A CIRCLE OF FRIENDS
(A Not Particularly Reliable Tale concerning a Certain Historic Get-together)
The building stands behind the high red-brick wall known to the entire world. There are many windows in that building, but one was distinguished from all the others because it was lit twenty-four hours a day. Those who gathered in the evening on the broad square in front of the red-brick wall would crane their necks, strain their eyes to the point of tears, and say excitedly to one another: “Look, over there, the window’s lit. He’s not sleeping. He’s working. He’s thinking about us.”
If someone came from the provinces to this city or had to stop over while in transit, he’d be informed that it was obligatory to visit that famous square and look and see whether that window was lit. Upon returning home, the fortunate provincial would deliver authoritative reports, both at closed meetings and at those open to the public, that yes, the window was lit, and judging by all appearances, he truly never slept and was continually thinking about them.
Naturally, even back then, there were certain people who abused the trust of their collectives. Instead of going to look at that window, they’d race around to all the stores, wherever there was anything for sale. But, upon their return, they, too, would report that the window was lit, and just try and tell them otherwise.
The window, of course, was lit. But the person who was said never to sleep was never at that window. A dummy made of gutta-percha, built by the finest craftsmen, stood in for him. That dummy had been so skillfully constructed that unless you actually touched it there was nothing to indicate that it wasn’t alive. The dummy duplicated all the basic features of the original. Its hand held a curved pipe of English manufacture, which had a special mechanism that puffed out tobacco smoke at pre-determined intervals. As far as the original himself was concerned, he only smoked his pipe when there were people around, and his moustache was of the paste-on variety. He lived in another room, in which there were not only no windows but not even any doors. That room could only be reached through a crawl-hole in his safe, which had doors both in the front and in the rear and which stood in the room that was officially his.
He loved this secret room where he could be himself and not smoke a pipe or wear that moustache; where he could live simply and modestly, in keeping with the room’s furnishings—an iron bed, a striped mattress stuffed with straw, a washbasin containing warm water, and an old gramophone, together with a collection of records which he personally had marked—good, average, remarkable, trash.
There in that room he spent the finest hours of his life in peace and quiet; there, hidden from everyone, he would sometimes sleep with the old cleaning woman who crawled in every morning through the safe with her bucket and broom. He would call her over to him, she would set her broom in the corner in business-like fashion, give herself to him, and then return to her cleaning. In all the years, he had not exchanged a single word with her and was not even absolutely certain whether it was the same old woman or a different one every time.
One time a strange incident occurred. The old woman began rolling her eyes and moving her lips soundlessly.
“What’s the matter with you?”
“I was just thinking,” the old woman said with a serene smile. “My niece is coming to visit, my brother’s daughter. I’ve got to fix some eats for her, but all I’ve got is three roubles. So it’s either spend two roubles on millet and one on butter, or two on butter and one on millet.”
This peasant sagacity touched him deeply. He wrote a note to the storehouse ordering that the old woman be issued as much millet and butter as she needed. The old woman, no fool, did not take the note to the storehouse but to the Museum of the Revolution, where she sold it for enough money to buy herself a little house near Moscow and a cow; she quit her job, and rumor has it that to this day she’s still bringing in milk to sell at Tishinsky market.
Recalling this incident, he would often tell his comrades that genuine dialectical thinking had to be learned directly from the people.
One day, having parted with the cleaning woman and finding himself alone, he wound up the gramophone and began thinking great thoughts to the music. It recalled for him the far-off days of his childhood in a small town in the Caucasus: his mother, a simple woman with a wrinkled, sorrowful face; his father, a stubborn man who, through daily toil, had achieved considerable success in the art of shoemaking.
“Soso, you’ll never make a real shoemaker. You’re too crafty, you try to save on nails,” his father would say, hitting him over the head with the last.
All this did not pass without its effect, and now, in later life, he suffered from fierce and frequent headaches. If only he could resurrect his father and ask him how was it possible to beat a child over the head with a last. How much, how passionately he wanted to resurrect his father and ask him ...
But at that moment something else had him excited. Ominous rumors had reached his ears: Dolph, with whom he had recently become fast friends, was planning to betray their friendship and march across the border. He considered himself the most treacherous man in the world and could not bring himself to believe that there existed someone even more treacherous than he. When the others urged him to prepare to defend himself against Dolph, he treated their words as provocation and did nothing, so as not to offend Dolph with their groundless suspicions. The most suspicious man in the world was as gullible as a child in his relations with Dolph.
The closer the shortest night of the year drew, the more his soul was filled with foreboding. It would be frightening to spend that night alone.
On the eve of the shortest night of the year, he put on his faded, semi-military suit, pasted on his moustache, lit up his pipe, and became the person known to all, Comrade Koba. But before going out among people he turned to the large mirror which hung on the wall across from his bed. Pipe in hand, he ambled past the mirror a few times, gazing at his reflection out of the corner of his eye. He found his reflection satisfactory; it returned some of the grandeur the original possessed, if you didn’t examine it too closely. (And who would ever allow himself the luxury of examining Comrade Koba that closely?) He grinned, nodded to his reflection, and then crawled into his office by the usual route, through his safe. He sat down at his desk and struck a pose which indicated that he’d been working days on end without a moment’s rest. Without changing his position, he pressed the button on his bell. His private secretary Pokhlebyshev entered.
