so violently. With amazement, he discovered that Irene’s breast was also warm, to say nothing of the little animal which arched its furry back at the root of her thighs. ‘Mousey,’ whispered Omozolelov, stroking it. Irene gave a start and remained silent. This may seem strange for darkness encourages conversation, but, plainly, Irene had her reasons for keeping quite. Omozolelov said nothing further, because he had nothing further to say. He was half asleep. A normal man should sleep lightly, and awaken at the slightest danger. For the slightest danger, remaining unperceived, soon becomes a big, even an enormous, one. Added to which, a man’s nervous system could be damaged were he to be aroused by danger out of a deep, healthy sleep. Deep sleep nurtures frightening dreams. Now, take note: a man has a nightmare, he opens his eyes with relief, and thinks that it was all a bad dream. Then he realizes that he is awake, and sees before him reality from which there can be no further awakening. Sweet sleep, it would appear, leads to disillusion, and from that point it’s but a short step to nihilism. Knowing all that, D.P. fell asleep as if smothered. He did not respond to the caressings and pushings of Irene’s hand, and eventually, her foot. She grew uneasy, fearing that Omozolelov had died, but concluded that were that the case he would be growing colder, not warmer, by the minute. She dozed off. By his side, it was hot. Irene poked out a foot from beneath the downy rubble, or to be more exact, she exhibited her foot, so as to tempt Ukikov. He had been waiting a whole hour for a suitable moment. The toes, misshapen by her shoes, could not seduce the neighbour. Neither could her deformed sole, or the instep covered by coarse hair. But the heel…! The little heel was perfection: tiny, round, as if carved out of ivory, but unlike ivory, soft and pink. When Fate dipped Irene in the waters of life, it had held her up by the heel. Neighbour Ukikov crept up to this little heel, and kissed it. It immediately darted back under the blanket. Ukikov had to wait until the foot, peering round cautiously, crawled out again, into the cool night of the room. Ukikov waved to Harlamov, who was standing in the doorway. Harlamov alerted Anna Ivanovna who, in her turn, informed Larissa Ilinichna, and awakened Dobrolubov. Ukikov took hold of Irene’s foot, and jerked her out of the burrow. Omozolelov sensed an empty space beside him, and resettled himself more comfortably. At first, Irene did not understand what had happened. Recognizing Ukikov, she wanted to scream, but decided against it, because her mouth was stopped by the gag, which on the second of January, had been fashioned out of a waffle-weave towel. This towel, purchased out of voluntary contributions, had been designated community property. They managed to drag Irene into the corridor with only minimal damage to her head against the doorstep. Harlamov then lifted her by the shoulders, but was forced to surrender her to the newly awakened Dobrolubov. Running, they carried Irene off to the kitchen, where the gas rings on the stove were burning brightly. The rings had been lit solely for heat, because, earlier that evening, the central heating radiators had been turned off, on account of the burst pipes. Ukikov and Dobrolubov darted into the wall cupboard, situated rather inconveniently between the toilet and the bathroom. Harlamov’s wish not to be excluded made it something of a tight squeeze in there for the three of them. The cupboard was called the cupboard of justice. Last Wednesday the little Irene had been sentenced to a sojourn in the cupboard of justice, in order that this might triumph. The guilt of the malefactress was so plain that the pensioner Hliastikov all but died of indignation, a fact which only served to increase Irene’s culpability. Thus, the seemingly rather audacious step taken by Ukikov and the others may be explained. As soon as Pavel Andreevitch had also entered the cupboard, it became difficult to accomplish any kind of movement at all. Ukikov, in attempting to push him out with his rear, dropped the guilty party, or rather, let go of her. Irene slithered down to their feet, where naturally it was easier to breathe. There’s always more room at the foot, as one who has spent his entire life sleeping on camp beds can testify. Irene slid into the corridor and began to crawl towards her room. She would have reached it too, had she not been spotted by Givy, who was distinguished by a pathological indifference to the legalities. Givy apprehended the fugitive and decided not to take her back to the cupboard, but to accomplish everything on the spot, on the spur of the moment as it were. Ukikov and Dobrolubov vanquished Harlamov and Pavel Andreevich. And no wonder: Harlamov was the only one who came any where near Ukikov in intelligence, Dobrolubov was patently superior to Pavel Andreevich. Having seen off their stupid adversaries, Ukikov and Dobrolubov searched for the little Irene. She was not, it became apparent, in the cupboard. She was, in fact standing in the corridor listening not without a certain sympathy, to the outraged squawks of Pavel Andreevich. Ukikov grabbed her by the shoulders and dragged her back to the cupboard so as to carry out the sentence. ‘What are you doing, Ukikov!’ squealed Irene with the voice of Larissa Illinitchna. ‘The gag!’ shouted Ukikov, marvelling at the cunning of the jade. The towel silenced her. We should like to explain to the foreigner why the gag is so effective. The point is that a surplus of cloth or wadding in the mouth, immediately paralyses the tongue, cuts off the air supply, and rubs against the vocal cords. The larynx can emit a sound, in other words, you can hear an interior voice. This artificial pressure on the cords occasions a fairly loud, but in some circumstances, totally inadequate, mooing sound. And it’s only fair to say that this mooing lacks that resonance and power, which impresses itself so agreeably upon audiences in opera houses. Ukikov and Dobrolubov shut themselves up with Irene in the cupboard of justice, as we have known it since childhood. They left it at dawn, carrying a long heavy object wrapped in a rough blanket, and took this mysterious thing off to the kitchen. Let the heavens fall, but justice will be done! Before daybreak, Irene returned to her room. She managed to lock the door, and then suddenly sank to the floor, shivering with cold. She tried to say ‘Dimitri!’, but nothing happened because her mouth was gagged. Are you familiar with the workings of the gag? Well, you see… but hasn’t this question already been dealt with? A moment’s thought… …Yes, as it happens, we have discussed it. Irene, snake-like, crawled up to the divan and squeezed herself, writhing, into the burrow of the over-heated Omozolelov. She wondered if she mightn’t be dying, because her hands and feet were cooling more and more. Her death could lead to dreadful consequences, since Omozolelov was registered in quite a different house, and his presence here could not be justified in any way. He would convicted and she evicted. ‘Little Dimitri!’ she tried, but failed, to say. With her numbed hand, she located the foreign object in her mouth, and pulled it out. ‘Dimitri!’ she whispered, and came to the conclusion that, since she appeared to be capable of speech, she was not as yet dead. Moreover, the name which she had pronounced dispelled the cold, and she even felt warmer. She pressed herself against Omozolelov, and he, muttering ‘Forty-seven’, embraced her. ‘Dimitri, it’s time for you to go,’ Irene said, softly. ‘Fifty-three,’ announced D.P. ‘Why did I say that number?’ he thought in his sleep, and began to wake up. ‘Fifty-three!’ someone yelled in his right ear. ‘Get up, fifty-three!’ said Claudia’s voice. And it really was not eleven, not seventeen, not forty – dammit – eight, but exactly fifty-three. It goes without saying that D.P. Omozolelov instantly woke up. ‘Dimitri, you must go,’ said the woman. She was warm now, but still a little apprehensive in case she should die suddenly, in D.P.’s presence. This was the very time to leave, any child would have known that. Dawn had crept into the right-hand side of the window, the left-hand side having had a plywood sheet fitted in place of the broken pane of glass. D.P. leapt to his feet and, urgently, like a soldier, tore into his clothes. Thus transformed, he fled silently to the door, and slipped through the hallway onto the landing. The extent of his skill in this was measured by Claudia who stood watch behind the staircase. Had Omozolelov walked briskly ahead, along the alley and across the square, he would have come to his place of work. And had he looked back, he would have seen something of importance which it would have been as well to have anticipated and, if possible, forestalled. But he did not look back, and we shall do so either: we are too frightened for Dimitri Petrovitch. He hurried home to his quarters – he could not remember whether he had locked the door of his room or not. But, to all intents and purposes, this has ceased to be of any significance, since whether the door of your room, or even that of your apartment, is locked, has long since become immaterial. In any case, honest folk have nothing to fear should their rooms remain unlocked, let alone, if they have, in fact, been secured. So why, then, did D.P. go home? After all, it was surely not to verify whether he had indeed locked his door or not – that has no importance. On the contrary, a locked door can elicit displeasure in those who, quite naturally, wish to enter a room. A locked door can in some, or rather, in all, circumstances arouse sentiments of revenge, which do not disappear even when the door opens quite