The Suitcase / Чемодан. Книга для чтения на английском языке. Сергей Довлатов

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style="font-size:15px;">      The sculptor had diligently modelled miniature Cordilleras, Appalachians and Guiana Highlands[35]. He hadn’t forgotten the lakes and rivers, either – Huron, Titicaca, Manitoba…

      It looked rather strange. I doubt that such a detailed map of the Americas had existed in Lomonosov’s era. I mentioned this to Chudnovsky. The sculptor grew angry.

      “You talk like a tenth-grader! My sculpture isn’t a visual aid! Before you is Bach’s Sixth Invention[36], captured in marble. Rather, in plaster. The latest thing in metaphysical syntheticism!”

      “Short and sweet,” said Tsypin.

      “Don’t argue,” Likhachev whispered. “What’s it to you?”

      Unexpectedly, Chudnovsky softened. “Maybe you’re right. Nevertheless, we’ll leave it as is. Every work must have a minimal dose of the absurd…”

      We started work. First we worked at the studio. Then it turned out that it was a bigger rush. The station was going to be opened during the November holidays.

      We had to finish up on-site. That is, underground.

      Lomonosovskaya Station was in its completion stage. Stoneworkers, electricians and plasterers were at work. Innumerable compressors created a fiendish din. It smelt of burnt rubber and wet lye. Bonfires burned in metal barrels.

      Our model was carefully lowered underground. It was set up on enormous oak scaffolds. A four-ton marble slab was suspended next to it on chains. You could make out Lomonosov’s approximate contours on it. The most delicate part of the work lay ahead.

      And here an unexpected complication arose. The escalators were not working yet. To go up for vodka meant climbing six hundred steps.

      The first day, Likhachev announced, “You go. You’re the youngest.”

      I’d never known that the metro was so deep, especially in Leningrad, where the soil is damp and friable. Twice I had to stop to catch my breath. The Stolichnaya I brought back was consumed in a minute.

      I had to go up again. I was still the youngest. That day I went up six times. My knees hurt.

      The next day we tried a different plan. To wit, we brought six bottles with us. But it didn’t help: our supplies attracted the attention of the men around us. Electricians, welders, painters and plasterers came by. In ten minutes the vodka was gone. And I went upstairs again.

      By the third day my teachers had decided to quit drinking. Temporarily, of course. But the other men were still at it, and they treated us generously.

      On the fourth day, Likhachev announced, “I’m no punk! I can’t drink on other people’s money any more! Who’s the youngest among us, boys?”

      And I went upstairs again. It was easier this time. My legs must have become stronger.

      So basically it was Likhachev and Tsypin who did the work. Lomonosov’s image was getting clearer. And, I must add, more repulsive.

      Occasionally the sculptor Chudnovsky stopped by offering guidance and making some changes as he went.

      The workers were also interested in Lomonosov. They asked questions like: “What’s that supposed to be, a man or a woman?”

      “Something in between,” Tsypin replied.

      The holidays approached. The detailed work was coming to an end. The Lomonosovskaya Metro Station was taking on a festive and solemn look.

      The floor was tiled with mosaics, the arched vaults ornamented with cast-iron sconces. One of the walls was intended for our relief. A gigantic welded frame was set up. A bit higher hung the heavy blocks and chains.

      I cleaned up the garbage. My teachers were putting on the final polish. Tsypin was working on the lace jabot and shoelaces. Likhachev was polishing curls on the wig.

      On the eve of the opening we slept underground. We had to hang our ill-starred relief. That meant lifting it with a tackle[37], putting in what they call pitons, and finally pouring epoxy over the fastening to make it sturdier.

      It’s rather complicated lifting a slab like that four yards into the air. We spent several hours doing it.

      The blocks kept getting stuck. The pintles missed the holes. The chains creaked and the stone swayed. Likhachev kept shouting, “Keep away!”

      At last the marble lump was suspended. We took down the chain and stepped back a respectful distance. From afar Lomonosov looked better.

      Tsypin and Likhachev drank in relief. Then they prepared the epoxy.

      We left near dawn. The formal unveiling was at one.

      Likhachev came in a navy suit. Tsypin wore a suede jacket and jeans. I’d had no idea he was a dandy. What’s more, both were sober. That changed even the colour of their complexions.

      We went underground. Well-dressed, sober workmen (although many of them had suspicious bulges in their pockets) strolled among the marble columns.

      Four carpenters were quickly finishing off a rostrum. It was being set up under our relief.

      Osip Likhachev lowered his voice and said to me, “There’s a suspicion that the epoxy has not hardened. Tsypin put in too much solvent. Basically, that marble fucker is hanging by a thread. So when the rally starts, stay to the side. And warn your wife.”

      “But the cream of Leningrad will be standing there! What if the thing falls?”

      “Might be for the best,” the foreman replied wanly.

      The celebrated guests were to appear at one o’clock. The city mayor, Comrade Sizov, was expected. He was to be accompanied by representatives of Leningrad society – scholars, generals, athletes, writers.

      The programme for the opening was this: first a small banquet for the select few. Then a brief rally. Handing out of certificates and awards. And then – as the station chief put it, “by preference” – some would go to a restaurant, others to an amateur concert.

      The guests arrived at 1.20. I recognized the composer Andreyev, the weightlifter Dudko and the director Konstantinov. And, of course, the mayor.

      He was a tall, middle-aged man. He looked almost intellectual. He was guarded by two grim, beefy guys, who were distinguished by a light air of melancholy, evidence of their clear readiness to get into a fight.

      The mayor walked around the station and lingered in front of the relief. He asked softly, “Who does he remind me of?”

      “Khrushchev[38],” Tsypin whispered to us with a wink.

      The mayor did not wait for an answer and moved on. The station chief, laughing obsequiously, ran after him.

      By then the rostrum was wrapped in pink sateen. A few minutes later the inspection was over. We were invited to sit down at the table.

      A mysterious side door opened. We saw a spacious room. I hadn’t known it existed. This was probably intended as a

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