great?”
And he hurried out to meet the visitors. The stem, brisk dean, of whom the students were very much afraid, followed after him.
But Fyodor had only got as far as the first-floor landing when he saw the visitors corning up the stairs, one after the other. First came Khabalygin. He was a snort man, still under sixty, but overweight. He had passed the 250-pound mark long ago, and he was suffering as a result. His hair was graying at the temples.
“Ah—good.” He stretched out his hand approvingly toward the principal. And as he reached the landing, he turned and said: “This is a Comrade from our Ministry in Moscow.”
The Comrade from the Ministry was a good deal younger than Khabalygin, but he was also putting on weight. He permitted Fyodor to hold the tips of three smooth, dainty fingers for a moment and then moved on.
Actually, for two years “our” Ministry had had nothing to do with the school, which now was under the local Economic Council.
“I tried to get you on the phone twice today,” Fyodor said to Khabalygin with a smile of pleasure and reached out to take him by the arm. “I was going to ask you …”
“And here,” Khabalygin went on, “is a Comrade from the Department of …” He mentioned the department by name, but in his confusion Fyodor didn’t catch it.
The Comrade from the Department was young, well-built, good-looking, and very well-dressed.
“And this,” Khabalygin continued, “is the Head of the Electronics Section from …” Khabalygin said where from, but while speaking he resumed climbing the stairs, so again Fyodor failed to catch the name.
The Head of the Electronics Section was a short, dark, polite man with a small black mustache.
And finally there was the Supervisor of the Industrial Department of the District Party Committee, whom Fyodor knew well. They exchanged greetings.
Not one of the five men was carrying anything.
The dean was standing stony-faced, straight as a soldier, next to the banister at the top of the landing. Some of them nodded to him; others didn’t.
Khabalygin managed to hoist his hefty bulk to the top of the stairs. Nobody could have walked next to him or passed him on the narrow staircase. After reaching the top he stood still, puffing and blowing. But his expression, always animated and forceful, discouraged any inclination to sympathize with him for the way in which, every time he walked or made a movement, he had to battle his large body, on which the layers of unlovely fat had been skillfully camouflaged by his tailors.
“Shall we go into my office?” Fyodor asked when he reached the top.
“Oh no, there’s no point in sitting around,” Khabalygin objected. “You go ahead and show us what you’ve got here. What do you say, Comrades?”
The Comrade from the Department pushed back the sleeve of his foreign raincoat, looked at his watch, and said:
“Of course.”
Fyodor Mikheyevich sighed. “Honestly, we just don’t know where to turn. We have to hold classes in two shifts. There aren’t enough places in the laboratories. Different types of experiments have to be carried out in the same room, so that we’re always having to put one batch of instruments away to make room for another.”
He looked from one to the other, speaking almost in a tone of apology.
“You do make it sound terrible,” Khabalygin said, and started to shake with either coughing or laughter—it wasn’t clear which. And the rolls of flabby fat hanging from his neck like an ox’s dewlap also shook. “It’s amazing how you’ve managed to stand it these seven years!”
Fyodor arched his fair, bushy eyebrows: “But we didn’t have so many departments then! And there were fewer students!”
“Oh well, lead on. Let’s take a look.”
The principal nodded to the dean as a signal that everything should be opened up, and he started to show the visitors around. They followed him without bothering to take off their hats and coats.
They went
And he hurried out to meet the visitors. The stem, brisk dean, of whom the students were very much afraid, followed after him.
But Fyodor had only got as far as the first-floor landing when he saw the visitors corning up the stairs, one after the other. First came Khabalygin. He was a snort man, still under sixty, but overweight. He had passed the 250-pound mark long ago, and he was suffering as a result. His hair was graying at the temples.
“Ah—good.” He stretched out his hand approvingly toward the principal. And as he reached the landing, he turned and said: “This is a Comrade from our Ministry in Moscow.”
The Comrade from the Ministry was a good deal younger than Khabalygin, but he was also putting on weight. He permitted Fyodor to hold the tips of three smooth, dainty fingers for a moment and then moved on.
Actually, for two years “our” Ministry had had nothing to do with the school, which now was under the local Economic Council.
“I tried to get you on the phone twice today,” Fyodor said to Khabalygin with a smile of pleasure and reached out to take him by the arm. “I was going to ask you …”
“And here,” Khabalygin went on, “is a Comrade from the Department of …” He mentioned the department by name, but in his confusion Fyodor didn’t catch it.
The Comrade from the Department was young, well-built, good-looking, and very well-dressed.
“And this,” Khabalygin continued, “is the Head of the Electronics Section from …” Khabalygin said where from, but while speaking he resumed climbing the stairs, so again Fyodor failed to catch the name.
The Head of the Electronics Section was a short, dark, polite man with a small black mustache.
And finally there was the Supervisor of the Industrial Department of the District Party Committee, whom Fyodor knew well. They exchanged greetings.
Not one of the five men was carrying anything.
The dean was standing stony-faced, straight as a soldier, next to the banister at the top of the landing. Some of them nodded to him; others didn’t.
Khabalygin managed to hoist his hefty bulk to the top of the stairs. Nobody could have walked next to him or passed him on the narrow staircase. After reaching the top he stood still, puffing and blowing. But his expression, always animated and forceful, discouraged any inclination to sympathize with him for the way in which, every time he walked or made a movement, he had to battle his large body, on which the layers of unlovely fat had been skillfully camouflaged by his tailors.
“Shall we go into my office?” Fyodor asked when he reached the top.
“Oh no, there’s no point in sitting around,” Khabalygin objected. “You go ahead and show us what you’ve got here. What do you say, Comrades?”
The Comrade from the Department pushed back the sleeve of his foreign raincoat, looked at his watch, and said:
“Of course.”
Fyodor Mikheyevich sighed. “Honestly, we just don’t know where to turn. We have to hold classes in two shifts. There aren’t enough places in the laboratories. Different types of experiments have to be carried out in the same room, so that we’re always having to put one batch of instruments away to make room for another.”
He looked from one to the other, speaking almost in a tone of apology.
“You do make it sound terrible,” Khabalygin said, and started to shake with either coughing or laughter—it wasn’t clear which. And the rolls of flabby fat hanging from his neck like an ox’s dewlap also shook. “It’s amazing how you’ve managed to stand it these seven years!”
Fyodor arched his fair, bushy eyebrows: “But we didn’t have so many departments then! And there were fewer students!”
“Oh well, lead on. Let’s take a look.”
The principal nodded to the dean as a signal that everything should be opened up, and he started to show the visitors around. They followed him without bothering to take off their hats and coats.
They went
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