It would be very nice to have your opinion on this matter as well. If you know of any relevant statistics, I hope it wouldn’t be too much trouble to send them to Stargorod.
Sincerely,
Yakov Smirnov
Excavator Operator,
Stargorod City Landscape and Maintenance Department
12. Soyuzpechat – the centralized Soviet network of bookstores and kiosks through which printed media were distributed.
13. DOSAAF stands for Volunteer Association for the Support of Army and the Fleet, and was a youth-oriented program teaching paramilitary skills like shooting, flying a plane, riding a motorcycle, etc.
14. OBHSS stands for Department against Misappropriation of Socialist Property; it was the Soviet financial police.
The Magic Letter
Viktor Ivanovich Ropin is a born outdoorsman, camper and hiker, and in summer, when he has a chance to get out of town, pitch his tent, arrange his campsite just so, sit down before a fire and grab his guitar... well, then he is truly happy.
Viktor Ivanovich is a music teacher, but the most important thing in his life is summer. In summers he works as a camping instructor at the Stargorod Tourist Camp and he also takes groups on boating trips. A hundred miles of rowing’s just the thing to separate the men from the boys. Sometimes he gets real whiners in his group – and woe to them; Viktor Ivanovich doesn’t cut anybody any slack. Eventually, though, they always find the rhythm, get used to the work, and thank him in the end, of course they do – he takes them to see places they’d never find anywhere else, the lake, the little tributaries – and they get there rowing, by the work of their muscle alone.
Oh yes... His last trip went really well – everyone left happy. People became friends. Working together – it brings people closer. It was only he, the guide, who got into a bit of trouble: the woman who seemed to favor him during the entire trip, as soon as they got back to the camp, went out with a man from Moscow. And the most upsetting thing was – it was his 50th birthday yesterday, not just any birthday – his 50th! They had talked about how they would celebrate it together, made plans; Viktor Ivanovich had put away some money – and then she dumped him! Still, he tried not to get too upset about it – all women are the same.
She said she was sorry for him!.. Oh no, he wouldn’t have any of that – no tear-jerking sentiments, that’s what he told her, up front. He’s gotten used to being straight with women. She can take her pity and stick it – he knows how their pity works, he’s seen his good share of it. He’s been burned twice; he’s had to trade his apartment that he’d worked so hard to get for two smaller, separate ones – but now he’s got his own place, and no one can reach him there. And why should anyone pity him? It’s all games... The woman left in a huff. Good riddance! There’s a new tourist group coming – there’ll be others. The thing’s to stay calm, not to get worked up about it. Stress is unhealthy.
And still – it hurt. It was his 50th birthday, and even his son didn’t come – the boy’s also pissed at him. He’d come to ask for 40 rubles – wanted to buy some special sneakers at the market. He’ll be fine without – it’s not the end of the world. Viktor Ivanovich at that age didn’t have a pair of sturdy boots, never mind some shitty sneakers for 40 rubles. It was his big birthday, and he’d only put aside 50 to spend on it – and here was the kid wanting 40 for a piece of junk.
It’s too bad it didn’t work out, though. He really wanted it.
He went to bed angry and sober, and didn’t even watch the TV.
Come to think about it, this summer hasn’t been good at all. He’d spent the whole winter looking forward to it, rearranging and fixing his equipment, and suffering through the classes he taught at the school – he hated those more than anything else, it was torture. He let the kids play punk rock on the school’s rattling tape deck and dreamed of summer.
Viktor Ivanovich hated his students. He taught choir, and even his fifth-graders couldn’t hold a note together – they were all rickety, weasely children of alcoholics, juvenile delinquents. He left them alone. He understood it was pointless to teach them choir. He’d come into the classroom and sit behind his desk. The kids turned on the tape, and he spaced out for 45 minutes. And then another 45. And another. He dreamed of summer.
If a fight started in the back of the class, he’d get in and twist a couple ears, but more often he’d just grab the broom and give the instigators a few jabs on their behinds. That’s all right, it’d only do them good: the kids saw much worse things at home and didn’t hold a grudge against their teacher. Viktor Ivanovich remembered his own strict upbringing well – in a home for the Leningrad blockade orphans.
The kids today – you don’t even want to think about them... Everything’s just going to hell in a handbasket. Old ladies say the End is near, with a capital E. Who knows, maybe they’re right: everywhere you look is sloth and ignorance, no one wants to work. And the women? He doesn’t count them as really human. At first, he tried – he wanted to make a home, have a family. But no – all she wanted was him to give her money. Women are all the same – they use you, they rob you, and then they move on to greener pastures. And sometimes they sue you. They’d put you in jail if they could.
He was raising his son right – as a real outdoorsman. The kid’ll thank him when he gets drafted. But his mother... She just couldn’t leave well enough alone, and she ruined everything. She keeps spoiling the boy – and what happens? All he thinks about is going out to discotheques and his damn sneakers. He runs in for a minute, asks for a tenner, and disappears. God forbid you say anything to him: he gets upset and cries. The boy cries! He’s got no manhood in him. And when his son cries, Viktor Ivanovich can’t help but feel sorry for him, and gives the boy what he wants. What kind of a future generation is this?
This is precisely why Viktor Ivanovich has decided to ignore the young people, and to keep his emotions strictly under control. You can’t feel sorry for everyone; plus, being felt sorry for has never done anybody any good. And one’s nervous cells do not regenerate! So it’s like he’s ordered himself to stay healthy. He’ll live a long time yet: he bikes almost everywhere, and lifts weights, and takes cold showers. He doesn’t smoke or drink, reads Arguments and Facts and Ogonyok. For a while, he joined the Stargorod Green Movement Society, but got disappointed and left. He realized no one wanted to hear what he had to say – so he left. He doesn’t need any favors from anyone. They all thought they were smarter than him. Fine. All they did was talk, and he doesn’t need more talkers in his life. He doesn’t need anyone. He went home alone, boiled some potatoes, and ate them with sardines and sauerkraut. Great stuff! Who needs women?..
He can have his pick of them in summer; he’s not one to go to the city’s Over Thirty Club – that’s just plain embarrassing. No, he’s done everything alone, all his life, and that’s the only way to make yourself happy – you have to do it, no one else can help you. Nature, nature alone can heal. The quiet. The fire. The fish soup boiling in the pot. The moon. Do you know the kind of moons we have over Stargorod? You don’t see moons like that anywhere else in the world.
He takes hiking groups because they need him. He can whip up a tent in a blink, and start a fire from a single match – and these big-city folks from Moscow and Leningrad... Well, let’s just say they have a lot to learn. Book smarts is one thing, but he’s graduated from the Culture Institute too (correspondence course), yet he doesn’t shout about it on every corner.
And after every trip, they thank him. They always thank him. “Thank you, Viktor Ivanovich,” they say, “It was a trip of a lifetime!” And they do remember these trips – of course they do, look at how beautiful it is all around here, it’s the real Russia! She, she alone heals a troubled heart.