“… So they say to me: ‘Solomon Markovich, we’re going to put you on the bottle.’ And I say to them: ‘Why bother? You might as well put me right on the floor?’ ”
Every time Solomon Markovich caught sight of me, he would say:
“Young man, I’ve got quite a story for you, quite a story! Why, I’ll tell you the story of my life from the cradle to the grave.”
After this I usually had no choice but to order him a cognac and a cup of Turkish coffee. Every once in a while, however, I refused to go along with this ritual, either because I was pressed for time or was simply not in the mood to listen to someone else’s troubles.
I finished my coffee and returned to the office. On the way back to my desk I stopped off to pick up my article from the typist, only to be informed that the editor had taken it.
“You mean he actually came in for it himself?” I asked, feeling a sudden, inexplicable anxiety and, as usual, getting caught up in irrelevant details.
“He sent his secretary in for it,” she replied without letting up on her typing.
I went into my office, sat down at my desk and began to wait. The editor’s haste was not entirely to my liking since there were several points in my article that I felt needed to be worded more clearly and precisely. And in any case, I had wanted Platon Samsonovich to read the article first.
I sat there awaiting my summons. Finally the secretary came running in and announced in a frightened voice that the editor wished to see me. Although her voice always sounded frightened when relaying the editor’s requests, on this occasion I found it particularly disturbing.
I opened the door to Avtandil Avtandilovich’s office and saw, somewhat to my surprise, that Platon Samsonovich was there too.
The editor was sitting in his usual pilot’s pose. He had turned off the engine but was still in the cockpit. The greasy blades of the fan looked like the giant petals of some tropical flower — most likely a poisonous one. One could easily imagine that Avtandil Avtandilovich had just flown over the locale of my assignment and was now making a comparison between what he had seen and what I had written.
Next to this tall, dashing pilot the diminutive Platon Samsonovich looked at best like a mere mechanic. And at the moment he looked like a mechanic who had made a mistake. Approaching Avtandil Avtandilovich’s desk, I felt a sudden chill emanating from his presence, as if he were still enveloped in the high-altitude atmosphere from which he had just descended.
So great was this atmospheric chill that I felt I was beginning to grow numb. I tried to shake off this humiliating sense of paralysis, but nothing came of it, perhaps because he kept silent.
Suddenly it occurred to me that my article was thoroughly confused and mistaken. And now as all my errors came vividly to mind, I could only wonder how I had managed to overlook them before. Particularly unpleasant was the realization that I had even confused Illarion Maksimovich’s name, referring to him instead as Maksim Illarionovich.
Finally, when the editor sensed that I had reached the necessary degree of paralysis, he proclaimed in a voice calculated to maintain this paralysis:
“Your article is hostile to the goatibex.”
I looked at Platon Samsonovich; Platon Samsonovich looked at the wall.
“Moreover, you tried to disguise your hostility,” added Avtandil Avtandilovich, obviously enjoying my discomfort. “At first even I was taken in by it,” he continued. “Some of your similes and comparisons are quite good… Nonetheless, your article represents a revision of our basic position.”
“Why a revision?” I asked, my voice rising from some great depth where patches of unfrozen consciousness still remained.
“And what’s all that nonsense about local climatic conditions — the goatibex and the microclimate? What do you think we’re raising — oranges and grapefruit?”
“But he really does refuse to have anything to do with the local goats,” I said in an agitated voice, trying to disarm him with hard, cold fact. And suddenly I realized beyond the shadow of a doubt that there had been no mistakes in my article and that I had referred to Illarion Maksimovich throughout by his right name.
“Which only means that they haven’t yet learned to handle him properly, that they haven’t explored all possibilities… And you let yourself be taken in by them.”
“It was that chairman Illarion Maksimovich who pulled the wool over his eyes,” interjected Platon Samsonovich. And turning to me, he added: “After all, I did tell you that your article should be organized around the theme: ‘Tea is fine, but meat and wool are better.’ ”
“And you can be sure,” the editor interrupted him, “that if we give these chairmen any loopholes like this business with the microclimate, they’ll all start screaming that their microclimate is unsuitable for raising goatibexes… And to have this happen now, just when the whole country is taking an interest in our undertaking…!”
“Well, aren’t we and they supposed to be the same thing?” I blurted out without stopping to reflect. Well, now I’m done for, I thought to myself.
“There, you see, that just goes to show what backward notions you have,” replied the editor in a surprisingly mild tone and went on to ask: “By the way, what was that nonsense about the long-haired Tadzhik goat — where on earth did you get that from?”
I noticed that he had calmed down right away. Apparently I was responding just as he had intended.
Platon Samsonovich pursed his lips, and red splotches appeared on his temples. I kept silent. Avtandil Avtandilovich cast a sidelong glance at Platon Samsonovich, but didn’t say a word. Apparently he wanted to give both of us time to feel the full weight of my fall. Once again I began to think that everything was lost, though it occurred to me that if he were going to fire me, he should have seized upon my last words. Yet for some reason he had chosen not to.
“Redo it in the spirit of full-scale goatibexation,” said the editor with a meaningful look as he flung the manuscript in Platon Samsonovich’s direction.
How does he know that word, I wondered, now waiting for what would come next.
“I’m going to transfer you to the cultural section,” said the editor in the tone of a man who is doing his utmost to be fair. “You know how to write, but you don’t have any knowledge of life. We’ve decided to have a contest for the best literary piece on the goatibex. You’re to take charge and see to it that it’s conducted in a serious, professional manner… That’s all I have to say.”
Avtandil Avtandilovich turned on the fan, and his face gradually began to stiffen. And now as Platon Samsonovich and I made our way out of his office, I had a fearful vision of his airborne plane swooping down on us with a volley of machine-gun fire. Only after the heavy office door had slammed shut did I regain my composure.
“It’s fallen through,” said Platon Samsonovich as we started down the corridor.
“What’s fallen through?” I asked.
“The Tadzhik goat,” he replied. Then rousing himself from his daydreams, he added: “You didn’t handle it right. You should have let the idea come from one of the kolkhoz workers.”
“Okay, okay,” I replied. I was fed up with the whole business.
“Goatibexation! The way he throws words around!” grumbled Platon Samsonovich, nodding in the direction of the editor’s door.
We returned to our office and I began gathering up the contents of my desk drawer.
“Don’t feel bad, I’ll manage to have you transferred back here later on,” promised Platon Samsonovich. “Oh, by the way, is it true that the paper you used to work for has asked you to send them an article?”