“Listen, my good man,” said Comrade Koba to him. “Why are you always walking around with an armful of papers like some kind of bureaucrat? My word. Better you get the boys together, they can come by after work, a person has to relax somehow, get away from it all, talk, have some fun in the company of close friends.”
Pokhlebyshev left and returned a short while later.
“They’re all here and waiting for you, Comrade Koba.”
“Very good. Let them wait a little.”
For in the meantime Koba had found himself a most interesting diversion—cutting the pictures of various industrial leaders from the latest issue of Ogonyok and pasting the men’s heads on the women’s bodies and vice versa. It made for the most curious combinations, though it did use up quite a bit of his precious time.
Finally he appeared in the room where they were waiting for him. There was three rows of bottles on the table: Moskovskaya vodka, and Borzhomi, and Tsinandali dry wine. There were appetizers galore. To avoid confusion, the boys had seated themselves in alphabetical order: Leonty Aria, Nikola Borshchev, Efim Vershilov, Lazar Kazanovich, Zhorzh Merenkov, Opanas Mirzoyan, and Mocheslav Molokov. They all rose from their chairs when Koba appeared, and greeted his entrance with stormy applause and cries: “Long live Comrade Koba!” “Glory to Comrade Koba!” “Hurrah for Comrade Koba!”
Comrade Koba ran his eyes down the boys’ faces noting with no little surprise the empty chair between Vershilov and Kazanovich.
“And where is our trusty Comrade Zhbanov tonight?” he asked.
Pokhlebyshev stepped out from behind Koba and reported: “Comrade Zhbanov requested permission to be late. His wife is in the hospital dying and she wanted him there in her final moments.”
Comrade Koba frowned. A faint shadow flashed across his face.
“Interesting situation we have here,” he said, making no attempt to conceal his bitter irony. “We’re all here waiting, and as you see, some woman’s whim means more to him than being with his friends. It’s all right, though. We’ll wait a little longer.”
Shaking his head in distress, Koba left the room and returned to his office. There wasn’t much he could do there. He’d already cut out all the pictures from Ogonyok; only the crossword puzzle was left. He pushed it over to Pokhlebyshev.
“You read them off to me, I’ll try and figure them out. What’s 1 across?”
“The first illegal newspaper in Georgia,” read Pokhlebyshev, and shouted out the answer to himself: “Brdzola! Brdzola!”
“What are you giving me the answer for?” said Koba angrily. “I could have guessed it myself if I’d had time to think. All right, what’s 1 down?”
“The largest prehistoric animal,” read Pokhlebyshev.
“That’s too easy,” said Comrade Koba. “The largest animal was the elephant. Why aren’t you writing ‘elephant’?”
“Doesn’t fit, Comrade Koba,” said the secretary timidly.
“Doesn’t fit? Of course, prehistoric. So write—‘mammoth.’ ”
Pokhlebyshev bent over the crossword puzzle with his pencil, tapping the squares with the point, and then raised desperate eyes to Koba.
“Doesn’t fit either?” asked Koba, amazed. “What’s going on here? Was there really some animal bigger than a mammoth? Give it here.” Sucking on his pipe, he examined the puzzle, counting the squares and thinking out loud: “Twelve letters. First letter—B. Could it be ‘badger’? No. ‘Beaver,’ ‘bulldog,’ but they’re all pretty small animals if I’m not mistaken. Why don’t we call up one of our eminent biologists? Why should we rack our brains when they can give us a scientific answer if there was an animal beginning with B bigger than a mammoth. And if there wasn‘t, I don’t envy the author of that crossword puzzle.”
The telephone rang shrilly in the apartment of Academician Pleshivenko. A hoarse, imperious voice demanded that Pleshivenko come immediately to the phone. His sleepy wife answered angrily that Comrade Pleshivenko could not come to the phone, he was ill and sleeping.
“Wake him up!” An abrupt order was her reply.
“How dare you!” she said indignantly. “Do you know who you’re speaking to?”
“I know,” the voice answered impatiently. “Wake him up!”
“This is outrageous! I’ll lodge a complaint! I’ll phone the police!”
“Wake him up!” the voice insisted.
But by that time the academician was already awake.
“Trosha,” said his wife, running to him, “Trosha, here, you take it.”
Trosha took the phone irritably.
“Comrade Pleshivenko? Comrade Koba will speak personally with you in one moment.”
“Comrade Koba?” Pleshivenko leaped out of bed as if lifted by the wind. Barefoot and naked except for his underpants, he stood on the cold floor, his wife beside him, immobile, her expression a mixture of joy and terror.
“Comrade Pleshivenko,” a familiar voice with a Georgian accent boomed through the receiver. “Forgive me for calling so late ...”
“Don’t mention it, Comrade Koba,” sputtered Pleshivenko. “It’s my pleasure ... mine and my wife’s ...”
“Comrade Pleshivenko,” interrupted Koba, “to get right to the point, I’m calling on business. Certain of our comrades here have come up with a rather odd and unusual idea—with the aim of increasing the production of meat and milk, what if we were to somehow reintroduce to our fauna the largest prehistoric animal, what the hell is the name of it again, it’s a twelve-letter word, I remember, beginning with B.”
