part in the banquet. All three of us were invited. Apparently, we passed for the local intelligentsia. Especially since the sculptor was not present.
There were about thirty people at the table: guests on one side, us on the other.
The first to speak was the station chief. He introduced the mayor, calling him a “firm Leninist”. Everyone applauded for a long time.
Then the mayor spoke. He read from a piece of paper. Expressed a feeling of profound satisfaction.
Congratulated everyone who worked on the project on beating the deadline. Stumbled over three or four names. And, finally, proposed a toast to wise Leninist management.
Everyone raised a cheer and reached for their glasses.
Then there were a few more toasts. The station chief drank to the mayor. Composer Andreyev to the radiant future. Director Konstantinov to a peaceful coexistence. And the weightlifter Dudko to the fairy tale that turns into reality before our very eyes.
Tsypin turned pink. He had a tall glass of brandy and reached for the champagne.
“Don’t mix,” Likhachev suggested, “you’re in fine shape already.”
“What do you mean, don’t mix?” Tsypin demanded. “Why not? I’m doing it intelligently. Scientifically. Mixing vodka and beer is one thing. Cognac and champagne is another. I’m a specialist in that area.”
“I can tell,” the foreman said grimly, “judging by the epoxy.”
A minute later everyone was talking. Tsypin was embracing director Konstantinov. The station chief was courting the mayor. Plasterers and masons, interrupting one another, were complaining about the lowered rates.
Only Likhachev was silent. He was thinking about something. Suddenly he spoke harshly and unexpectedly, addressing Dudko, the weightlifter. “I knew a Jewish woman. We hooked up. She was a good cook…”
I was watching the mayor. Something was bothering him. Tormenting him. Making him frown and strain. A suffering grimace played on his lips from time to time.
Then, suddenly, the mayor moved closer to the table. Without lowering his head, he bent down. His left hand abandoned a sandwich and slipped under the tablecloth.
For a minute the honoured guest’s face reflected intense concentration. Then, after emitting a barely audible sound, like a tyre deflating, the mayor cheerfully leant against the back of his chair. And picked up his sandwich in relief.
Then I lifted the tablecloth imperceptibly. Looked under the table and straightened immediately. What I saw astounded me and made me gasp. I quivered with secret knowledge.
What I saw were the mayor’s large feet in tight-fitting green silk socks. His toes were moving, as if he were improvising on the piano.
His shoes stood nearby.
And here, I don’t know what came over me. Either my suppressed dissidence erupted, or my criminal essence came to the fore[39]. Or mysterious destructive forces were at play.
This happens once in every lifetime.
I recall subsequent events in a fog. I moved to the edge of my seat. Stretched out my leg. Found the mayor’s shoes and carefully pulled them towards me.
And only after that froze in fear.
At that moment the station chief rose and said, “Attention, dear friends! I invite you to a brief ceremony. Honoured guests, please seat yourselves on the rostrum!”
Everyone stirred. Director Konstantinov adjusted his tie. The weightlifter Dudko hurriedly buttoned the top button of his trousers. Tsypin and Likhachev reluctantly put down their glasses.
I looked at the mayor. Anxiously, he was feeling around under the table with his foot. I didn’t see it, of course, but I could guess from the expression on his bewildered face. I could tell that the radius of his search was increasing.
What else could I do?
Likhachev’s briefcase was next to my chair. The briefcase was always with us. It could hold up to sixteen bottles of Stolichnaya. It became my job to carry it around.
I dropped my handkerchief. I bent over and stuffed the mayor’s shoes in the briefcase. I felt their noble, heavy solidity. I don’t think anyone noticed.
I locked the briefcase and stood up. The other guests were standing, too – everyone except Comrade Sizov. The bodyguards were looking in puzzlement at their boss.
And here the mayor showed how clever and resourceful he was. Holding his hand to his chest, he said softly, “I don’t feel well. I think I’ll lie down for a minute…”
The mayor quickly removed his jacket, loosened his tie, and lay down on a nearby sofa. His feet in their green socks stretched wearily. His hands were clasped on his stomach. His eyes were shut.
The bodyguards went into action. One called the doctor. The other gave orders.
“Clear the room! I said, clear the room! Hurry it up! Start the ceremony!.. I repeat, start the ceremony!”
“Can I help?” the station chief asked.
“Get out of here, you old fart!” came the reply.
The first bodyguard added, “Leave everything on the table! We can’t rule out an assassination attempt! I hope you have the names of all the guests?”
The station chief nodded obsequiously. “I’ll give you the list.”
We left the room. I carried the briefcase in trembling hands. Workmen moved amid the columns. Lomonosov, thank God, was still on the wall.
The ceremony was not cancelled. The famous guests, deprived of their leader, slowed down near the tribunal. They were ordered to go up. The guests settled under the marble slab.
“Let’s get out of here,” Likhachev said. “What is there for us to see here? I know a beer joint on Chkalov Street.”
“It would be good to know that the monument hasn’t collapsed.”
“If it does,” Likhachev said, “we’ll hear it in the bar.”
Tsypin added, “We’ll hear the laughter…”
We went upstairs. The day was cold but sunny. The city was decorated with holiday flags.
Our Lomonosov was taken down after two months. Leningrad scientists wrote a letter to the paper, complaining that our sculpture demeaned a great man. The complaints were directed against Chudnovsky, of course. So we were paid in full.
Likhachev said, “That’s the main thing.”
A Decent Double-Breasted Suit
I’m not dressed too well right now, and I used to dress even worse. In the Soviet Union I dressed so badly that I was rebuked for it. I remember when the director of Pushkin Hills[40] told me, “Comrade Dovlatov, your trousers ruin the festive mood of our area.”
The editors
to come to the fore – пробудиться, проявиться (
Pushkin Hills: An area in the Pskov Oblast named after Russia’s most celebrated poet, Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin (1799–1837), who spent a period of exile and wrote some of his best-known works in the region.