easily, which, as a matter of course, it always does. No, that was not why Omozolelov dashed home. The alert reader will have, by now, understood the reason, and the scatter-brained will soon learn it from us, although we find it embarrassing to have to explain the patently obvious. Truly, one is beside oneself when one thinks how much paper has been wasted in the past just to clarify the obvious. And these days too, what quantities are wasted! One would have thought that obvious things would become more obvious still, after having been elucidated, but a paradox lies hidden here: can the patently obvious become more obvious, the definitive more definite, the absolute more absolute? Clearly, the obvious, whether you explain it or not, does not become more obvious. In our case the obvious lies in the reason why Omozolelov, instead of taking a walk in the fresh air, chose to hurry home. It’s obvious why he did not go to work: it was five o’clock in the morning. And now we’ll explain why he went home and nowhere else, although it is a trifle awkward to have to do so. Will we not be offending the astute reader by these excessive indications, as if we did not trust in his intelligence, or as we say – or indeed even write – nowadays, his intellectuals capacities?! Well, leaving that aside, Omozolelov hurried home to change his clothes. ‘What?’ millions will ask us, ‘Did he have two coats ?’ No, naturally, he only had one. ‘How about suits?’ One. ‘Shoes, then. He surely didn’t go out in his stockinged feet?’ He had one pair of shoes, and one pair of socks. ‘So what was there to change, and for what reason? Was he a corps perhaps?’ and only the attentive reader will remember: shoelaces! Omozolelov’s shoelaces were broken. That is what he decided to change – or rather to mend, because he only had one pair of shoelaces. He entered the flat, (a fact which was not hidden from Ivan Sergeevitch), went into his room, (‘So!’ whispered Dobrolubov), and made his way to the sofa. The sofa was not there because it had been replaced by a table. D.P. was perplexed by this rearrangement. He tried to remember if he had moved the furniture around the day before, for some reason or other. He could bring to mind neither a reason, nor even an intention: there probably, had not been one, since the table had ended up in a dark corner, and the sofa under the draughty window. To begin with, Omozolelov doubted that he really had moved the furniture around, but the rearrangement was there before his eyes. And then he realized that this was how the table and sofa had always stood, and that any other positioning of these items of furniture arose out of alien images which had, in his memory, distorted the real location of things. He stole into the kitchen, and took the shopping bag from outside the window. His hope for a tasty breakfast soon dwindled. The sausage and the butter, saved from the evening before, had disappeared overnight. There was no cheese in the bag, either. All that remained was a little tin of… what exactly? He could not remember. Sprats, possibly, or most likely of all, whale meat with peas. He wavered: it might be pilchards, or even sausage meat, if not herrings in wine sauce. Oh, how exquisite, those herrings! Neat little fillets, smooth and tender, without a single bone. Actually, a good salted herring is equal to one in a wine sauce any day. There’s one brand, for instance: evenly salted, on the mild, rather that the strong, side, oily, juicy when you cut into it … Pile it onto your plate, foreigner, and we’ll read a fresh newspaper, the while. ‘Fish cakes!’ D.P. recollected. He looked at his watch, and realized, instantly, that he was late for work. The sound of his running footsteps along the corridor disturbed Angelina Sergeevna. Banging on the central heating pipes with a fork, she asked Dobrolubov what the matter was. The answering signal came: time for work. Everybody began to run, as if war had been declared. Omozolelov raced along, trying his shoelaces as he went. Ivan Sergeevitch and Elisabeth trotted by, as did the rest of the neighbours, in a tight little knot. Even Hliastikov, the pensioner, broke into run, tapping his skinny little feet, with the sound of hoof-beats. He was hurrying to the shop: during the night he had spotted a nice leg of lamb in the window, and was afraid lest gourmets should get there first. Omozolelov’s colleagues noticed with irritation that he had arrived on time. The real reason of such unusual behaviour, had one existed, would have made Pavel Andreevich uneasy. The actions of D.P. and of the little Elisabeth were explained by the events of the day. They had clearly been aware of the changes in store, and had, therefore, come to work early. No changes took place before lunch. Let us describe the usual course of the day, because after lunch it receded into history, and no longer belongs to the likes