“Brontosaurus?” asked Pleshivenko uncertainly after a moment’s thought.
Koba made quick use of his fingers: “B, r, o, n ...” He covered the phone with the palm of his hand and, winking slyly, whispered to Pokhlebyshev: “Fill in ‘brontosaurus.’ ” And then he said loudly into the phone: “Yes, exactly right, brontosaurus. And what’s your reaction to this idea?”
“Comrade Koba,” said Pleshivenko, all composure lost, “it’s a very bold and original idea... That is, I mean to say it’s simply an idea of...”
“Genius!” said the academician’s wife with a little punch in his side as she awoke from her stupor. She did not know exactly what they were talking about, but she did know that the word “genius” was never out of place in such situations.
“Simply an idea of genius!” said the academician decisively, squinting off into space.
“For me it’s only a working hypothesis,” said Comrade Koba modestly. “We sit around, we work, we think.”
“But it’s a hypothesis of genius,” objected the academician boldly. “It’s a magnificent plan for the transformation of the animal world. If only you would permit our institute to get to work on elaborating some of the individual aspects of the problem ...”
“I think some more hard thinking is still required. Once again I apologize for calling so late.”
Pleshivenko stood for a long time with the receiver pressed to his ear and, listening intently to the distant, rapid, whistling sounds, whispered reverently but loud enough to be heard: “A genius! A genius! How fortunate I am to have the chance to live in the same era with him!”
The academician was not sure that anyone had heard him but still hoped that his words had not gone amiss.
Everything was in order when Comrade Koba returned. Anton Zhbanov had been found and installed in his usual seat. Leonty Aria had filled their tall glasses with vodka. Comrade Koba proposed the first toast.
“Dear friends,” he said, “I invited you here to celebrate, among friends, the shortest night of the year, which is now beginning and which shall be followed by the longest day of the year ...”
“Hurrah!” cried Vershilov.
“Not so fast,” said Comrade Koba, knitting his brows. “You’re always jumping the gun. I want to propose a toast—that all our nights be short, and that all our days be long ...”
“Hurrah!” said Vershilov.
“You son of a bitch!” Enraged, Comrade Koba spat in his face.
Vershilov wiped the spit off with his sleeve and grinned.
“I also want to propose a toast to our wisest statesman, the staunchest revolutionary, the most brilliant...” began Koba.
Vershilov was about to shout “Hurrah!” just to be on the safe side, realizing that butter never spoils the porridge, but this time Comrade Koba managed to spit directly into Vershilov’s open mouth.
“... to a man great in both theory and practice, to Comrade ...” Koba prolonged his significant pause, which he then terminated sharply: “Molokov.”
The room fell silent. Merenkov and Mirzoyan exchanged glances. Borshchev unbuttoned the collar of his Ukrainian shirt. Aria clapped, then grabbed at his back pocket, which some angular object was bulging out of shape.
Two silent figures appeared in the doorway and froze.
Turning pale, Molokov set his glass aside and rose to his feet, holding on to the back of his chair so as not to fall.
“Comrade Koba,” Molokov said in tongue-tied reproach, “what’s this about? You’re hurting my feelings without any reason to. You know I’m unworthy of all that praise, that nothing of the sort ever enters my mind. All my modest achievements are only a reflection of your great ideas. I am, if I may so express myself, merely a rank-and-file advocate of Kobaism, the greatest doctrine of our age. At your command, I am ready to give my all for you, even my life. It is you who are the staunchest revolutionary, you who are the greatest practitioner and theoretician...”
“A genius!” proclaimed Aria, raising his glass with his left hand since his right hand was still on his pocket.
“A marvelous architect!” acclaimed Merenkov.
“Best friend of the Armenian people!” interjected Mirzoyan.
“And the Ukrainian!” added Borshchev.
“Antosha, why aren’t you saying anything?” Koba turned to Zhbanov, who had a sorrowful look about him.
“What is there left for me to say, Comrade Koba?” objected Zhbanov. “The comrades have done a first-rate job of illuminating your comprehensive role in history and contemporary life. Perhaps we say too little about it, perhaps we shy away from high-flown talk, but it’s the truth all the same, that’s the way it all really is. Everyday life furnishes us with dozens of striking examples which demonstrate how Kobaism is constantly penetrating deeper and deeper into the consciousness of the masses and truly becoming a guiding star for all mankind. But, Comrade Koba, here, in the free and open company of friends, I would like to point out yet another enormous talent you possess which your innate modesty prevents you from ever mentioning. It is your literary talent I have in mind. Yes, comrades,” he said, elevating his tone and now addressing the entire company, “not long ago I had occasion to read once again Comrade Koba’s early poetry, which he wrote under the pen name of Sosello. And in all candor I must say that this poetry, like precious pearls, could adorn the treasure house of any nation’s literature, of all world literature, and if Pushkin were alive today ...”
At that point Zhbanov burst into tears.
“Hurrah!” said Vershilov, but quietly this time and without retaliation from Koba.
The tension left the room. Leonty clapped his hands and the two silent figures by the door vanished into the air. Comrade Koba wiped away the tear running down his cheek. Perhaps he did not enjoy such things being said to him, but he enjoyed it even less when they were not.
