The Naked Year (12 page)

CHAPTER FOUR

COMMUTATORS–ACCUMULATORS

(An explanation of the subtitle:

In Moscow in the meat market a man stands and reads a shop sign:

“Commutators, accumulators.”

–Com-mu… tators, a… ccumulators…–and says: –You see, even here they are deceiving the ordinary folk!…
*
)

THE PROVINCES, Y'KNOW.–TOWN TATORS.

T
HE SCORCHING HOT SKY POURED OUT A SCORCHING HOT HEAT MIST
, the sky was covered in blue and fathomless. The day blossomed, July blossomed. The whole dayurches, houses, road surfaces were swimming in the air, shimmering barely noticeably in the melted blue-gold air. The town slept: in a daydream, the town of Ordinin made out of stone. The days bloomed, blossomed, faded, in strict order, re-blossomed into weeks. July blossomed, and the July nights were clothed in velvet. July replaced the platinum June stars with silver, the moon came up full, circular, damp, wrapping the world and town of Ordinin in damp velvets and satins. At night damp gray-haired mists began to crawl. And the days resembled a soldier's wife in a sarafan, at thirty years, like one of those who lived in the woods behind Ordinin, towards the northern sky's horizon: it is sweet at nights in the barn to kiss such a soldier's wife. In the daytime the scorching heat wore one down.

In the evening in the “Venice” cinema a brass band was playing. The moon was rising, the earth was wrapped in velvets, and the people were going to have a look at how Kholodnaya “played.” On that day Sergey Sergeevich wrote “an entry” where he indicated that “during the current month no transactions took place,” and “no deposits received.” The Communists were sitting in the pavilion in their leather jackets and were giving the young ladies tea with fruit drops (the young ladies always were and will be interpolitical). But soon the brass band struck up the Internationale, the Communists stood up and, as it was boring to stand, they went down to the paths in the garden, to the ordinary citizens–and all began to walk in a circle–

–The writing of these chapters–banal–

Sergey Sergeevich met Laitis, Comrade Laitis was walking towards them. Sergey Sergeevich came to a halt and, smiling broadly, took off his straw hat, greeting.–Comrade Laitis did not notice the greeting.–Comrade Laitis met Olenka Kuntz, Olenka Kuntz was coming towards him–Comrade Laitis smiled affectionately, put his hand to his cap, Olenka Kuntz said sternly:

“Hello!” –and turned to her girl friend, having said something and burst out laughing at something. The band groaned with the Internationale, in the doorway burned the little lamps, couples walked after couples. Sergey Sergeevich again met Comrade Laitis, again raised his straw hat. Comrade Laitis answered:

“Hello.”

“Good evening! The weather…”

But they parted.

Comrade Laitis met Olenka Kuntz, Olenka Kuntz looked stern. From Olenka Kuntz's little herd of girls one had separated herself–she walked up to, handed Comrade Laitis a leaf of note paper. Olenka Kuntz wrote to Comrade Laitis:

“I am very angry with you. Today at midnight in our garden. Comes!

O. Ku (and dashes, an a squiggle).”

The lights went out. Under the awning on the screen flashed a red cock. The band bellowed for the last time, and the piano began to rumble. Comrade Laitis did not go to the seats, Comrade Laitis stood absent-mindedly behind the chairs. Sergey Sergeevich also absent-mindedly stood behind the chairs. Comrade Laitis absent-mindedly looked at Sergey Sergeevich, Sergey Sergeevich raised his hat and held out his hand.

They greeted each other: “H'llo!”

They were silent.

“The provinces, y'know. The only entertainment is the cinema…”

They fell silent.

“The weather, unbearable heat, y'know! You can only get a rest in the evening.”

They fell silent. On the screen people were drinking champagne.

“And the public…”

“Yesh?”

“And the public, y'know… Distrust, fear, bourgeois habits. I work in finances–there are no transactions at all.”

They fell silent. On the screen Kholodnaya was dying from love and passion. The piano was groaning indignantly, then died in languour.

“The provinces, y'know, nonsense. What ridiculous thoughts will be engendered! If you wish, I'll tell you an episode. Absurd thoughts…”

“Yesh?”

“Only, y'know… this indirectly concerns you… Ridiculous thoughts!..” The piano began to roar… “Olga Semyonovna Kuntz…”

“Vat? Olka Zemyonovna Kuns?”

“Only–you comfortable here?–Let's go, let's go through.”