if us. Behind the cupboard, where Omozolelov had been transferred at his own request, and in dangerous proximity to it, it was dark and damp. After five years of employment he heard learnt his work so well that he could now manage his given dark in complete darkness. Without looking, D.P. took the raw material – a little beaker made of waxed paper – and stood it upside down inside the white painted square on the floor. After which he a second thing and put it next to the first, so that they should be not too close and yet not too far from each other. He took a third beaker and placed it a little apart from the others. A triangle was thus obtained, which was easily turned into a rectangle by the addition of a fourth paper cup. The fifth, sixth, and even seventh, cup, were positioned with exceptional speed, which could not be said the eighth, ninth, tenth thin gummy, let alone the eleventh, but then with the twelfth and thirteenth he got his second wind, and this took him up to the twenty-first. The preparatory stage of the operation was, in this way, completed. Now came the most difficult and responsible part, on which so many novices, in spite of being well meaning and not at all stupid, come a cropper. D.P. took aim and deftly placed his heel on the thing nearest to the centre of the square. A light report! – and the completed item came into being: a splendid flat round of waxed paper of a slightly creamy colour. Omozolelov placed the finished product in the box for finished products. Lost in thought, he sometimes exceeded his norm: the understandable hostility of his workmates swelled and grew like a cactus. As luck would have it, Omozolelov achieved his full day’s quota before lunch, oblivious of the withering glances of Givy, and the contemptuous snorts of Dobrolubov. Fortunately, a late return from the lunch-break, and the unexpected changes which took place, spared Omozolelov the reckoning which was near at hand. The arrival of the director accompanied by engineering and secretaries, prompted a spate of genuine activity. But the information that the director had to impart was of a nature that no human mind could encompass. The little Elisabeth babbled something quite out of place. Pavel Andreevitch went scarlet and feigned an attack of asthma. Dobrolubov stayed firm. Omozolelov showed no feelings of any kind, and met with approval. Ivan Sergeevich whispered out loud some French saying and found that a note had been made of his name. The director announced that within the department there would be, this very minute, a reform. Angelina Sergeevna let out an ear-splitting, ill-considered, shriek, and was instantaneously removed. The director informed them that the manufacture of the previous product would cease. The department would familiarized itself with a new form of production. The granite Dobrolubov went soft and black like a mushroom which has remained too long in the ground. The new manufacture§ said a deputy director, continuing the director’s train of thought, was of the utmost importance; they were waiting upon it. The chief engineer came to grips with the matter just as soon the director, the deputy directors, the secretaries, not to mention the lift operators and the red cross staff, had left the room. The thief engineer inserted two fingers in his mouth and gave a piercing whistle. A nice little trolley was trundled into the room, loaded with sheets of stiff green paper. The sheets of paper were lined. An expert took out a pair of long narrow scissors, and cut a sheet of paper into immaculate strips, and handed them round to the workers in the department – one strip each, so that they could compare their own efforts with the sample. The chief engineer, his deputies, ordinary engineers, experts and lift operators, red cross staff and anonymous gentlemen in business suits, all went out. The little Elisabeth burst into sobs. The others maintained a dejected silence. ‘It’s quite clear, comrades, let’s get to work,’ said Omozolelov unwisely. They looked at him with hatred which quickly turned into suspicion: today he had come to work on time, there must be a connection with the drastic changes which had taken place. That Elisabeth, too, had arrived early somehow slipped their minds. It’s difficult to see a malicious intent in this, that is how people are made: if they wish to fly they will see the wings at their backs, if they do not wish to fly they will deny their existence. Omozolelov was already a long way off. He was walking along the bustling evening street. A normal man will accomplish the journey from the institution where Omozolelov worked, to the street along which he was now making his progress, in the space of one hour. He took, if we are to be as always precise, fifty-five minutes. He spent a quarter of an hour in the purchase of a newspaper, its subsequent misplacement, and in a fruitless search for the same. Then he thought, should he not, perhaps, buy an illustrated magazine? He made his decision. He joined the queue. At the end of thirty minutes, doubt assailed him: was he in the right line, or was he standing there by fault? ‘What have they got, comrades?’ he enquired in a loud voice. The millions gazed at him with such wonder that D.P. might just as well have spread a three rouble bill (about three dollars) with jam, and swallowed it whole. He was puzzled by this amazement, whilst the millions were positively flabbergasted by his puzzlement. He would have liked to have heightened the degree of his surprise, but thought better of it, in as much as undisguised astonishment leads, as a rule, to the rough justice of the lynch mob. Of course, there are no rules without exceptions, but D.P. had no wish to speed matters along. He reserved himself a place behind a lady in a black hat, and went off in search of the head of the queue. He walked the length of the street, and turned right into an alley. The breathing of the head was as yet not audible. No one moved, all were standing. At the same time, the queue turned into an opening. Conditions became so cramped that D.P. had difficulty in squeezing himself into the crowd. He managed to deflect suspicious inquiries, as to why he wished to pass out of turn, by lying that he had been queuing up since six o’clock that morning. Through the other side of the opening, the queue widened and turned to the right. D.P. also turned to the right. It became necessary to turn once more. A lady’s black hat, which Omozolelov seemed to recognize, hove into view. Larissa Illinitchna peered out and, totally incomprehensively, Dobrolubov appeared. Omozolelov hurried up the street, along the side of the queue, which turned right round a corner into an alley, where it turned again, and disappeared through an opening. Omozolelov, the consumer, pondered, and arrived at the conclusion that it was unlikely that they were all queuing for magazines, however well illustrated. It became clear that he had no business here. He continued straight ahead, and entered an insignificant side street. There was no one coming towards him. Perhaps, there was somebody behind him, but Omozolelov did not look round. And quite rightly. There is that which is disagreeable about an honest man looking over his shoulder, as if he’s afraid of something, as if he’s secreting something in his bosom, under his mantle of skin, there where… but let us not be tactless. A thousand times no! An honest man will never look back, even if he hears footsteps behind him. Or the hiss of motor car tyres. Or a shrill whistle of a locomotive. Omozolelov paused before the window of a small shop. A splendid lock hung on the door, whilst inside it was almost dark because the lamps which lit the displayed wares were all beamed at the long counter. It is hard for an ignorant man to recognize objects in a shop window. Gardening implements perhaps, they could have been. Or possibly fishing tackle, but then why the display of bundles of spokes from, more likely than not, bicycle wheels? Why go on guessing when Omozolelov paid no attention to this merchandise? His eyes were riveted by a small square box, dark blue in colour, a deep blue-black. In its lid were small perforations. They formed a shape: a modestly sized circle, measuring the same as the cardboard round which Hliastikoff… sorry, Hliastikov had at one time cut out. It seemed to Omozolelov that he had met its like before. Yes, fate kept throwing that little box across his path, but he could not remember where exactly or whether the colour had been exactly the same. Possibly the shape, too, could have been the tiniest bit different, oval even. He came to the conclusion that Ukikov or Dobrolubov was mixed up in the business. An affair which, in the first place, had nothing to do with either of them, but more to do with the little Elisabeth, or if the worst came to the worst, with Larissa Illinitchna. D.P. gazed into the depths of the premises, and saw, or to be exact, thought that he saw, a white face glimmer and vanish in the half light. He had time to catch a grimace of hate, but could not decide whether this was really the way that someone had looked at him, or whether he had seen a different expression – one of love, say. Of one thing Omozolelov was absolutely convinced: the face belonged to a representative of the white race, since it would have been unlikely that he could have glimpsed a Negro in such dark surrounding. Having scrupulously locked the door, Omozolelov D.P. took a roll of paper out from beneath the sofa, and smoothed it out on the table. He saw that there were also four drawing pins under the sofa, and resolved to secure the sheet, but while he was feeling for the pins, the rolled itself up again into a tube. He spread it out once more, and fell upon the table breast