“Thank you, dear friends,” he said, though his tears interfered with his speaking. “Thank you for putting so high a value on the modest services I have rendered for the people. I personally think my doctrine, which you have so aptly named Kobaism, is truly good, not because it’s mine, but because it’s a progressive doctrine. And you, my dear friends, have put no little effort into making it that progressive. So, without any false modesty, let’s drink to Kobaism.”
“To Kobaism! To Kobaism!” They all joined in.
They drank down their vodka, knocked their glasses against the table, then drank again. After the fourth glass, Comrade Koba decided he needed a little entertainment and requested Borshchev to dance the gopak.
“You’re Ukrainian, you’ll do fine,” he said encourag-ingly.
Borshchev hopped from his chair into a squat, Zhbanov accompanied him on the piano, and the rest of them clapped their hands in time to the music.
At that moment a messenger appeared without making a sound and handed Zhbanov a telegram informing him that his wife had just died in the hospital.
“Don’t bother me,” said Zhbanov. “Can’t you see I’m busy.”
The messenger withdrew. Then Comrade Koba personally strode over to Zhbanov. He stroked his trusty comrade’s head with his rough and manly hand.
“You’re a true Bolshevik, Antosha,” said Koba with feeling.
Zhbanov raised his eyes, full of tears and devotion, to his teacher.
“Keep playing, keep playing,” said Comrade Koba. “You could have made a name for yourself as a musician, but you chose to devote all your strength and talent to our party, our people.”
Koba walked back to the table and sat down across from Molokov, Mirzoyan, and Merenkov, who were involved in a discussion.
“And what are we talking about here?” asked Comrade Koba.
“We were just saying,” Molokov, who was sitting in the middle, answered readily, “that the agreement with Dolph, concluded on your initiative, of course, was both wise and timely.”
Koba glowered. Because of the reports that had recently come to his attention, there was nothng he wanted to hear about less than that blasted agreement.
“I’m curious,” he said, staring at Molokov, “I’m curious to know why you wear glasses, Mocha?”
Another whiff of danger. Zhbanov began playing more softly. Borshchev, still squatting and dancing, looked from Molokov to Koba. Just to be on the safe side, Merenkov and Mirzoyan moved away, each to one end of the table, Molokov, pale as a ghost, rose on legs out of his control and, not knowing what to say, looked in silence at Comrade Koba.
“So, you cannot tell me why you wear glasses?”
Molokov remained silent.
“But I know already. I’m well aware why you wear glasses. But I won’t tell you. I want you to use your head and then tell me the real reason you wear glasses.”
Shaking a threatening finger at Molokov, Koba suddenly let his head drop into a plate full of green peas and immediately fell asleep.
“I’ve got to stretch my legs a bit,” said Mirzoyan cheerfully and slipped away from the table with an independent air. Then Merenkov, too, slipped away. Taking advantage of the absence of authority, Vershilov and Kazanovich found a corner and started playing cards. Borshchev, who had not received permission to rest, continued dancing to Zhbanov’s accompaniment, but he, too, had already begun to slacken off—he was no longer squatting fully, just bending his knees a little.
Aria was sitting by himself, playing mumbletypeg with his knife.
Suddenly this peaceful picture was shattered. Vershilov’s hand shot out and slapped Kazanovich resoundingly across the face. This was more than Kazanovich could bear, and screeching, he dug his fingernails into Vershilov’s face. They rolled on the floor.
Awakened by the commotion. Comrade Koba raised his head. Catching sight of this, Borshchev sank back into a deep squat with renewed vigor, Zhbanov began playing at a livelier tempo, and Merenkov and Mirzoyan began clapping their hands in time to the music.
“Enough.” Koba waved angrily at Borshchev. “Take a break.”
Borshchev staggered to the table and polished off a glass of Borzhomi. Vershilov and Kazanovich continued rolling on the floor, which was strewn with their cards. Kazanovich succeeded in grabbing hold of his opponent’s right ear; Vershilov kept on trying to knee Kazanovich below the belt. Koba summoned Aria over.
“Listen, Leonty, what kind of people are these, anyway? Leaders or gladiators?”
Aria brushed off his knee and stood up in front of Koba, holding his curved Caucasian dagger, with which, a moment before, he’d been playing mumbletypeg.
“Shall I pry them apart?” he asked darkly, testing the blade with his thumbnail.
“Please. Except do me one favor and put that dagger away. God forbid something terrible might happen.”
Leonty slipped the dagger into his belt, walked over to the combatants, and gave them each individually a good kick. They both hopped to their feet and made quite an unsavory sight as they presented themselves to Comrade Koba. Vershilov was smearing blood across his face, Kazanovich gently feeling the dark bruise swelling under his left eye.
“So, so,” said Koba, shaking his head. “Our people have entrusted their fate to men like you. What game were you playing?”
Embarrassed, the two enemies looked at their feet.
“Come on, I’m asking you a question.”
Kazanovich glowered up sullenly at Koba.
“Blackjack, Comrade Koba.”
“Blackjack?”
“Nothing to it, Comrade Koba, just a little game.”
“I don’t understand,” said Comrade Koba, spreading out his hands. “What do we have here? Bosses? Leaders? Or just a bunch of crooks. What was the fight about?”