Sergey Sergeevich stood aside for Comrade Laitis, Sergey Sergeevich was walking unhurriedly, hands at the back, sinking down solidly on each foot. Behind the fence the moon rose, and the piano was silent, in the corners of the garden the already white mist was floating. They stopped.

“Only, do you know?… I find it difficult, how to tell… As an episode of provincial customs… The provinces, you know.”

“Yesh?… Olka Zemyonovna Kuns?…”

“D'you see, Zilotov the cobbler is living with us, not a Party member, but he was a soldiers' deputy. A madman, one of the Masons.”

“So?”

“He's got, d'you see, a strange idea… Olga Semyonovna must sort of give herself to you, belong, like a woman.”

“That iss?”

“You must take her and–without fail–at midnight, in the monastery church, on the altar. Absurd thoughts!”

The piano began to groan, it bellowed, gave a lurch. Comrade Laitis, more quickly than necessary, lit up a cigarette.

“But does Olga Zemyonovna know?”

“I don't know, she must. Zilotov informed me that Olga Semyonovna is a virgin–however the present age, bourgeois habits…” Sergey Sergeevich spread out his arms by way an explanation.

The piano moaned.

“You say–the monastery church?”

“Yes, y'know, there's a passageway from your apartment.”

“But does Olga Zemyonovna vant it?”

“Olga Semyonovna! Olga Semyonovna is a young lady!” –Sergey Sergeevich spread out his arms reasoningly. “The provinces, y'know, philistinism.”

“Excuse me, gomrade. Just a minute. Koodbye, gomrade!” Comrade Laitis hurriedly shook Sergey Sergeevich's hand–Sergey Sergeevich did not even had time to click his heels–Comrade Laitis hurriedly walked up to the exit.

The piano by the screen broke off mid-chord, the lights flashed, the brass band thundered out. The crowd poured out along the aisles, taking a rest from the screen passion. The band thundered “The Warsaw Girl.”

Then again the lights went out, again and again Kholodnaya loved unusually and died unusually… And the moon moved over the town, and mists crawled through the town, weaving and tangling routes and distances. The hour of the curfew arrived. And when it came–the curfew hour the “Venice” had already emptied.

–… And China–The Heavenly Kingdom–did it not look around the gate?–There will be in this story, below, a chapter about the Bolsheviks, a poem about them.

Dong, Dong, Dong!–into the marshy creek fell three quarters of the chimes. Through the town crept the mists, over the town crept the moon, full, circular, damp, like passion–the mists became green, through the mists on high the stars of old silver were scarcely visible, incinerated by the heat.

The chimes struck three quarters, and Comrade Laitis went out of the monastery gates. Comrade Laitis walked along the ravine. At the bottom of the ravine fires burned, bitter songs were heard, close by down below the frogs groaned. The wicket gate in the shadow of the trees was half-open. Laitis stood awhile by the threshold–Comrade Laitis went deep inside. The trees were silent, silently crawled the fog. The path vanished, underfoot it had grown damp, Comrade Laitis distinguished the pond, near the bank a rotten boat, full of water. There was nobody. Comrade Laitis stared attentively around–trees, mist, silence, above in the mist a dim disk. The chimes struck twelve. Comrade Laitis hurriedly went back, to the path, to the house. The garden was somebody else's. The house, the collapsed out-buildings, gleaming white in the moonlight, were silent. There was a smell of raspberry. And in the distance somewhere, it was like a flash, Olenka Kuntz quietly shouted:

“Comrade J-an!…”

Comrade Laitis got stuck in raspberry bushes, again went out to the pond, already from the other side–the moon was reflected in the water transparently and palely and again–silence, mist, trees.

“Olka Zemyonovna!…”

Silence.

“J-an!…”

Cherry tree, apple trees, a lime grove. Silence and the mist. And somewhere close by:

“J-an!…”

Comrade Laitis broke into a run, stumbled, jumping, against the little fence, did not notice how he hurt his knee. Behind the little fence, in the summer house, someone mightily snored. The clock struck two quarters. And again in the distance:

“J-an!…”

“Olka Zemyonovna!…”

And silence, only the snapping of the branches from Comrade Laitis's running. And silence. And mist. And trees. And nobody was calling Comrade Jan any more. The moon grew pale, latched onto the tops of the trees. Comrade Laitis for a long time smoked cigarette after cigarette, and his cheekbones were pressed tight–Olenka Kuntz was already lying in bed next to her girl friend (every week Olenka had a new girl friend for secrets and confidences). The chimes beat out the quarters over and over again. A crimson ribbon lay across the East, the mists began to creep upwards. In the morning frost the leaves began to rustle, and the frog shouts were borne more distinctly.

