Mikhail Ivanych raged.
One time when he was out, his wife and mother-in-law made off with his radio.
“They’ll still get no thanks from the capitalists,” assured Mikhail Ivanych.
Only about twice did he and I have a conversation. I remember Misha saying (the text has been slightly cleaned up):
“I was a pup when the Germans installed here. Truth be told, they did no harm. They took the chickens, old man Timokha’s pig, but they did no harm… And they hadn’t laid a finger on the dames. The skirts took offence, even… My old man cooked his own brew and traded it for food with the Nazis… They did fix the Yids and the Gypsies, though…”
“You mean, shot them?”
“Got rid of ’em for good. Order is order…”
“And you say they did no harm.”
“I swear to God, they done no harm. The Yids and the Gypsies – that’s the nature of things…”
“What have the Jews ever done to you?”
“I got respect for the Jews. I’d trade a dozen Ukey bums for one Jew. But Gypsies, I’d strangle the lot of ’em with my bare hands.”
“Why?”
“Whadda you mean why? You kidding?! A Gypsy’s a Gypsy!”
In July I began to write. These were odd sketches, dialogues, a search for the right tone. Something like a synopsis with vaguely outlined figures and themes. Tragic love, debts, marriage, writing, conflict with the authorities. Plus, as Dostoevsky used tosay, a hint of greater meaning.
I thought this enterprise would erase my miseries. This had happened before, when I was starting out in my literary pursuits. I think it’s called sublimation. When you try to make literature take responsibility for your sins. A man writes King Lear and for the whole year he need not raise his sword…
Soon I sent my wife seventeen roubles. And bought myself a shirt – for me, an action without precedent.
There were rumours about some publications in the West. I tried not to think about it. After all, what do I care about what goes on on the other side? And that’s exactly what I’ll say, if they send for me…
I also mailed out a few IOUs to the effect that I’m working, will pay you back soon, apologies…
All my creditors reacted magnanimously: there’s no rush, I’m not pressed for money, pay me back when you can…
In short, life became balanced. It started to seem more sensible, more logical. After all, nightmares and hopelessness are not the worst things… The worst thing is chaos…
All it takes is a week without vodka and the fog clears. Life acquires a relatively sharp outline. Even our problems seem like natural phenomena.
I was afraid to ruin this fragile balance – I became rude when offered a drink, irritable if girls at the main office tried to start a conversation…
Pototsky said:
“Boris sober and Boris drunk are such different people, they’ve never even met.”
And yet I knew that this couldn’t continue for ever. You cannot walk away from life’s problems… Weak men endure life; courageous ones master it… If you live wrongly, sooner or later something will happen…
Morning. Milk with a bluish skin. Dogs barking, buckets jangling…
Misha’s hungover voice from behind the wall:
“Sonny, throw me a singleton!”
I emptied out my leftover change and fed the dogs.
Beyond the hill at the tourist centre the radiogram was playing. Jackdaws flew through the clear skies. Fog spread over the marsh, at the foot of the mountain. Sheep reposed in grey clumps on the green grass.
I walked through the field to the tourist centre. Yellow sand stuck to my boots, wet from the morning dew. The air from the grove carried chill and smoke.
Tourists sat under the windows of the main office. On a bench, covered with newspaper, sprawled Mitrofanov. Even asleep he was perceptibly lazy…
I walked up the steps. The tour guides huddled in the small hall. Someone said hello. Someone asked for a light. Dima Baranov said: “What’s the matter with you?”
Under a dreadful, horrific, repellent
One time when he was out, his wife and mother-in-law made off with his radio.
“They’ll still get no thanks from the capitalists,” assured Mikhail Ivanych.
Only about twice did he and I have a conversation. I remember Misha saying (the text has been slightly cleaned up):
“I was a pup when the Germans installed here. Truth be told, they did no harm. They took the chickens, old man Timokha’s pig, but they did no harm… And they hadn’t laid a finger on the dames. The skirts took offence, even… My old man cooked his own brew and traded it for food with the Nazis… They did fix the Yids and the Gypsies, though…”
“You mean, shot them?”
“Got rid of ’em for good. Order is order…”
“And you say they did no harm.”
“I swear to God, they done no harm. The Yids and the Gypsies – that’s the nature of things…”
“What have the Jews ever done to you?”
“I got respect for the Jews. I’d trade a dozen Ukey bums for one Jew. But Gypsies, I’d strangle the lot of ’em with my bare hands.”
“Why?”
“Whadda you mean why? You kidding?! A Gypsy’s a Gypsy!”
In July I began to write. These were odd sketches, dialogues, a search for the right tone. Something like a synopsis with vaguely outlined figures and themes. Tragic love, debts, marriage, writing, conflict with the authorities. Plus, as Dostoevsky used tosay, a hint of greater meaning.
I thought this enterprise would erase my miseries. This had happened before, when I was starting out in my literary pursuits. I think it’s called sublimation. When you try to make literature take responsibility for your sins. A man writes King Lear and for the whole year he need not raise his sword…
Soon I sent my wife seventeen roubles. And bought myself a shirt – for me, an action without precedent.
There were rumours about some publications in the West. I tried not to think about it. After all, what do I care about what goes on on the other side? And that’s exactly what I’ll say, if they send for me…
I also mailed out a few IOUs to the effect that I’m working, will pay you back soon, apologies…
All my creditors reacted magnanimously: there’s no rush, I’m not pressed for money, pay me back when you can…
In short, life became balanced. It started to seem more sensible, more logical. After all, nightmares and hopelessness are not the worst things… The worst thing is chaos…
All it takes is a week without vodka and the fog clears. Life acquires a relatively sharp outline. Even our problems seem like natural phenomena.
I was afraid to ruin this fragile balance – I became rude when offered a drink, irritable if girls at the main office tried to start a conversation…
Pototsky said:
“Boris sober and Boris drunk are such different people, they’ve never even met.”
And yet I knew that this couldn’t continue for ever. You cannot walk away from life’s problems… Weak men endure life; courageous ones master it… If you live wrongly, sooner or later something will happen…
Morning. Milk with a bluish skin. Dogs barking, buckets jangling…
Misha’s hungover voice from behind the wall:
“Sonny, throw me a singleton!”
I emptied out my leftover change and fed the dogs.
Beyond the hill at the tourist centre the radiogram was playing. Jackdaws flew through the clear skies. Fog spread over the marsh, at the foot of the mountain. Sheep reposed in grey clumps on the green grass.
I walked through the field to the tourist centre. Yellow sand stuck to my boots, wet from the morning dew. The air from the grove carried chill and smoke.
Tourists sat under the windows of the main office. On a bench, covered with newspaper, sprawled Mitrofanov. Even asleep he was perceptibly lazy…
I walked up the steps. The tour guides huddled in the small hall. Someone said hello. Someone asked for a light. Dima Baranov said: “What’s the matter with you?”
Under a dreadful, horrific, repellent
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