The first of them was General Larionov’s Notes for an Autobiography, in Dupont’s edition. Only when turning to that did Tarabukin forget the offenses committed against him. In characterizing Dupont’s publication (and speaking of it with the highest praise) the speaker switched to an unusual tone, as if he were anticipating an important statement. Which is how things turned out. What Tarabukin was thinking about was the second source he had used: a heretofore unknown report by Dmitry Zhloba about his troops’ entry into Yalta in November 1920. Tarabukin himself had found this source in the Archive of the Ministry of Defense.
But the researcher’s revelations did not just consist of that happy finding; there was more. Propelled by a sixth sense (without which, as we know, no discoveries are made), he revealed unbelievable things by juxtaposing Zhloba’s report with General Larionov’s childhood remembrances.
A first glance at Tarabukin’s materials for distribution made it obvious that the two texts were very closely connected. The texts had been created by utterly dissimilar people and they described completely different times. That is what made their resemblance so striking. An astonished buzz ran through the slightly hushed hall.
The most vivid coinciding occurrences in Zhloba’s report and the general’s recollections were in the printouts (not wishing to utter the borrowed English, handouts, he called them handgrips) that the speaker offered. Enjoying the impression he had made, Tarabukin slowly read off the first of the coinciding spots:
| Gen. Larionov Notes for an Autobiography | D.P. Zhloba Report Regarding Entry into the City of Yalta |
|---|---|
| A group of young Tatars greeted us as we entered the city. They were all on horseback, all dressed up. Upon seeing our carriages, they shot into the air and shouted something in Tatar. Maman and my governess, Dolly, were very frightened but Papa explained to them that the Tatars were just welcoming us. Maman waved her hand to them. One of them rode over to the ladies’ carriage, unfastened something from his saddle, and handed it to the stunned Dolly. ‘It’s kumys,’ smiled the Tatar. ‘Drink to your health.’ Maman wanted to pay for it but the Tatar only flapped his arms. They shot a little more and galloped off into the mountains, going about their Tatar business. ‘Charming,’ said Dolly. | …when we reached the city limits, a brigade on horseback greeted us. Tatars everywhere, attire: national. They began firing into the air upon seeing our armored vehicle. They didn’t understand Russian. I felt uneasy but our commissar, comrade Rozaliya S. Zemlyachka, explained that this was their way of greeting. Meaning, firing weapons. I saluted them. One of them rode over to comrade Zemlyachka and handed her a canister. ‘It’s kumys,’ said the Tatar. ‘Drink to your health.’ Comrade Zemlyachka signaled to him that we would receive the kumys free of charge. The Tatar flapped his arms. They turned around and galloped into the mountains. ‘Very nice comrades,’ said comrade Zemlyachka. |
Corresponding member Baikalova, who had not received one of Tarabukin’s handgrips, was leaning heavily on the armrest closest to Grunsky and ostentatiously squinting to peer at the papers on the table. With exaggerated amiability, the academician pushed them in Baikalova’s direction but they remained in place. Glancing at the audience, Baikalova threw up her hands.
‘You’re sitting up too high,’ Grunsky said, also to the audience. ‘And therein lies your misfortune.’
There was absolute silence in the hall when Tarabukin moved on to read the second excerpt.
| Gen. Larionov Notes for an Autobiography | D.P. Zhloba Report Regarding Entry into the City of Yalta |
|---|---|
| Many paupers gathered at the corner of Autskaya and Morskaya Streets, by the Alexander Nevsky Cathedral. This was a strange and varied public. Alongside old women wrapped in black there sat young women with children, tradesmen who had succumbed to drink, and the barefoot tramps whom Gorky would describe later. I would not be surprised if Gorky himself had been sitting there… They all crossed themselves devoutly. When leaving the service, Maman gave something to all of them, without exception. Her favorite was a tall, one-legged old man. He would sit, displaying his peg leg for all to view. When we walked down the stairs, out of the cathedral, he waved welcomingly with his crutch. Sometimes he bowed. Smiled at us toothlessly. And one-leggedly. / One time Maman forgot money and was very upset. When the old man realized that, he approached her unnoticed and gave her everything he had: a ruble and a half in change. He didn’t want her to leave distressed. ‘Well, isn’t that just lovely?’ Maman said, giving the money out to the paupers. | We found a lumpen element by the church at the corners of Autskaya and Morskaya Streets. Predominantly of male gender. Everyone who sat there was engaged in panhandling. The appearance of one of the aforementioned persons reminded me of the proletarian writer A.M. Gorky. I will not allow the thought that this was comrade Gorky, given his location on the isle of Capri. Everyone crossed themselves. Comrade Bela Kun warned them strictly with regard to crossing themselves and seized change from their hats as unearned income. A one-legged old man particularly attracted comrade Kun’s attention. He smiled at our comrades and waved to them with his crutch. Comrade Kun suspected him of being two-legged and ordered him to stand and produce his missing leg for inspection. When the one-legged man began to refuse, Kun kicked him in the face and forced him to empty his pockets, where there happened to be more change, beyond what had been taken away earlier. ‘What was I telling you?’ comrade Kun asked those present and everyone agreed with him. |
Snoring became audible in the hall when Tarabukin paused. The sounds were muted, like distant thunder, but that did not make them less apparent. Academician Grunsky put his hand to his forehead and peered out from under it at his neighbor sitting at the table. Sometimes he covered his eyes with his hand and shook his head as if lamenting the co-chair he had received. It truly was Baikalova snoring. The corresponding member had fallen asleep quickly and easily while squinting at the texts that had been distributed, and now the microphone that hung over her head was broadcasting her snoring for the audience. This was first-class snoring, with a rumble on the inhale and a whistle on the exhale. With rolling and modulation, complaints and threats, sincere sighs and mockery.
Unfortunately for Baikalova, Tarabukin could not find the example he needed and was feverishly flipping sheet after sheet. The ruthless academician took the table microphone, walked around the table on tiptoe, and brought it right to his co-chair’s nose. The hall shook with a thundering peal. The snorer awoke and looked, crazed, at the microphone the academician was extending.