By the monastery gate stood a sentry, damp and gray in the mist.

“Iv a lady comes, pring her to me.”

“Yes, sir.”

And in the cathedral:

“Dong, dong, dong!…”

In the monastery, in Mother Superior's cell, in the small room, where Comrade Laitis slept–Comrade Laitis took off his coat. Comrade Laitis put the clock into the slipper by the bedhead; emroidered in gold, this slipper, like the rug by the bed, like the bedroom slippers also, like the socks also–had been knitted by Comrade Laitis' mother in his Livonian province. Comrade Laitis put on the slippers, the ones his mother knitted, picked up the violin and, standing by the window, played long and very sad. Through the window, beyond the cloisters, beyond the monastery wall, the East flared up. Comrade Laitis took the keys and through the winter cloister walked to the winter church. In the church it was silent, scarcely noticeable was the smell of incense and mold, and on the cupola appeared the golden sparks of the first rays.

The day had come, the one like a soldier's wife in a sarafan, at thirty years.

THE MONASTERY V
vedenyo-na-Gore

By the monastery gate stood the sentry. Across the East lay the crimson ribbon of the dawn, the mists crept upwards toward the sky; the moon grew pale. For a few minutes the world and the town of Ordinin –churches, houses, road surfaces–were green, like water, like a creek (in these minutes the monastery resembled the decor of a theater). Then the world and town of Ordinin became yellow, like the fall. And the sun rose like a golden crown out of the night. At this hour–in the monastery cells, in the stuffy rooms with vaulted ceilings, with empty ikon cases and busy-lizzies in the red corners, on soft monastic feather beds slept the soldiers.

By the monastery gate stood the sentry. The sun rose like a golden crown. Then the soldiers came up to the sentry in turn, and past the sentry in line walked the sleepy, tired women, for the curfew hour had ended.

Oh, Olenka Kuntz! About her purity and virginity the poets Semyon Matveev Zilotov and Comrade Laitis dreamed, each with an aching passion and each in his own way. Then–why did the poets Semyon Matveev Zilotov and Comrade Laitis not know what everyone in the town knew, that Olga Kuntz herself did not keep particularly hidden–that there was in Ordinin town an ensign Cherep-Cherepas. Cherep-Cherepas, going off to the front, to Kolchak, somewhere in the direction of Kazan town, took Olenka Kuntz troika riding, then in his hotel room plied her with the hard stuff, and Olenka Kuntz surrendered herself to him–just as easily as all her girl friends surrendered themselves. And this was repeated more than once and not only with Cherep-Cherepas–the ensign Cherep-Cherepas was killed somewhere near Kazan town, in a soldier rebellion.

And still…

Olenka Kuntz at work sat in a small cell, as clean and bright as Olenka Kuntz herself. In the cell in the open windows basked geraniums and busy-lizzies, and through the windows in the garden the sparrows chirped. Olenka Kuntz clattered on the typewriter. To Olenka Kuntz every quarter of an hour came Comrade Laitis. Olenka Kuntz looked triumphant.

Comrade Laitis said to Olenka Kuntz:

“You koing dome to night?”

“Yes, so what?”

“Please come and fisit me. It's my pirthday totay.”

“Who else will you be inviting?–Congratulations!”

“I wanted you…”

“Then I'll phone my friend Katya Ordinina, a princess.

“B-b-but…”

Olenka Kuntz smiled triumphantly, like a conspiratress:

“Don't be alarmed! They're having a romance–they won't disturb us. Only you get some sweets and wine.”

Comrade Karrik answered into the telephone receiver:

“Katya and Olga?–I'll come!–I'll bring her!…”

The telephone receiver sang in a passionate ringing, and Comrade Laitis every quarter hour called in to see Olenka Kuntz, to remind her again and again.

The day incinerated with its scorching heat, the scorching hot sun's rays melted the air, in the monastery garden the sparrows called. In the cell of the Mother Superior, in a small room, where Comrade Laitis slept–Comrade Laitis had a little basket. In the little basket lay all that was dear, his memory of his homeland and mother. From the little basket Comrade Laitis took a little silk pillow, embroidered by his mother's hands, different woolen colors. From the little basket Laitis took a satin blanket, quilted by his mother's hands. And the pillow and blanket Comrade Laitis took to the winter church.

And yet.

Must one speak?