“That kike was cheating,” answered Vershilov.
“What kind of word is that, ‘kike’?” asked Koba angrily.
“I’m sorry, the Jew,” Vershilov corrected himself.
“You’re a stupid person.” Koba sighed. “An anti-Semite. How many times have I told you to get rid of those great-power ways of yours. I’m giving you one week to study all my works on the question of nationalities, you understand me?“
“I do.”
“All right, go. And you, Kazanovich, you didn’t behave right either. You Jews do nothing but furnish anti-Semitism with ammunition by your appearance and provocative behavior. I’m getting tired of struggling with ami-Semitism; at some point I’ll get fed up.”
Koba was about to develop this thought further when Pokhlebyshev appeared. “Comrade Koba, we’ve just received a dispatch. Dolph’s troops have moved right up to the border.”
These words made Comrade Koba uneasy. “Come over here,” he said to his secretary. “Bend close to me.”
Koba took his pipe from the table and began knocking out the ashes on Pokhlebyshev’s balding head.
“Dolph’s my friend,” he said as if hammering his words into his secretary’s head. “It’s our custom in the Caucasus to stand up for our friends with everything we’ve got. We can forgive someone insulting our sister or our brother, we can forgive someone insulting our father or our mother, but we cannot forgive someone insulting a friend. To insult my friend is to insult me.”
He threw his pipe to the floor and raised Pokhlebyshev’s head, using the one-finger-under-the-chin method. Fat tears were running down Pokhlebyshev’s face.
“Oh, you’re crying!” said Comrade Koba in surprise. “Tell me why you’re crying.”
“I’m crying because you spoke so touchingly about friendship,” said Pokhlebyshev, sobbing and tugging at his nose.
Comrade Koba softened. “So, all right then,” he said with a little more warmth in his voice, “I know you’re a good man at heart, you’re just severe on the outside. Go rest up a bit and tell the doctor to put some iodine on your head, God forbid you should get an infection.”
Comrade Koba then reassembled all the boys at the table and proposed a toast to friendship.
“Comrade Koba,” asked Molokov, “may I drink with you, too?”
Comrade Koba did not answer, letting the question slip in one ear and out the other. Molokov continued to hold his glass of vodka, and, unable to make up his mind one way or the other, stayed just as he was.
Next, Comrade Koba expressed a desire to play a little music. He walked over to the piano and, playing with one finger, sang the following well-known ditty:
I was up on the hill,
I gave Egor all I had,
Now don’t you think I was bad,
It was just my rolling tobacco ...
Everyone broke into amiable laughter and applauded. In a short speech Comrade Zhbanov remarked on the high artistic merits of the piece. Vershilov took out a pad of paper and a stubby indelible-ink pen from his pocket and requested permission to take down the words of the ditty on the spot.
“I’ll copy them down, too,” said Borshchev. “I’ll sing it to Zinka tomorrow. She’ll get a laugh out of it.”
“Sure, let her have a laugh,” said Koba, returning to his place at the table. He laid his head on his arms and again fell immediately asleep.
The earliest dawn of that summer began, the night growing gradually lighter like ink being diluted with water. Everything stood out with increasing clarity against the background of the brightening sky, the golden cupolas sharpened in relief.
No little vodka had been drunk that night, and now the group was beginning to fade. Comrade Koba was sleeping at the table. Aria, his hand still on his back pocket, had reclined on the sofa and dozed off. Mirzoyan was snoring noisily under the table, using Merenkov’s cheek for a pillow. Still not daring to budge, his face like stone, Molokov was sitting in front of Comrade Koba. Kazanovich and Vershilov had made their peace and were playing cards again. Zhbanov was standing in the corner, his forehead against the cold wall, trying to vomit. Only Borshchev was still wandering quietly about the room with a look of great concentration on his face, as if he had lost something and was trying to find it. He had apparently sobered up and now a hangover was torturing his brain, which was filled with vague and gloomy thoughts. Crinkling his face in sympathy, Borshchev stood near Zhbanov and recommended the old folk remedy—two fingers down the throat. Zhbanov mooed something resembling words and shook his head. Borshchev then walked over to the card players. He started following their game out of simple curiosity, but Vershilov soon drove him away. Borshchev looked over at Leonty and, convinced that he was sleeping, sat down by Molokov, keeping, however, a certain distance. He sighed loudly in an attempt to attract Molokov’s attention. Without turning his head, Molokov looked out of the corner of his eye at Borshchev, who winked back and said in a whisper: “You should take off your glasses for the time being. Comrade Koba’s been a little nervous lately, you shouldn’t get him riled up. Later on he’ll forget all about it and you can put them back on.”
Borshchev grabbed a cucumber from the table, took a bite of it, and spat it right back out. Bitter! He gave Koba a sidelong look and then sighed once again. “Of course it’s tough working with him. He’s not a regular person, he’s a genius. But what am I doing here? I used to work in the mines, drilling coal. Not what you might call the cleanest work, but it was a living. Now look at me, I’ve ended up as one of the leaders, they carry portraits of me when the people parade through the streets. But what kind of leader can I be when all I’ve got is a third-grade education and Advanced Party School? The rest of you are all prominent people. Theoreticians. I’ve heard that you know twelve languages. Now take me, for example; I consider myself a Ukrainian, I lived in the Ukraine, but I couldn’t speak their language if you put a gun to my head. It’s a funny language they’ve got. We say ‘staircase’ and they say ’stairladder.‘ ” Borshchev burst out laughing as if the strangeness of Ukrainian had just struck him for the first time.