first. Unfortunately he brushed the drawing pins off with his sleeve. He pondered on how difficult it was to live alone. Had he not been so solitary, somebody would picked up the pins – the first, the second, and the remaining ones – and handed them to him. Maybe they would have brought him all four pins at once! Or four drawing pins and then a fifth. But he had no need of the fifth. It would have been a different matter had the second or, for instance, the third pin been damaged. Omozolelov retrieved the drawing pins and took a different course. First, he pinned the top right hand corner, and then, unrolling the paper, unexpectedly drove a pin in with such accuracy, that the left hand corner too was secured. He was half way there. He fixed the bottom corners and would have liked to have put a drawing pin through the middle of each side, but as there were no more pins he decided against it. He fished around under the sofa and pulled out a case of drawing instruments. This had been given to him by Rita, who had blessed Dimitri Petrovitch with other things as well. The instruments had been presented to Rita by a drunken engineer, beset by sentimental recollections, while on night duty on the boulevard. The case was of rear beauty. The engineer had picked it up in the street whilst marching in a column during May Day demonstration. It had been lost by Harlamoff… sorry, Harlamov. The latter had not been unduly sorry since he had hardly any need of the instruments and, having found them free of charge in the kitchen, had not had to pay a penny kopeck piece for them. Omozolelov had forgotten the set that very same day on the kitchen table, and been unable to find it again. D.P. had been so upset that he only dreamed of saving enough money to buy another case. And then, on an impulse of tenderness, Rita had made him a present of these instruments. Oh, how a woman is renewed and made more lovely by such impulses! Omozolelov opened the case of drawing instruments, and took out a key. The little lock, fitted into the table, – if we are to speak freely, avoiding suppression and tedious mysteries – locked absolutely nothing at all, since the table was a dining table and bereft of drawers, or even of anything approaching them. Omozolelov D.P. clicked the little lock open and shut, and assured himself of its perfect working. How pleasant to engage and disengaged your own little lock! Under other circumstances, and in another epoch, he could have locked something away. Without further ado, he picked a pair of compasses off the window sill and approached the table. Before him was spread the cleverly pinned map of the world. Opening the compasses just a little he measured the distance between his native town and the town of Samara. It turned out that there were eleven segments. But he only had to increase the space between its slender steel legs, and the compass took just eight steps to reach Samara and fourteen to reach Karaganda. Well done, Omozolelov! If you open the compass to twice its original span, then the distance to the town of Chita is also fourteen segments. One must assume that fourteen equals fourteen, anyway in this case. It follows, therefore, that the distance to Chita and to Karaganda is the same. But if you apply the measure to the Siberian town of Krasnoyarsk, it will turn out to be the same as the distance to Warsaw. There is a different distance to London. It is equal to two distances to the polar Norilsk, and three to the town of the Latin name Magadan, the capital of the dead. Actually D.P. only measured the distance to London one little time, before realizing that he had committed an indiscretion. Harlamov, who chose that moment to rush into the room, and straight out again, probably noticed it. An indiscretion perceived becomes effrontery. Effrontery, should it be set down on paper in the vigorous handwriting of the pensioner Hliastikov, takes on the colour of villainy, and in certain circumstances turns into crime. Another thing – the distance, for example, to the town of Peking. The distance between Moscow and Peking measures one segment, and only sometimes two. Speaking in moral terms the space between the capital cities is a good one, nay, paradisiacal. We will not go so far as to state, of course, that Muscovites live in Peking – that would be stretching it, but if we are to be truthful, the distance between here and Peking does not exist. Opening the compass half way, Omozolelov traced eleven segments to the town of Smolensk. He must have pressed down too hard on the compass. Or perhaps he positioned its leg with insufficient care, forgetting to allow for the weight of the marvellous instrument. Sadly, the point of the compass went through the town of Smolensk. Went through with the light, but unmistakable, sound of a prick. Its consequences would not delay. [1] The name alludes to omozolelost’, callosity.