Must one speak about what was as simple as a glass of tea?–Comrade Laitis dreamed about a violin, and there was no violin. Comrade Karrik brought with him the hard stuff. Olenka Kuntz and her girl friend Katya Ordinina came, linking arms and in headscarves, lowered over their eyes.–Must one speak?–the ancient monastery was silent; in the cell with vaulted ceilings, where out of the windows the monastery cloisters could be seen, the churches and walls–Comrade Karrik carefully plied the young ladies with the hard stuff, and very soon Katerina Ordinina moved from the armchair onto Comrade's Karrik's knees.

And at this very hour, in a distant monastery corner, another Ordinin–Archbishop Sylvester–was writing the chapter about the town. In the dark cell with stone walls, on a cramped table, burned the lamps, lay the bread; and the gray little priest was bowed over the table, leaning like a coffin, his skull, overgrown with moss, like the cell. The window stood high amidst the busy-lizzies, into the cell came only the night, and July did not come, and by the door, hunched up, slept the black monk–lay brother. In the silence the shaggy priest wrote:

“… Forest, copses, marshes, fields, the quiet sky, country roads. Sometimes the country roads merge into the highway, along the highway went the Rebellion. Near the highway there ran a railway. The railway went off to the towns, and in the towns lived the others, who had wearied of walking along the country roads, who laid the highways in lines, penetrating into the granite and iron. And to the towns the people's country road Rebellion brought–death. In the town, in nostalgia for the past, in fear of the people's Rebellion–all worked and wrote out papers. Everyone, to a man, worked in town, in order to serve themselves, and everyone, to a man, in town wrote papers, to get entangled in them–papers, paper money, cards, maps, posters. In the town bread disappeared, in the town the lights went out, in the town the water ran dry, in the town there was no heat–in the town even dogs, cats went missing (and mice were born, to eat what had been put by)–and even the nettles on the outskirts of the town disappeared, which the urchins plucked for the cabbage soup. In the eating-houses, where there were no spoons, old men crowded in bowler hats and old women in hats, with bony fingers convulsively snatching the leftovers from the plates. At the crossroads, by the churches, by the sacred places the rogues sold, for fearful amounts of money, moldy bread and moldy potatoes–by the churches, where people brought the corpses in their hundreds, which they had not had time to bury, although officially registering the funeral. Through the town roamed hunger, syphilis and death. Along the avenues raced silenced cars, languishing in death pangs. People went wild, dreaming about bread and potatoes, people went hungry, sat without light and froze–people pulled up fences, wooden buildings, in order to heat up the dying stove and writing offices. Red blooded life went out of the town, as if it had never been there, let's assume–there came white paper life–death. The town was dying, without giving birth. And it was terrifying in spring, when on the streets, like incense at a funeral, the smoky fires smoldered, burning the carrion, enveloping the town with a deathly breathlessness–on the streets–plundered, torn asunder, covered in spittle, with broken windows, with houses boarded up, with flayed pediments. And the people who had dispersed earlier with courtesans to the restaurants, who had loved women without children, who had hands without callouses but had TB by the age of forty, dreaming of Monaco, with the ideals of Paul de Kock, with the schooling of the Germans–wanted more and more to flay, plunder the town, the corpse, in order to take the stolen goods away into the country, to exchange it for bread obtained by calluses, not to die today, having postponed death for a month, again to write their papers, to love now by right without children and longingly await rotted old age, not daring to understand, that only one thing remains to them–to stink of death, to die–and that longed-for old age is death too, the road to death…

And out of town, on the outskirts a new cold crimson sunrise flared up…”

Thus the as hen priest was writing in his brick cell behind the little monk and busy-lizzies, bending his coffin skull to the table with a crust of bread and sheets of paper.

Comrade Laitis was about to start playing the violin–and Comrade Karrik interrupted him: “It's not worth pulling a cat by the tail!”

Olenka Kuntz said:

“Let's go, let's go for a stroll.”

But when they collided in the doorway, when in Comrade Laitis's brains everything flew to the Devil's mother–there were no longer any words–

By the monastery stood a sentry.

In pale strips lay the moonlight. Over the earth over the monastery moved the circular, full moon, enveloping the world and monastery in velvets and satins. The dawn winds began to rustle, the frogs finished croaking to the world. It grew green, and in a golden crown the sun rose.

Then in line the soldiers approached the sentry, and past the sentry in line walked the sleepy tired women for the curfew hour had ended. And past the sentry walked Olenka Kuntz and her girl friend Princess Katya Ordinina, linking arms, with headscarves lowered over their eyes, chewing sweets.