Even Molokov smiled. The rumors about his knowledge of foreign languages were greatly exaggerated. The fact of the matter was that at one point, to increase the authority of the ruling body, Comrade Koba had endowed them with merits that none of them had previously even suspected themselves of possessing. Thus, Merenkov became a major philosopher and the theoretician of Kobaism; Mirzoyan became a man of business; Kazanovich a technician; Aria a psychologist; Vershilov an outstanding general; Zhbanov a specialist in all the arts; Borshchev a Ukrainian; and he, Molokov, who knew a few foreign words and expressions, a linguist.
Naturally, Molokov said nothing of this to Borshchev, remarking only that his life was no bowl of cherries either.
“There’s something I don’t get,” sighed Borshchev. “Where’s your conscience if you can pick on someone because of his glasses. He asked you why you wear glasses. Maybe you just like to. If he talked about me like that,” said Borshchev, growing heated, “I’d spit right in his face and not be shy about it either.”
At that moment Comrade Koba stirred in his sleep. Borshchev froze in horror, but his fears were groundless; Koba remained asleep. “What a fool I am,” thought Borshchev with a sigh of relief. “Like they say, the tongue’s loose, it’s got no bones in it. But with a tongue like mine, oi, what trouble you could get in!” He decided not to talk any more with his colleague who was out of favor, but he couldn’t restrain himself and once again he bent close to Molokov’s ear.
“Listen, Mocheslav,” he whispered, “what about asking him to let us go? Look, if he’s a genius, let him decide everything himself. What the hell does he need us for?”
“All right,” said Molokov, “but what would we live on?”
“We’ll go to the mines. I’ll teach you how to mine coal, it’s simple. First you dig down into the bed, then you pull out the coal from the top. The money’s not like the money we’re making here, but the work’s less risky. Of course you might get buried in a cave-in but that’s a one-time thing; here you die from terror every single day.”
Borshchev shuddered, then straightened up, having heard someone breathing behind him. It was Aria. Rubbing his ear with the handle of his dagger, Aria cast a curious glance from Borshchev to Molokov. “What could you be talking about that has you so absorbed, I wonder,” he said, imitating Koba’s intonation.
Did he hear or not? flashed through both minds.
He heard, decided Molokov, and immediately found the surest way out of the predicament.
“Comrade Borshchev here,” he said with a touch of sarcasm, “was just suggesting that he and I abandon our political activities and join the inner emigration.”
But you couldn’t put anything over on Borshchev either. “You fool!” he said, rising and smoothing his chest. “I only wanted to feel you out and see what makes you tick. Doesn’t matter anyway, nobody’s going to believe you. Everybody knows I don’t wear glasses. My eyes are clear when I look into Comrade Koba’s eyes and into the distance shining with our beautiful future.”
“Here’s the future for you,” mimicked Molokov. “First learn Russian properly, and then ...”
He never finished his sentence. Fortunately for both of them, Pokhlebyshev came flying into the room, his head swathed in bandages.
“Comrade Koba! Comrade Koba!” he shouted as he entered the room, for which he immediately received a box on the ear from Leonty.
“Can’t you see that Comrade Koba’s busy with his pre-dawn sleep?” said Leonty. “What’s happened now?”
Shaking with extraordinary excitement, Pokhlebyshev kept repeating one word: Dolph. It required tremendous effort to squeeze out of him the fact that Dolph’s troops had poured across the border.
An urgent, special, and extraordinary meeting then took place, chaired by Leonty Aria. Comrade Koba, still sleeping in his chair, was elected honorary chairman. The group began deliberations on which course to take. Vershilov said that it was imperative to announce a general mobilization. Kazanovich proposed that all bridges and train stations should be blown up at once. Mirzoyan, taking the floor to reply, noted that although their meeting was both timely and business-like, they should not lose sight of the presence and at the same time the absence of Comrade Koba.
“We can of course make one decision or another,” he said, “but after all it’s no secret that none of us has any guarantees against making some serious mistakes.”
“But we’ll be acting as a collective,” said Kazanovich.
“A collective, Comrade Kazanovich, consists of individuals, as everyone knows. If a single individual can commit a single error, several individuals can commit several errors. Only one man can reach an infallibly wise and correct decision. And that one man is Comrade Koba. He, however, unfortunately, at the moment is busy with his pre-dawn sleep.”
“Why do you say ‘unfortunately’?” interrupted Leonty Aria. “I’m obliged to correct Comrade Mirzoyan here. It is truly fortunate that at a time so difficult for us all Comrade Koba is busy with his pre-dawn sleep, building up his strength for the wise decisions he will soon be making.”
Merenkov requested a point of order and said: “I totally and completely support Comrade Aria for rebuffing Comrade Mirzoyan for his ill-considered words. It would appear that Comrade Mirzoyan had no criminal intentions and his statement should be considered a simple slip of the tongue, though of course at times it is quite difficult to draw a sufficiently clear boundary between a simple slip of the tongue and a premeditated offense. At the same time I think it would be advisable to acknowledge that Comrade Mirzoyan is correct in thinking that only Comrade Koba can make a correct, wise, and principled decision concerning Dolph’s treacherous invasion. However, in this connection, yet another question arises, one that requires immediate resolution, one which I now propose be discussed, namely, shall we wake Comrade Koba or wait until he wakes up himself?”
The comrades’ opinion was divided on the subject. Some thought he should be awakened; others proposed waiting, since Comrade Koba himself knew best when he needed to sleep and when he should wake up.
In spite of having just learned of his wife’s death and in spite of being ill from alcohol poisoning, Comrade Zhbanov took an active part in the debate and said that, before deciding the question of whether or not to wake Koba, it was necessary to decide a question which preceded that one, a sub-question so to speak, concerning the seriousness of Dolph’s intentions and whether this might simply be a provocation designed to interrupt Comrade Koba’s sleep. But to decide whether this was a serious invasion or a mere provocation was again something that could only be determined by Comrade Koba personally.
Finally two issues were put to vote:
1. To wake Comrade Koba.
2. Not to wake Comrade Koba.
The results of the voting on both propositions were as follows: For—no one. Against—no one. Abstaining—no one.
It was noted in the minutes of the meeting that both questions had been decided unanimously and that certain of Comrade Mirzoyan’s ill-considered statements had been pointed out to him. After the minutes had been drawn up, Comrade Molokov unexpectedly asked for the floor to make some supplementary remarks. He realized that now his only salvation lay in taking an active role. Molokov said that in view of the developing situation he intended to wake up Comrade Koba at once and take full responsibility for the consequences of his act.
That said, he walked decisively over to Comrade Koba and began shaking his shoulder. “Comrade Koba, wake up!”
Comrade Koba shook his head without yet waking up. His legs twitched.
“Comrade Koba, it’s war!” In desperation Molokov shouted right in his ear, this time shaking him so hard that Koba woke up.
“War?” repeated Koba, looking at his comrades’ faces with uncomprehending eyes. He poured a bottle of vodka over his head and halted his gaze at Molokov. “War with who?”
“With Dolph,” said Molokov, who had nothing left to lose.
“So, it’s war?” Comrade Koba was gradually coming around. “And when was it declared?”
“That’s just it, Comrade Koba, that’s the treachery of it all, war hasn’t been declared.”
“Hasn’t been declared?” said Koba in surprise, filling his pipe with the tobacco from a pack of Kazbek cigarettes. “Interesting. And how do you know it’s war if war hasn’t been declared?”
“We received a dispatch,” said Molokov desperately.
“But if war hasn’t been declared, it means there’s no war. For that reason we Kobaists do not accept or acknowledge it, for to accept something which doesn’t exist is to slip into the swamp of idealism. Isn’t that so, comrades?”
Everyone was staggered. A thought of such brilliance could never have entered any of their minds. Only a genius could have resolved such a complex problem with such ease.
“Hurrah!” cried Vershilov boldly.
“Hurrah!” seconded all the remaining comrades.
“And now I want to sleep,” Comrade Koba announced decisively. “Who’ll give me a hand?”
Molokov and Kazanovich took their teacher under the arm. Vershilov, too, rushed forward but wasn’t quick enough.
“You shout louder than anybody else,” Koba remarked disapprovingly, “but when it comes to action, you’re not quick enough. Next time be a little faster on your feet. And you, Mocha,” said Koba, giving Molokov a little slap on the cheek, “you’re a true staunch warrior and Kobaist and I’ll tell you straight off why you wear glasses. You wear glasses because you don’t have such good eyesight. And every person who doesn’t have good eyesight should wear glasses so he can see clearly what’s in front of him. All right, let’s get going!”
He dismissed his two helpers at the door to his office and locked himself in. He listened for a while until he was sure that Kazanovich and Molokov had walked away, and only then did he crawl into his room, taking the usual route through the safe. Upon arrival, he threw his pipe in the corner, then ripped off his moustache and flung it to the corner as well. He was perfectly sober. He had realized what was happening. He had not been sleeping when Pokhlebyshev reported Dolph’s attack and he had not been sleeping during the meeting of his comrades. He had been playing the role of a drunken man asleep and he had played it very well because, of all the talents ascribed to him, he did possess one—he was an actor.
Now, with no spectators, there was no reason to play a part. Comrade Koba sat down on his bed, pulled off his boots, unbuttoned his pants, and sank into thought. Somehow things weren’t turning out right. He had never trusted anybody except this once and look what had happened. How could he have any faith in people after this? Still, he had to find some way out. In this country, he thought to himself, it’s you alone who does the thinking for everyone and nobody is going to do any thinking for you. What to do? Address an appeal to the people? And say what? Forgive me, my dear people, it seems I’ve just about fuc ... Oh, he had almost said a dirty word. Request military assistance from the Americans? Or political asylum for himself? Then what? Settle somewhere in Florida and write his memoirs: My Life as a Tyrant. Or maybe go into hiding in Georgia and live there disguised as a simple shoemaker?
“Soso,” his father used to tell him, “you’ll never make a real cobbler.”
Comrade Koba lifted his eyes and noticed a pitiable, moustacheless old man on the opposite wall. Mechanically rubbing his scrawny knees, the old man was sitting on an iron bed, his pants at his ankles. Comrade Koba smiled bitterly.
“So there it is,” he said to the old man. “Now you see. You thought you were the most cunning, the craftiest. You wouldn’t listen to anyone’s advice or warning. You ripped out every tongue that tried to tell you the truth. And the one man in the world you trusted turned out to be more cunning and crafty than you. Who’s going to help you now? Who’s going to support you now? The people? They hate you. Your so-called comrades? Comrades, that’s a laugh. A bunch of court flatterers and flunkies. They’d be the first to sell you out as soon as they got the chance. In the old days, at least jesters and saints were allowed to tell the truth. But who’ll tell the truth now? You demanded lies; now you can choke on them. Everybody lies now—your newspapers, your public speakers, your spies, your informers. But there still is one man with the courage to tell you the truth to your face. And he’s sitting right in front of you now. He sees right through you like you were his own self. Look at yourself, you who considered yourself a superman. What kind of superman are you, anyway? You’re small, pockmarked, you’ve got aches and pains everywhere. Your head aches, your liver aches, your intestines do a lousy job of digesting what you gobble down, the meat you steal from your hungry people. Why then, if you’re such a superman, are your teeth and hair falling out? Superparasite, why did you kill so many people? Mensheviks, Bolsheviks, priests, peasants, intellectuals, children, mothers... Why did you ruin agriculture and decapitate the army? For the sake of a brighter future? No, for your own personal power. You like it when everyone fears you like the plague. But you, the creator of an empire of fear, aren’t you the most frightened person in it? What is there you don’t fear? A shot from behind, poison in your wine, a bomb under your bed. You’re afraid of your own comrades, guards, cooks, barbers, your own shadow and reflection. Driven by your own fear, you ferret out enemies of the people and counter-Kobaists everywhere. There’s no need to. Just look at yourself—you are the number-one enemy of the people, the number-one counter-Kobaist.”
While Koba was speaking, the old man’s face glowered and grew increasingly malicious. It was obvious that, as usual, the truth was not to his liking. He fended off the reproaches hurled at him by flailing his arms, grimacing, and crinkling up his face. As he spoke his final words, Koba’s hand began moving of its own toward the pillow. He noticed the old man doing the same thing. He had to beat him to it. Koba darted and grabbed the pistol from under the pillow. At that same instant an identical pistol flashed in the old man’s hand. But Koba had already pulled the trigger.
Gunfire in an enclosed area always produces a great deal of noise. One shot followed by another and the old man’s pockmarked face cracked into a web of crooked lines. The room smelled of hot gun oil. Koba’s eardrums vibrated; the old man’s nasty face burst apart, flew into falling pieces, creating the illusion of a living man writhing in the throes of death.
Suddenly everything was silent. The pistol was empty, Koba looked up—now there was no one there.
“That’s it,” said Koba sadly, and with significance, though to exactly whom was unclear. “I have saved the people from the hangman.” And with those words he tossed away the pistol, which was of no further use to him.
It later appeared that no one had heard the shots. This should cause no surprise—the walls of Koba’s room were so thick that even sounds of a much greater magnitude would not have escaped them.
The old woman who came the next morning to clean the room saw the slivers of glass strewn everywhere. She found the master lying on his back in bed. His left leg was on the bed, his right leg, with his pants caught around the ankle, was on the floor. His right hand hung lifelessly, almost touchng the floor. At first deciding that Comrade Koba had shot himself, the old woman was about to sound the alarm, but then, convinced that the body on the bed had suffered no harm, she decided against it, not wishing to be called in as a witness. She put his arm and leg up on the bed, finished pulling off his pants, and covered Comrade Koba with a camel’s hair blanket, carefully tucking it in around him. That done, she set about cleaning up the glass, hoping that Comrade Koba would certainly sleep off his drunkenness by the next day. But he did not wake up the next day, or the day after; reliable sources indicate he spent the next ten days in a lethargic sleep. They say that it was sometime during those ten days that the old woman retired and brought the note concerning the millet to the Museum of the Revolution. I, however, do not believe that. I believe the note’s value would have fallen somewhat during those ten days, then risen back in value afterward. Clearly, the old woman was clever enough to bring that note to the best possible place to sell and therefore would also have waited for the best possible price. Besides, there now exist many contradictory opinions concerning the old woman. Supporters of the pro-Kobaist line in our historical scholarship, while not denying the existence of the old woman, doubt that she actually removed Comrade Koba’s pants, which they consider unremovable. These scholars point out that just as Comrade Koba was born in a generalissimo’s uniform, he lived his life in it as well, without ever having once removed it. The adherents of the anti-Kobaist line, on the other hand, maintain that Comrade Koba was born naked but that his body was covered with thick fur. From a distance his contemporaries mistook this fur for a common soldier’s overcoat or a generalissimo’s uniform. Not adhering myself to either of these versions, I admit finding each of them interesting in their own way.
(1967)
P.S. This story is solely the product of the author’s fantasy. Any resemblance of any of the characters to actual people is purely coincidental.